by Kerry Kaya
“You must know by now that I don’t love you, right?” As if reading her thoughts, Fletch cocked his head to one side as he looked down at her.
Blinded by her tears, she nodded her head.
He took note of the tears that sprang to her eyes. She looked so small and so vulnerable as she stood beside him that his tone softened. “Like I said, I’m sorry, Teen. I know this isn’t what you want to hear, and I don’t want to upset you, I really don’t, but I don’t know what else you want or expect me to say. You’re fighting a losing battle, darling. Me and you are never gonna happen.”
He closed his eyes, briefly allowing his words to sink in. “So, why don’t we just try to make good of a bad situation, eh? I’ll provide for that baby. I’ll even help you out from time to time, but that’s as far as it’s ever going to go. I don’t want to be with you, not in the same way that you want to be with me.”
Tears rolled down Tina’s cheeks. She’d known all along that he didn’t love her. Still, she’d hoped, prayed even, that since she was carrying his child, he would feel something toward her, however small that might be. In her eyes, anything would have been better than nothing.
“I’m sorry, okay?”
She nodded her head once more, not trusting herself to speak, not trusting herself to not come across as needy and insecure.
“We need to know where we stand, don’t we? In the long run, it’s better that we both know now, rather than later on down the line, isn’t it?”
Swallowing down the hard lump in her throat, she finally spoke. Her voice took on a pleading tone. “But maybe when the baby is born …”
“No, Teen.” He threw his arms up in the air and stepped away from her, his eyes becoming hard once more. Was she not listening to a word he said? “This is exactly what I’m talking about. Me and you, we’re never going to work out, no matter how much you might want us to. I don’t love you. I’m not ever going to love you.”
“Because of her, that woman?” Despite feeling as though her whole world had crashed down around her, she spat out the words. How could he be so callous, so uncaring?
At the mention of Susan, Fletch’s heart constricted inside his chest. He gave a carefree shrug of his shoulders, hiding his true feelings.
“It is, isn’t it? You want to be with her instead?”
“I’ve already told you, it’s complicated,” he mumbled, in the way of an answer.
Tina’s lips curled down at the corners.
“Come on.” He slung his arm around her shoulders and gave a forced smile. “Don’t upset yourself, Teen. Come on now, don’t get yourself into a state. I’m really not worth you crying over.”
She looked up at him. How could he say that? He meant everything to her, and she had a horrible, nagging feeling that he always would.
* * *
George could barely take in the news he had just been given. With no known next of kin, it had taken just over a week for Mickey’s death to become common knowledge. As he thought this through, a thousand thoughts rattled around inside his brain. He was certain that his cousin had still been alive when they had dumped him on his doorstep. He could recall being angry with the man, but surely he hadn’t been so angry that he’d killed him?
“Rumour has it that the sword was still sticking out of him when the old bill turned up,” Pete said. He raised his eyebrows. “I heard it was embedded into the fucking ground.”
“Sword?” Pete’s words broke his thought’s and he sat back in his seat, contemplating what this could mean. He knew for a fact that neither he, nor any members of his firm, had used the weapon. “So you’re saying that someone did him in then?”
“Looks that way. And I’m not being funny, George. I know he was your cousin and all that, but it was only a matter of time until someone topped him. I mean, let’s face it, Shank has been raising hell and getting away with murder for years.” He raised his eyebrows to emphasis his point. “And I mean that literally.”
“Yeah, I know.” Sinking back in his chair, George steepled his fingers in front of him. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise that Mickey had been topped. It was common knowledge that he was a lunatic, a psychopath even. In a way, it was ironic. Some may even say it was poetic justice. The very same weapon that had made him feel safe, was the very same instrument that took his life. “So who did it? Has anyone claimed responsibility?”
“Nope, not as of yet,” Pete answered, with a shrug of his shoulders. “No one has come forward, and the rumour mill is quiet, too fucking quiet. But if there’s one thing that I do know, it’s that the majority of people around here will be glad to see the back of him.”
Sitting forward, George leaned his forearms across the desk and sighed. “We both know for a fact that Shank did a lot of damage over the years. It stands to reason that someone, somewhere, will boast about how they brought him down. They’re bound to, and if they don’t …” He left the unfinished sentence to hang heavy in the air.
“If they don’t, then it could be the same person who was responsible for Albie going missing?”
Silently, George nodded his head. Was it just a coincidence that two of his firm members, one being his brother, were now either missing or dead?
“So, what do we do now then, boss?”
“Dig around for answers,” George said, his voice coming across a lot more confident than he actually felt. “Someone out there knows what happened.” His thoughts wandered to his sister-in-law, and his three nephews. He was due to pay them a visit. The very thought of not being able to give June and the boys an update as to where her husband and their father had disappeared to, depressed him. “Just keep looking,” he sighed.
An hour later, he was sitting in his brother’s back garden, silently brooding as he watched his nephews play on the lawn. Their subdued little faces broke his heart. The disappearance of their father had hit them a lot harder than he’d anticipated.
Deep down, he knew that Albie was dead. He could feel it in his bones, and the thought of not seeing his brother again, made his breath catch in his throat.
He pushed the dark thoughts away, pulled out his mobile phone, tapped in a number, and spoke with a low growl. “Enough is enough. I want it sorted out now. I want Albie found and brought home.”
By the time he had switched off the call, his heart already felt lighter. Leaping out of the garden chair, he forced a smile to crease his face, and scooping up a leather football, he moved toward the boys.
“I’ll be goalie,” he shouted out as he threw the ball up into the air and watched it land in front of his eldest nephew’s feet. He owed it to his brother to see that his sons were all right, to make sure that they didn’t forget their father. As he watched the boys kicking the ball around the garden for a short while, everything was okay with the world.
* * *
“Oh, it is lovely.” Jenny smiled as she wandered around her son’s new home. “You’ll both be happy here; I’ve got a good feeling about the place.”
Tina gave her a sad smile. Somehow, she couldn’t see herself being happy, not now. Not now that she knew how Fletch really felt about her.
“It’s all right, ain’t it, Mum.” Fletch grinned as he followed his mother around the flat. “And out here is the balcony.” He unlocked the patio doors and stepped outside.
“It’s smashing, darling, it really is,” Jenny answered as she admired the view across Romford.
“What do you reckon, Spence?”
Spencer nodded his head. “It’s nice … I suppose.” He stuck out his bottom lip, sulking. “But I still don’t get why you have to move out. It won’t be the same without you at home, Fletch.”
Jenny rolled her eyes. “We’ve already discussed this, Spence, and you know that we need all the room we can get, what with your uncle coming home from hospital. And don’t forget, you can have your bedroom back now, can’t you?” she added brightly. “That will be something to look forward to, won’t it?”
“I don’t
care about my bedroom.” Spencer continued to sulk. For as far back as he could remember, he had only ever shared a room with his brother. When they had been small boys, they had even shared the same bed. More often than not, after a troubling nightmare, he would crawl into Fletch’s bed during the night, until, that was, they had grown too big to share and Fletch had begun to kick him out, wanting his own space.
“Come on, Spence, it won’t be that bad. You’ll see me every day at work, and I’ll still come over to the house, I promise.” Fletch gave his brother a wide grin.
“She’s ruined everything.” Turning his head, Spencer glared across to Tina. “Why did you have to get with her? I don’t like her.”
“That’s enough,” Fletch chastised. He gave his brother a reassuring smile, slung his arm across his shoulders, and kept his voice light. “It is what it is, Spence. You can’t blame Tina for everything. It was me who made the mistake. I should have been more careful, and now I have to step up and pay the price.”
“Yeah, but …”
“No yeah buts. Everything will turn out okay, you just wait and see.” His grin widened, hiding the feeling of despair that flooded through him. Despite the words he spoke, he was as devastated as his brother. More than anything, he wished that he’d never met Tina that fateful night. “Come on,” he said, gesturing inside the flat. “It’s time to go and pick Frank up from the hospital.”
* * *
Frank Fletcher’s head was bowed. Slumped in a high-backed chair beside the metal-framed hospital bed, he shifted his weight, trying to make himself more comfortable. No matter which position he got himself into, he was in a great deal of pain. He gripped onto the arms of the chair. As he moved, his fingertips turned a deathly shade of white, and he gasped out loud at the searing pain that ripped through his abdomen. He held his breath, waiting for the pain to subside, and sank lower into the chair. The very thought of having to stand up and actually walk was enough to bring him out in a cold sweat.
“You all right, Frank?”
He looked up. His sister and nephews walked down the ward toward him.
He gave a nod of his head, not trusting himself to speak. He knew his voice would be higher than usual, the pain did that to him.
“Are you ready to come home?” Jenny gave a forced smile as she fussed around him.
“Stop that.” He gritted his teeth as he spoke. “I can manage.”
Jenny’s cheeks flushed a deep shade of scarlet. Nothing ever changed with her brother.
They gathered up his belongings, placing his toothbrush, toothpaste, flannel, soap, and razor, into a small wash bag. He closed his eyes, knowing full well that he would soon need to move out of the chair. His fingertips gripped onto the wooden arms once more. He couldn’t put the inevitable off for much longer, because it was time to go. Sweat poured out of him, as he slowly wriggled toward the edge of the seat.
“Do you need help?” Fletch made to move forward.
Frank batted him away. “I said, I can manage,” he growled. He gritted his teeth as he made to stand up. He’d barely lifted his backside three inches off of the chair, before collapsing in a heap. “That fucking Shank,” he roared. “He’s ruined me.”
“You don’t need to worry about Shank.” Spencer gave a lopsided grin. “He’s finished an’ all.”
Fletch snapped his head toward his brother, his eyes narrowed. “What do you mean by that?”
Spencer continued to grin. “He got done in.”
“Done in?” Fletch looked from his brother, to his mother and uncle. “What do you mean, he got done in?”
“That’s what I heard.”
A cold shiver ran through Fletch. They had been here before, when Albie Bannerman had been murdered. He moved closer and kept his voice low. “What do you know about Shank, Spence?”
“Just that he’d been done in.” Spencer shrugged his shoulders and continued to gather up Frank’s belongings.
“And? Well, where did you hear that?”
“I dunno.” Spencer made to walk away, and his bother pulled him back toward him. “What?”
“Who told you about Shank, Spence?”
“I already told you,” Spencer grinned, “I don’t remember.”
Watching his brother walk from the ward, Fletch had a sinking feeling that he just couldn’t, for the life of him, shake off. The mere thought that his brother could have killed for a second time was not only disturbing, but downright terrifying.
* * *
After dropping his parents and brother back home to Dagenham, Fletch drove to the dingy spieler in East London, where he had arranged to collect Billy. He took a sip from his takeaway coffee, switched off the engine, and stepped out of the car. Once he’d drained the contents of his drink, he tipped the dregs out into the gutter, crumpled the polystyrene cup in his fist, and then tossed it in to a nearby waste bin.
He’d been about to cross the street, when out of the corner of his eye, he spotted two heavily set men approach him from his right-hand side. In a split-second decision, he moved off to his left, glancing over his shoulder repeatedly as he walked in the direction of the High Street. At a distance, the men followed.
He could feel his heartbeat quicken and as he looked around him for an escape route, he wanted to curse himself. He wasn’t some pussy, and knew for a fact that he could hold his own, so why hadn’t he just squared up to them or entered the spieler as he’d originally planned, instead of skulking away like a mouse, like a coward? Now, he would have no other choice, but to face the men, whoever they were, alone and without any likely backup, should he even need it.
On the busy High Street, he weaved in and out of the passers-by, hoping more than anything, to shrug the two men off. Still, they followed.
“Fuck,” he muttered. With one final glance over his shoulder, he ducked inside an alleyway, out of sight, and leaned his back against the brickwork, whilst waiting for his racing heart to once again return to its familiar, steady rhythm.
Before he could stop himself, laughter coupled with relief, pushed its way up through his chest and out of his mouth, and with a shake of his head, he ran his hand across his clammy forehead. What the fuck was wrong with him? Billy was right, the pills were making him paranoid.
He shook his head for a second time. He needed to sort himself out, and in double-quick time, before the pills Stevie acquired for them left him acting and feeling like a quivering wreck. Using his foot, he propelled himself away from the wall. At that exact moment, two large, looming figures stepped forward, blocking the entrance way, bringing him to an immediate halt.
The tiny hairs on the back of Fletch’s neck stood up on end. His instincts had been right after all. They had been following him. “Oi,” he called out to them. “What’s your fucking problem?”
In silence, the men took a menacing step forward.
Looking over his shoulder, Fletch realised his mistake. All thanks to his stupidity, he was completely blocked in. He moved back even farther, another mistake. He was now out of view from anyone walking past the alleyway.
“I asked you a fucking question. What do you want?” Despite the concern that spread through him, his voice remained loud and confident, totally at odds to how he really felt.
A third man entered the alleyway—a man Fletch instantly recognised. George Bannerman.
“What do we want?” George spread out his arms in a theatrical gesture. Behind him, stood his henchmen, and they cracked their knuckles ready for action. “Unless you’re stupid, you should already know the answer to that question.”
A flurry of different emotions swept over Fletch. Every day, he woke up wondering if this would be the day that they finally came face to face. After all, it was only sheer luck that had kept them apart for so long. A defiant gleam was in his eyes as he looked up at the man he had hated for the majority of his life.
“Hello, Dad, long time no see.”
Chapter 11
Draining his Brandy, Billy glanced dow
n at his watch, noting the time. He cursed underneath his breath. Where the fuck was Fletch? Inside his jacket pocket, his mobile phone vibrated. He pulled out the device and stared down at the screen, fully expecting to see a text message from his protégée. There was nothing, no missed calls, no text messages stating that the younger man would be running late. He scrolled through his contact list, and his finger hovered over Fletch’s contact number.
“Another drink, Bill?”
Billy glanced up at the barman. “Yeah, same again, mate.” He slid the empty glass across the bar and dropped the phone back into his pocket. He may as well stop for another, seeing as he had some time to kill.
* * *
Taken aback, George held up his hand and signalled for his henchmen to back off. Staring at the young man in front of him, he rolled his bottom lip between his teeth and searched his face, desperate to find something there that he recognised, something familiar. He cocked his eyebrows upwards.
“Harry?” he enquired.
Shaking his head, Fletch swallowed deeply. “No, I haven’t been called that for a very long time.”
George laughed out loud. “Right there.” He vehemently stabbed his finger forward and narrowed his eyes. “Right there is the reason I could never find you. The bitch actually went through with her threat and changed your name.”
“She did what she had to do to keep us safe,” Fletch answered defensively. “And let’s face it, even if Mum had put us in the middle of a war zone, it would have been a lot safer than living with you.”
“And there he is, my fucking son, the one with the big mouth.” Clapping his hands together, George gave a menacing chuckle. “I wondered how long it would take for that smart mouth of yours to start working. I always said that you had a lot of front. Even as a nipper, you were a cocky little bastard. Always had just a bit too much to say for yourself, always watching me, always antagonising me, always ready and waiting to open that big fucking trap of yours and give me some lip.”