Stone Cold

by Taylor, Peter

  Fred Torrance lifted his chin, looked at him sideways, seemed to sense what he was thinking.

  ‘Your mother — she kept me on the straight and narrow. When she died —’ A paroxysm of coughing shook his body.

  Henry poured a glass of water from the jug on the side cabinet, put it to his father’s lips.

  ‘Take it easy,’ he told him.

  As he removed the glass, his father grabbed his arm, dug his fingers into his flesh.

  ‘You’re going to hate me even more,’ he said, tears starting to roll down his cheeks. ‘I’ve tried to put it right but you’re going to hate me in my grave.’

  Henry saw the haunted look on his face. It was clear he was suffering mental as well as physical trauma, that his conscience was extracting a horrible revenge at the end.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Henry said, taking no pleasure from his suffering. ‘There isn’t much can hurt me any more.’

  ‘Difficult,’ Fred groaned. ‘So difficult.’

  His father’s hand gripped his. He could feel that flesh from which he had sprung cold as ice against his own. Was this a last chance for his father to purge his demons as the grim reaper looked on, axe raised to sever his earthly ties? Was he to act as his reluctant confessor?

  ‘Don’t worry. Just tell me.’

  The words seemed to give the old man a measure of reassurance. He raised his head, focused on his son, but behind his eyes his brain seemed to be replaying a memory, compelling and repulsing him simultaneously.

  ‘Frank,’ he hissed, from wherever his mind had taken him. ‘He was the reason.’

  The venom in the voice surprised Henry.

  ‘Take it easy,’ he said again.

  His father’s eyes bulged in their sockets, his fingers dug deeper into Henry’s flesh.

  ‘Have to tell you,’ he said.

  He flopped back on the pillow, let out a sigh, suddenly spoke out, his words stronger and clearer, like a judge’s final summation from the bench.

  ‘Frank — your brother — he killed Bull Jackson. Not you, Henry.’

  Henry’s head jerked upright. What was this? The old man’s mind had surely given up on him, confusing the events of the past. Could he be hallucinating?

  ‘Frank didn’t,’ Henry said, pitying him.

  ‘Listen to me! The police know it was him. I told them.’

  Henry couldn’t take it in. The old man seemed to be all there and the detective had mentioned a confession, something his father wanted to tell him face to face. But what he’d just heard was crazy. How could it possibly be?

  ‘We were running from the police, Frank and me,’ his father continued. ‘I saw Bull staggering in the field, weak as water from the fight — then I saw Frank.’ He paused. Tears started to run down his cheeks and he put his hands over his face. ‘I’ve had to live with it all these years,’ he groaned.

  Henry waited, wondering what was coming next. Then, with an evident effort of will, the old man uncovered his face, wiped away those tears and focused on his son.

  ‘Frank didn’t hesitate. He came up behind Bull, struck three hard blows to his head. Bull sank to his knees unconscious. Frank doesn’t know to this day I saw him do it.’

  Henry stared at his father, his body rigid with shock. He couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. If it was true, he’d been down a bad road, all for nothing. But why should the old man lie on his death bed? It had to be true. He sat in silence, not looking at his father as he struggled to come to terms with the magnitude of what he had just heard, fighting his fury at the injustice of it. When he finally found his voice, it spilled over with bitterness.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell the police at the time? Why did you protect him, not me?’

  ‘The Jacksons would have killed him or had him killed. He was still my son.’

  ‘So I had to suffer for him?’

  His father’s sigh was the cry of a wind lost in a desolate canyon in a far off mountain, a world of sorrow in it.

  ‘The Jacksons wouldn’t touch you for something that they thought happened during a fair fight. That’s the way it’s always been. The whole gypsy community would have known about it and it would have shamed them, especially in fight circles.’

  ‘So it didn’t matter that I had to go to prison?’

  ‘I thought you could take prison. You had your mother’s mental strength.’ He couldn’t look at Henry and his voice dropped to a whisper. ‘It was a terrible choice — the wrong choice.’

  Henry felt numb. Five years in a hell hole, guilt about killing a man tormenting his soul, bringing him to the brink of suicide, all for nothing. His father was suffering now but he’d had it far worse. He fought hard to batten his fury down. What good would it do? His father was punishing himself anyway.

  ‘You never visited me.’ His words seemed inconsequential, pathetic after what he had just heard.

  ‘God forgive me, I should have, but I couldn’t bear the thought, knowing what I knew. Would have cracked me up, son. Should have put it right, but once the ball was rolling — there was no going back.’

  ‘Why?’ Henry said. ‘Why did he strike Bull down?’

  ‘Jealousy. Bull’s wife was once Frank’s girl, gave him up for Bull. Must have brooded on it, saw his chance. He acted like a . . . coward . . . not a Torrance.’

  ‘And the police know all this?’

  Fred nodded. He looked exhausted. The effort and emotion involved in telling his tale had been too much for him.

  ‘Need your forgiveness, son,’ he gasped. ‘Don’t deserve it.’

  A welter of emotions washed around Henry’s brain, but one fact fought its way to the surface. Father Andrew had spoken about the virtues of forgiveness, how it healed a man’s soul. This was his father pleading with him. How could he turn his back and live with it afterwards? Though it didn’t come easily, he reached out, placed his hand gently on his father’s shoulder, spoke as softly as he could manage.

  ‘You did what you thought was right to protect your son. I can understand that. There’s nothing to forgive.’ He forced a grin. ‘Besides, prison did me a lot of good. Taking a long view, it was for the best, so rest easy.’

  The tension at the corners of the old man’s eyes vanished. His face regained that calmer look that had been there when Henry first entered. He sank further into the pillow, his white face seeming to merge with it. Henry could see he had very little energy left.

  ‘Wanted you to understand,’ he said, forcing the words. ‘Want you to have a good life. Make up for —’

  He was too tired to finish the sentence and drifted off to sleep, but Henry understood the sentiment, was moved by it.

  Two hours later his father drew his last breath peacefully in his sleep. Henry was still at his bedside. He said his last goodbye, called for a nurse and walked out in a daze.

  As though on autopilot, he negotiated the labyrinth of corridors to the exit and stepped out into the air. In his final hour, his father had freed them both from the chains of the past. Henry looked up at the stars and said a silent prayer to see him on his way in peace.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Late afternoon Henry knocked on the door of Mary’s flat. After the hospital, he’d spent some time with the detectives finalizing things. Now he felt tired. When Mary opened up, he forced a grin but it didn’t compensate enough for the melancholy look in his eye, nor the weary set to his shoulders. She noticed and her face creased with anxiety.

  ‘Something’s gone wrong?’ she said, with a sharp intake of breath. He shook his head, reassured her everything had gone well and she shouldn’t worry.

  But she knew there was something. She reached out, touched the bruises on his face. Her gesture made him feel like a small boy again. Then, taking his hand, she led him into the kitchen, made him sit down.

  ‘What is it? Tell me!’

  He told her everything, from the moment Frank had picked him up, to his father’s death in the hospital, how that had affected him more than h
e ever thought it would. Then came the final devastating revelation that he had served five years for something his brother had done, his father’s complicity in the matter and his reasons for it. Mary was stunned, her eyes reflecting a myriad emotions as the long-buried secret unravelled. Finally, understanding no words could be enough, she put her arms around him and held him tight.

  Eventually, he eased himself out of her arms. He knew he had to be practical; there were things he had to do, the quicker the better.

  ‘It’s Bournemouth for us now,’ he said, forcing a smile. ‘The police have it all organized.’

  ‘Good! No slag heaps down there,’ she said, smiling back at him,’ and plenty of — what do they call it — sun?’

  ‘Couldn’t get much further away from the Jacksons and their brood,’ he added. ‘No chance they can wreak their vengeance, if by an unlucky chance they find out I grassed — maybe we’ll change our names as well.’

  A silence descended. The clock on the wall seemed to tick louder.

  ‘You hated doing it, didn’t you?’ Mary said.

  Henry sighed. ‘Went against the grain. But the Jacksons had gone too far, didn’t give a damn who they hurt. Gypsies have had to do all sorts to survive in the past, but they’ve never been big on drug dealing.’

  ‘What about your brother? How do you feel about him?’

  Henry made a face, as though he’d just swallowed a mouthful of foul tasting medicine.

  ‘I hope he gets what he deserves.’

  Mary nodded. ‘Let’s hope the police catch him.’

  They wandered through to the living room, found John snoozing in an armchair.

  ‘He was worried about you,’ Mary said as she shook him awake.

  ‘Bournemouth, kiddo!’ Henry announced. ‘Pack your bucket and spade.’

  John’s grin was broad enough to put a Cheshire cat to shame. Henry squeezed Mary’s hand, letting her know he was grateful she’d agreed the lad could go with them. Once they were settled, they’d help him get his own place, keep a watchful eye on his welfare. Henry knew what it was like when your world spun off its axis. He hoped to do for the lad what others had done for him.

  ‘My bags are packed,’ Mary announced.

  ‘So are mine. They’re in the hallway at home just ready to pick up.’ He glanced at John. ‘I’ve some books in the house, some of them for you. Maybe you could come and pick out those you want.’

  John put his coat on and Mary handed Henry her car keys. ‘Don’t linger,’ she said. ‘The sooner we’re gone the happier I’ll feel.’

  Henry drove while John, obviously excited at the prospect of the new start, chatted away ten to the dozen. But when they reached the outskirts of South Bank there was a change in his demeanour. Henry noticed he was quiet, watching the streets, eyes darting everywhere. He figured the lad was remembering the past, good memories of his time with his mother filtering through. Had it suddenly hit him he was leaving everything he’d known, wondering whether he could cope?

  Henry said,’ Sometimes it’s hard to leave a place. That first step —’

  ‘My mother would want me to leave, to better myself.’ John interrupted. ‘Right now I’m just keeping an eye out for Tonks. Know what I’d like to do to him.’

  Henry heard the venom in the youth’s voice. He’d have been the same at his age, angry in the face of perceived injustices, wanting the perpetrators to suffer, willing to act himself.

  ‘Let it go, John!’

  John’s eyes darted in his direction. ‘I haven’t forgotten those horses — and other things. Why should he get off free?’

  ‘You may think people like him get away with it,’ Henry told him, ‘but the consequences wait down the line for them, even years later.’

  John frowned. ‘You really believe that?’

  ‘Seen it happen. Spent five years watching it happen to men around me, one way or another.’ He thought about his own father, the burden he’d carried. ‘Tonks will create his own Hell. Just see that you’re not involved.’

  *

  Henry pulled into the kerb. His house had memories for him and he wouldn’t forget his aunt’s kindness. The police would arrange for it to be sold, pass the money on, but he didn’t expect to get much for it.

  ‘You go upstairs,’ he told John, as he opened the door. ‘The books I want are in the box but look through the shelves, pick out ones you fancy. Take your time. I’ll make us a brew and call you when I’m ready.’

  Henry’s bags were packed and standing in the hall. They stepped around them and John started up the stairs. As he entered the living room, Henry remembered his benevolent aunt had been a tea jenny, strictly non-alcoholic, so he’d make a last, silent toast to her in the way she would have approved.

  The door swung shut behind him and for a second he thought a ghost had taken up residence, was staring at him from the chair beside the fireplace. But it was no ghost. It was his brother Frank sitting there in the flesh, the gun in his hand all too real. His face had a weary, haunted look, red-rimmed eyes emanating malevolence.

  ‘Come into my parlour, said the spider to the fly,’ he hissed.

  Henry’s brain raced. Did Frank know he’d turned them in? The gun and that hateful look in his eyes suggested he did.

  ‘Thought you’d got away,’ Henry said, trying to keep his voice calm.

  ‘Don’t play games with a master,’ Frank snapped back. ‘With you in the clink, I thought I’d hide here. Then I see the bags in the hall, know you’re ready to run and wonder why.’ He shook his head. ‘Never thought grassing was your style.’

  ‘It gave me pleasure, Frank, especially since the Jacksons blame you.’ He saw a glimmer of fear in his brother’s eyes. ‘It never rains but it pours, eh, Frank?’

  ‘I could always get the money back to the Jacksons, say I was protecting it — bring it all back to you. How’d you like that?’

  ‘Wouldn’t work. Sometimes there’s one sin too many to hide.’

  Frank’s top lip lifted in a sneer. ‘You were locked up too long, kidda. It addled your brain.’

  Knowing what he knew, those words, that supercilious sneer, went in like a sword. His brother had no conscience about what he’d done to him.

  ‘Nothing will help you now, Frank, because soon everybody’s going to know the whole truth, see you for what you are.’

  A shadow of doubt stole across his brother’s face. Henry’s moment had come. Payback for five long years. He couldn’t keep the relish out of his voice.

  ‘Yes, Brother, the police know you killed Bull. Struck him down like the coward you are.’

  Frank’s eyes narrowed to slits, his lips protruded. His defences had been pierced and it showed. He shifted the gun, the temptation to use it palpable.

  ‘You’re talking about the wrong brother, aren’t you?’

  Henry shook his head. ‘The game’s up, Frank. The police have it from a man who knows.’

  Behind the cold blue eyes, he could see Frank’s mind working frantically, trying to work it out. Who could have witnessed his brutal, vengeful act in that fateful field, in the black of night, more than five years ago?

  ‘Someone’s been making mischief,’ he said, squaring his shoulders, resisting it to the end. ‘They’re lying. It won’t hold up.’

  Henry spoke with slow deliberation, each word emphatic, like a slow drum roll.

  ‘Your father’s dying words will hold up.’

  Frank’s neck seemed to shrink down into his shoulders. He just stared at Henry, making no more attempts at denial. The past had come back to him with a vengeance.

  ‘What was it with you, Frank?’

  His brother made a noise halfway between a snort and grunt.

  ‘You were always the favourite, weren’t you? Boxing! It was the only thing that counted with the old man. You were our mother’s favourite too. When you came along, she couldn’t see me for you.’

  ‘The green-eyed monster!’ Henry paused. ‘For God’s sake, I wa
s a lot younger than you. That’s why my mother paid me attention. As for our father, well, he chose to send me to prison to protect you. Don’t kid yourself that’s what turned you into a murderer, a drug dealer and all round sleaze bag. That’s just pathetic.’

  ‘How would you know anything?’

  ‘Five years in prison taught me most men have a spark of decency but there are some just pure evil — psychopaths like you. They walk amongst us in the guise of humans but aren’t like us. Maybe it’s down to genes, I don’t know. Walk in another man’s shoes and you might understand why he is what he is. But not with that kind — not you, Frank. Look at you. Not a spark of emotion when I mentioned the old man dying and he protected you all these years.’

  ‘They’ll never put me inside a prison,’ Frank muttered, a wild look in his eyes.

  ‘You’re finished, Frank. Inside prison somebody will kill you. Outside, you’d better keep running.’

  Frank showed his teeth in an animal snarl. ‘Don’t think you’re going to come out of this smiling. Don’t think I’m going to let you live after what you’ve done to me.’

  Henry’s stomach knotted. He had no doubt he meant it. Frank never made idle threats. Any moment now he’d have to rush him, take his chances, because the talking was just about done. Since he’d come into the room he’d been worried John would appear, could only hope the lad had heard them and got clear.

  Frank pointed to the bag lying at his feet. Henry had seen it, knew what it contained.

  ‘I’m set up for life, kidda. Guess you’re one of those who have no luck in life. Or maybe it’s just the genes. Maybe I got the lucky ones.’

  Henry tensed. His throat constricted. After all the talking was done, what Frank said was true. He still had the upper hand.

  A rap on the door raked the silence. Frank stared at it as though it was a portal to another world, one he’d temporarily forgotten existed outside the room. Henry feared it must be John, knocking out of politeness, believing he had a visitor. He opened his mouth to warn him but Frank pre-empted him.

  ‘Come on in!’

  The door swung open. John entered backwards, pushing it with his hip. He was holding a pile of books stacked right up to his chin. Turning, he saw Frank with the gun and his eyes widened.