Tommy asked him for an explanation. “What the hell was that back there?”
Oliver sighed, and ran a hand through his hair – the hand not covered in the men’s blood. “Something… something I’ve tried to leave behind. Something I need to leave behind.” His eyes met Tommy’s. They looked back at him with confusion and concern. “I wasn’t alone on the Island, Tommy. Things… things happened there.”
Horrible things.
And he didn’t want to talk about them.
The hot Star City day, Californian sun beating down on a scorching concrete jungle, reminded him of Dinah.
They’d go to South Shore together, in weather like this. The pier overrun with people, the smell of candy floss wafting through the sea-salt air, kids milling about on the sand and in the water, building castles and playing catch, their laughter mixing with the gentle roar of waves and choking call of seagulls. Wedged between Marquette and the Stockyards, this little slice of paradise had been Ollie and Dinah’s refuge from the city. They came here to escape the heat, escape the bustle, escape the confines of glass and steel and asphalt; it would just be them and the beach, enjoying the cold water and each other.
But good things never last, of course. Dinah ended things, and Oliver – well, he spent the next five years fighting for air to breathe and food to eat. Their sandy refuge died with their relationship and the Gambit.
Oliver sat in his father’s study, the A/C on blast. It was stuff like this that made him realise how spoiled he’d been – cold air on command, and he’d taken it for granted. If only there had been air conditioners on the Island. It still would’ve been a living hell, but at least it would have been a comfortable one.
Tommy hadn’t taken his explanation too well. It probably didn’t help that Oliver had refused to elaborate – what did he mean, he wasn’t alone on that island? What “things” happened there? What did they have to be, so that he could come home and take out three men like... like...
“... like friggin’ John Wick, Ollie?!”
Who John Wick was, Oliver didn’t know, but he didn’t much care then, either. The only thing he’d cared about was shutting this conversation down. “Bad things, Tommy. You’re better off not knowing.”
“Oh, yeah, great,” Tommy said, “Thanks, pal. That just – that really puts my mind at ease.” His eyes lingered on the unconscious, brutalised men. “Should we… should we call the police?”
As if the S.C.P.D. would come to the Glades. “Yeah. I’ll do it.”
“Oliver,” said Tommy, as Ollie started to dial 911. Pleaded. “At least… at least tell me how many times you had to do this. How many times did you have to…”
Fight? Brutalise? Torture? Kill?
Gee, Tommy, you’re gonna have to be more specific.
“Not a whole lot,” lied Oliver. “Only when the others hogged the fire. And that one time Robinson Crusoe stole my coconut.”
Tommy hadn’t found it funny. As they parted ways that night, Oliver felt a pang of something, a twist in his gut – lingering regret at the way he handled things with him. Alienating his best friend was the last thing he wanted to do, but the moment he even started to think about coming clean about the Island… about telling Tommy, telling anyone what he had to do over there… his gut twisted even harder, tied itself up in a messy knot, and the pit of his stomach fell and fell and fell and it felt empty, empty but for the daggers bouncing off its walls. So Oliver went home that night, feeling guilty for Tommy as well as the Island, and he spent hours lying in the expansive Queen Mansion yard, falling asleep beneath the stars.
Now, in the study, his phone rang. He looked at the caller ID – Walter.
“Walter, hey.”
“Oliver,” said Walter, “I tried to reach you last night.”
“Really?” asked Oliver. “Sorry, I must’ve had my phone on silent.”
Or he’d ignored him, lost in his thoughts and the sky.
“I talked with the board, Oliver.”
“And?”
“They roadblocked me. Hit me with the ‘sinking ship’ line, just like I did with you.”
God damn it.
“I’m sorry. I tried, Oliver, I really did.”
“I know, Walter, it’s okay,” said Ollie. “Thank you. It was worth a shot.”
“Indeed it was.” He paused. “Lunch tomorrow, you and Thea? Sorrentino’s, at one o’clock?”
Despite himself, Oliver smiled, although Walter couldn’t see it. “Sure, yeah. I’ll let Thea know. See you then, Walter.”
“Goodbye, Oliver.”
Ollie hung up.
Anger churned deep within him. His own father’s company wouldn’t help him, wouldn’t help thousands of people, displaced and dying, in the Glades. They’d sooner turn over a profit than – oh, the horror – help people.
Three cheers for corporate greed.
It made Oliver feel sick. What was he going to do now?
How was he going to help the Glades?
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