by Kerry Kaya
“I was just a little kid. Is that your excuse? Is that why you beat us black and blue? Is that why my brother nearly died?”
George’s eyes darkened. “I owned you.”
Leaning forward, Fletch screwed up his face. “You owned jack shit; we couldn’t wait to get away from you. In fact, I begged Mum day and night to take us away from you.”
“She really got into that head of yours, didn’t she? So, what exactly did she do, eh, spin you a few tall stories, tell you some half-truths, tell you I’m the devil himself?”
“It’s all true,” Fletch spat. “I was there. I remember everything; I remember what you did to us.”
“I did fuck all,” George roared back.
“Tell that to Spencer.” Taking a step backwards, Fletch stuck his chin in the air. “He’s doing okay, before you even ask.” It was a lie, but he wasn’t about to give their father the satisfaction of knowing otherwise.
“I’m glad to hear of it.” George gave a wide smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“You know …” Maintaining a considerable distance between them, Fletch crossed his arms over his chest and stood with his legs spread apart. “… I always wondered how I’d react if I ever saw you face to face, what I’d actually say or do.”
“Is that so?” They continued to stare at each other, sizing one another up. “Well, I’m not stopping you. If you think you can take a shot at your old man, then go for it, take the fucking shot.” Towering over his son, George took a step closer and closed the gap between them. “Well, come on, I’m waiting. I’ll tell you what,” he said, lowering his fists to his sides, “I’ll even let you have the first shot for free, but once you’re done, don’t be surprised if I go to town on that pretty little face of yours.”
Glaring across at the henchmen, Fletch took deep steady breaths. Nothing could have prepared him for the hatred he felt for this man, his own father.
“I still can’t get my head around it.” George looked over his shoulder to address his henchmen. “My son, my own flesh and blood, running around after King.” He narrowed his eyes and turned back to face his son. “Let me guess, you’re one of his many fucking gofers.” He tilted his head to one side, and a smirk spread across his face. “Or maybe that honour falls upon your brother. Out of the two of you, he was always weaker. He takes after your mother in that respect.”
“You don’t know anything about my brother,” Fletch spat.
“I know enough.”
Fletch took note of the snarl across his father’s face. The famous temper that he remembered so well from his childhood was ready and waiting to erupt once more. He recognised the warning signs and took a cautious step backwards.
“I should have known. I should have guessed this would be the case when Shank, the mad fucker, took a swing at that waster of a man you call uncle.” His face twisted in anger, and backing Fletch up against the brick wall, he clenched his meaty fists, ready to attack. “Pity really, your mother,” he snarled. “She ruined you. I would have made sure that my sons turned out to be real men, not gofers, and certainly not fucking pussies.”
Fletch gritted his teeth. “Fuck you.”
George snorted with laughter and his tone became mocking, “So, you do actually have a backbone in there?” He stabbed his finger forcibly into his son’s chest. “Maybe I underestimated you, pretty boy. I mean, after all, you are my son.”
“I’m no son of yours.”
“Son or no son, I’m done playing games,” George spat back. “Where the fuck is my brother?”
“I dunno …” Before Fletch could even finish the sentence, George’s fist slammed into his gut, causing him to double over and involuntarily clutch at his stomach.
“I asked you a question,” George roared.
Still bent over and with his eyes downcast, Fletch grappled for an answer. He’d always known his father was a monster, that he didn’t care about his children, that he’d used violence to control them. “I …” He looked up and shook his head. He would rather die at his own father’s hands, than divulge his brother’s part in Albie’s murder. “I already told you, I don’t know,” he choked out.
“Don’t lie to me.” Yanking his son upright, George clasped the front of Fletch’s shirt in his fist, and pushing his head forward, he bellowed in his face. “Where is he?”
“Dad.” The word caught in Fletch’s throat. They may have been father and son, but even more than that, they were strangers. “I don’t know; I swear to you.” The tone in which he spoke sickened him. All he wanted to do was lash out, to pummel his fists into this man’s face. Instead, he pretended to cower backwards. He had to play the game; after all, Spencer’s life was in his hands.
Throwing his son away from him, George ran his hand through his hair, just like his eldest son’s did, it stood up on end. “What do you know about Shank?”
Once again, Fletch feigned ignorance, and in a way, he was telling the truth. He didn’t know what had happened. “I don’t know anything about him.”
A snarl spread across George’s face as he stalked forward. He revelled in his son’s apparent discomfort, and indicating for his henchmen to drag Fletch in front of him, he balled his fists.
“Well, maybe, son,” he said, emphasising the word, “this will help jog your memory.” With that, he pummelled his fists forward, taking great pleasure in the obvious damage he was causing to his own flesh and blood.
* * *
Stepping out onto the busy street, Billy looked around him. Parked across from the spieler was Fletch’s black BMW. He pulled out his mobile phone. Still, there were no missed calls or text messages. The fact that Fletch had never let him down before, coupled with the fact that his car was actually here, didn’t sit right with him. He wandered back inside the building, double checking that they hadn’t somehow bypassed one another. Typical of this time of day, the spieler was virtually empty, the usual customers all out grafting.
“Back already?” the barman called out.
Billy shook his head. “I’m looking for my pal. Did he come in here?”
“No.” Wiping down the bar area, James Wilson shook his head. “No one has been in here, mate; place is as dead as a dodo,” he complained.
A frown creased Billy’s forehead. So where the fuck was he then?
He pushed his way back outside, and dipping his hand into his jacket pocket, he pulled out his mobile phone. Without even hesitating, he hastily scrolled through his contact list, and finding Fletch’s contact number, he pressed dial. It rang off. His forehead furrowed, and making his way across the street, he inspected the car.
Leaning his palm on the window pane, he peered inside the passenger’s side window. Just as he’d suspected, nothing was amiss. He straightened up and glanced up and down the street for a second time. A scowl etched its way across his face. He’d bet his life on the fact that the younger man was in the bookies, oblivious to the time. He had to be. Where else could he have disappeared off to? Taking off in the direction of the bookmakers, there was a purpose to his swagger.
Ten minutes later, he emerged from the bookmakers empty-handed. None of this made any sense to him. The shrill ring of his mobile phone broke his thoughts, and shoving his hand into his pocket, he pulled out the device. Fletch’s name flashed up on the screen. A sneer weaved its way across his face. He pressed answer and growled into the mouthpiece.
“Fletch, where the fuck are you?”
* * *
A wolfish grin spread across George’s face, and holding Fletch’s phone to his ear, he let out a low chuckle. “Guess again, King.”
Before Billy could answer, he crouched down and held the phone close to his son’s face. After a few beats, he stood up and moved a few paces forward. “Do you hear that?” he asked, referring to the muffled groans. “That’s your boy having the shit kicked out of him.”
He held the device away from his ear, as Billy screamed and hollered blue murder down the line.
“I
’m done playing games. I want answers,” he spat into the phone. “Where is my brother? And think hard before you fucking answer me, because this is only a taster of what is to come.”
He glanced down at his son and felt nothing. Why should he? He didn’t even know the kid, he didn’t want to know him, and that was the truth of the matter. As far as he was concerned, the boy was tainted.
“Tick, tock, King. You’d best find your boy. Time’s running out fast, and his life is hanging by a fine thread. And when I say fine, I mean really fucking fine. I’m giving you twenty-four hours before I come looking for answers.”
With those parting words, he switched off the call, threw the phone down on top of Fletch’s broken body, and indicated for his henchmen to follow him out of the alleyway. He’d done what he’d set out to do. Now, all he needed to do was sit back and wait for King to deliver his brother back home, where he belonged, safe and sound.
* * *
“Tick, Tock.” Bannerman’s words rang loudly inside Billy’s mind. How the fuck was he meant to find Fletch? He didn’t even know where to start looking. He walked aimlessly up and down the High Street, with his phone glued to his ear.
Once again, Fletch’s mobile phone rang off. Each time the call ended, he pressed redial. Still, he didn’t pick up. Fuck it. Worry edged its way down his spine. What if he didn’t find him in time? He pushed the terrifying thought to the back of his mind and continued pacing the pavement.
* * *
Pain flooded every inch of Fletch’s body. After regaining consciousness, he pulled his knees up to his chest, in a bid to relieve the burning ache in the pit of his stomach. Counting to ten, he exhaled slowly and braced himself, before dragging his weary body into a sitting position. Just that small insignificant movement caused him to take a sharp intake of breath, as indescribable pain shot through him, leaving him no other choice, but to groan out loud.
Thankful to find that he was now alone, he felt around the floor for his mobile phone, and grasping the device between his fingers, he pulled it in toward his chest, hugging it to him, as though his life depended on it.
It didn’t take a genius to tell him that his ribs were broken. He could feel a sharp pain in his chest with each and every ragged breath that he took. He reached up to touch his eyebrow, and taking his hand away, he stared down at the blood smeared across his fingertips. His father had really gone to town on him, and he rightly guessed that each punch, each sickening kick, had intensified in power, as he took out on his son, years of pent up rage.
His hand shook as held onto his phone, and with great difficulty, he brought it away from his body. Screwing up his face, he scrolled through his contact list, and then pressed dial.
“Bill,” he croaked into the phone. “Bannerman has done me over.”
* * *
Switching off the call, Billy was incensed. With his mobile phone still clutched in his fist, he raced down the street, following the directions Fletch had given him. By the time he’d reached the alleyway, he was puffing, panting, and out of breath.
Just one look at his protégée told him that the younger man needed urgent medical attention.
“I’m all right,” Fletch cried.
“Like fuck you are.” He stood back, watching as Fletch tried to get to his feet without collapsing. “That’s it. I’m taking you to hospital,” he announced, after the third time Fletch had lost his balance and slid back down the concrete wall.
“I’m all right.”
Ignoring the protests, Billy slung his arm around Fletch’s shoulders and hauled him to his feet. “Fucking Bannerman,” he growled, “I’ll end him for this.”
Fletch didn’t answer. He was too busy focusing on putting one foot in front of the other.
* * *
Yanking aside the hospital cubicle curtain, Spencer bounded forward. “Who did this to you, Fletch?” He cracked his neck and clenched his fists into tight balls. “Who attacked you?”
“I don’t know.” With his eyes fixated on a spot of dried blood splattered across the Aztec patterned curtain, Fletch shook his head, pretending not to remember. “It’s all a bit of a blur.”
“But you must have seen him?” Spencer screwed up his face. He didn’t understand. He knew his brother was no fool. He would have fought back. How could he have not seen his attacker? “Fletch, who did this?”
“I said, I don’t know. Just drop it.”
For the first time since he’d arrived at the hospital, his brother turned to face him. Just as quickly, he looked away, but not before Spencer had seen the flash of anger in his eyes.
“Go home, Spence.”
“But …”
“I said, go home,” Fletch roared.
Spencer swallowed deeply. He didn’t understand. He’d always followed his big brother around, and not once had he ever told him to go away. “Are you mad at me? Did I do something wrong?”
Fletch gritted his teeth. How could he even begin to tell his brother that he wasn’t safe, that just being in his presence was enough to put his life at risk.
“I told you to fuck off.” Despite the pain that flooded through him, he kicked away the flimsy hospital blanket tangled around his legs and pushed himself in to a sitting position, his face a mask of anger and something else, fear. “Go home, Spence,” he growled. “You heard me right the first time. I don’t want you here.”
“Fletch,” Stevie warned. Never had he imagined the day that his best friend would turn on his younger brother. He turned to look at Billy, who shrugged his shoulders in return. “What’s going on?” he demanded.
Flopping back against the thin pillow, Fletch pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled loudly. “Take him home, please. Just get him out of here.”
“What’s your problem, Fletch?” Stevie chewed on the inside of his cheek as he studied his friend. “This ain’t like you, man.”
What was his problem, he wanted to roar back, what was his fucking problem? How about the fact that their father now knew exactly who he was? That he would know how to find them? That he could easily hunt them down and finish off what he’d started all those years before and kill them if he so wished? After all, the man was more than a monster, he was the epitome of evil. “I ain’t gonna ask again. Just get him the fuck out of here.”
“Fair enough, if that’s what you want.”
“It is,” Fletch spat out.
As his brother and best friend filed past him, Fletch brought out his hand and brought Stevie to a halt beside him. He grasped the front of his jacket in his fist and pulled him close. “Make sure that you see him to the front door,” he whispered in his ear. “Make sure that he actually goes inside the house.”
Narrowing his eyes, Stevie nodded his head. He glanced up at Billy. The same confusion he himself felt was etched across their boss’s face.
“Promise me.” Fletch spoke in a low growl.
“Of course, mate.” He took a step away, gave Billy one final glance, and left the cubicle.
“What the fuck was that all about?” Sucking his teeth, Billy pushed himself away from the wall and came to stand at the end of the hospital trolley. “You know exactly who it was, you told me yourself, it was Bannerman.”
“I just want to get out of here.” Pressing the call bell, Fletch skipped over the question, and with his eyes remaining firmly closed, he blocked out Billy’s quizzical stare, whilst he kept his finger on the button and waited for the nurses to arrive.
* * *
Despite the protests from the hospital staff that he could be suffering from concussion, Fletch discharged himself. He hated hospitals at the best of times, and ignoring their pitying glances, he walked out of the accident and emergency department as fast as he could, or at least as fast as his aching body would allow him to.
“What the fuck has got into you?” Billy growled, as they walked across the hospital car park.
Avoiding eye contact, Fletch answered the question with one of his own. “What are we
going to do about Bannerman?”
Billy shrugged his shoulders. “Fuck all.”
“What do you mean, fuck all?” Fletch’s eyes widened, and his voice began to rise. “He gave you twenty-four hours to give his brother back.”
“And?”
“Bill …” He stopped walking, forcing Billy to come to a stand beside him. “Twenty-four hours.”
“What do you want me to fucking do?” Billy glanced around him, checking that they weren’t within earshot of any passers-by. “I can’t bring him back, can I? Fuck me, I know he might have looked like Frankenstein, but trust me, there ain’t no way that fucker is coming back to life any time soon. Nah,” he shrugged his shoulders, “the no-good bastard is exactly where he deserves to be, and that’s brown bread in the boot of a car.”
In a roundabout way, Fletch could see Billy’s point. What’s done was done. They couldn’t change the facts, even if they wanted to. They continued walking across the car park.
“And what about Shank? Did you know that he’s dead?”
“Yeah, I heard, not that I’m surprised.” Billy gave Fletch a sideways glance. “The geezer was a lunatic and that’s putting it mildly.”
“So, it wasn’t you then?”
“Fuck me, what is this?” He took one look at Fletch’s face, saw the seriousness there, and shook his head. “As much as I would have liked to end the mad bastard, no, it wasn’t me,” he growled. “Why would you even think that I had a hand in it?”