#ch: bernie doyle

[ddagent]

henry/jason + forgiveness

Henry/Jason | The Final Girls | Angst | FR15 | 907 words Jason knows he will never be forgiven but, Lord, wishes he was. (References to genre typical horror) FCs: Jason McCallister (David Tennant, Henry Reid (Michael Sheen), Bernie Doyle (Constance Zimmer)

Jason McCallister learnt everything he knew about forgiveness from his father. A cold, Scottish Protestant minister, he would offer forgiveness to his flock but only those who deserved it, earned it. Late at night, his thoughts lingered on the weeks after Ben’s disappearance – the cold earth under his footsteps as he searched, the placating hand on Missus McDonald’s shoulder as Reverend McCallister uttered the words maybe it’s for the best. Jason screaming at his father to do something as an empty casket was buried instead; the sleek red bicycle sold off to someone in the town over.

As night slipped further into morning, Jason’s thoughts – as they often did – turned towards Henry.

There were three versions of Henry, inside his head. There was author Henry – back in the UK, back then, Jason had read all his books. Devoured mysteries with answers; crimes that were solved. He’d attended a few panels and book signings and had once lobbied to interview him with no luck at all. That interview would come later, with murderer Henry. Shackles around his wrists, a haunted look in his eyes. He had been sweet and charming and…lovely but Jason had seen through the act that was not an act at all. Branded him monster – all for the best. Then there was his Henry. This Henry. Still charming and delightful but there was a bite that wasn’t there before.  It left Jason wanting, coveting.

Covetousness is idolatry.

Lying in bed, Jason indulged in worship. Rather than scrolling through whatever new hook-up app Nico, his producer, had put on his phone, Jason took to Henry’s Instagram. Private settings but he was a friend, now. Allowed in the inner circle of private snapshots of Henry in his home in Venice, of perusing second-hand book shops. Henry had been arrested for his wife Marlene’s murder in 2004. No real social media back then but there had been two strained photoshoots of Henry and his new stepchildren. They didn’t have the ease of Henry and the Doyles. Bernie and her girls: shots of Dani’s vegetable garden and badly applied stage make-up for Ash’s new short film. Henry with his arm around Bernie – law partners, the best and oldest of friends.

She was forgiven.But not Jason. Never Jason.

His phone sprung to life. Henry, as if summoned by Jason’s prayers. He slid the accept call button across the screen. “Hen,” he began, as if he hadn’t spent the last half hour stalking him through social media. “This is late.”

“Put on Lifetime.”

Jason followed as instructed and immediately groaned. Written to Kill was a truly shocking ninety minutes dramatizing the events of Henry’s arrest and trial, with the last act focusing on the events of their short acquaintance. In the movie, Jason was played by some brash American doing a dreadful English accent (never mind that Jason, himself was Scottish), who conspired to gain a murderer’s trust by flattery and deception. The film was five minutes from the end; the journalist was outlining everything his subject had done wrong – every truth he’d failed to conceal, every previous lie he’d unpicked. The actor playing Henry stared, eyes glinting, as the question of whether he really killed his wife was finally revealed.

But I thought we were—

Whatever the end to that sentence was, Jason would never hear it. He would never be forgiven; never be absolved. And why should he? He saw an innocent man and, with his father’s hand upon his shoulder, condemned him in print and publication. Maybe it’s for the best. God, fuck, why were they even watching this? Did Henry want to torture him? What was next: deliver a copy of his article to his office every day? But he deserved it. You deserve worse, you deserve worse, you deserve so much worse—

“—shame it’s at the end; thought we could have a good laugh at it. Utterly ridiculous. They’re missing out half the real story as well.” That was Jason’s fault. The omissions in his article. Fourteen weeks instead of seven; letters exchanged in between visits. Bribes spent removing Henry’s chains so he could touch and be touched. Of course, you thought we were; so did I. “Maybe we could rent it, or something? Watch it together. Laugh at them. Just wait twenty years – you’ll be friends.”

“We-we are?”

A pause. Then: “Of course we are. I, well, I thought we were.”

“Yes, yes, absolutely, Hen. We’re friends. We’re friends.”

Four months ago, Jason had been on the hunt for a missing boy. A case that had consumed him: he’d gone to Bernie and her…associates for help. It’s what they did: find people, help people, save people. It came at a cost; all third act victories did. As Jason nursed a concussion and Henry his broken ribs, Bernie had passed him a drink. Two fingers of whiskey. He’d stared, unable to reconcile the DA that had hugged Marlene’s children close as Henry had been sentenced to life in prison and the woman that had pushed him out the way of a speeding van. There was DA Bernie and final girl Bernie and countless versions in between. He just stared and asked: Does it ever bother you? What we did to him?

After a moment, she nodded. I can’t go into that courtroom. But he can – and has. If Henry has taught me one thing, it is the enviable and unyielding power of forgiveness.

Amen.  

[ddagent]

“Revelations”

Robert/Devon + Bernie/Sam | The Final Girls | Family/Angst | FR18 | 2,566 words The worst has happened. Robert’s daughter is the star of her very own third-act horror.  (References to genre typical horror) FCs: Clancy Brown (Robert), Jamie Lee Curtis (Evelyn), Debrah Farentino (Devon), Adam Arkin (Martin), Chi McBride (Detective Earl Stone)

Los Angeles, Late May 1993

“Excuse me, I’m Detective Stone with the LAPD. I’d like to talk to you about your daughter.”

Robert MacAvoy looked up from where he had been staring at his clasped hands to face the detective in front of him. He was tall; the charcoal grey pinstripes of his suit stretching over his rotund frame. An unlit cigar rested in his jacket pocket and Robert felt like he was in an old black and white picture; some beautiful dame going to swing into frame any second. But they were in a shitty waiting room, with hard plastic seats digging into thighs, and an overwhelming sense of tragedy clinging to the air.

He glanced over at Evelyn, her new husband of less than a year holding her close. “By all means. How can we help you, Detective?”

“I just have a few questions. When was the last time you saw your daughter today before picking her up outside the Hammond residence?”

“Around six, I guess. She was heading off to prom.” It was the most normal thing Bee had done all year. Got dressed in a gown her mother had helped pick out; all her girlfriends helping with make-up and nails and accessories. Robert had stood, watching, as Evelyn took a multitude of pictures of Bee and her boyfriend, Jason. “They’d rented a limo.”

Detective Stone nodded. “Do you know what time she arrived?”

“I–I don’t, Detective; I’m sorry. Look, what is this about? We know there was an…incident at the school, and later at the after-party.” Beside him, Devon scoffed. Robert threw her a look. “Do you have an idea of how many victims yet, Detective?”

“Seven.”

The noise in Robert’s ears grew louder, punctuated only by the feeling of Devon’s nails pressing into his thigh. That school was fucking cursed. Nineteen years ago, he’d reluctantly gone on the senior class trip with his brother, his next-door neighbour Evelyn, and half the senior class – including Devon Hedley, head cheerleader and all-around queen bee. By the end of their third day, thirteen of their classmates would be dead, including Evelyn and Devon’s boyfriends and Robert’s own brother. He and Evelyn had hoped that their little girl wouldn’t go through the same thing that they did. No murder, no blood, no trauma. No dead bodies of their classmates littering the halls. 

Everything they had done to protect Bee had been for nothing.

“We have the seniors arriving at the Hammond residence just after eleven. By this point, three of their classmates were already dead.” Devon’s nails drew blood. Rob lifted her hand and clasped it within his own; his nails, painted black, pressed against her fingertips. “It was close to one am when one of the seniors, Joanna Hayes, made the 911 call. She reported that there were four dead, three injured, and that the killer was unconscious in the living room.”

Across from him, Evelyn let out a sob. Rob fought the instinctive urge to go to her, hold her in his arms and whisper soothing platitudes until she sagged against him. But that hadn’t been his place for years. It was Martin that she turned to, now. Not Rob. Still, at least he could bring this interview to a close. “Listen, Detective, I appreciate you trying to put together a timeline but I don’t understand how we can help.”

Martin piped up from across the waiting room. “We really do want to assist you in your inquiries, Detective, but there is a deep family history that you have to take into consideration. We understand that Bernadette witnessed her classmate committing these foul acts, but anything more you will have to ask her. Not my wife.”

“It’s about what happened before the 911 call. Michael Lynch was knocked unconscious by what Joanna Hayes described as ‘a college guy’.” It was at this point that Robert noticed that Detective Stone’s eyes had grown hard. “We now know that stranger to be Randall James. My question is: why the hell did she stay with him?”

Robert looked across at Evelyn, who simply shrugged. Neither of them had heard the name Randall James before. Bee certainly hadn’t mentioned him. Not that she’d talked to them much in the last year. All the books said the same thing: a parent remarrying after divorce caused behavioural issues. Factor in Last Known Survivor’s first tour and Bee spending the summer with her grandmother, and Rob had come back to the world’s worst teenager. Underage drinking, sleeping with her boyfriend in the house, that incident with Pastor Whitman’s daughter…he didn’t recognise Bee anymore. None of them did. And he certainly didn’t recognise the name Randall James.

But Devon did. “Oh my god.” 

“Dev?” But she wasn’t looking at him. “Hedley? What is it?” 

“We were out of LA when it happened. I was desperate to get out; it was on the front page of all the papers. You couldn’t move without seeing it. The Canyon Killer.” Devon drew in a shaky breath. “Was Bee—” 

She couldn’t even finish that thought. Detective Stone could barely start his. He looked as surprised as them all. “She never told you?”

Before they could plague Stone with questions, Evelyn’s mother crowed across the waiting room. She ignored Stone and immediately gathered Evelyn up into her arms, crying platitudes and shouting about tragedies and more dead teenagers and at least they caught this one. Robert had very little patience for Rose Doyle on a normal day. She had never liked him when they were neighbours – she’d liked him less when he and Evelyn had fallen into bed together and she’d fallen pregnant with Bee. But right now, his patience was wafer-thin. Last summer, Bee had stayed with Rose.

“What happened to Bee last summer, Rose?”

His former mother-in-law, interrupted from reassuring the son-in-law she’d always wanted, twisted her head in his direction. It was then that she took in the frame of Detective Stone. His expression, too, lacked patience. “Missus Doyle, you said you would inform Bernadette’s parents of what happened.”

Robert rose to his feet. “What happened to Bee last summer, Rose?”

“I was her guardian last summer, it was my discretion not to inform them,” Rose offered to Stone, before turning to her daughter. “You’d just got married; you were on your honeymoon. I didn’t want to ruin all that because your daughter went out for a run.” 

Robert closed the distance between them. He pulled Rose out of his daughter’s orbit and yanked her under the harsh overhead lighting of the hospital waiting room. “What happened to my child, Rose? And you better give me an answer or so help me God, I will get them one way or another.” 

“She got hurt,” Rose finally admitted. “You both had said she was not allowed to go out running with all that…murder business going on, but she didn’t listen. Gets that from her father.” Robert bristled. “She encountered the two brothers who had murdered all those poor girls and got…hurt.” 

“Stabbed,” Detective Stone spat. “Your granddaughter was stabbed twice, in the stomach, after they tried to rape her.” He shook his head. “Kid’s lucky to be alive.”

Robert’s world spun. This couldn’t be right. Stone was confused. There was no way that his little girl had been stabbed. No possibility that she had been impaled and left, bleeding – like David, like David, like David – no, Stone was wrong. She had just been a little scraped. Like today: scrapes, bruises. But as much as Robert wanted to believe it was all a lie, he knew it was the truth. His little girl had been hurt and he’d been away. He’d failed her; he’d failed her.

“I told her she needed to keep it to herself. That she wasn’t to tell you, or any of her friends. Evelyn, I meant it with the best of intentions. Look at how you are now. After what happened to all of you, you were a mess. And you’ve done so much to protect Bee over the years, to keep her safe. And what does she do? She completely disregards your instructions and goes running. I told Bee it was her own damn fault what happened to her.”

“You’re a monster.”

Rose’s lips curled in a snarl as she addressed Devon. “Forgive me for not wanting my daughter to throw her life away like you. My daughter is a high school vice-principal. You, Devon Hedley, are a guitarist in a mediocre rock band, obsessed with traumas of the past. There is a reason why your parents moved out of Los Angeles, Ms Hedley. The congressman couldn’t take the shame.” 

“Fuck you.” 

The waiting room exploded into an uproar. It was Martin who tried to calm the situation. “Devon, I know you’re Robert’s friend, but I think maybe you should leave. It should just be family.” 

Robert made to intervene, but Devon pressed a hand firm against his chest, pushing him backwards. She’d never needed him to fight her battles. He knew better than to start now. “I’m not leaving this hospital until I know Bee is okay. I’m not leaving her to be yelled at for getting stabbed.”

“You’re not family, Devon, okay? No matter what you might think, she’s not your daughter.”

Devon scoffed. “No, she’s not. If Bee was mine, I never would have left her to get stabbed in the first place.”

It was then that Devon took off, her boots stomping against the linoleum floor. After a beat, Evelyn turned harshly towards Robert, eyes rimmed red with unshed grief and guilt. “I have no idea why you ever got yourself involved with Devon ‘Gives Great Head’ Hedley, Rob, but I think it’s for the best that she stays away from our family right now.”

“Funny. I was about to say the same thing about your mother.” He ran a hand through his dark blonde curls, his chest tight with his own guilt. “I need some air, Evie. I’ll be back.”

Leaving Evelyn and her family behind, Robert went in search of his own. He found Devon outside, dragging on a cigarette. Her dark hair fell over a threadbare t-shirt; her ratty jeans proudly displaying a rip over both knees. Devon Hedley was the sexiest bass player in the industry but right now she was eighteen years old, on her senior class trip, hand pressed against her shoulder and hearing the thunk of the axe as it connected against bone. Robert didn’t say anything. Just pulled off his jacket and eased it around her shoulders. Her fingers offered him the cigarette and he took it. As they watched an ambulance pull into the unloading bay, Devon’s head fell upon his shoulder.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You’re right. I never should have left her.”

“The only people who have anything to feel guilt over, Rob, are the two men that stabbed our girl – and your ex-mother-in-law, who is so much more of a piece of work than I remember.” Devon took back the cigarette, took a long, deep puff, before stamping it out with the toe of her boot. She then pulled in close, cupping his face in her hands. Her thumb ran along the blonde stubble covering his jaw. “You are not to blame for this, Rob. Neither is Bee.”

He nodded, leaning down to rest his forehead against Devon’s. “What the hell do we do now, Hedley? What the hell do we even say?”

“I don’t know. I honestly don’t know. What she’s been through…how do you come back from that?”

“You did.”

Devon snorted. “I’m a thirty-seven-year-old bass player. I dropped out of law school. Didn’t take the bar. I’m not married. No children. I’m not exactly the best role model.” She pulled away, drawing Robert’s jacket closer around her shoulders. “Maybe it is best I step back. She’s not my daughter. She’s not even my goddaughter. I’m not your—I’m not your wife, Rob. I’m just your friend.”

“Best friend.” He reeled her back in, leaving a kiss atop her forehead. “After the divorce, you were the only thing that kept me sane, Hedley. The only thing that made me feel normal after everything that happened. Losing David, witnessing so much death. Never finding the son of a bitch who did it. I can’t do this without you.”

Devon didn’t reply; just pressed herself closer to Robert’s frame. He carded his fingers through her hair, finding solace at holding her close and whispering soothing stories from how she had supported him all these years and would continue through this next crisis. It was then that Robert was struck with a realisation. Bee didn’t have anyone. Jason, her boyfriend, was dead. Her best friend, Wendy, had never made it to the Hammond residence. Everyone else would be reeling from this tragedy, this loss. No one would be there to help Bee pick up the pieces from the previous summer.

“—and then I spotted him at the subway station so I pushed him down the stairs. I didn’t show any remorse when the police talked to me, so that’s why my Aunt Mei brought us out here. Fresh start; away from bad influences.”

Voices carried over the empty unloading bay; two teenage girls sitting on a brick wall passing a soda can back and forth. The girl talking was wearing a t-shirt with the glove of Freddy Krueger. Robert’s daughter was in her torn prom dress, laughing with a split lip as she took a sip of coke.

“I can’t believe you did that.”

The girl, who Rob vaguely thought to be one of Mei Wen’s nieces from across the street, jostled Bee’s shoulder. “What? He murdered my parents; the least I could do is shove him down a flight of cement stairs. What about you, Laurie Strode? Stabbing that guy with his own knife? Fucking incredible; final girl of the year – five stars.” 

“You’re such a weirdo.”

“And you need to embrace it, Bernie. You’re a final girl, just like me. Prepare for Canyon Killer Part III, though; they always come back for more sequels.” The girl, Samantha, drained the soda can. “But you’ll have me next time, too, so it won’t be as bad. Because we’re friends now.” She paused for breath. “Right?”

Bee grinned – the first time Rob had seen his daughter smile in a year – and rested her head on the girl’s shoulder. “Right.”

“Don’t look now but the Kurgan from Highlander is staring at us.”

“You’ve seen Highlander but you haven’t seen Aliens? Terminator 2: Judgement Day?” Staring across the unloading bay, Bee offered a wave. “And that’s my Dad.”

Leaving another kiss to Devon’s temple, the pair picked their way across to where Bee and Samantha sat. Devon offered his jacket to Bee; his daughter’s new friend rabbited on about final girls and legacies and senior trips and Robert tuned it all out. In a single look, Bee realised he knew. She sat and waited for judgement. Judgement that would never come. Robert offered his daughter his hand and pulled her into a crushing embrace. Any tears that fell were Robert’s own. There was an illusion of safety in his arms; nothing could hurt her while she was with him.

But that had never been true. And this moment, he realised, would not last forever.

[ddagent]

Would it be possible to write some family fluff for the final girls-verse? Possibly Devon surprising Robert on his birthday by having Bernie and the girls surprise visit/party while the band is on the road.

Thanks! 💕

Robert/Devon | The Final Girls | Family/Fluff | FR12 | 1,125 words Bernie and the girls surprise Robert on his birthday.

“Thank you, San Francisco – goodnight!”

With a wave, Robert MacAvoy – front man to Last Known Survivor – headed off stage. Another show down; four more dates and then he would be back in Los Angeles. Checking his phone, Rob found a string of happy birthday and good luck at the show messages from his girls. His daughter and granddaughters were his life and, honestly, Rob would have preferred to spend his birthday back home with them. Obscenely sweet chocolate cake, bad eighties sci-fi movie playing on the tv – still, playing a sold-out show to five thousand people in San Francisco wasn’t too bad, either.

Rob wavered, almost drunk, on the adrenalin of playing live. His other bandmates were in equal stages of euphoria. Henry, who Rob had known since they were three, had shoved his drumsticks into his back pocket and was currently chugging back a beer. Devon, former high school queen bee turned rock star, was sucking in breath after breath as she packed away her bass. After catching his eye, Devon darted across backstage to his side. Immediately she threw her arms around his neck, her lean form pressing against him. Rob caught a whiff of her vanilla shampoo; the heat of her body radiating through the thin t-shirt she wore. If he wasn’t intoxicated before, he was now.

“What a gig,” Devon whispered against his ear, raising his flesh into goosebumps. “They liked the new material.”

“Surprisingly,” Rob offered, reluctantly letting Devon fall back on her heels as they both reached for a towel and water bottle. They’d played the big hits: False Idol, Body Count, Scream, Wounded Heart – all the tracks that Robert had been inspired to write after the massacre that had left thirteen of their classmates dead. The tracks after his divorce were also a big hit; Bernadette being a fan favourite. Still, their fans were a loyal bunch and their recent albums had sold well. “I still need more time on Forever, though.”

“Not tonight. Tonight, we are celebrating.”

Rob snorted. “Getting the audience to sing ‘happy birthday’ wasn’t enough?”

“Not even a little. Come on: I have a surprise for you.”

As a rule, Rob didn’t like surprises. Masked men turning up at ski resorts. Divorced papers being thrown in his face. Daughters being near-fatally injured before disappearing off the face of the earth. There were only three surprises he’d actually ever enjoyed: Evelyn’s pregnancy, Devon’s proposal to join the band, Bernie’s return. Knowing Devon, there was a surprise birthday party in store for him. Henry and Marty, the roadies, maybe a few execs from the label. Being stuck in San Francisco, all Rob really wanted to do for his birthday was facetime his girls back in LA. Maybe he could even head back early, cut the dates along the west coast short. It was only a six-hour drive, after all.

“Listen, Hedley—”

“GRANDPA ROB!”

A small mass knocked into his knees. Rob easily lifted his youngest granddaughter into his arms, resting her on his hip. “Hey, Dandelion! What are you doing here? What are you doing up? It’s a school night.”

“Surprising you for your birthday!”

Dani then planted a kiss upon his bearded cheek, wrinkling her nose at his slightly damp hair from being on stage for two hours. He wasn’t in his usual flannel and jeans that he wore as Grandpa Rob; rockstar Rob preferred black t-shirts, black nails, and David’s crucifix. His granddaughter wound her fingers around the gold chain. Her mother had one similar, although it hung above the rear mirror in her car. Bernie quickly came to his side and wrapped her arms around him. He clung back a little too tight.

“Happy Birthday, Dad. We figured it was only a six-hour drive – why not come and see the show?”

“You saw it?” Rob beamed. “What did you think?”

Bernie gave him a knowing look. “You should do more of them.”

The implication was left hanging in the air as the rest of Robert’s family came to wish him a happy birthday. He got a hug from all his granddaughters; Ash and Andie holding on a little longer than the others. Robyn didn’t leave his side for the whole night. She’d brought her band with her, Final Act; like her grandfather, she was the lead guitarist. Her friend Heather peppered Devon with questions; her backward baseball cap being adjusted by Ash on more than one occasion. Stevie, who lived next door to Bernie and her family, had an equal number of questions for Henry. Rob took every opportunity to just sit and soak in the joy he felt – his family had watched him perform; his family had travelled hours just to be with him on his birthday.

“Okay, I think it’s time for cake,” Bernie announced as Toni smothered a yawn.

From the other worn sofa across the green room, Henry groaned. “Please tell me its store bought, Bee. If you’re anything like your father, you’re a shi—” Devon cleared her throat. “—shocking cook.”

Bernie jabbed a finger in his direction. “You get away with that because you’re my godfather. No other reason." Henry still stared. “Sam’s sister, Jo, made it; you happy old man?”

A birthday cake, with thick chocolate frosting in the shape of a guitar, was wheeled out. There were a ridiculous number of candles and Robert did his best not to count them. Dani wrapped herself around his side. “What are you going to wish for, Grandpa?”

“I’m not sure. I’ve got everything I want right here.” A successful career. An incredible family. For many years, his birthday wish was just to hear from his daughter again. And here she stood, threatening to swipe chocolate frosting from his birthday cake if he didn’t hurry up.

Then Rob turned to Devon.

She had swept into his life after the divorce, giving him purpose. Last Known Survivor would still be playing in dive bars to twenty people if it wasn’t for her. He’d still be stuck in the past, churning over his guilt, if it wasn’t for her. One day a few years ago, they’d been on tour and just finished the best gig of their lives. The urge to kiss her had been overwhelming. It wouldn’t have been their first; heartbreak and grief and intense touring schedules had led to a lot of poor decisions at three am. But it was the first born out of sober passion; first born out of a need for her, not a need to be anywhere else.

If Robert was allowed one more thing in his life – one more thing to make up for everything that he’d endured – let it be Devon Hedley.

He blew out the candles.  

[ddagent]

“Nightmares”

Bernie & Robert | The Final Girls | Family/Angst | FR18 | 1,593 words Robert has a nightmare. Bernie has the night from hell.

I actually cannot remember the last time I wrote original fic. I hope you enjoy it! Shout out to @chozenrogue who always inspires me.

David’s lifeless body lay in front of him. His face, a mirror to Robert’s own, stared with blank eyes. Fingers, pale and rigid, gripped his ever-present bible. Falling to his knees, Robert felt a whisper of a prayer cross his lips before he reached over to close his brother’s eyes. Seven minutes. Seven minutes older and he still couldn’t help him, couldn’t save him. Seven minutes older to a brother who was no longer there. The sting of tears bit into the wound on his cheek and Robert used the bloodied heel of his hand to wipe them away.

“You should have saved him.”

It was Evelyn; as she was back then, as she had been that night. Hair tangled, dress ripped, face smeared with the blood of herself and her boyfriend. No move to comfort him like she had that day. She just stared and said: “You should have saved him.”

Robert turned back to his brother, nodding in absent agreement. His poor, poor brother who even in his last moments had had faith— “Daddy?” No. Not her. Show me all the visions of David you want but not her. “Daddy?”

Behind him, where Evelyn had been, stood their daughter. She was missing a running shoe; her Walkman was broken – her headphones pressed against the dirtied length of her neck. “Daddy, it hurts.”

Bee pressed a hand to her stomach, to the white t-shirt she wore, as blood began to seep through. “Daddy, why did you leave me?”

--

Robert MacAvoy shot up in bed, hands gripping the thin sheets, as Bee’s wails still echoed in his ears. It took him a beat, even two, for his body to accept that he was not back at the camp, not back to that horrific night. He was in Bernie’s home; in the spare room he slept in when he was taking care of his grandchildren. Four of his granddaughters were safe under this roof. He was safe, under this roof.

He then heard the creak downstairs.

Finding the baseball bat resting against the wardrobe, Robert slipped out of bed and eased himself towards the door. This intruder picked the wrong home, the wrong night. Robert himself was built like a house with a six-foot three frame; the beard and long, grey curly hair made him resemble a yeti in all his youngest granddaughter’s pictures and a Wildman to anyone who dared break in. As he passed, he checked that the girls’ rooms were locked. Robert then padded down the back staircase, caught sight of the intruder, and took a swing.

Thankfully his daughter had excellent reflexes. “You expecting Sandy Koufax?”

“Bernie?”

“Yeah, it’s me.” His daughter wasn’t supposed to be back tonight. Hence his staying over. “Do you mind putting the bat down? Unless you want to play catch outside but it is three am.”  

Robert stowed the bat by the refrigerator. He watched the shadow of his daughter across the kitchen as she retrieved a glass and the bottle of vodka from the freezer. “I didn’t expect you back.”

“Neither did I.” Bernie leant against the closed refrigerator door. “How are the girls? You have a good evening?”

He wasn’t the lawyer in the family but he knew when someone was trying to evade a question. But Robert gave his daughter some space. She’d tell him when she was ready. “We had a great time. Made spaghetti; girls cleaned up. Afterward, me and Robyn went out to the garage and played a few of my old tracks. That neighbour of yours threatened to call the cops but I talked her down. Then Ash gave me a very interesting lecture on queer characters in horror movies and spent twenty minutes talking about the screenplay she’s writing.”

“It’s good, isn’t it?”

“Damn good – and you know I don’t like horror movies. I didn’t spend a lot of time with Toni – kid’s still skittish.”

Bernie drained her glass. “Her parents murdered nine people then held her friends hostage; you’d be skittish around new parental figures, too.”

Robert couldn’t disagree. He’d been in Seattle for a gig when that had all gone down and had only been able to get a handful of details: he had a new granddaughter, his eldest was moving back to Los Angeles, and the kitchen had been remodelled. Again, setting aside that train of thought, Robert continued on with informing Bernie of his evening with her girls.

“I then read The Hobbit to Dani, where she insisted I do all the voices for the trolls. She got off to sleep okay, as did the others.” Staring across a darkened kitchen, moonlight glinting off the crucifix Bernie still wore, Robert got to his feet. There was only so much space he was willing to give. “This is ridiculous; I can’t have a conversation with you in the dark.”

“Dad, wait—"

He plunged the kitchen into bright, bare light. His only daughter sat at the kitchen table, a fresh welt underneath her eye and the right side of her face covered in blood. The leather jacket she had left the house in had a scuff and two tears. Bernie’s grip tightened around her glass. Robert just collapsed into his seat. Even after what had happened to her all those years ago – after everything that had happened since – Robert had never seen his daughter bloodied and bruised. Traumatised, in recovery, yes. But not in the direct aftermath of fighting whatever demons she felt she had to fight.

“It’s not my blood,” she offered, as if that made it any better.

Robert took a moment to formulate his reply; swept his tongue across his top lip. He had to plan his words carefully, so afraid that one wrong remark would send his daughter packing for another couple of decades. “I…thought you were just going to be watching the house.” He swallowed. “You said he wouldn’t come.”

“I was wrong.”

“The girl?”

Twenty-one-year-old college student, harassed by her ex-boyfriend with a horror fetish. She’d contacted Bernie’s law firm about a restraining order. “She’s okay. She’s currently in protective custody; her parents are flying down from Ohio tomorrow.”

“And him?”

“He’s okay.” Bernie reached for the bottle of vodka. “He’s in the hospital, but he’ll live.”

Robert nodded. Then he stood up, grabbed a cloth, and wetted it. Taking the seat beside his daughter, Robert gently eased the cloth over her cheek. Bernie gripped his wrist. “You don’t have to. I’ve got pretty good at cleaning up blood.”

“Let me help. Please.”  

Bernie dropped her shoulders and let Robert clean up his daughter. The blood came off easily enough; it was dry and starting to flake. She had a bruised lip to go with the welt underneath her eye. If they were a normal household, Bernie would have to be liberal with the concealer for the girls tomorrow. But they’d all stepped out of the third acts of their very own horror movies: they know what Bernie did; they know what Bernie had gone through. Robert tried not to fixate on the scars she bore. The knife wounds. The gunshot. The slice across her throat. He instead, focussed on the freckles on her nose he wiped clean, the edges of a smile that mirrored his own.

“I didn’t think I was that loud, coming in. Bad dreams?” Robert hummed, not wanting to fixate on those either. “Uncle David again?”

“Yeah,” he lied, not wanting to discuss the other vision in his dreams. His biggest failure; his eternal regret. “There, all done.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“You’re welcome, Bumblebee.”

Robert left a kiss atop her head, noting the blood and glass clinging to her scalp, before he rinsed out the cloth and tossed it in the trash. As he did so, a yawn overwhelmed him. His daughter clocked it in a second. “You should grab some sleep. I’ll be okay.”

“You sure?”

“Always.” Robert headed for the door. Bernie’s voice called him back. “Andie was at the studio the other day, going over some contracts. Marty mentioned something about an east coast tour? When does that kick off?”

“Must be some other band,” Robert, once again, lied. He shrugged. “I think Last Known Survivor is a little old for touring.”

“You always enjoyed it. That west coast tour back in ‘92—” Last Known Survivor’s very first tour. Their next was ten years later, when Robert had been sure Bernie wasn’t coming back. When he was sure he couldn’t fail her again by being away. His daughter seemed to understand she struck a nerve. Depositing her glass in the sink, Bernie joined him in the doorway. She kissed his cheek. “Love you.”

“Love you, too. Night.”

“Night.”

As he got into bed, Robert stared up at the ceiling. He heard the start of the shower, the slight hiss of pain as his daughter eased herself under the hot water. The slight creaks on the floorboards as Ash and Robyn woke and listened, like him, for the sounds that their mother was okay. Robert waited until the shower turned off, until he heard Bernie crawl into her own bed, before he tried to sleep again. This time, he dreamt of an empty house and six empty beds. When he woke up, he was grateful for the overwhelming noise of three teenagers, a nine-year-old, and two former vigilantes who were running a legal practice after years of challenging the law. Noise was good. Noise meant life.

Robert washed, dressed, and joined his family for pancakes. The nightmares were quickly forgotten.