Rival Sons

by Aidan Thorn

  RIVAL SONS

  Aidan Thorn

  PRAISE FOR RIVAL SONS

  “A really strong story with great characters. Brilliant stuff. Aidan Thorn is at the forefront of the new wave of British noir.” —Chris Black, Senior Editor at Fahrenheit 13

  “Rival Sons is a nuanced, multi-layered homecoming tale that packs a real kick-in-the-teeth. Powerful stuff.” —Tess Makovesky, author of Gravy Train and Raise the Blade

  “Rival Sons is a story about evil overtaking good, how one brother can corrupt the other, and how the lineage passed to us can be more corrupt than any jailhouse snitch. In this blast of a novella, Aidan Thorn delivers—these characters know rivalry and vengeance, guts and glory, failure and worse-than-failure. They also know love and courage (well, some of them do). And like every great noir story, Rival Sons is about a few bad men eating the bullets they so deserve.” —Matt Phillips, author of Know Me from Smoke and The Bad Kind of Lucky

  Copyright © 2018 by Aidan Thorn

  All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

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  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Rival Sons

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by the Author

  Preview from The Bad Kind of Lucky by Matt Phillips

  Preview from Gravy Train by Tess Makovesky

  Preview from Harbinger by Frank Zafiro and Jim Wilsky

  To my parents, who are nothing like Kyle’s

  Chapter One

  “What happened to this place?” Kyle asked the barman at the Bear and Stag.

  The barman scanned his surroundings as if considering them for the first time before responding.

  “Needs a bit of decorating, someone to take some pride in the place. But there’s no money about, not in this town, not anymore.”

  The barman wasn’t wrong about the need for decoration, that was an understatement. There were areas of the pub that looked like they’d been the scene of a clash of fans after an Auld Firm derby and hadn’t been repaired afterward. Even the wallpaper looked like it had given up and had somewhere else it would rather be. But, Kyle didn’t really care about any of that.

  “I was talking about the town, not the pub.”

  “Ah, well, it’s gone to shit hasn’t it. This place has always run on two things, farming and crime. Unfortunately, the farming has dried up.”

  “And the crime?”

  “It’s got worse.”

  “Frank Gordon still running things?”

  The barman eyed Kyle with suspicion. What did he know of the Gordon’s? Who was this stranger? The young lad probably wasn’t born when Kyle had left this place.

  “Not so much.”

  “Someone topple him from the throne?”

  “I’m not being funny mate, but what’s it to you? People don’t really talk about this stuff around here.”

  “Sorry, I grew up around here, that’s all. I knew Frank Gordon and his family pretty well.”

  The barman edged towards the back of the bar and looked around like he was hoping for a witness or someone to help him if things turned nasty. No such luck, the place was as dead as the upturned flies on the window sill.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Kyle asked.

  “Look, we don’t want any trouble in here. Mr. Wilson, the landlord, he pays his dues when he can, but business isn’t exactly thriving—as you can see.”

  “Oh, don’t worry, I’m not here for trouble. I don’t have anything to do with the Gordons these days—I haven’t for nearly twenty years.”

  That wasn’t strictly true. Kyle was a Gordon himself. But the lie was only a white one. He hadn’t spoken to his father, Frank, or his brother, Graham, since he left and joined the army, but he had stayed in constant contact with his mother, Violet.

  Kyle never did much like his younger brother, Graham. It had been that way ever since the day Graham was born. Hell, before that even, from the day Kyle’s mother told him someday soon he’d have a baby brother. Kyle was three years old at the time. And, from then in he still remembered that syrupy sweet smile on his mother’s face as she told him. It might very well be his first memory—no wonder he’d grown up bitter.

  She’d been so excited when she’d told him. It was the sort of excitement that people have for someone else, like on a birthday when they hand you a really great present and can’t wait for you to open it. Only Kyle wasn’t sharing in his mother’s joy—and it had clearly shown.

  “What’s wrong, little man?” his mother had asked, her excitement replaced by a look of concern. She’d persisted with, ‘little man,’ until he was well into his late teens—another thing Kyle was none too excited by.

  He had just walked off to the corner of the living room where a box of his toys sat. He wasn’t really interested in playing with them, he just searched through the box as if he was too busy to hear his mother’s news. He had more important things to attend to. Kyle hadn’t wanted a brother; who would? Life was just fine as it was. He had his parents’ undivided attention, and that of anyone else who came to visit. Why should he share that with a brother? Kyle liked all that attention, it often meant more toys for his box and coins in his piggy bank—sometimes he was even given money he could fold. Maybe on some level he realised that with a baby around there’d be less for him—and he was right.

  When Graham arrived, Kyle drifted into the background. Yes, his parents’ friends spoke to him, but it was usually about the baby and how pleased he must be to have a little brother to play with. Kyle would just shrug and ignore the comments. He didn’t think it was so great that Graham was around and, at three years of age, he hadn’t learnt the subtleties required to make his face show different thoughts to those he was feeling.

  The problem for Kyle was there was a constant stream of people through his parents’ house. He didn’t know it at the time but his father, Frank, was kind of a big deal. Well, if running a crew of gangsters and goons meant you were a big deal—and where Kyle and Graham grew up it did. Nothing else really mattered around those parts. Frank Gordon was in charge of everything that went on, from the farms to the pubs, from the rubbish collections to the police. Of course as a toddler, Kyle had no idea who his old man was. He thought it was perfectly normal for there to be a constant stream of big men in dark clothing passing through. They’d speak behind hands in hushed tones, but their gravelly voices carried regardless. As a child Kyle didn’t understand what these men were all about. And anyway, his father couldn’t be up to no good; along with the men in dark clothing, there were always policemen in the house, laughing, joking and leaving with presents or envelopes.

  Of course, as time moved on, Kyle started to understand. The kids in the playground talked, or rather didn’t. It was all whispers beh
ind his back and avoided eye contact as he walked school corridors.

  “That’s Kyle Gordon, his dad is Frank Gordon—the gangster!”

  It wasn’t as if he didn’t have any friends, he had plenty, but they were all the sons of the men that turned up at his home each day to see his father. Kids that would come around on Sundays with their dads. The kids would kick a ball about the garden with Kyle and Graham while their fathers talked behind their hands in the kitchen. The other kids at school, those with parents who worked in offices, factories and shops, stayed away from Kyle. With Graham being three years Kyle’s junior, the kids in Graham’s class weren’t so quick to work out who their father was—but one kid learnt the hard way, well his dad did at least.

  Graham, being the spoilt younger son of a gangster, was a cocky little fucker. One of the bigger kids in his class didn’t take too kindly to his lip one lunchtime and so he split it for him. Graham went home that night, his face all swollen and full of tears. As soon as he laid eyes on him, his father hit the roof.

  “What the fuck happened to you?”

  Graham was reluctant to speak at first. He was too young to know what his father was, but he knew he was a tough man. Graham was afraid he would be ashamed of him for not being able to handle himself.

  “I want a name!” Their father screamed in Graham’s face. Kyle watched from the doorway as his brother flinched and cowered.

  “Danny Coyne,” Graham replied in a frightened whisper after a long pause.

  Graham had barely finished saying the name before their father had shot out of the room past Kyle in the doorway, along the hallway and out of the front door.

  Danny Coyne was never seen at the boy’s school again and the next time his father surfaced, almost a year later, he did so in a wheelchair.

  Kyle hated who his father was. What it meant for his life. Who would socialise with him and more importantly who wouldn’t. Any girl worth knowing wouldn’t look twice at him, and those that did were only interested in him because they were excited by the thrill of a connection to a criminal world. They wanted a bad boy, someone dangerous. Those girls didn’t stick around long when they realised Kyle wasn’t anything like his father or interested in the world where his father operated. Graham, on the other hand, thrived on his father’s reputation. He used it to his advantage at every opportunity. And Kyle hated him for that even more than he hated him for turning up in the world three years after he had.

  In a normal family, the kid that broke the neighbours’ windows and robbed the local shop would be seen as the rebellious one. Not in Frank Gordon’s family. Graham ran riot over the local area and not once did a policeman get called or a disgruntled victim knock on the door of the Gordon family home to complain. Frank Gordon was proud of his younger son, he was following in the family way. Kyle, on the other hand was a disappointment. He did well at school, without being spectacular, and was rarely in trouble. The words were never said but his father’s look always suggested he wished Kyle was more like his younger brother.

  Kyle rebelled in the only way he could. He considered joining the police force but knew people would think he was only there as his father’s inside man, and he had enough of those already. So, at 18 years of age Kyle Gordon enlisted in the army to put distance between himself and what his father was, and his brother was becoming. Frank Gordon refused to see his son off when he carried his bags from the family home. To his face Kyle had simply been blanked by his father from the moment he’d announced his decision to enroll, but Kyle had overheard what his father really thought when he’d woken early one morning to hear him taking out his anger on Kyle’s mother. “What the fuck will people say! The son of Frank Gordon, my fucking lad, enlisting in an army to fight for an English Queen. You should have talked him out of this, woman!”

  Graham was nowhere to be seen either when Kyle left to join up. Kyle wouldn’t lose any sleep over either of them. What mattered to him was that his mother stood at the door to wave him off as he left. She held back the tears from her eyes, and Kyle hated to see that hurt on her face. She even managed a smile as he looked back at her before getting in the taxi—she’d always been good at the brave face. The wife of Frank Gordon had to be.

  It was his mother Kyle had come back for. Wherever he was posted in the world, Kyle’s mother had written letters to him. When he was back in the UK, they’d speak on the phone. She never mentioned Graham or his father—Kyle didn’t want to know about them and she knew that. The last time he called, his mother sounded low. This was unusual.

  Kyle knew his mother wasn’t always happy—he’d known that as a kid. You couldn’t live in the Gordon family home without picking up on those vibes. She worried about how the money came into their home, knowing it could all come crashing down at any moment. She worried that her husband would end up dead, or worse in prison, and she’d be bringing up two boys alone. But, she never let it show outwardly. She wore a mask to the outside world that convinced. Convinced that she was confident, proud even, that her man was prepared to take such risks for her family. Step outside of the law to provide, she justified what Frank did as love for them—she ignored the fact he’d been a criminal since he was in short trousers. When Kyle left to join the army she had maintained the front. Outwardly she was proud of her boy, off to defend his country. Inside, she’d been terrified. Terrified of losing him in some war she knew was nothing to do with him, and terrified his father would never speak to him again. Thankfully, the first fear never materialised, but the second, to this day, had.

  Frank Gordon took it as a personal insult when his son told him he’d be joining the army. The way Frank saw things Kyle was supposed to keep the family business going. He’d be a soldier, but in Frank’s army. What business did Kyle have going off fighting for an English government and an English Queen? Not only was he betraying his father, he was betraying every Scot that ever bled in the battles of Falkirk and Stirling Bridge, well that’s how Frank saw things in his overly simple mind. Kyle’s mother somehow managed to do an incredible job of not taking either side. Always composed no matter the situation. And so, when Kyle called last week, and she sounded troubled he knew something was wrong.

  “Is it dad?” It was the first time Kyle had asked after his father in 19 years.

  “Is what dad?”

  “The reason your voice is cracking.”

  “My voice isn’t cracking, Kyle.”

  “Mum, something is wrong. What is it?”

  There was a pause on the other end of the line before a resigned sigh. Pancreatic cancer she told him. She’d been given less than a year to live. There was nothing to be done. She’d be gone before her 61st birthday. Kyle’s heart sank low into his stomach and it was his turn to pause. He thought he heard a sob from his mother, but he couldn’t be sure, the sound so unfamiliar to him.

  “I’m coming home, Mum. I’m bringing Emma and Zoe back and we’re going to be with you.”

  His mother’s resolve returned quickly. “Don’t go disrupting your life for me. Emma isn’t going to want to move up here. And Zoe has to finish her college. I’ll be fine.”

  Always thinking of everyone else. Even faced with her own end Violet Gordon couldn’t put her thoughts and feelings first. Still, Kyle wasn’t listening. That conversation was two days ago. He’d quit his job and driven straight up to Scotland. His wife and daughter would follow in a few weeks. He’d stopped at the pub before going to his mother. He’d seen terrible things in his army days, things most men could never deal with and he’d never be able to unsee, but he’d needed a drink before he could face his mother knowing she’d be gone within the year.

  The drive up to the old town had shown signs of the decay. Border town houses were boarded. Cars sat abandoned and vandalised on their driveways. There had only ever been a few pubs but today only The Bear and Stag remained open—how it did was a mystery. Kyle was the only customer and the dents in the stools wore a dust covering that suggested they
hadn’t been used in a while. Pumps showed a variety of beers but, in reality, there was only a choice of Foster’s or John Smith’s. Kyle wasn’t a fan of either, but reluctantly nursed his lager.

  The barman still wasn’t talking so Kyle pushed again.

  “So who’s running things now?”

  The barman moved in close and dropped his voice to a whisper, in case the tired wallpaper had ears.

  “It’s Frank’s son, Graham. I was only a lad when Frank was in charge so don’t know too much about how he ran things, but I’m told Graham makes the old man look like a saint.”

  “How’d you mean?”

  “Graham’s not interested in the town, he’s just out for himself—anything for money.”

  To be honest this didn’t sound too different from his dad to Kyle. But the barman’s initial reluctance to speak appeared to have disappeared and he carried on.

  “I’m too young to really know much about it all. But I don’t remember things being this bad when I was a kid. Graham introduced a tax on all businesses, protection or some shite. Basically, if the businesses didn’t pay, Graham sent his boys in to smash the place up. Few lasted that, those that refused to pay got smashed up and closed, those that paid could only afford it for a while and got fucked up too.”

  It explained the boarded buildings and the lack of punters as Kyle scanned his dilapidated surroundings. It didn’t seem like the soundest of business models; if businesses closed so did the cash cow, but then Graham had never been the sharpest pencil in the case.

  “And this place?” Kyle asked, “Don’t exactly look like you’re set up to pay protection money on top of the bills around here.”