by Kerry Kaya
Kicking out his heavy boot once more, Billy was incensed. Not a single piece of information had Bannerman given them—not one single word. A part of him admired Albie’s reluctance to spill the beans. Any other man would have sung like a canary hours ago—just to put an end to the beating.
He began to pace the cellar, contemplating his next move. They couldn’t let him go. He knew that much, not that that had ever been his intention. He crouched down, wiped his hand across his jaw, and stared across to the man. Finally, he stood up and turned to look at Spencer.
“Kill him,” he said, with a wave of his hand.
With a shrug of his shoulders, Spencer clenched his fists. He stepped forward, took the blade Billy handed out to him, and then set to work.
* * *
The next morning, Fletch was in the kitchen, happily munching on a bacon sandwich. Nothing could dampen his mood, and sitting at the Formica table, he sunk his teeth into slices of thick buttered bread. He took a large bite, chewed, then swallowed. He was about to take a second bite, when Spencer walked in. His face was flushed, and his eyes were wide with excitement.
“What’s up with you?” Fletch studied his brother.
“I need you to come and see something.” Spencer hopped from one foot to the other.
Between mouthfuls of his sandwich, Fletch quickly swallowed. “See what?” he asked, taking another bite.
“Just something.”
Fletch raised his eyebrows. It wasn’t like his brother to be so cagey. “Can I finish eating first?”
“Yeah.” Spencer continued to hop from one foot to the other.
Rolling his eyes, Fletch shoved the last corner of his sandwich into his mouth and chewed. “Come on then,” he groaned. He picked up his car keys and followed Spencer out of the house.
“You’re gonna like this.” Spencer looked over his shoulder.
Fletch rolled his eyes for a second time and glanced down at his wristwatch. “Well, make it quick. I have to collect Mrs. King in a couple of hours.”
* * *
Fletch brought the car to a halt outside one of the derelict houses that Billy owned. “What are we doing here?” He stared out of the window and turned to look at his brother. “What’s going on, Spence?”
“You’ll see.” Spencer began to climb out of the car. As he walked down the pathway, he could barely contain his excitement. “You’re gonna really like this.”
“So you keep telling me,” Fletch groaned.
Taking a brass key from his pocket, Spencer slipped it into the lock.
“Does Billy know that you’ve got the keys to one of his houses?” Fletch put out his hand.
“Yeah, of course he does.” He opened the front door with a flourish. “Come on,” he grinned, “this way.”
Spencer led the way down a set of concrete steps toward the cellar. As he turned his head to look back at his brother, a lopsided grin was spread across his face.
“What’s this?” As he approached the bottom step, Fletch recoiled backwards. He took in the plastic sheeting, the blood spattered across the floor and far walls, and the over-turned wooden chair. He sucked in his breath and looked across to his younger brother. “What the fuck is this, Spence?”
“Good, ain’t it?” Spencer’s eyes lit up and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, barely able to keep still.
Looking around him, Fletch brought his hands up to his head. “What have you done?” He stared at his brother, then crouched down and inspected the blood through hooded eyes. “What the fuck have you done?”
“What?” Spencer grinned.
“What? What do you mean by what?” There was an underlying hint of hysteria in Fletch’s voice. He straightened up, bounded across the plastic-covered floor, and slammed his brother up against the crumbling concrete wall, his forearm plastered across his chest, restraining him. “What have you done?”
Spencer continued to grin.
“Do you understand, Spence?” The hairs on the back of Fletch’s neck stood up on end and he closed his eyes tight for a moment. “Do you understand what you’ve done?” He raised his fist in the air, ready to strike out.
“Yeah, of course I do.” Spencer cowered backwards, his eyes blinking rapidly as he waited for his brother’s heavy fists to rain blows down upon him. The full enormity of the crime he and Billy King had committed didn’t even register in his brain. “Bannerman was asking for it.”
Throwing his brother away from him, Fletch turned to look at the crime scene once more. “Bannerman?” he gasped. His eyes widened and he felt the colour drain from his face. “You mean to tell me you’ve killed one of the Bannermans?”
“Yeah, the youngest one, Albie.”
With his hand placed on the concrete wall to steady himself, Fletch’s heart began to beat faster. He couldn’t get his head around this. One minute, he’d been happily eating his breakfast, contemplating the day ahead of him. The next, he was standing in what could only be described as a slaughterhouse. At least that was what it looked like, if the blood splatter was anything to go by. “Please, tell me you haven’t? Not Albie Bannerman.”
“Yeah,” Spencer repeated. He narrowed his eyes, unsure of why his confession had caused such a reaction in his brother. “Don’t you like it?”
“Like it? What exactly am I supposed to like? I can’t believe it; I can’t believe what I’m seeing and hearing.” Fletch turned his head, a snarl creased his face. “You idiot, Spence. Do you even realise what this is gonna cause? Do you realise the trouble all of this is gonna bring us?”
Spencer’s heart plummeted. He’d fully expected his brother to see what a good thing he and Billy had done. Between them, they had disposed of one of their rivals. “But it’s a Bannerman,” he stammered.
“Yes, a fucking Bannerman,” Fletch growled.
“Yeah, but he was a right ponce.”
“Ponce?” Fletch gritted his teeth. “Do you even know what that word means, Spence?”
Spencer shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t have a clue what the word meant, and was only repeating back one of words Billy often used.
Shaking his head, Fletch looked once more to the blood-splattered sheeting. “This has got to go.” He tore across the room and began pulling the flimsy sheets of plastic away from the walls. “We need to get rid of this.” He stabbed his finger toward his brother. “We need to get rid of it.”
“Why?”
“Why? Because it’s evidence, that’s why.” Clenching his fist, Fletch was in half a mind to batter his brother, to knock some sense into his skull. “Move,” he hissed. “You start that end.” He nodded across to the far end of the cellar. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask what had happened to the body? How had they disposed of Albie Bannerman? He continued tearing down the plastic. He had to know, he decided, and coming to an abrupt halt, he turned his head. “What did you do with him? What did you do with the body?”
Spencer remained silent. He didn’t want to anger his brother any further than was necessary.
“What did you do with him, Spence?”
“We put him in a car and Billy said I should throw the blade into the Thames.”
“And?” Losing patience, Fletch glared. “What did you do next?”
Spencer gave his brother a sidelong glance. His voice was low as he spoke. “I did what he asked. I threw the blade into the Thames.”
“No, Spence.” He gritted his teeth, his voice a mere growl. “I meant, what did you do with Bannerman?”
“I’m not allowed to say.”
“Spence,” Fletch warned. “What the fuck did you do with him?”
His eyes downcast, Spencer shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know; I don’t remember.”
“Spencer.” Fletch bounded across the cellar for a second time and slammed his brother up against the wall. “I’m gonna ask you one more time, and if you don’t tell me, I swear before God, I’m going to batter your fucking brains out. What did you do with him?”
Spencer blinked rapidly and cowered backwards from the oncoming assault. Instinctively, he knew that Fletch meant every word he spoke. “All right … all right, I’ll tell you. We chucked him in the boot of a car, and had it crushed.”
“Crushed?” There was shock in Fletch’s voice, and he brought his hands up to his head once more. The full severity of the situation was brought home, and he breathed heavily, wishing that he was anywhere else, other than this cellar, listening to the gory details of Albie Bannerman’s premature demise.
“Yeah, Billy said it was the best way to get rid of him, so we took the car to a breakers yard down Crow Lane.”
Crow Lane, situated in Romford, housed several breaker’s yards and scrap metal merchants. Fletch nodded his head. He knew exactly where his brother meant. “And it’s gone? The car has been destroyed?” he asked, taking a step backwards.
“Yeah.” Spencer looked to the floor. “We even waited there until it had been done,” he said through hooded lids.
Fletch nodded his head, satisfied. At least that was something to be thankful for. He walked back across the cellar and resumed pulling away the plastic sheeting that had been crudely tacked to the walls, all the while, silently cursing Billy King.
He should have known. He should have known something wasn’t right when he’d singled out Spencer to do a job for him. There and then, he blamed himself. Why hadn’t he questioned Billy at the time? He could have put a stop to it. He would have even taken Spencer’s place. It was too much of a secret for his brother to keep. Why, he repeated to himself? It was a question that would go on to haunt him for the rest of his days.
* * *
George Bannerman pulled up outside his brother’s house. Albie’s car wasn’t on the drive. He opened the car door, stepped out, and looked up and down the deserted street. Where the fuck was his brother?
As he walked down the pathway of the semi-detached house, he could already hear his sister-in-law screaming at the kids to behave themselves. He had never been a big fan of his brother’s wife, June. She had too much to say for herself, that was half the problem, and if there was one thing he despised, it was people who had the audacity to try and answer him back.
He tapped his knuckles on the front door. Within moments, it was flung open.
“Where is he?” she questioned, with her platinum blonde hair pulled up in curlers, and a cigarette dangling from the corner of her scarlet painted lips. “Where the fuck is Albie?” she screeched. “It’s been five days since I last saw him. Where the fuck is he?”
George recoiled. Her high-pitched voice went right through his head. “I was hoping you could tell me that.” He stepped across the threshold into his brother’s house. As usual, it looked like a pigsty. The kids’ toys were littered the floor, and a mound of washing had been left to pile up on the staircase.
“How would I know,” June sneered at her brother-in-law. “I’m only his wife. He never tells me anything.” She stormed through to the kitchen, kicking a plastic toy car out of her path. “If I find out he’s got another tart on the go, I’ll fucking scalp him,” she hissed.
George put out his hand to placate her. He’d already been to the flat where his brother’s bit on the side lived, and she had seen neither head, nor tail of him.
“Well?” June shrieked. “Has he got a tart somewhere?”
“Of course he hasn’t,” George lied. He took in the untidy kitchen and sighed. The sink was full of dirty crockery and the work tops were heavily stained. No wonder his brother never seemed to want to spend any time here.
June stabbed out her cigarette in an overfilled ashtray and immediately lit a second one. “You know where he is, don’t you?” She stabbed the cigarette toward her brother-in-law.
“Would I be here now if I knew where he was?” George snapped. He looked out of the kitchen window toward the overgrown garden, where his young nephews were racing up and down the pathway on bicycles. His brother may play around with other women, but he loved his three sons, and would never willingly up and leave them.
“Well, where is he then?” June exhaled a plume of cigarette smoke above her head. The truth was, she was worried. Her Albie may not be perfect, but she loved the bones of him. “I just want him to come home.” Tears welled up in her eyes and she glanced toward the back garden. “Me and the boys, we miss him. It’s not like him to not come home at all. How am I meant to manage without him? I’ve got no money. How am I meant to feed the kids? I’m boracic skint, pot loss.”
George sucked his teeth. “Yeah, I get the picture,” he growled. He took a roll of cash from his trousers pocket and handed over a bundle of notes. “That’ll see you through until he comes home.”
June snatched the money and tucked it safely inside her bra strap. “Thanks,” she mumbled.
He chewed on the inside of his cheek as he thought the situation through. Something was amiss. He knew that much. “Let me make some calls.” He gave her a small reassuring smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ll find him, don’t worry. Before you know it, he’ll be back home.”
Puffing on her cigarette, June absentmindedly nodded her head.
* * *
Leaving the house, George took his mobile phone from his jacket pocket and crossed over the street. He was worried all right. There was something about his brother’s little disappearing act that wasn’t sitting right with him. He opened the car door, climbed inside, and began making a series of calls.
“I’m calling a meeting,” he growled into the phone. “Round everyone up and meet at my house within the hour.” He looked across to his brother’s house once more, and with a heavy heart, threw the phone down beside him and started the ignition. He would scalp Albie himself if he found out he had been on a bender and was just lying low some place.
* * *
Fletch had never felt more furious. He brought the car to a screeching halt on Billy King’s driveway, threw open the car door, and jumped out. Without hesitating, he stormed toward the house and thumped his fist on the front door.
“Fuck me, you’ve got a knock like a copper.” Billy was all smiles as he flung open the door.
Barging his way into the house, Fletch took deep breaths in a desperate measure to calm himself down. “Why?” he demanded to know. “Why Spence?”
“Why Spence, what?” Billy opened up his arms as though genuinely puzzled.
“You know what,” Fletch hissed. “Why did you get him to do it?”
“What’s the problem?” Billy ushered his protégée into the dining room and closed the door firmly behind them. “Well?” He took a seat at the oak table, placed a cigarette between his clenched lips and lounged backwards, as though he didn’t have a care in the world.
“You bastard, I’ll …” Fletch held onto the back of the dining chair and glared at his boss. “I’ll …”
“You’ll what?” Lighting his cigarette, Billy slammed the solid gold lighter down on the dining table with a loud clatter. He exhaled a lungful of smoke, then clenched his jaw. “Come on, Fletch. I’m all ears. You’ll do what, exactly?”
“My brother, Billy. Why him? Why did you have to pick him?”
Choosing to ignore the veiled threat, Billy squinted through the curling cigarette smoke. “I picked him, because he’s a fucking lump, all right?” He gave a carefree shrug of his shoulders. “I knew he would be able to handle the situation.”
“You were bang out of order,” Fletch growled. He could feel the anger building inside of himself and clenched his fists into tight balls. More than anything, he’d like to wipe the smug smirk from the older man’s face. Nothing would give him greater pleasure.
“He works for me. It’s what I pay him to do,” Billy interrupted, sitting forward and resting his forearms on his knees. There was a steely tone to his voice. “Unless it’s escaped your notice, I don’t pay you to walk around all day looking pretty. I had a job that needed doing and it was Spencer I chose.” He shrugged his shoulders. “W
hat’s the big deal? You wouldn’t be complaining if it was Stevie or Joseph, or one of the others, would you?”
Fletch bowed his head as he thought this through. There was some truth to Billy’s words. It was true that he wouldn’t have complained if it was one of the others. Only it wasn’t one of them; it was his brother. He wiped his hand across his jaw. “He can’t handle something like this,” he warned, tapping the side of his head. “It’ll fuck him up.”
“You’re too protective, that’s your trouble.” Billy stabbed his finger forward. “He’s a big boy now. Let him spread his wings a bit.”
“Let him spread his wings?” Fletch gave a bitter laugh. “Killing someone … is that your idea of him spreading his wings? And not just anyone, Albie fucking Bannerman, of all people.” He took a deep breath. The realisation of what Spencer had done, of what he’d become involved in, hit him full on, and a new startling terror filled him. “If they find out he was involved, they’ll come after him; you know they will. They’re gonna kill him.”
Billy stood up and walked around the table. He would need to have serious words with young Spencer. He’d specifically told him not to tell anyone about the murder they had committed. “They won’t find out.” He kept his voice low and leaned in closer. “And if they do, it’s because that brother of yours couldn’t keep his fucking mouth shut.” He returned to his seat and spread out his arms. “I needed someone I could trust, and let’s face it, he’s far too stupid to be the one who is going behind my back and running his mouth off to Bannerman.”
“What?” A snarl creased Fletch’s face. “What did you just say?”
“You heard,” Billy answered with a sigh. “He’s too dense to be the one going behind my back.”
“He’s not stupid or dense,” Fletch stated defensively.