The Price

by Kerry Kaya

  “Don’t George, not here,” a voice yelled out.

  The words instantly brought George to his senses. Exhaling loudly, he slumped backwards against the side of the car. As he dropped his arm to his side, his breath streamed out in front of him, and he dragged his free hand across his face. He had been so close to King, so close to finding out the truth.

  “Chuck this piece of shit into the boot,” he ordered his men.

  As he watched them scramble out of the car, he allowed himself to take deep breaths to steady the anger that rippled through him. He still couldn’t believe it. He felt as though his head was all over the place. Not only had he been close to finding out what had happened to Albie, but a familiar face, a blast from the past, had sent his mind reeling.

  “What are we gonna do with him now, boss?”

  George turned his head in time to watch the men bundle his unconscious cousin into the boot of the car. What he’d like to do was shoot the man in the head and then tip him into the Thames, but family was family, after all.

  “Dump the mad bastard outside his front door,” he growled.

  * * *

  On seeing her husband’s car pull onto the driveway, Susan jumped up from the sofa and made her way out to the grand hallway.

  “How is he? How is Frank?”

  Billy entered the house and narrowed his eyes. “How do you know about Frank?”

  “I …” Realising her mistake, Susan began to stutter. “I … I heard about it on the news. I recognised the name,” she lied. As she spoke, she could hear the fear in her voice. She was terrified that her husband would see right through her lies and she took deep breaths to steady herself. Of course, she shouldn’t have known about the incident. It had never been on the news. It was Fletch who’d told her.

  “It’s touch and go.” He threw his car keys onto the hallway table and kicked off his shoes. “He’d just come out of theatre when I left them at the hospital.”

  “But he will be okay, won’t he?”

  Billy shrugged his shoulders. “Like I said, it’s touch and go.”

  “Poor Fletch.”

  “Frank you mean?” Billy narrowed his eyes for the second time in less than five minutes. “It was Frank who was sliced up, not Fletch.”

  “Of course,” Susan gave her husband a light smile. “I meant to say Frank. You know what I’m like. I heard the name and just panicked, thinking that you could have been hurt, too.” She kissed him lightly on the cheek, held her breath, and then turned to walk away.

  Staring after his wife, Billy’s mind began to race. Where exactly was it that Fletch had disappeared to when Bannerman and his firm had turned up at the boozer? It was a question that was to go on and plague him for the rest of the night.

  * * *

  Early the next morning, Billy pressed his foot on the brake and brought the car to a shuddering halt outside the breakers yard in Crow Lane, Romford. What with Mad Mickey Shank’s and George Bannerman’s escapades the previous evening, it was even more of a pressing issue that they spoke to Trevor Wright, the owner of the yard where the car containing Albie Bannerman’s body had been disposed of. He switched off the engine and glanced across to Fletch.

  “You look fucked, mate. Did you manage to get any kip last night?”

  Fletch shook his head. Thanks to Stevie and his little white pills, he’d been awake the entire night. If truth were told, he didn’t think he could sleep, even if he wanted to.

  “You need to lay off those pills,” Billy stated, narrowing his eyes. “I keep telling you that.”

  “Yeah well, I needed something to get me through the night. Me mum needs me.”

  “Well, you ain’t gonna be much use to her if you’re buzzing off of your fucking nut, are you?”

  “I’m all right,” Fletch groaned. He flung open the car door and climbed out. “I’ll sort myself out.”

  “Make sure that you do.” Following suit, Billy climbed out of the car. “I don’t want you becoming a liability,” he said, stabbing his finger across the roof of the car.

  “I won’t.” Fletch rolled his eyes and looked across to the breakers yard. He’d met Trevor once or twice in the past. He was a nice bloke, albeit a bit eccentric. Despite a large four-bedroom house at the front of the property, the man lived in a small, rusting, dingy caravan at the back of the yard with his dogs. As a result, the yard was covered in puddles of dog urine and piles of excrement. “Put’s people off from robbing the place,” he’d once told Fletch with a cackle.

  “Come on then.” Billy made his way forward.

  “The dogs are loose.”

  “And?” Billy looked over his shoulder. “They’re always fucking loose.”

  Swallowing down his fear of dogs, Fletch followed his boss toward the yard. “Shouldn’t we wait until he’s put them away first?”

  “What the fuck is wrong with you? They’re dogs, not fucking lions.” Billy shook his head. “Sometimes you worry the fucking life out of me.”

  “All right, I was only saying.” His body tense, Fletch held his breath as he gingerly moved through the open gate. The dogs ran toward them and he tensed his body up even further.

  “Clever things, dogs,” Billy stated, as he stooped down to tickle one of the Dobermans behind the ear.

  “I suppose so,” Fletch answered. He looked to the decrepit porta-cabin where Trevor ran his business. He was just steps away from safety.

  “Did you know that they can actually sense fear?” He crept up behind Fletch, grabbed hold of his leg, and burst out laughing as the younger man jumped up in the air. “Fucking hell,” he roared. “You should see your fucking face! You’re a nervous fucking wreck.”

  “All right, bloody hell,” Fletch cried. “What did you do that for? You know that I don’t like dogs.”

  Barely able to catch his breath, Billy snorted with laughter. “Don’t like dogs?” he wheezed. “Be honest with me, you’re shit fucking scared of them.”

  “Yeah and? Haven’t I got enough to deal with, without you pulling stunts like that?”

  “I was only trying to cheer you up a bit,” Billy sniggered.

  “I need your idea of a joke like I need a fucking hole in the head.” Fletch stormed across the yard to the porta-cabin, leaving Billy to continue laughing in his wake. Banging his fist on the door, he gave his boss a scowl as it opened up.

  “Come on in.” Trevor was all smiles. Dressed in tattered grease-stained overalls that were turned up at the ankles, and a red and black check shirt that was in a good need of a boil wash, he held out his calloused hand.

  Shaking the outstretched hand, Fletch resisted the urge to wipe his own hand down his jeans to rid himself of Trevor’s grime. He wrinkled his nose at the sour stench that came from inside the porta-cabin and looked around him.

  In the corner, sat an old paraffin heater, the cloying fumes it chugged out were enough to bring on the start of a headache. Every available surface was littered with grubby dog-eared paperwork, mouldy tea mugs, and what looked like engine parts.

  “So, what do I owe this pleasure? What is it I can I do for yers?” Moving paperwork away from the thread-worn chairs, he straightened up and gave them a wide, toothless grin.

  Billy returned the smile. “That business we took care of?”

  “Yer?” Trevor was all ears. “What about it?”

  “I just want to remind you to keep it between us.” He perched on the edge of a thread-worn chair. “I need to know that you’re going to keep schtum about it.”

  “Course I will.” He took a seat behind his desk and spread out his arms. “You know me; I won’t say a dickey bird.” He gave a little wink. “It never happened, that’s what I’ll say to anyone who comes near, asking questions.”

  “So, someone has been asking questions?” Glancing toward Billy, Fletch’s ears pricked up. He took a step closer to the old man. “Someone has been here then?”

  “No.” Trevor flapped his hand, dismissively. “No one’s been here,
son.”

  “Are you sure about that?” He took a step even closer, his fist clenched at his side. “Who was it?” he growled. “Bannerman or Mad Mickey Shank?”

  “What? No.” Trevor looked helplessly toward Billy. “Like I said, no one has been here, son.”

  “You’re lying,” he snarled.

  “Why would I lie about something like that? No one has been here asking questions, on my life, they ain’t.”

  “He’s lying.” He launched himself forward and grasped hold of Trevor’s checked shirt in his fist. “What did you tell them?” he roared.

  “Nothing, son. No one’s even been here.” Blinking his eyes rapidly, Trevor cowered backwards. “Billy, help me out here,” he cried.

  “He’s fucking lying.” Fletch’s eyes had a steely glint to them as he looked over his shoulder.

  “For fuck’s sake, Fletch leave it out.” Billy leapt out of his seat and pulled him roughly away from the old man. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he snapped. “He’s just told you that no one has been here.”

  “He’s lying.”

  “No I ain’t, son, honest I ain’t.”

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?” Billy repeated. “You need to lay off them fucking pills. Look at the state of you? They’re making you paranoid.”

  Shaking his head, Fletch rubbed his hand across his jaw, the layer of dark stubble rough against his palm. “I’m telling you, Billy, he knows something. He’s lying to us.”

  “No, I ain’t.” Trevor spread out his arms. “Come on, Billy, you know me from old, and you know at the first sign of trouble, I would’ve been on the blower to you.”

  “Yeah, I know you would have, and I’m sorry, mate.” He pushed Fletch out of the porta-cabin, shaking his head at him as he did so. “What the fuck is with you lately? You’re becoming a fucking liability,” he roared, his cheeks turning a deep shade of scarlet. “Nice friendly chat we were meant to be having. Not once did I tell you to go in all guns-blazing.”

  Storming across the yard, Fletch could practically feel the steam coming out of his ears. He brought his hands up toward his forehead and massaged his temples. He could barely get his head around what had taken place in the last twenty-four hours. Not only was it bad enough having to deal with Tina, but to top it all off, his uncle had been sliced wide open like a pig.

  “Well?” Billy shouted after him. “What the fuck is going on with you, eh?”

  “This,” Fletch shouted pointing to his temple. He spun around, retraced his steps, and came to an abrupt halt in front of his boss. “All of this up here,” he said, pointing to his head once more. “I can’t deal with it. I don’t know how to fucking deal with it.” He took deep breaths to steady himself. “That fucking bitch, Tina,” he growled. “I finished things with her, and now she’s walking around the gaff like I owe her something.”

  “Well, she is up the spout, mate.”

  “Yeah, and don’t I know it.” He gave a bitter laugh. “And then there’s me uncle. Over a hundred fucking stitches, all thanks to that mad bastard, Shank. You know as well as I do that he’s lucky to still be alive. Then there’s Spence. I’m shit-scared that his name is gonna come out, and then there’s …” His voice tapered off.

  “What?” Billy narrowed his eyes.

  “Nothing, it doesn’t matter.” Realising he’d said too much, he averted his eyes and ran his fingers through his dark hair, making it stand up on end. “All of this is doing my nut in. I ain’t even been out of clink for more than a day yet, and look at the amount of shit I’ve had to deal with.”

  Billy glanced behind him. He nodded his head apologetically to Trevor, who was still standing cautiously in the porta-cabin doorway.

  “You know what you need, don’t you?” he asked, slinging his arm around Fletch’s shoulders.

  “What?” Fletch answered with an exasperated sigh.

  “You need a good fucking drink.” He sensed the younger man begin to protest and he shook his head. “I’m not taking no for an answer. Jump in the motor. I know just the place.”

  * * *

  Laying on his back, Mickey cautiously opened his eyes. His head was thumping, and he shielded his swollen and bruised eyes from the bright sunlight that blinded him. How had he got here? He turned over onto his front, put out his hand and clawed at the grass, still dewy from the early morning frost. How the hell had he ended up on his front lawn?

  He tried to think back. He could recall being in the boozer with George and his firm; he could recall the car journey as they headed back to South London; he could recall the car hurtling through the Rotherhithe Tunnel.

  He opened his eyes even wider, a panic filled him. Where was his sword? He pulled himself up onto all fours. His heart began to beat faster, and his eyes darted around him. Where was it? He knew for a fact that he’d had the blade in the car. He could recall taking the sleeve of his coat and wiping away the streaks of blood smeared across the steel.

  “Are you looking for this?”

  Mickey turned his head and looked upwards. “That’s mine.”

  “Is it?” came the reply.

  “Yeah,” Mickey growled. He began to pull himself to his feet, a snarl creased his face. “It’s mine.” The figure took a step backwards and Mickey put out his hand. “Give me my fucking sword.”

  The figure remained silent, as if thinking it over.

  “I told you to give me my fucking sword.” Mickey narrowed his eyes. What the hell was going on; who the fuck was this prick? “Give me back my sword,” he roared.

  Without saying another word, the figure lunged forward, the sword pointing straight ahead.

  Mickey’s mouth dropped open in shock, as the steel blade sliced through his flesh and intestines. He fell forward, and as he fumbled to keep his balance, his fingers grasped the man’s shoulders.

  “That’s for hurting my uncle,” the voice said into his ear before pushing him backwards.

  Crashing heavily to the floor, Mickey cried out in terror. Blood oozed out of him, and as he pushed his hands down on the wound, he began to whimper. He wasn’t ready to die, not yet. He began to scramble backwards, already feeling weak.

  “Take the sword,” he choked out. “Keep it; it’s yours.”

  “Nah, I don’t want it.” The figure looked down at the weapon. “It’s got your blood all over it now.”

  His eyes wide open, Mickey pushed himself back even farther, desperate to get away from the man. “I … I said you can keep it.”

  Spencer didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. He lifted the sword above his head. A white-hot fury spurned him on, and using his considerable strength, he plunged the sword repeatedly downwards. Only when he was spent and out of breath, did he allow a smile to crease his face. Bannerman and his firm would be sorry for what they had done to his uncle. He was going to make sure of it.

  * * *

  A spieler tucked away in the back streets of Canning Town, East London, was where Billy drove to. “This place,” he said, pulling the car over to the kerb and climbing out, “has been like a godsend to me over the years.”

  Taking in the dingy exterior, Fletch raised his eyebrows, causing Billy to laugh out loud.

  “I have to have somewhere on the quiet I can take the birds, eh? Somewhere I know my Susan will never step inside.”

  Billy’s disregard of women caused Fletch to raise his eyebrows for a second time. He would give his right arm to be married to Susan, and certainly wouldn’t need some dark and dingy, East End gambling den to take other women to.

  “Come on, this way,” he grinned, slinging his arm around Fletch’s shoulders.

  The inside of the building was as grubby as the exterior. Fletch looked around him. Several tables were littered around the room, and a small bar was sat toward the rear of the property. The carpet was sticky underneath their feet and a dense, heavy fog of cigarette smoke filled the air.

  Greeted like a celebrity, Billy guided Fletch toward the bar area. He ordered
brandies, paid for them, and then passed a glass across. Taking a sip, he eyed Fletch over the rim of the glass. “So, what happened to you last night?”

  “When?” Swallowing down a mouthful of the dark liquid, Fletch stalled for time. He knew exactly what Billy was referring to.

  “When Bannerman turned up, you were nowhere to be seen.”

  “I just needed some air.” Even as he said the words, he knew how weak his alibi was. “I went to see my mum, and then just walked for a bit.”

  “You walked?” Billy narrowed his eyes. “Walked where?”

  Fletch shrugged his shoulders. “The streets. I needed time to think, what with Tina and everything.”

  “Yeah, bit of a shocker that, eh?”

  “Yeah, you could say that.” Immediately, his thoughts went to Susan and his heart constricted inside his chest. Only the thought of her had got him through his short stretch inside.

  “So, what will you do now? Marry her?”

  Fletch’s eyes widened. “Like fuck I will.”

  Signalling for a second round of drinks, Billy laughed out loud. “The first rule when it comes to the enemy, is to give them what they want. Makes life a lot easier in the long run. Look at my Susan, treated like a fucking queen, she is.” He gulped down his drink, and using the back of his hand to wipe across his lips, he studied Fletch. “And do you know what I get in return?”

  “I dunno.” Fletch shrugged his shoulders, desperate to get away from the conversation of Billy’s marriage.

  “I know that I can trust her not to play the field. She wouldn’t even dare look at another man.” He spread out his arms. “And if she did, I’d break her fucking neck, and his,” he added as an afterthought.

  Fletch nodded his head and sipped at his drink. That was a bit rich coming from Billy. Talk about double standards. The man had no idea how to stay faithful and was the male equivalent of a slag. He studied his boss over the rim of the glass and wondered why he was bringing all of this up now.