BooksBarbecue
Back Again, Rachel
Chapters (98)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. Epigraph
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. 36
  40. 37
  41. 38
  42. 39
  43. 40
  44. 41
  45. 42
  46. 43
  47. 44
  48. 45
  49. 46
  50. 47
  51. 48
  52. 49
  53. 50
  54. 51
  55. 52
  56. 53
  57. 54
  58. 55
  59. 56
  60. 57
  61. 58
  62. 59
  63. 60
  64. 61
  65. 62
  66. 63
  67. 64
  68. 65
  69. 66
  70. 67
  71. 68
  72. 69
  73. 70
  74. 71
  75. 72
  76. 73
  77. 74
  78. 75
  79. 76
  80. 77
  81. 78
  82. 79
  83. 80
  84. 81
  85. 82
  86. 83
  87. 84
  88. 85
  89. 86
  90. 87
  91. 88
  92. 89
  93. 90
  94. 91
  95. 92
  96. 93
  97. 94
  98. Acknowledgements

‘Yeh. That’s the sickener—how can I be angry when I’m a junkie too? But I am, Rachel, I fucking am.’

‘You know you’re allowed to feel this way, right?’

He rolled his eyes. ‘People—professionals, like—tell me I’m a junkie because of the great big hole where my ma should be.’

‘And?’

‘Too simplistic. “Looking for home.” It’s the obvious conclusion, amirite? But today that woman was talking and this feeling was coming—rushing in, like—and I thought I was going to puke.’

‘The feeling was…?’

‘Rage. I’m fucking raging, Rachel. I want to kill someone. No. I want to walk out that gate, go into town, buy a big bag of gear and whack it into my veins.’

‘But you won’t. Not on my watch.’

‘I’m serious.’ He looked frantic. ‘I don’t want to but I can’t cope with these feelings. I have to do something.’

‘Okay.’ I picked up the phone and called Brianna. ‘Find Giles. Bring him to room seven, thanks.’

‘Giles?’ Chalkie spluttered. ‘What do you want that prick for?’

Holding up a finger for silence, I called Waldemar on his walkie-talkie. ‘It’s Rachel. Can you come to room seven?’

‘What’s going on?’ Chalkie demanded. ‘I’m telling you, Rachel, I—’

A knock on the door announced Giles, Waldemar hot on his heels.

‘Giles,’ I said. ‘Chalkie needs your help—’

‘—I fucking don’t!’

‘Waldemar, have you the keys to the gate? And the shed? Yes? Okay, boys, let’s go.’

Walking speedily—after all, I had an appointment for a Carboxy Gun Facial I didn’t want to miss—the three men scrambled to keep up as I led the way out into the grounds.

Waldemar unlocked the gate to the threadbare pitch and led us into the shed.

‘Good Lord!’ Giles said. ‘It’s a gym.’

Ah, it wasn’t really. But a giant punchbag hung from the ceiling and a crate overflowed with boxing gloves, tennis balls, skipping ropes and other basic keep-fit paraphernalia.

‘What you need?’ Waldemar asked me.

‘Tennis rackets and balls.’

‘Tennis?’ Chalkie was incredulous. ‘I’m not playing fucking tennis. Especially not with him.’

‘Come now,’ Giles said. ‘Who would miss an opportunity to—how did you put it—prance around and yelp, “Deuce”.’

I wished he hadn’t said that. Chalkie was dangerously volatile—this was risky as fuck.

Briskly, I took a racket from Waldemar and put it in Chalkie’s hand. ‘Go out there and hit that ball. Giles will show you how. Do it until you’re exhausted. Do it until the anger is gone.’

‘I fucking won’t.’

Tightly, I grasped his wrist. ‘Do. It. The anger will come back, it’ll keep coming back. When it does, you tell Waldemar or Florian and they’ll set you up with the punchbag, or Giles will play more tennis with you—isn’t that right, Giles?’

‘Absolutely.’