The Brit

by Jodi Ellen Malpas

  “He’s dead.”

  “What?”

  “They sent me his head, Danny. They sent me his fucking head!” His voice is shaking terribly. His head. Fuck me, Adams probably vomited all over it.

  “Yeah, well, I might be sending you a whole fucking body.”

  He’s silent for a few moments, the gravity of his situation sinking in. “They’ve promised money. Said I could pay you back with it, but then you upped it to thirty-five million, for Christ’s sake. They’re not coughing up. I’m fucking cornered.” Finally, the man gives in to his helplessness and crumbles down the line. “I walk away from you, you kill me. I walk away from them, they expose me and probably kill me too.”

  “I just threatened to cut off your girlfriend’s face, you dick,” I spit, disgusted by his lack of thought for Rose. “Does she feature at all in your dilemma?” I want to cut off his face now.

  “You won’t do it,” he replies, too matter-of-factly for my liking. “There aren’t just pictures of me and Rose.”

  “What?”

  “Today I was sent some of you and Rose. Looking rather cozy on the shore at that boatyard of yours. And at an Italian restaurant downtown. For a man making threats on her well-being, you looked pretty smitten to me.”

  I stare blankly forward, my mind empty, leaving Adams to go on.

  “My contact sent them and told me not to worry about my girlfriend. Told me she’s safe, and I think she is, isn’t she, Danny? She’s bewitched you too. But I know she means nothing to my contact. I know he’d rip her apart. You have to help me protect her.”

  Rip her apart? I’d like to see him fucking try. “She means nothing to me,” I grate, so fucking angry with myself, seeing my dad shaking his head at me in disappointment.

  “Really?”

  “You want to test your theory, Adams?”

  “I’m not surprised, Danny. Don’t beat yourself up about it. She had the same effect on me.”

  “Let me spell this out for you, Adams,” I seethe, starting to quake with anger. “If I don’t get that marina, you, your wife, your kids, every living fucking relative of yours will be dead, and it won’t be quick. They’ll all know the reason why they’re sitting on that chair with metal prongs in their thighs. They’ll all know it’s because of your dirty dealings. And as for Rose, you will get her pretty face in a box. You want that?”

  “No,” he whispers.

  “Who is it, Perry?”

  “I don’t know! They contact me. I swear, Danny, I don’t know who they are.”

  I slam my fist on the desk, out of control, standing and sweating on the spot.

  Brad rushes into the office, his face alarmed when he finds me heaving down the phone. “The next time they reach out to you, you tell them to come see me.” I hang up, reaching up to my throat, feeling my neck veins bulging.

  “Do I want to ask?” Brad steps forward, nervous as shit.

  “Get Adams and bring him to me.” I slump into my chair, stressed as fuck. My only comfort in this moment is that Rose is here with me, so Adams’s contact can’t touch her. My head falls into my hands. That fucking missile came pretty fucking close, though. I don’t know much right now, but I know whoever’s pulling Adams’s strings is playing for the win. And at this rate, he’s going to get it.

  If I could crawl into bed and stay there until today is over, I would. My bedroom being completely obliterated isn’t the only reason why I can’t. My father would haunt me for the rest of my days if I didn’t show up at his funeral.

  I fix my black tie in the mirror, wriggling it from side to side until it’s perfect. Then I make my way to my office and have two straight Scotches, one after the other, before opening the top drawer of my desk just a fraction. I stare at the serpent ring, the emerald eyes glowing in the darkness. They could be my father’s eyes, sharp and accusing. I ignore the ache in my stomach that tells me he’s disappointed, pulling the drawer open the rest of the way and picking up the ring. I turn it between my fingers for a few moments. Then slide it into my pocket, unable to put the damn thing on my finger.

  I look up when Brad enters, his black suit as crisp as his hair. “You find Adams yet?”

  “Yeah.” His eyebrow hitches, and for a moment I wonder whether he’s going to tell me that yeah, they’ve found him. Washed up on the shore. Splattered on a sidewalk. A bullet in his head. “He’s taken a last-minute vacation to the Hamptons. One of the men is on his way to offer him a ride back.”

  I laugh out loud, the sound unstoppable. He thinks he can leave the state and his problems will go away? Stupid fucker.

  “You ready?” Brad asks.

  “No,” I admit, forcing my feet forward.

  We walk together out of the office and down the corridor to the entrance hall, and Brad opens the front door for me. I pull the lapels of my jacket in, and then smooth my hand through my hair.

  My skin heats, and everything tells me not to seek out the source. But I still turn, finding Rose standing at the top of the stairs. Our eyes meet, hers soft, mine hard.

  I look away, refusing to be drawn into their dead depths. “Let’s go,” I say, even and strong, feeling anything but.

  Brad gets into my car with Ringo, and two of my other men take the Range Rover behind. I watch them pull away, taking a left when they pull out of the mansion. I slide into the other Merc alone, wait five minutes, and then leave.

  The entire drive to the quiet cemetery on the west side of town, I can hear my father voicing his displeasure, his ego dented by my intentions. I ignore him, keeping my hands firmly on the wheel. When I pull up at the ancient churchyard, the priest is waiting, my father’s coffin laid by the side of a grave. I swallow and get out, making my way through the headstones to the spot I chose by a beautiful rose bush. The pink pompoms bursting from the green are the only flash of color in the cemetery, and the very reason I picked this spot.

  “It’s never too late to have some color in your life, Mister,” I say quietly, reaching the edge of the pit that I’m about to have my father lowered into. The priest and the grave diggers remain a good distance away, leaving me to myself for a while until I give them the nod. I stare at the top of his coffin. “Don’t be mad,” I say to him, lowering to my haunches and resting a hand on the edge of the shiny wood. “I have an assassin on steroids after me. This was the only way.” I fight down the expanding lump in my throat. “I know you wanted a show, to go out with a bang, but this time I’ve done what I wanted. Just me and you, Pops. How it’s always been. Just me and you.” My damn fucking eyes sting, and I reach up and roughly wipe them. “Things are changing, Mister. Power is harder to keep, people are harder to control, and my determination is getting harder to maintain. I just wanted you to know that.” I stand and slip my hand into my pocket, finding his ring and feeling it. “Everything is uncertain, except one thing.” I swallow and move back, nodding to the priest. “I miss you.” It’s only now I realize, all these years after he found me, that this moment was always in his thoughts. Because the reality is, who would miss him if I wasn’t here? I feel like he’s set me up for heartbreak. He succeeded. He’s also made me wonder who the fuck is going to miss me when I’m gone? I’m the last Black. The legacy ends with me. I can’t decide if that’s a blessing or a travesty.

  The priest approaches, his Bible across his hands, his white cloak dragging the dirt. I zone out while he bumbles on about The Lord, Jesus Christ, and how my father is at peace. I want to be at peace. I want the turmoil within me to fuck off. His coffin is lowered into the dark pit, and I move in closer to the edge, pulling out his ring from my pocket. I kiss it before dropping it to the wood. “Rest in peace, Mister,” I whisper, tossing the priest a bundle of notes before turning and striding away.

  The second I fall into the seat of my car, I pull the hip flask from my inside pocket and guzzle half, watching as the men shovel dirt into the hole in the ground. And I don’t leave until they’re done.

  As I drive slowly up the lane to
ward the main road, I dial Brad, ignoring the endless missed calls from Uncle Ernie.

  “Anything untoward?” I say as soon as he answers.

  “You mean other than hundreds of people mourning a coffin full of bricks?”

  “Yes,” I answer shortly, my mood not interested in jokes.

  “The son of Carlo Black was missing from his funeral. The whispers could be heard for miles.” I hear footsteps, and then a car door slamming. “Your uncle Ernie knows something isn’t right. He knows you wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  “I’ll deal with Ernie. Anything else?”

  “You mean anyone here to kill you?” He laughs lightly. “I doubt they’d be coming out of their hiding place to ask where the fuck you are.” The engine starts and more car doors close, my men joining Brad. “We’ve had our eyes open. Nothing obvious. Spittle was here, too, asking after you.”

  “Spittle has a fucking death wish.” I turn onto the main road and put my foot down. “I’ll see you back at the house.” I hang up and turn on the radio, shaking my head in wonder when one of my father’s favorite tracks invades my hearing. Otis Redding sings Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay. I join him, cocking my elbow on the window and relaxing back in my seat.

  * * *

  New gates are being installed when I pull up, the new wall built, the cement still wet. The workmen move aside, letting me through, and I breathe out my relief as I roll up the driveway and park.

  As I’m walking around the path toward the back, the quickest route to my office, I glance up, seeing Rose standing on her terrace, just meters away from the mangled remains of my own balcony. She’s wrapped in a towel, her wet hair piled high, her hands braced on the metal railings. Watching me. I rip my eyes away and enter the house via the garden door in the drawing room, walking through to the corridor that leads to my office. I see Esther up ahead, a bale of towels piled in her hands. “Go tell Rose to get off that terrace,” I snap, wondering why I’m bothering to even worry. The woman has complete disregard for her life. Why the fuck should I care?

  Esther nods and leaves, and I break the threshold of my office, grabbing a bottle of Scotch and doing what I seem to be doing so well these days. I pull my tie loose, undo my top button, and drop into the chair. I open the bottom drawer and pull out a framed picture of Pops. “Don’t look at me like that,” I mutter, setting it down before me and putting the bottle to my lips, glugging down more than I should while he watches me. It kills me to think that he would be disappointed in me. He’s been gone a matter of weeks, and it’s all gone to shit.

  More Scotch.

  * * *

  By the time Brad makes it back some time later, I’ve ignored dozens of missed calls from Spittle and Uncle Ernie and worked my way through nearly an entire bottle of Scotch, the alcohol dulling my senses perfectly, my body relaxed for the first time today. He takes one look at me and sighs.

  “Fuck you,” I mumble, taking another glug out of principle. “I buried my father today. I deserve a drink.”

  “How’d it go?” Brad asks, putting his hand out for the bottle. I reluctantly give it up and he knocks some back.

  “I could hear him cursing my arse to hell,” I admit, accepting the bottle back, liking the feeling of my mind becoming fuzzy. “What does Spittle want?” I point to my phone where the missed calls glow up at me.

  “He’s got me in. I’m going to find out who this shooter is and who the fuck he works for.”

  “Good.” I shove my phone back when it rings again, Uncle Ernie’s name flashing threateningly at me.

  “He knows something isn’t right,” Brad says, giving me a look to suggest I’m deluded for thinking I can avoid my father’s cousin. “He’s already on his way here.” Brad only just finishes speaking when I hear a commotion from outside the office, Uncle Ernie’s booming voice sinking through the wood and telling me what to expect. My heavy eyes stare at the door, waiting for it to fly open.

  “What the hell just happened?” Ernie bellows as he charges in, the door hitting the wall behind it.

  “I’m not in the mood,” I say calmly. “If you’ve come to toast the old man, then sit down and I’ll pour you a drink. If not, fuck off and leave me in peace.”

  Ernie’s nostril flare dangerously. I couldn’t give a fuck. “Where the hell were you?”

  “Burying my father,” I snarl, my men moving in behind my uncle, ready for the nod to eject him. The wave of confusion that travels across Ernie’s face is a novelty.

  “He wasn’t in the coffin,” he breathes, realization dawning. The old man reaches for the doorframe to hold himself up. “I wanted to pay my respects, Danny. Say my goodbyes.”

  I ignore his hurt and get up on unstable legs, collecting a fresh bottle of Scotch before retaking my seat. “It had to be done.”

  “How could you?”

  My fist meets the desk without thought, the bang echoing loudly. “Quite fucking easily. Someone wants me dead, Ernie, and today was the perfect opportunity for them to take me out. I know how this world works. The bigger, the more elaborate and daring the kill, the more satisfaction. No one knows that more than I do. So apologies if you’re a little put out that I’m still breathing.”

  “You fooled them all. All those people there to see your father off.”

  I scoff. None of them loved him like I did. None of them really cared. I bet most were just there to make sure the old heathen was definitely dead and buried.

  Uncle Ernie’s face softens somewhat, and a rue smile slowly creeps onto his face. “You really are your father’s boy, aren’t you?” He shakes his head and limps over, his dodgy knee clearly giving him grief today. Slumping down in the chair, he points at the bottle in my hand. “Pour me one of those, for fuck’s sake.”

  I pour some into two tumblers and slide them across the desk to Ernie and Brad, keeping the bottle for myself. “To Pops,” I say, raising my bottle to their glasses. They mumble their acknowledgements and neck their drinks with me.

  “So hundreds of people just said their prayers to an empty coffin?” Ernie asks.

  “Not quite,” Brad chips in, thumbing over his shoulder. I take the opportunity of him explaining to chug down more Scotch. “Don’t know if you noticed, but we’re kind of overrun with bricks after some fucker went nuclear on our asses.”

  Ernie chuckles, thoroughly amused. “Well, I’ll be damned. So where is he?”

  “Somewhere quiet and peaceful.” My words are becoming more slurred by the second, my eyes heavier, as I drink the Scotch like it’s water. “I’ll let you know where when the dust has settled.”

  Ernie scoffs. “If you keep getting bombs hauled at you, that’s going to be a while.” He stands, creaking his way upright. “Be safe, Danny.”

  “Always am, Unc,” I mumble, glugging down a few more inches of the amber stuff. He shakes his old head, a fond smile growing. “Call me. Let me know if there’s anything you need.”

  My nod is a little haphazard, the Scotch now on its way to controlling me completely. Good. I hope it knocks me out.

  Ernie leaves, and my damn phone screams again. “Fuck off,” I slur, turning off my mobile and struggling to my feet. “If anyone wants me, I’ll be in my room.” I’m slightly aware of Brad’s poorly hidden amusement as I sway my way past him, my treasured bottle of Scotch held to my lips. I stumble to a stop just short of the door and frown, wiping at my mouth. “I haven’t got a room. Some fucker blew it up.” I turn toward Brad. “Who blew up my room?” I raise the bottle as he goes to speak. “Never mind. I’ll find out who, and I’ll shove my gun up their arse and rape them with it before I fire.” Brad flinches but keeps quiet. “I’ll be wherever I make it before I collapse.” I reach for the doorknob, missing it, having to close one eye to focus. I hear Brad chuckling from behind me. “Shut the fuck u—” My demand is cut short when the door flies open and smacks me in the face, sending me stumbling back in a daze. I land on my back with a thud, the impact winding me, as well as sending my
Scotch flying. “Shit,” I curse, shuffling onto my side and grappling for the bottle rolling away from me.

  “What’s going on?”

  The sweet, familiar voice has my hand pausing in its search and my body rolling to my back again. I blink as I look up, the swaying vision of two bodies making my head spin. “Rose?” I ask, my hands coming up to my head and cupping each side, trying to stable my vision.

  “He’s fucked.” Brad’s voice comes from behind, but I don’t take my eyes off the blurry vision of her.

  “I buried my dad,” I mumble. “I have every right to be fucked. So fuck you. Fuck you all. Fuck everyone.” I lift my head with way too much effort, pointing a limp hand at Rose. “And especially fuck you.” The strength needed to keep my head up is too much, and it pisses me right off that I have to drop it back to the carpet. My brain rattles when my skull collides with the floor. “Fuck.” I cough, clumsily reaching up to rub my head. I’m fucking plastered. I don’t think I’ve ever been so drunk. Being inebriated is being vulnerable, but I’m not so steaming to know that I’ve been vulnerable for a while now. “And it’s your fault,” I spit, feeling some hands under my armpits. “Leave me here.”

  “How much has he had?” Rose’s voice is concerned. Fucking joke.

  “Not enough.” I’m not unconscious yet. I roll, shrugging off their hands, and scan the floor for my bottle. “Where have you hidden it?” I ask accusingly.

  “For fuck’s sake,” Brad mutters.

  I’m suddenly on two feet, though far from stable. I feel weightless, and it’s only when Rose yells and something collides with my shoulder that I realize I’m falling. “Fuck.” I land on the floor again with a thud. The curses coming at me tells my drunken head that Brad and Rose aren’t much appreciating my state, but I couldn’t give a flying fuck. I’m feeling great. The sense of freedom, the relief from being so sloshed quite liberating.

  “You’re not very attractive when you’re drunk,” Rose mutters, dropping to her knees next to me.