Never Good Enough
by, T.C. Healy
Part One
“I’m telling you,” Cordelia emphasized, “he was making googly eyes at you.”
“Where did you see that?” Wesley huffed, as the two entered the office.
He walked over to the coat hanger and took off his jacket. Taking off his glasses, he wiped them with his handkerchief. Before he placed them back on his head, he rubbed his temples.
“Oh come on,” she countered, putting her large bag on the floor next to her desk, “he was practically bending over backwards to be nice to you.”
“The man’s a waiter,” he shook his head, “that’s his job. Especially if he wants a large tip.”
“That’s not all he wanted,” Cordelia teased.
Angel strolled out of his office to hear the tail end of the argument, “What’s up?” he asked.
“Wesley and I were having lunch at the Red Brick, and this waiter was hitting on him...”
“He was not.”
“Was too.”
Angel smiled impishly, and turned to Wesley, “Well, you know, you are kinda cute.”
This infuriated him even more, “Oh for god’s sake, not you too!” He gave Cordy a sideways glance, “Next time, remind me to have lunch...alone!”
As he stormed off to the bathroom, Cordelia gave Angel a wicked grin, “It’s so easy.”
“Yeah,” Angel agreed, “it really is.”
Cordelia placed a large paper cup down on her desk, “Here,” she said to her boss, “I brought you a Cappuccino. Double Mocha.” she paused and cocked her head, “Since when do you like chocolate?”
Angel picked up the cup and took a sip of the hot coffee, remembering the time when Buffy first introduced him to chocolate. A time, in which only he was allowed to remember, “I’ve liked it for a while,” he said vaguely. Then changing the subject, he asked, “So how was your lunch with Wesley?”
“Other than the waiter hitting on him?” Cordelia smiled, “not bad. As far as lunches with Wesley goes. We talked mostly about...work. Oh...yeah, and I forgot...the latest in demon trapping devises. If it wasn’t for the waiter...Why is it that the really cute ones are either, jerks, taken, or gay? Or broke?”
“Um....ah...well....” Angel shifted his weight uncomfortably.
He was saved from having to answer, by the sudden opening of the door. Angel looked up, wanting to meet his conversation savior, when he noticed a pretty woman standing in the open frame. She was wearing a flowing green dress, with white lace, and shoes to match. Her short black hair, framed her lovely face, giving her a youthful appearance. And yet, there was an ageless look in her blue, tear filled eyes.
“Can I help you?” Angel asked, placing his coffee on the table.
“Are you Angel?” The woman choked back a sob, wiping her eyes with a tissue.
“You’re not a bill collector, are you?” Cordelia became defensive, “Because I sent out everything. They may not have all been on time...”
“Yes I’m Angel,” ignoring Cordelia’s ramblings, he walked over to the woman and helped her over to the couch, “What’s wrong?”
“I want to hire you to find my son,” she replied, “He’s been kidnapped.”
Wesley came out of the bathroom to hear the last part of the conversation, “Kidnapped? Shouldn’t you be talking to the police. That’s more in their jurisdiction.”
“These are my associates, Wesley Wyndham-Pryce, and Cordelia Chase,” Angel pointed to his friends, “And you are...”
“Naomi Stanton,” she hitched a breath, “And the police won’t do anything about it.”
“Why?” Cordelia asked.
“Charlie was supposed to come home right after school today,” she began, “Right after. He’s never been late before. Every day, he stays at my neighbor’s apartment, until I come home from work. When I got home today, Olivia said he never came by.”
“How old is Charlie?” Angel asked.
“Ten, almost eleven.”
“Perhaps he’s visiting a friend,” Wesley suggested, “You know, a school mate.”
“No,” she shook her head, trying to keep her voice from cracking, “Charlie wouldn’t do that, and not tell me first. It’s not like him. And besides, I called all his friends. They hadn’t seen him since school let out.”
“Why would you think he’s kidnapped?” Cordelia asked, as she jotted information on a notepad.
“Because that would be just what Frank would do.”
“And Frank is...” Angel began.
“My ex-husband,” she began to cry again, “We separated about two months ago, and he’s been obsessed with getting custody of Charlie. I won’t let him see him because...well, I left Frank to protect Charlie from him.”
“Your husband abused him,” Wesley surmised, his eyes growing dark.
“When we first met,” she explained, “things were great. We were so much in love. Then...”
“He changed,” Angel said.
She nodded, clutching her purse as though it could protect her from the horrible memories she was about to reveal, “I’m not sure when it happened, or how it began, but yes, he changed. He has a temper, I knew that when I married him, but he never took it out on me. But when Charlie was born...oh god, why did I stay with him as long as I did?”
“You thought you could change him,” Angel comforted, “Make him what he once was, again.”
“But is just got worse,” she continued, “I had to get out. I had to.”
“You did the right thing,” Wesley muttered, “So many people don’t.”
The young man’s eyes didn’t leave the floor, as he listened to the rest of the conversation. Angel saw the pained expression and wanted to say something, but he knew now was not the time. He would definitely talk to Wesley later. He needed to know if his partner would be able to handle the case.
“I still don’t understand why you just don’t report this to the police,” Cordelia asked, “I mean, if he’s done all this, I’m sure they would make an exception.”
Naomi looked confused, “I was told you handle these kinds of cases.”
“What do you mean?”
“You see, Charlie is half demon.”
“Oh,” Cordelia nodded, “Yep, that we handle.”
Naomi looked at Angel with pleading eyes, “Now you know why I can’t go to the police. You’re the only one I can go to. Please, before he really hurts my son.”
“We’ll, need some information first,” Angel said, taking her hand, “But, yes, we’ll take the case.”
Naomi reached into her purse and pulled out some papers, handing them to Angel she said, “Here. This is a photo of Charlie. And one of Frank.”
“We need an address,” Angel said, looking at the photos, “or place you know he might go.”
Naomi inhaled and closed her eyes in concentration, “There are only two places I know he would hang out at. The ‘Other Worldly’ Pub, and the race track. And here is his current address,” She wrote a number on a piece of paper.
“ ‘Other Worldly’ Pub?” Cordelia asked.
“It’s a bar that specializes in...demon clientele,” Angel explained.
“Oh,” she nodded, “Like Willie’s. I would love to know how all these demon places can exist without the world knowing about them. Talk about collective amnesia.”
Angel stood up and walked Naomi to the door, “Well, get on this right away. The sooner we do, the sooner we’ll find Charlie. And we WILL find him.”
“Thank you.”
Angel closed the door behind her, and turned to Cordelia and Wesley. He studied them closely, knowing that this case would be a tough one for them all. But, as he noticed the dark look on Wesley’s face, he was convinced that it was going to be harder on the young ex-Watcher than anyone else. “Wesley,” he approached him, “are you okay?”
Wesley straightened his shoulders, and looked directly into his employer’s eyes, “Yes, I’m fine.”
“Because if this is too much...”
“I said, I’m fine,” Wesley snipped, “What ever my feelings about this case is, it has no relevance in my ability to perform my duties.”
Cordelia looked from one man to the other, and noticed the strained expressions on both their faces. She didn’t exactly have a rosy childhood, she knew that. Her parents were too wrapped up in their own lives to worry about her. And now, they were in jail. But her experience paled in comparison to what Angel and Wesley went through. Oh, she didn’t really know any details, but she’s seen that look before. That look they both had.
The look of the abused.
The very same look she remembered Xander having every time he spoke about his family...which was as seldom as possible. So now, she had to go through this again. The pain of being on the outside of someone else’s hurt, and not being able to help.
“If you ever want to talk about it...” Angel offered.
This offering seemed to agitate Wesley even more, “I don’t inquire about your past...please don’t with mine. There’s nothing to talk about. It has no relevance to what’s going on right now.”
“You’ve said that already.”
“Well,” he threw on his jacket, “I meant it.” He paused at the door, and sighed, “Angel, I’m sorry, and I appreciate your concern, but I will be fine. Now, I’m going to head on out to the school," he suggested, looking down at the school photo Naomi gave him. P.S. 132--Grade 5. Miss. Henderson's class. "Hopefully I’ll be able to catch someone who might know a little bit about Charlie.”
“Good idea,” Angel nodded, “Cordelia, the track is still open, how would like to see the ponies?”
“Oh joy,” she sighed, “Just what I wanted, to be around sweaty animals.”
“I don’t think you’ll get close to the horses,” Angel looked confused.
“I wasn’t talking about the horses,” she said, closing the door behind her, leaving Angel alone in the office.
“Well, looks like I’m going for a beer.”
*~*~*~* *SMITHFIELD, ENGLAND--1981*
Wesley raced home from the bus stop, passed the dozens of row-houses that lined the broken, cracked street. As the ten year old boy neared his tiny brick house, the only brick house left in this part of town, he could see his mother through the kitchen window, cooking something. She was *always* cooking something. The smell of cookies, cakes and breads wafted through the air and tickled his nose even before he opened the rusting, metal fence.
Wesley ran up the steps and opened his front door, “Mum! Mum! Guess what?”
His mother turned around and smiled. The young boy lived for her smiles. They were so open, so loving...so few.
“My goodness,” she chuckled, taking out a pan of shortbread cookies from the oven, “You’re quite the whirlwind today.”
Wesley smiled, and stood up straight and tall. Remembering his Father’s lessons of self discipline, he said calmly, “I got an A on my history exam.”
His mother took the paper from him and kissed him on the forehead, “So, I see. I’m so proud of you!” She walked over to the refrigerator and placed the test under a small, black magnet, “Now, let’s put this up so your father can see it too.”
“It was the highest grade in the class,” Wesley boasted, “Mr. Handson told me so.”
“Did he now?” she gave an exaggerated look of surprise, and smiled, “Well, pretty soon you’ll be ready to go off to University.”
The boy giggled, “I’m too young. Besides,” he pawed the ground, “I didn’t do all that well on my Science exam.”
Margaret Wyndham-Pryce gave her son a sideways glance, “Oh?”
“I got a C.” he quickly amended, “The questions where really hard, and...and...”
“I guess, I’ll have to show this to your Father, as well,” she waited to see Wesley cringe before adding, “After I soothe him with the A.”
“Thanks,” he smiled, hugging her with all his might.
She kissed him again and smoothed his hair. He was growing up so fast. Faster than she would have liked. But circumstances didn’t allow for anything less. She only hoped that he would be able to hold on to the small bit of youth that was still allowed to him, for as long as he possibly could.
“Do you have homework?”
Wesley nodded.
“Why don’t you get that done before your father comes home,” she suggested, “You know how he gets if it’s not done.”
The boy stiffened slightly at the memory of the last time he didn’t have all his schoolwork finished...a long paddling with the wooden spoon. His bottom was sore for a day after that, “Yes, Mum. I will.”
Before he could climb the stairs to his room, his mother handed him a few cookies and a glass of milk, “Here. To tide you over until supper.”
Wesley stuck a cookie in his mouth and headed upstairs. When he reached the top of the landing, he paused at the room that was opposite his...the room that had been locked up tight for nearly two years. With his free hand he reached out to touch the wooden door. It was a ritual he had performed every day since it’s closure. He felt the smooth, hard pine and sighed. If he closed his eyes, he could almost...
Wesley opened his eyes, the ritual now complete, and went into his room.
Two hours had passed, when Wesley could hear the front door open. Instinctively he froze when he heard the boisterous voice of his father as he entered the small house. Wesley kept as quiet as he could, hardly breathing, as he tried to listen to the voices that came from the lower floor. He needed to know, what kind of mood his father was in, and if he would take that mood out on him.
“Richard,” he could hear his mother say, “Look at what Wesley brought home from school today. He got an A in history. He was so proud-”
“What a bloody awful day!” Richard Wyndham-Pryce growled, “Market was so damn slow, I’m surprised we sold anything today! Damn recession! People don’t want to part with Penny, never mind a Pound!”
“Well yes, Luv,” she said. Wesley could hear the tension in her voice, even with his door shut, “But people do need meat...”
“But they don’t need a Butcher anymore,” he grumbled, “Not when they can get their groceries cheaper...elsewhere.”
“I’m sorry you’ve had a bad day...” she began.
“And to make my day worse,” his voice rose in anger, “a new Slayer was chosen today. Do you think the Council would have picked me to be the next Watcher?! Of course not! Winston got that. The man can’t even decipher ancient Aramaic. And who do I find this out from...Travers, the miserable sod! Comes right in to the shop, not even worried about customers...not that we had any...and tells me straight out. ‘Terribly sorry, but the job is going to Winston.’ It’s not your time.”
Wesley could hear his father stomping back and forth in the kitchen. He was definitely in a very bad mood. This made the boy’s stomach sink. It would not be a good night for anyone....especially not for him.
“ ‘Not my time’?!” his voice even louder, “It’s never my time! Just because Winston’s family has been practically shagging the Council for generations, and they have more money than god, doesn’t make him a better Watcher than me!”
“You’re a very good Watcher, dear,” Margaret agreed.
“I know I am!” he growled, “But you tell that to those...stuck up, pompous....blow hards! Well,” Wesley heard his father’s feet pounding up the stairs, “if they think I’m just going to lie down and disappear, they’re wrong! I’ll not let the Wyndham-Pryce name just vanish!”
Wesley flinched when the door opened. He could feel the seething anger on his back, as his father stormed into the room. He held perfectly still, knowing that any move that was not approved by his father first, would be punished severely. When his father was in one of these moods, the boy learned it was safe not to speak or move until commanded to do so.
“Have you finished your homework?” His father asked impatiently
“Um...ah...” the small boy stammered, “I have about one more page to go. I got a lot of homework tonight.”
He waited for the blow of disobedience, and sighed with relief when he received none. His shoulders where still tight, but his fear subsided a bit...until his father spoke.
“You’ve been dilly-dallying again?”
“N-no...I-I swear I haven’t,” Wesley tensed again. “I-I wanted to get it done as fast as I could...really I did.”
He felt his father’s strong hand on his arm, tugging him out of his frozen stance, “Well, you can finish your studies later. I want to get some of your training in, before I have to go out tonight.”
The boy silently gulped. Watcher Training was just another excuse for his father to take out his anger and aggression on him. “Y-yes sir,” was all he could say, as they headed down to the basement.
Richard turned on the light in the unfinished basement. The light, which was held on by a string, dangled in the air, creating strange, and eerie shadows on the walls. Looking around the basement, which at one time served as a bomb shelter in the War, Wesley could see bits and pieces of his family’s past.
An old broken down phonograph, a painting or two, and dusty boxes was all that was left of a once proud family. Except, of course, for their house. But even that, like their lives, was in serious disrepair. Life wasn’t the same after the war, and the bombings; money was lost, as well as power and influence. In the local community, Richard Wyndham-Pryce was a model citizen, always willing to help out when needed. But in the eyes of the Council of Watchers, he was just another failure, kept on because of his family history, but was never intended to be advanced. He was just a show piece.
And he knew it.
That didn’t stop him from trying, however. And if he couldn’t make it in their eyes, then his son would. Wesley had to make it, if only to prove to them, that he wasn’t a complete failure as a father and a Watcher.
But Wesley was less then he hoped for. Smaller than most boys his age, and weaker, he tried very hard, but never seemed as though he was going to amount to much. And it wasn’t until recently that Richard even considered on training the young boy as a Watcher. Now, given little choice, the aging man was determined that his son was going to become the Watcher he never was...even if he had to beat it out of him.
“Take this,” he said, tossing a short staff at the boy, “and defend yourself!”
Wesley grabbed the staff and held it in a classic defense posture. But the small boy was no match against the growing fury of his father. The older man struck out at the child with greater intensity, giving him little time to recover. Wesley blocked, and counter struck, but every time he did, he was knocked aside like a rag doll. His father saw him tiring, but didn’t ease off his attacks.
In fact, the more tired Wesley became, the harder Richard struck out, “Do you call this blocking?! You’re eighty year old grandmother could block better than this! Come on! Show me what you have! Hit harder! No, not like that! Keep your arms close to your body! Your flailing like a woman!”
Finally in an act of frustration, Wesley swung with all his might, leaving himself unprotected. Richard took advantage of it, sweeping the boy’s legs from under him. Wesley fell hard, striking the back of his head on the concrete floor, and biting his lower lip. He lay there for a moment, stunned by the pain, and fighting blurred vision. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his father seething. Once again, he let him down.
“What the bloody hell was that?!” Richard shouted, as the boy rose to unsteady feet, “you left yourself completely unprotected! What if I had a sword?! I could have skewered you just then!”
“I’m sorry,” he apologized meekly, trying not to gag on the taste of his own blood.
“We have been practicing this for weeks, and you’re no better than you were before!” he father continued ranting, “What is with you?! Why can’t you learn such a simple technique?! So, you want people to think that you’re a failure, that you’ll never amount to anything?! Is that it?! Do you want to ruin our family name?!” In his anger, he lashed out at Wesley, backhanding him in the very spot where he cut his lip.
Still, Wesley remained quiet, fighting back the tears, and waiting to be dismissed, as he always was.
“Go to your room,” his father growled, collecting the staffs, and tossing them in the corner, “You can think about what you did wrong there...without supper!”
Wesley nodded, and slowly climbed the stairs out of the basement.
While he was finishing his homework and nursing a swelling lip, Richard gently opened the door. Wesley could smell cold chicken and mashed potatoes enter the room with him. He turned around from his small desk and saw his father standing in the door frame. The older man had a pained expression on his face, and a plate of food in his hand.
“Here,” Richard said, handing the plate to the young boy.
Wesley waited for a few minutes, wondering if he was being set up. When he realized that wasn’t the case, he ate his food carefully, trying to avoid the painful wound on his lip. His father noticed this and patted his head.
“I hope you understand why I’m so hard on you,” he explained, “You’re this family’s last hope at keeping our pride. There are so many Watchers out there, but only one Slayer. You have to be the best, to be picked. All I want is for you to be the best. Do you understand that?”
Wesley only nodded, trying not to look his father in the eyes.
“Good,” he said, walking over to the door. He paused at the archway and turned to him, “Oh, yes. Good job on your test today. Your mother said how well you did.”
“Thank you.” Wesley said, dutifully, as his father closed the door behind him.
Once he knew he was completely alone, Wesley placed his fork down on his plate, and cried softly, relieved that another night was at and end.
*~*~*~* Cordelia wrinkled her nose at the pungent smells that filled the air. Horses, food, horses, beer, horses, sweaty men, and more horses, overwhelmed her senses. Not that she hated horses. But she never liked the smell of stables, the dirt, and the flies that seemed to be associated with the animals. Even when her parents took her horseback riding, she always waited as far away from the barn as she could. And she would have never pictured herself at a race track.
But, here she was.
“I’m never going to get this smell out,” she shuddered, sniffing her hair. “Why can’t they make a cologne for horses?”
“Because you can’t trust a horse to wear it,” a deep voice came from behind.
Cordelia turned around to see a tall, very well built, young man smiling down at her. His green eyes sparkled when he saw her, as he ran his hand through his short, brown hair. She paused, realizing she had stopped breathing, “I said that WAY too loud, didn’t I?”
“A bit,” he grinned, “but don’t worry, only me and the horses heard you. And they won’t tell a soul,” he pointed at the several Thoroughbreds that were lined up in the stables, “Horses are very good at keeping secrets.”
“I thought that was elephants?”
“No,” he wrinkled his brow, “I’m pretty sure elephants are the memory thing.” he shook his head and held out his hand, “Hi, Brian Conant.”
“Cordelia Chase,” she replied taking his strong, rough hand.
“Cordelia,” he smiled, “I like that,” he walked over to a stunning brown mare and patted her head, “And so does your name sake. Cordelia Chase, meet Cordelia’s Passion.”
“Oh, god,” she groaned, “there’s a horse named after me?”
“Well, I’m sure the owner didn’t think of you when he named her,” he fed the horse a small piece of apple, “But you have to admit, it’s a pretty name, for two pretty ladies.”
“I bet you are just so thrilled to be able to use that line,” she said with an affable smile.
“You don’t know how much,” he smiled back, “So, for someone who doesn’t like horses, what’s a pretty lady like you doing down here with us beasts of burden?”
Short and to the point. She was beginning to like this guy.
“Well, I’m looking for someone,” she answered, slapping away a fly from her neck.
“Aren’t we all?”
She shook her head, “No, that’s not what I meant,” then thinking about it, she amended, “Well not totally. I’m looking for this guy,” she showed him the picture that Naomi gave them, “His name’s...”
“Frank,” Brian said, handing back the picture to her, “Don’t tell me he owes you money?”
“Owes?” she paused, “well, kind of. He hasn’t been home in a week, and his wife is worried about him.”
“Wife?” Brian looked at her curiously, “Frank isn’t...oh wait, he did mention a wife once, but I thought they were splitsville.”
“So you know Frank?” Cordelia asked, trying to focus on every bit of information she could get from the young man.
“Well,” Brian admitted, “I know him as well as anyone here. Frank would come down once a week. You know, to bet on the ponies. Well, mostly. I think he just liked being near the horses. Has a real love for them. I think he was a Jockey in a former life. Anyway, we would talk about things. Nothing really in depth. You know, work, the weather...horses. Like I said, the guy liked horses.”
“But he owes people money?”
“I said he would bet on them,” Brian explained, “I didn’t say he would win. Actually, Frank’s good at a lot things, but winning isn’t one of them.”
“And owing people would put him under a lot of stress,” Cordelia tried to understand the man in question, hoping there was a reason behind the treatment of his son.
“I don’t think so,” Brian shook his head, “the guy had his share of loses, but he was never in any danger of having his legs broken, if that’s what you mean. He’d lose, then he’d win. This was more of a hobby to him. I think he was more interested in seeing the horses than betting on them.”
“Do you know if he has a temper?” Cordelia asked, still fishing for clues, as they walked to the other end of the stables.
“Who, Frank?” Brian looked at her as though he was seeing double, “Nah, he’s a pretty cool guy. At least from what I’ve seen. But who knows with people, right?” He reached out and stroked a chestnut gelding, “Now horses, on the other hand, what you see is what you get.”
“When was the last time you saw Frank?”
Brian looked up, thinking about it for a moment, “Umm...I would say...last Tuesday. He stopped by briefly. Seemed fine though. Hasn’t been by since.” Cordelia started to walk away when Brian called out to her, “Hey,” he said, “if you see Frank, tell him to stop by, the horses miss him.”
“I will.”
****** It was five o’clock when Wesley arrived at P.S. 132. He looked around at the parking lot and noticed the sparse amount of cars. Damn! He was probably too late to talk to anyone! Turning around to leave, he caught a glimpse of a woman in her mid twenties, leaving the building, alone. She was short in stature, slight, and pretty...at least from a distance. Her black hair was cut in a bob, and bounced as she walked quickly to her car. Keeping her valuables close to her body, Wesley surmised that, this was a woman who had lived in the city all her life.
Then he noticed something familiar about her. Taking out the photograph of Charlie’s class, he nodded in recognition...
“Miss. Henderson?” He asked, walking up to her in as non threatening a way as he could.
“Yes?” she replied warily, “Can I help you...Mr....”
“Wyndham-Pryce,” he said, holding out his hand, “Wesley Wyndham-Pryce.”
“I’m sorry,” she said shaking his hand, yet still on guard, “but, do I know you?”
“No.” He debated on whether or not to create a ruse to get the information he needed, but decided that honest would probably get him farther, “I work for Angel Investigations, we are a private company hired by Mrs. Naomi Stanton...”
“You’re a private eye?” she tilted her head, “Okay, Mr. Remington Steele,” she smiled, “Let’s see some id.”
Wesley reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his id card. He mentally thanked Cordelia for annoying Angel enough to get them cards. “I’m sorry, I should have identified myself right off-”
“This isn’t a license,” she said, handing it back to him.
“Well, no,” he shifted slightly, “I’m an associate of the firm.”
“I see,” she folded her arms, “And why should I trust you? I mean, it’s not hard to get these things made up, you know.”
Wesley sighed, and rolled his eyes, “We really don’t have time to play the cautious,” he snipped, “Charlie is missing, and we’ve been hired to find him.”
This stopped the teacher in her tracks, “What?” she murmured in shock, “H-he’s missing? Oh, no. I knew this would happen.”
It was now Wesley’s turn to do a double take, “E-excuse me? You knew this would happen?”
“Well, I didn’t exactly know,” she corrected herself, “but I knew it was a possibility. If Naomi hired you, I can only guess she feels her ‘Ex’ took him?”
“Yes,” Wesley shook his head, “I take it you know the family?”
“Charlie’s a good kid,” Henderson explained, placing her briefcase in the passenger side of the car, “Smart. Polite. A parent’s dream. Too bad he was living in a nightmare.”
“What do you mean?”
She took out a cigarette and lit it, “There’s been a lot of trouble at home. Naomi and her husband Frank, were going through a bitter separation, and Charlie was caught in the middle. Over the past several weeks I noticed his grades slipping. Which surprised me, considering how high they were when Frank still lived with them.”
“Oh?”
“They’ve been having problems with their marriage for a while,” she went on to explain, “that was no secret. What was a secret, was the bruises, and scrapes Charlie would have when he came into school.”
“So, you thought he was being abused?” Wesley prodded, eyeing the young woman carefully.
“Frankly,” she nodded, “yes, I did. But, every time I questioned Naomi, she had another excuse. And many of them made sense. Charlie is a very active boy, and boys tend to get their share of bumps and bruises. But when he came to school with a black eye, I knew there was something going on.”
“If you suspected something,” Wesley’s temper rose, “Why didn’t you do anything about it?”
“I tried,” she defended, taking a nervous drag on her cigarette, “believe me, I did. But between the red tape of bureaucracy and...well...special circumstances...”
Wesley looked at her suspiciously, “What special circumstances?”
“Charlie is a very special boy,” she hemmed, “Not like the other kids...”
At that moment, Wesley realized what she meant, “You know he’s a demon?”
She nodded, “Yes, I do. I take it, you know about demons too?”
“We specialize in Demon cases,” he said, “But how do you know about this?”
“I’m his teacher,” Miss. Henderson explained, “They needed someone who they could trust. And besides, my brother-in-law is half demon.”
“Of course,” he sighed, “But I still don’t understand why nothing was done to help Charlie.”
“Where would you go for help if you were a demon?” she pointed out, “The system is bearly able to help human victims. They wouldn’t even know where to begin with demons. Not to mention the fact that most people would freak out at the first sight one.”
“I see your point, but...”
“All I could do was to encourage her to leave him,” she threw away the finished cigarette, “Which she did.”
“And now Charlie’s missing.”
“She told me that everything was better since Frank left,” the teacher rubbed her eyes, “God, how could I have been so blind?”
Wesley sighed, feeling bad for the teacher. She was right. There was only so much that could be done for the “unseen” population of the world. Society wasn’t very accommodating to those that didn’t fit in. And demons, definately didn’t fit in.
“You did what you could,” he tried to comfort her.
She shook her head, “But I’m a professional, I should have seen it.”
Wesley’s expression turned grim, “Believe me, you’re not the first, nor the last ‘professional’ to be fooled by a convincing parent.”
*~*~*~*~* *SMITHFIELD, ENGLAND: 1982*
Wesley sat quietly as Dr. Oliver Thomas carefully stitched up a large gash on his forehead. The old man was quite impressed at the child’s calm nature, but concerned with the frequency of these visits. “There,” he said, soothingly, “How’s that? All better?”
“Yes,” Wesley said quietly.
“Thank you Dr. Thomas,” Margaret sighed, touching her son, as though to make sure he was still there, “It was such a dreadful accident. Quite silly, really.”
“Yes,” he said, patting some iodine on the freshly stitched wound, “How did this happen again?”
“Well,” she began, “you know how Wesley is. He was out playing in the yard, when all of a sudden he came inside screaming. He tripped and hit his head on the runners along side the garden. But,” she kissed her son, “he’s all better now, yes?”
“Yes,” Wesley said again.
Dr. Thomas reached into his pocket and pulled out a lolly pop. Handing it to Wesley he said, “Yes, for now. But he does seem to be quite accident prone as of late.”
“Yes, I’ve noticed that too,” she said, as though she was surprised by his observation, “Could it just be that he’s more active?”
“Perhaps,” the doctor nodded, “Boys do tend to get their share of bumps and bruises.” He turned to the boy and asked with a serious look on his face, “Wesley, did you really fall?”
Wesley turned to his mother, looking to her for support. Hoping she would free him from his bonds. And knowing that it would not happen. All he could do was what was expected of him...lie.
“Yes,” he said, “It was really stupid. I tripped.”
****** The moment they walked through the door, Wesley and Margaret were greeted by Richard. He looked at his son and shook his head, “Now maybe next time, you’ll learn to block a sword strike better.”
“Yes, sir,” Wesley sighed, as he climbed the stairs to his room. As usual, he paused by the closed room, feeling the door for warmth, and receiving none.
Just as he was about to enter his own room, he heard the strained voice of his mother drifting up the stairs.
“I hated having to lie to Dr. Thomas...again,” his mother said.
“And what would you tell him,” Richard argued, “that Wesley got injured practicing to fight demons and vampires? Oh, that would go over wonderfully!”
“He should have never been sparring with real swords,” she bit back, “He’s too young. You could have really hurt him.”
Wesley pressed his ear to the door, straining to hear the conversation that continued down stairs.
“If he would just concentrate on the lessons, he wouldn’t have gotten hurt!”
“You’re pushing him too hard, Richard!” Margaret’s voice raised to almost shouting level.
“If I don’t push him, he’ll never be good enough to make Watcher. He’ll never measure up...”
“Measure up to who?!” she cried, “To you?! No matter how hard he tries he’ll never measure up to you, because he’ll never be Collin! And no matter how hard you try, you can’t bring him back!”
“Shut up!”
“I miss him too!” she cried, “Every day, every hour! You can’t turn Wesley into someone he’s not! It’s not fair to him! All he wants is for you to love him for who he is, not try compare him to someone who’s dead!”
Wesley shuddered when he heard a loud slap.
“Don’t you ever talk about my son like that again!”
“He was my son too,” she sobbed, “and so is Wesley!”
The next thing Wesley heard cut through him like a knife.
“Wesley was a mistake.”
He sat on the floor, clutching his knees to his chest as the front door slammed shut. Wesley could hear his mother’s movements down in the kitchen, and the sound of running water. But what he could hear above all else was her soft sobs.
Sobs that mixed with his own.
Part Two
Never Good Enough Index
Tamara's Angel Fiction SGtVS/Hyperion Index Vault