by Kerry Kaya
Kerry Kaya
The Price
Copyright © 2020 by Kerry Kaya
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Kerry Kaya asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
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To Paul
Contents
Acknowledgement
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Kerry Kaya
Acknowledgement
Thank you to my good friends Sammee Hart, and Deryl Easton. I cannot thank you enough for your support and encouragement.
Chapter 1
“Just do it.” Fourteen-year-old Harry Fletcher stuck his chin in the air. “C’mon, just do it,” he urged his younger brother.
With his eyes downcast, twelve-year-old Spencer shook his head.
From the corner of his eye, Fletch, as Harry was more commonly known, watched as their uncle began to unbuckle his worn leather belt, and he stuck his chin out even farther, his eyes silently warning his brother to do as he said. “Stop being a baby and just punch me,” he hissed. He was a handsome lad with a shock of dark brown hair that had a tendency to stand up on end like a brush, and across his nose was a splattering of freckles.
When Spencer made no attempt to move, Fletch pulled back his clenched fist and punched his brother square on the jaw. The younger boy dropped to the linoleum floor with a heavy thud.
Frank Fletcher threw his head back and roared with laughter. One of his favourite pastimes was making his two nephews fight for his pleasure. “I’ll make a man of you yet.” His tone became serious and he began pulling the belt through the loopholes of his denim jeans.
Spencer’s bottom lip trembled. He knew what was to come; it was a daily occurrence in their house. He curled himself into a foetal position and placed his hands protectively over his head, whimpering.
“Don’t do that.” Fletch stepped in front of his brother and reached out his arm, in an attempt to stop his uncle. “I’ve already belted him one, ain’t I?”
Frank glanced up at the clock on the kitchen wall and noted that he was missing out on valuable drinking time. “Yeah,” he grunted. He was a large man. Standing at just over six feet tall, he was also handsome. Well, in a rough-around-the-edges kind of way kind of way, anyway. He made his living ducking and diving, and had a reputation for being a bully.
He fished around in his pockets and pulled out a handful of loose change. Stuffing the coins back into his denim pocket, he strode across the kitchen to where his sister kept the housekeeping tin, and without feeling any kind of remorse, he took out a handful of notes.
The fact that he had just taken the rent money and last few measly quid that was expected to feed his family for the week, meant nothing to him, and why should it? After all, they weren’t even his kids. As long as he was all right, then sod everyone else—that was his motto. With the money clenched in his fist, he gave his two nephews one last menacing look, and then slammed out of the house.
“You should have just hit me,” Fletch scolded, as he stretched out his hand and heaved his brother up from the floor.
“I didn’t want to, Fletch.” Spencer spoke in a slow drawl, his voice trembling.
“You need to toughen up a bit, Spence. You know what he’s like,” he said, referring to their mother’s brother. “One of these days, you’ll end up getting the belt, and next time, I might not be able to stop him.” He inspected the angry red mark his fist had left across his younger brother’s jaw. “You’ll live,” he grinned. “Are you hungry?”
At this, Spencer nodded his head.
Set on the kitchen counter was a wooden bread board, and amongst the scattered crumbs had been left the knobby end of an uncut bloomer loaf. They hadn’t had any breakfast yet and Fletch could feel his tummy begin to rumble. He tore the bread in half and passed a chunk across to his brother. “Come on.” Stuffing a piece of hard crust into his mouth, he chewed on it, then swallowed. “Let’s get out of here, in case he comes back,” he said, slinging his arm around his younger brother’s shoulders. “We’ll go and knock for Stevie.”
* * *
“See, I told you. Look.” Stevie Williams pointed his finger toward a floor-level broken window that had been covered over with a piece of thick cardboard.
They were around the back of the local shopping precinct at the Heathway, in Dagenham. The shop in question that had caught Stevie’s attention was the off license.
“If we get in there, we could pinch some booze and fags.”
Fletch nodded his head. The goods would sell for a fair few quid, and thanks to Uncle Frank dipping his hand in the housekeeping tin, he knew their mum would be desperate for the money. As it was, she worked two cleaning jobs, whilst her brother lazed around the house, day in and day out, waiting for the pub to open.
“I’m in,” he said. He didn’t bother to ask for his younger brother’s opinion. He knew for a fact that Spencer would copy whatever he did.
Checking that the coast was clear, as quietly and as carefully as he could, Fletch pulled away the piece of cardboard and peered through the gaping hole.
“What can you see?” Stevie asked, crouching down beside him.
Fletch turned his head to the side and gave a wide grin. “Boxes and boxes full of booze.” He straightened up and turned to look at Spencer. “You’re the smallest. Wriggle through the gap, Spence, and pass a couple of bottles out.”
Spencer did as he was told. He lay down on his tummy, wriggled his feet and legs through the tiny gap, and holding onto his brother’s and Stevie’s hands, he lowered himself down.
The cellar was damp, dark, and musty, not that Spencer appeared to notice. “Which ones?” he asked, peering into the darkness.
“Get those ones.” Crouching down in front of the window, Fletch pointed his finger toward the nearest box. “And be quiet … don’t make any bloody noise,” he whisp
ered.
One by one, Spencer passed the bottles through the open window.
“Whisky.” Stevie’s eyes were as wide as saucers. “We’ll get loads of dosh for this lot,” he grinned.
“And if we keep schtum about it,” Fletch answered, “we can come back for more another day.”
Careful not to make any noise, they heaved Spencer back through the window, and set about replacing the cardboard cover.
“This is our secret,” Fletch warned. “We don’t breathe a word about this, to anyone, right?” He looked at his brother, and then to his best friend. They both nodded their heads in agreement.
They collected up two bottles each, and with their haul safely concealed underneath their jackets, they made their way back around to the front of the shopping arcade.
“Get a load of that car,” Stevie whistled through his teeth. “Gotta have some dosh to own a car like that.”
Fletch was thoughtful. He looked across to the car in question. It was a silver coloured Jaguar, and without missing a beat, he strode toward it.
“What are you doing?” As he chased after his friend, Stevie turned his head from side to side, his eyes darting nervously around him. “You’re gonna get us caught out. If someone calls the cops, my mum will go apeshit and I’ll end up being grounded, for life, probably,” he groaned.
Fletch came to an abrupt halt. “We need to sell this stuff, don’t we?”
His eyes wide, Stevie nodded his head.
“Well then?” Fletch continued marching ahead of his brother and best friend, and reaching the car, he tapped his knuckles on the driver’s window.
* * *
Billy King was a man to be reckoned with. With thick, dark hair and piercing blue eyes, he was undisputedly a player amongst the criminal fraternity. Protection racketeering was his game, a game in which he thrived, and only a fool would refuse or try to worm his way out of paying him what was owed. After all, he wasn’t known as Billy “One Punch” King for nothing.
He was sitting inside his car, waiting for one of his henchmen, when he spotted the three boys. He watched them walk toward him and he allowed himself to smile. His car was his pride and joy, and he knew for a fact that many a man and boy gave it a second glance. The Jag screamed out power and wealth.
“Nice car, mister.”
Billy wound down the driver’s window. “Gets me about,” he grinned.
The boy nodded his head. He looked around him, then opened up his jacket. “Do you wanna buy some booze?”
Narrowing his eyes, Billy looked to the boy then to the whisky bottles. “Where did you three get those from?”
“We pinched them from the offie, back there.” It was the smallest boy who answered.
Snapping his head toward his brother, Fletch gave him a sharp dig in the ribs. “Shut up,” he hissed. “You’re not supposed to tell anyone where we got them from.”
Billy laughed out loud. They reminded him of himself when he’d been a young lad. “What are your names?”
“I’m Harry, but me mates all call me Fletch, cos me surname’s Fletcher, see. This is my little brother, Spencer, Spence,” he corrected. “And this is my best mate, Stevie.”
Billy nodded his head, sizing them up. He had an upcoming job planned out and needed someone small. “Fletcher,” he said, narrowing his eyes, “are you Frank Fletcher’s boy?”
At the mere mention of his uncle’s name, Fletch’s shoulders slumped downwards and he shook his head. The last thing he needed, was for Frank to catch wind of what they’d been getting up to. No doubt he would take the cash for himself and spend it on booze down the pub. “He’s our uncle.”
Billy’s smile grew even wider. “I know of him; in fact, I did some business with him a few years back.” He tilted his head to one side, thinking it through. “I’ve got a job on and need a young boy, or boys,” he added as an afterthought. “What d’ya reckon, are you interested?”
Turning to look at each other, the three boys began to whisper amongst themselves.
“Will we be paid for it?” Fletch asked, cocking his head to one side.
Billy nodded his head. The boys continued to whisper amongst themselves and he scratched at his jaw as he studied them. “You’ll have to smarten yourselves up a bit though,” he warned. “I can’t have any boys who work for me walking around looking like street urchins.” He looked down at his own crisp white shirt and off-the-peg suit. “It’s bad for business, if you get my drift.”
Fletch looked down at his outfit. It was fair to say that his jeans and T-shirt had seen better days, not to mention, his jacket had a ripped pocket that flapped around with every step he took. “Okay,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “We’re in.”
“Jump in then, boys.” He unlocked the rear door. “I’ll speak to your uncle and clear it with him first. In the boozer, is he?”
“Yeah.” Scrambling across the cream-coloured leather back seat, Fletch nodded his head. He’d never seen such splendour before, and his mouth dropped open in awe at the feel of the cool leather against his skin. It must be their lucky day, he decided, and he nudged Stevie beside him, his eyes wide with excitement.
* * *
Narrowing his eyes, Frank slipped off of the bar stool when he saw Billy “One Punch” King and his number two, Joseph Hatton, striding toward him. He took note of his two nephews trailing behind them, with their heads hanging down low, and groaned in both annoyance and fear. The last thing he needed was to have King on his back. What the fuck had the boys done now? Whatever it was, it must be something bad to bring the man himself into the packed boozer looking for him personally.
A shiver of fear ran down his spine and he held up his hands. “What the fuck has the little bastards done this time?” he growled, giving his nephews the evil eye.
Billy smiled brightly, hiding the fact that he thought Frank Fletcher was not only beneath him, but a scumbag to boot. “It’s not about what they’ve done, Frank. It’s about what they’re going to do,” he said, placing his arm around the man’s shoulders.
* * *
Later that evening, Frank staggered home from the pub and let himself into the house. His cheeks were ruddy and he stunk of booze. All thanks to Billy King, he was onto a nice little earner and in his back pocket, was a bundle of cash, curtesy of the man in question.
“What the fuck is this?” he asked, eyeing a plate of egg and chips on the kitchen table.
All eyes turned toward him.
“Well?” he demanded. He lifted up the edge of the plate and then let it drop back down onto the table with a loud clatter. “I asked you a question; what is this?”
The two boys looked fearfully from their uncle to their mother, their eyes wide open, praying she wouldn’t try and back-chat him. After all, they lived in his house, and one of his favourite pastimes was to threaten to throw them out on the street.
“It’s all I could afford, Frank.” Jenny Fletcher looked down at the Formica covered table top. There had been barely been enough food to go around, and even after going without a meal herself, she still felt guilty at the paltry fried egg and handful of chips she had served her two sons. They were growing lads and it just wasn’t enough to fill their tummies.
“And you expect me to graft my arse off all day for this tripe?” It was more of a statement than a question, not that Frank lifted his finger to do a day’s work. In fact, the most he’d done all day was to slip off of the bar stool and visit the gent’s toilets.
“I …” Too afraid to answer, Jenny wrung her hands together. She had been a beautiful, vivacious woman once, with long, glossy, dark brown locks that fell down her back like a thick blanket. Now, she was nothing but a former shadow of herself, with dark rings underneath her sunken eyes and a hacking cough that ravaged through her thin frame, leaving her gasping for breath.
“Well?” Frank roared, his face turning red with anger. When she didn’t answer him quickly enough, he overturned the table in one swift movement. The pla
tes crashed to the floor.
Tears welled up in Jenny’s eyes, as she looked at her sons’ faces. Now they would have to go bed feeling even hungrier than usual. “I’m sorry, Frank,” she wept, rushing forward to clean up the mess.
“It’s all right, Mum; I’ll help you.” Glaring at his uncle, Fletch crouched down beside her and began to pick up the pieces of broken crockery.
The expression of contempt spread across his eldest nephew’s face was enough to send Frank into a fit of fury, and he bounded across the kitchen, hauling the boy to his feet and pushing him out of the way. “Think you can back-chat me, d’ya?” He reached out and grabbed a handful of his sister’s hair in his fist, pulling her toward him. She slipped on the grease from the egg and chips, and crashed heavily to the floor.
“Leave her alone.” Fletch thumped at his uncle’s back.
“Or what?” Spinning around, Frank’s eyes were virtually popping out of his head, he was that angry.
“I’ll …”
“You’ll what?” Frank sneered.
“I’ll tell Billy King.” It was no idle threat, and they both knew it.
Frank swallowed deeply. By all accounts, Billy treated his own family like royalty and wrapped them up in cotton wool. “Yeah well.” He took a step away from his sister and unclenched his heavy fists. The last thing he wanted was for Billy to take away his cash supply. “Get this place cleaned up.”
He turned to look at his youngest nephew and pulled out a ten-pound note from his pocket. “Go down the chippy and get a couple of bags of chips and a few saveloys. Oh, and get a bottle of pop while you’re at it,” he added as an afterthought, doing his best to keep his elder nephew sweet. “Here, and you’d best take this.” He handed his sister a roll of cash. “You need to buy the boys some new clobber, smarten ‘em up a bit.”