The Choice

by KERRY BARNES

  Zara could see that whatever it was he was about to tell her, it would hurt him deeply.

  ‘Well, she didn’t hear me come in. I stood at the French doors looking out into the garden, and there she was, pissed with two of her mates, who were also blind drunk, dancing around the pool. It was so fucking hot that day, the hottest day of the year, I think. I remember panicking, ’cos I couldn’t see Ricky. I flew through those doors, and one of her mates tried to grab me to get me to dance. I pushed her off and glared at Jackie.’

  Zara leaned over and took Mike’s hand. It was as if he was falling apart in front of her eyes.

  ‘Well, her face said it all. She was so spiteful, she said, “There’s me ol’ man, ol’ misery guts.”’

  Zara moved across the bed and held Mike in her arms. Just then, she cursed not having two hands to comfort him.

  ‘Then I saw my baby, and I could’ve drowned all three of those women. He was stuck in a playpen. Not only was his face shiny with sweat, but his body was red raw. The poor little fella had nowhere to go to get out of the sun. By the time I’d given him a drink and cooled him down, he had sunstroke and blisters all over his forehead and shoulders. He was only a baby. He could’ve died out there.’

  Zara put her hand to her mouth in horror. She thought about her own baby, little Michael, who had sadly died due to a heart condition. She would have given anything for him to live, and now she truly understood why Mike hated Jackie. The ill-treatment of Ricky had obviously started at an early age and had then been continuous.

  ‘So, I don’t care if Torvic kills her. I was tempted, many a time.’

  * * *

  Staffie stopped outside his uncle’s house and gazed at the flash pad. It was one of Brentwood’s finest. The property was made secure with steel gates. The island in the middle of the drive had a fancy mermaid fountain that lit up, spouting water five feet high. He smiled to himself. His mother always said her brother was a flash bastard. Apparently, ever since he could talk, he’d always wanted the best.

  Although he loved his uncles, they weren’t business associates. On no account would they mix in the same circles, and they never called upon each other for backup. Family they may be, but only in the sense that they met up at weddings, funerals, and christenings, and that was about it. However, this day was different. No one associated the Staffords with the Marwoods. Nicolas and his brother Mack were a few years younger than his mother and drifted away from the family once they’d turned eighteen and seventeen respectively. Staffie wouldn’t class himself as close, but there was always that unspoken promise, and it was this: if the shit really hits the fan, they could call upon each other.

  Teddy, Staffie’s father, had never liked Nicolas. He found him too much of a sly bastard, so he said. And so, when Ted worked with Arthur Regan back in the sixties, Nicolas and Mack, who were a few years younger, made sure they didn’t have any dealings that remotely encroached on the Regans’ turf. They tended to carry out their business in Essex. Their wars were mainly with a firm over in North London.

  Staffie got out of the car and unlocked the gate and then hopped back to drive around on the gravel driveway to the front door to be greeted by lights coming on from all angles. At this time of year, it reminded him of Santa’s grotto. Staffie chuckled; Nicolas really was a gaudy git.

  As Nicolas answered the doorbell, Staffie was greeted by an overweight, red-faced man with blinding-white gnashers. He was wearing a bright-green Lacoste T-shirt, which stretched tightly across his beer belly, and faded jeans that were more fitting for a younger man. ‘Well, this is a fucking turn-up for the books, boy. Come on in.’

  Staffie wiped his feet as soon as he noticed the white carpet.

  ‘Come into the lounge, Staffie. D’ya wanna glass of bubbly? I’ve just popped a cork.’

  Staffie followed his uncle along the hallway, with its oversized gold mirror and mirrored glass units, into the main living area. Flash wasn’t the word. It was so over the top that Staffie wanted to laugh again. A huge crushed velvet corner suite dominated the room. More mirrors, this time in the bar area, reminded him of a nightclub, and the black-and-white photos of Nicolas, posing in just a white shirt and black slacks, made him appear to anyone visiting as if his uncle was a celebrity.

  Nicolas swaggered over to the bar and poured a generous glass of champagne. He passed the flute of bubbly to Staffie and then took a seat. ‘Take the weight off, mate.’ He gestured to Staffie. ‘So, what’s going on? It ain’t like you to want to lay ya head down at my gaff. Trouble brewing, is it?’

  Staffie placed his glass on a coaster on the large, square coffee table and sat back down. ‘Yeah, there’s an issue. Some geezer is on the warpath, and he’s one dangerous fucker, so I was hoping that until the bastard is found, I could crash at yours.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, no worries, mate. So, who is this geezer? Do I know him?’

  Staffie shook his head. ‘I doubt it. Up until a couple of days ago, we didn’t even know him, not by his correct name. Now we do. His name’s Torvic.’

  Nicolas screwed up his chubby red face. ‘Nah, I can’t say I’ve heard of him … and he must be pretty bad, ’cos I’ve never known your tidy firm to back off from anyone. Still, that’s not my business.’

  Staffie didn’t like his undertone. He bit his lip to stop himself from saying something that he might later regret. His priority was to stay safe, and this gaff was ideal for his purpose.

  ‘What about your boy? How’s he doing? I ain’t seen him since he was what? Gotta be thirteen years old at the time.’

  Staffie smiled, and his whole face lit up. ‘Arty? Yeah, he’s a diamond. He’s got a good head on his shoulders, and he’s a looker an’ all.’

  Nicolas laughed, his face reddening even more. ‘He must take after his muvver then.’

  Staffie joined in. ‘Yeah, thank fuck. No, he’s doing all right. How come you never had any kids, Nicolas?’

  ‘Me? Oh, Jesus, no way. Shitty nappies and whining? Fuck that.’

  Staffie looked around the lounge. ‘You’ve done well for yaself, though. I guess not having kids saw you okay?’

  Nicolas sipped his champagne. ‘I haven’t kids of me own, but my Shelley’s boy, I sort of treat like he’s mine, well, when I have the time. She’s brought him up, really. He’s a spoilt little fucker. Whatever he wants, she gives him. Still, as long as she keeps him from under me feet, I ain’t complaining.’

  Staffie frowned. ‘Where is Shelley? I ain’t seen her in years. I’ve never met her boy.’

  Nicolas laughed again. ‘You ain’t missed much. Me and Shell, we do our own thing these days. The truth is, I fucked her off.’

  Staffie raised his brow and looked Nicolas over. He guessed that his uncle had moved on to a new bit of skirt. ‘Oh yeah? Who is she, then?’

  ‘Some kid, really. Honey, her name is. Anyway, I ain’t getting any younger, mate, so I’m living it up. I’ve got the pad to meself and a quick how’s ya farver when I want it.’

  ‘Shelley wasn’t that old. Christ, she was younger than me. We all hung about together many moons ago. She was, if I remember, a good-looking woman. She had a mouth on her, but she was pretty,’ said Staffie.

  ‘A mouth on her? Yeah, you’re right there. And she’s still stubborn. But, yeah, she was a stunner, that’s for sure, and, back in the day, I fucking loved the cow. She loved me an’ all.’ Nicolas smiled as if he remembered something. ‘It was only supposed to be a bit o’ fun behind her farver’s back, ’cos, ya know, me and him, we hated each other. But the silly cow caused a right war when she told him she was seeing me. He fucking disowned her, so I had to marry the bitch and sort of take on that kid of hers.’

  Staffie was feeling comfortable talking with his uncle. It was strange because years before, in his twenties, he’d feared Nicolas. At the time, he’d been regarded as the big man with a lot of influence, but things had changed. He knew he, himself, had grown up and matured, whereas Nicolas obviously had turned i
nto a kid, reliving his youth.

  ‘So, who’s the kid’s farver, then?’

  Nicolas sighed. ‘Who knows? She never told me her little secret. I reckon he could’ve been one of many. Ol’ Shelley was a dark horse, ya know. Anyway, enough about her. D’ya fancy a bit o’ grub?’

  Staffie nodded. ‘Sounds good, mate.’

  As soon as Nicolas headed for the kitchen, Staffie relaxed his shoulders. He was washed out and just needed a bed. But he doubted he’d get much sleep tonight: Nicolas was such a chatterbox. He really didn’t feel like sitting up ’til all hours, chewing the fat with his uncle, but it was a case of needs must.

  When Nicolas returned, with a round of bacon sandwiches, Staffie was asleep on the sofa. Nicolas smiled to himself. As much as Staffie was his sister’s son, he was still a man with a reputation and decent contacts. One day, he could call in this favour.

  * * *

  Torvic was completely wired; he’d finished his pouch of cocaine and was now pacing the floor. Eric’s corpse was changing by the hour, and the more he stared at the man’s open eyes, the more he became freaked out.

  Yet this was the safest place to be. Who would’ve looked for him sitting in the lounge at Mike’s brother’s? He let out a childish giggle and jerked his head. His nerves were all on edge, making his body twitch unnecessarily. Eric’s face was now a purple colour, and his lips were dark. He’d seen many a dead man in his time, mainly at his hands, but this was different.

  It was quiet, eerie, and the vision was fucking with his head. Again, the image of that burned body as firefighters doused the fire came into his mind. He tried to shake his head to rid himself of the scene. No, it couldn’t have been Tiffany. She would’ve left the caravan. If Jackie had any ideas of hurting his granddaughter, then she would’ve been given a good run for her money. His Tiffany would’ve beaten the living shit out of Jackie. And that woman in the car couldn’t have been Jackie – no way. She’d told him she only had one car.

  He suddenly became desperate to have that notion confirmed. He couldn’t handle believing for a second that the virtually cremated body was his precious Tiffany. He glanced at Eric; for a moment, he couldn’t take his eyes away. He jerked. Did Eric just wink at him? Surely not. The man was dead. With a bullet through his head, he couldn’t wink. Torvic swallowed hard but his eyes remained glued to the expression on the corpse. He had to blink because he was convinced that Eric winked again. Beads of sweat covered his forehead, and he felt sick and faint.

  Slumped on the chair opposite, he tried to take deep breaths, but the vomit idled there, ready to come up. His mind went blank. He just couldn’t figure out what the hell to do next. How would he know who was in that caravan? Christ, he couldn’t imagine what he would do if that body was Tiffany’s. Immediately, his heart began to beat rapidly and his breathing became fast. He jolted again but then swooned. That's it, he thought, I need another line. As he pulled the pouch from his pocket, he discovered it was empty. He fumbled nervously inside the other pocket and freaked out when he saw that that one was too. He’d consumed two grams in an hour. Shit!

  He looked at the clock. It was five p.m. What? Where had the time gone? He’d been awake for three days and nights now, or was it four? His mind was in turmoil, and, for the life of him, he couldn’t rationalize any thoughts. This was all Zara’s fault. She should never have been left with so much power. Izzy should just have let Ismail, the son, take over; he could’ve worked with him – the gullible prick.

  He had to concentrate and deal with one thing at a time. Focusing on what to do with Zara was his number one priority, and since she was calling the shots, he would take her out of the picture first.

  * * *

  As Torvic started up his car, he paused before driving away. His breathing increased again as he was consumed by fear, and adrenaline surged around his body. This wasn’t him at all; he was brave, daring, and flagrant. He wasn’t a pussy.

  After a few deep breaths, he pulled away and drove towards Zara’s house. For a moment, he had to stop because he’d completely lost his bearings. Twitching, he lowered the window to take in the fresh air. The heater inside the car was drying out his eyes, and he had to blink furiously to be able to see the road ahead. Then, the heavens opened, and the windscreen wipers screeched as they fought to clear the glass. It appeared that anything, whether it was a high-pitched sound or a single raindrop landing on his car, felt like a hammer blow to his head. The journey seemed to take forever, but, finally, he was on the lane that led to her mansion. The vampire house on the hill, that’s how he saw it, and probably everyone else did too. With no plan in place, he worked on his instincts, although in his present state, they left a lot to be desired. He drove straight on past her drive and turned into the farmer’s lane just a mile up the road. A few yards further on, the private road changed to a track surrounded by woodland. He parked up and looked about him. As he did, the car engine died. He questioned if he was going mad, so he tried to start the vehicle again. Nothing. Then he realized that he’d run out of petrol. ‘Fuck, fuck!’

  Confident that his car couldn’t be seen, he leaped out and opened the boot. As he stared at his arsenal, his eyes widened, and he punched the lid of the boot in frustration. There, in all their glory, were his prize guns, but there was not a single fucking box of bullets. In his rush to get back to the caravan, he’d forgotten to grab them. He gave a deep sigh and slammed the boot shut. He still had his handgun though.

  Traipsing through the wooded area, he slipped and slid on the wet, muddy soil and cursed as he continued on. Half a mile further, he came to a clearing. There, in front of him, he could see the mansion in all its sinister glory. He knew where the cameras were placed and the areas that would be undetected. He grinned to himself. The silly bitch had been too naive, having entrusted him with the job of overseeing the installation of a CCTV system all around the property. So he marched ahead, confident that no one inside the house would see him approaching. As he neared the garage to the side of the house, he strained his eyes looking through the murky window. Next to Zara’s car there was a black BMW 7 series, Stephan’s pride and joy. The bastards had not only killed both his boys – making him murder one of his own in the process – but they’d had the audacity to take his son’s car as well. His anger and frustration were climbing to new heights, and he imagined killing Zara, cutting off her limbs one by one, and enjoying the sound of her blood-curdling screams.

  Creeping into the garage, he checked to see if Stephan’s car keys were left in the ignition. He could use the vehicle to get away. Damn! They weren’t there. He stared at the cold mansion, watching for any signs of life – even a tiny flash of light or condensed air from the central heating vent perhaps. There was nothing. He struggled to stand upright after being crouched down for so long. That’s when he realized he was weak. Clutching his gun felt as though he was holding a dumbbell. He desperately needed a livener to clear his messy head and to give him the strength he needed to take on Zara Ezra, the bitch from hell. That was if she was inside the house.

  He made his way over to the back entrance. Like a door from The Secret Garden, it was partially hidden by a brick wall that was covered in rambling ivy. He turned the handle, but, as expected, it was locked. The leaded window was his only option, and with the butt of his gun, he tapped the small pane of glass. It broke, leaving a sharp triangle in the lead strip, so he tapped it again. Then he listened for any sign that he’d been discovered. Nada. His reckless impatience made him smash the rest. Quickly, he poked his hand inside and felt for the bolt. He pulled it across and then tried to push the door open. It was locked. Now, his frustration was sending him screwy. He pulled the gun from his pocket and fired one round at the lock. ‘That should have her running, the tramp!’

  The lock exploded, and he was able to force himself in. Still holding the gun in front of him, he walked through the small passageway and peered into the kitchen to find it empty. Slowly, he crept towards the office, li
stening for every creak. His senses were on high alert, but all that could be heard was the grandfather clock: tick-tock, tick-tock. It irritated him and hastened his steps.

  He drifted from room to room, but so far, the house was unoccupied. Once he reached the final bedroom, he stopped dead still and stared. This was the room, all those years ago, where he’d stood in this very same spot and watched the most beautiful woman. She’d lain there sick; he’d loved her with all his heart, but she was Izzy’s wife. Izzy, the bastard, had betrayed him, had cleaned him out, ruined his business, and chased him out of the country.

  The one person who Izzy had loved apart from his daughter was his wife; she was the elegant brunette with rosebud lips and skin like double cream. He could still see her face and then the fear that emerged from her gentle eyes when she realized he was there by her bed, pouring the poison down her throat. He’d wondered that day if he would ever forgive himself for hurting her; however, his hatred towards Izzy was an overriding emotion more powerful than anything else.

  Now, looking at the very bed, it seemed as though it was only yesterday he was here. The deep burgundy throws, the heavy wooden four-poster frame, and those huge plump cushions, which had supported Isabel’s frail body partially upright, had been a vision of the past. Now, however, that image stood out so clearly at the forefront of his mind. He stared longer, as if he could see her there – her delicate white cotton nightdress, her long, thin, feminine fingers – for she had been just perfect. And yet, she’d never been his to keep. The tick-tock sounds brought him out of his daydream, and the torrent of a thousand thoughts began again eating away at his sanity.

  Just that small piece of satisfaction that Zara may have fled because she feared him brought a wicked smile to his evil-looking face.