The Price

by Kerry Kaya

  Fletch shrugged his shoulders. They came to a halt in front of his car, and he passed across his car keys. “It’s nothing,” he said, clutching his arm across his broken ribs.

  “No, come on, out with it,” Billy urged him. “You can’t just accuse me of shit and then not explain yourself.”

  “It’s Spence.” He flopped against his car and gingerly touched his stitched eyebrow. A part of him didn’t want to say the words out loud; an even bigger part of him didn’t want to believe that his brother could be capable of murder, not once, but twice. “I dunno, it’s just … I thought that maybe …”

  “What?” Not one to have much patience, Billy came to stand beside him. He leaned backwards against the car door and lit a cigarette. “Spit it out will you. What about Spence?”

  “He knew all about it.” Fletch’s shoulders sagged. What with his aching head, he couldn’t help but feel as though he had the weight of the world piled on top of him. “He knew that Shank was dead. How did he find out something like that? Who told him?” he asked through narrowed eyes.

  “And?” Exhaling a cloud of cigarette smoke, Billy lifted his eyebrows. “What’s your point? It’s hardly a big secret, is it?” He offered across a cigarette and flicked the ignition on his gold lighter. “Anyone could have told him that the mad bastard was brown bread.”

  “I know, it’s just …” Fletch took a long drag on his cigarette, waited for Billy to open the passenger’s car door, and exhaled loudly before climbing inside. Just the motion of moving, made him feel as though his stomach muscles were on fire. “I just thought …” Stalling for time, he stretched out his long legs as far as he could, making his sore body feel more comfortable. “Maybe I’m being out of line here, I don’t know. It’s just, I thought that after what happened with Albie Bannerman, you might have roped Spencer into killing Shank as well?” He turned to look at Billy, studying his reaction, on the lookout for any tell-tale signs that he could be lying.

  Billy screwed up his face and shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Until tonight, I hadn’t even seen Spencer.” He was thoughtful for a moment. “Is that what Bannerman wanted with you?”

  Fletch nodded his head. “Amongst other things …,” he grumbled. Still, shame flooded through him.

  He should have smashed his father in the face, and not stopped until the man was a bloodied and broken mess on the floor. Even though Billy hadn’t said as much, he took a wild guess that the older man suspected something wasn’t right—that more had gone down than what he had actually told him. The fact that he hadn’t even thrown a single punch was enough to tell him that.

  He flicked the cigarette butt out of the open window, groaning in pain as he did so. “If it wasn’t you, then who told him?”

  “Like I said, I ain’t got a Scooby. It could have been anyone,” Billy answered as he climbed behind the wheel.

  “Yeah I suppose so.” He closed his eyes and waited for Billy to turn the key in the ignition. As the car purred to life, a slither of guilt ran through his veins. Maybe, just maybe, he had been wrong about his brother after all.

  Chapter 12

  Twenty-four hours, that was the deadline George had given King. He sneaked a glance at his wristwatch. Time was running out, and fast. Sat behind his desk, he glared around the room. “King, the no-good bastard, is taking the piss out of me.”

  “Do you want him brought in?” Sitting forward in his seat, Pete rested his forearms on his knees. “Just say the word, boss, and it’s as good as done.”

  “No.” George shook his head, and as he adjusted the solid gold cufflinks at his wrists, an evil smile spread across his face. “Let’s just say, I’ve got a better idea.” He gave a menacing chuckle. “There’s a certain someone I know of, who will make King’s boys not only talk, but sing like fucking canaries.”

  Abruptly, he stood up from his seat and hooked his car keys over his index finger. “King will be expecting a backlash; I know how his mind works. He’ll be ready and waiting for me to dish out my own form of retribution.” He looked down at his firm crowded around the small room. “But this, he won’t expect, not in his wildest fucking dreams, would it even cross his mind.”

  The men looked up. To say they were intrigued, was an understatement. Bannerman was cunning and as sly as a fox. Right from the off, they should have known that he would have a plan in place.

  Without saying another word, George flicked his head toward the office door, dismissing them. “This, I do alone,” he spat, as they followed him outside the house.

  * * *

  The fishing lake at Mayesbrook Park, known locally as Matchstick Island, was where Fletch found his brother. As kids, the lake had been their salvation, the place they headed to when they wanted to get away from Frank for a bit or just bunk off of school for the day.

  With his hands shoved into his jeans pockets, Fletch made his way across the grass. He saw his brother turn his head as he approached, and he gave him a wide apologetic smile.

  “I thought that I might find you here.” He stood still for a moment, looking out across the lake. “I just wanted to say that I’m sorry about what happened yesterday at the hospital. I didn’t mean to yell at you or tell you to go away. I was just in a bad mood and I took it out on the wrong person.”

  Hooking a piece of luncheon meat onto the fishing hook, Spencer shrugged his shoulders.

  “You caught anything yet?” Fletch took his hands out of his pockets, held his arm across his broken ribs, then sat down beside his brother and dangled his legs over the side of the muddy bank.

  “Nah, not yet.” Poking his tongue out slightly, Spencer concentrated on the task in front of him.

  Fletch continued watching as his brother pulled back the rod and then cast the line out across the lake. For a short moment, the water rippled as the bright orange neon-coloured float bobbed up and down.

  “Spot on.” He nodded his head, impressed. “You always were better than me at casting out.”

  “Course it’s spot on.” Spencer puffed his chest out at the praise he was given. “I had a good teacher, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah, I taught you well.” It was said tongue-in-cheek, and he ducked out of the way before his brother could punch him on the arm.

  “Oi,” Spencer laughed. “You didn’t teach me how to fish.”

  “Nah, I know I didn’t.” The smile slid from Fletch’s face. Fishing had been the only thing their father had ever done with them.

  Come rain or shine, every Sunday morning, George would have them up and out of bed at the crack of dawn. The car would then be loaded up with all the fishing gear, and with a large Tupperware box full of sandwiches, a flask of coffee for George, and a can of pop each for the two boys. Then they would set off for the day.

  “One day,” Spencer smiled, “when Dad comes back, I’ll bring him over here. He’d like that, wouldn’t he?”

  “Yeah.” Fletch gave his brother a sad smile. He bit down on his bottom lip and cursed himself for the lie he was about to tell. “I think he’d really like that, Spence.”

  Looking out across the lake, they sat in a comfortable silence.

  “Hey.” Fletch glanced down at his wristwatch. He had an hour or so to kill before he needed to head back home, and he nudged his brother in his ribs. “Until then, you can impress me with how good you are instead.”

  Not taking his eyes away from the float in the middle of the lake, Spencer gave a beaming smile.

  * * *

  Jenny Fletcher was having the time of her life. Walking out of Mothercare, she was laden down with shopping bags. Excitement at the prospect of becoming a grandmother rippled through her, and she couldn’t resist taking another peek inside the plastic bag. She grinned widely as she looked down at the tiny outfits she had bought. This baby, her first grandchild, would want for nothing. She was determined of that.

  Unlocking the car door, she climbed inside, placed the shopping bags on the passenger seat beside her, an
d started the ignition, blissfully unaware that she was being intently watched.

  * * *

  George could barely keep the snarl from his face. It had been almost eighteen years since he had last seen the mother of his children—eighteen long years since she had had the audacity to run out on him, taking his sons with her.

  Not that he had even wanted the boys in the first place. As far as he was concerned, they were nothing more than an inconvenience. Their very conception was a colossal mistake of the highest order. All they had ever been to him was an albatross hanging around his neck, always whining, always crying, always wanting attention, always disobedient.

  Flicking the indicator, he pulled out onto the road, and maintaining a safe distance between them, he continued to follow her dark blue Mini Metro. Briefly, he wondered what had brought her shopping for infant items. She was just as slim and petite as he remembered her all those years before, and certainly didn’t look pregnant, not that he’d been able to take a very good look at her. Her tiny frame had been mostly hidden beneath the large shopping bags she’d been carrying.

  He followed her toward Dagenham, and as she pulled into a side street and parked the car, he swiftly followed suit. From where he sat hidden out of sight, he was able to study her. She actually looked happy. There and then, he wanted to wipe the smug grin from her face.

  In more ways than one, he was about to become her worst nightmare, and she was going to pay dearly for leaving him, for humiliating him in front of his family and friends. His poor mother had been devastated when she’d just upped and left with the boys, her eldest grandchildren, leaving no forwarding address.

  * * *

  As she locked the car door, Jenny smiled to herself. She couldn’t wait to show Tina everything she had bought for the baby. Oblivious to everything and everyone around her, she absentmindedly hooked the carrier bags over her wrist, and using her free hand, she rummaged around in her handbag, hunting for the house keys.

  Her fingers grasped a faded, red heart-shaped plastic keyring, and giving it a tug, she pulled out a bunch of keys. The keyring had been a gift from her youngest son. He’d bought it for her when he’d visited the seaside on a school trip as a young child, and all these years on, she still cherished it.

  A looming shadow coming from behind caused her to smile. Typical Spencer, as per usual, he was playing silly buggers. One of his favourite pastimes was to creep up from behind and try to scare the living daylights out of her. She chuckled out loud.

  “I know it’s you, Spence. You didn’t scare me this time,” she said, spinning around.

  The vision in front of her caused her breath to catch in her throat and the hairs on the back of neck to stand up on end. There was no mistaking who he was. Other than his dark blonde hair that had begun to turn grey at the temples, he hadn’t changed at all. He towered over her and she felt her blood turn cold. Just being in close proximity to her ex-husband was enough to cause a knot of fear to twist in her stomach and a wave of nausea to sweep over her.

  “No,” she cried out.

  He stalked forward, and the steely glint in his blue eyes that she remembered so well from her past, had her gasping in terror. In her haste to get away from the monster she had been married to, she dropped the bags onto the pavement and darted down the pathway toward the front door. How had he even found her? As always, her first thought went to her two sons. Above all else, she had to keep them safe.

  She fumbled with the key in her hand, and her body shook so violently, she was unable to slip it into the lock.

  “Please,” she silently pleaded, “please open.”

  His hot breath on the back of her neck, had her quaking with fear. “Please, just leave us alone.” Her voice quivered as she spoke. “We don’t want you here.”

  “Tough fucking luck.”

  Finally, she was able to turn the key in the lock and the front door was flung open. She stumbled across the threshold and crashed heavily to her knees. Her brain didn’t even register the pain. Only pure terror flooded through her body, and crying out in fear, she managed to crawl a few feet down the hallway before his rough hands pulled her backwards and dragged her to her feet.

  Twisting her body this way and that, she pulled herself free and was able to briefly escape from his clutches. Within the blink of an eye, he yanked on her arm so hard and fast that she thought it would come out of its socket.

  “What do you want?” Ignoring the pain in her shoulder as he flung her up against the wall and pinned her into place, she screamed out the words.

  “What do I want?” He put his finger to her lips, instantly silencing her, and twirled a strand of her hair around his finger. He was so close that he could smell the peppermint on her breath. She always did smell nice—clean, like pears soap and apple shampoo—not the usual stale tobacco and cheap perfume preferred by the slags who frequented the estate where they had grown up.

  “Well, it ain’t fucking you, darling. That ship sailed a long time ago.” He looked down the hallway. “I’ve come to take back what’s mine. Where are my sons?”

  Before she could answer, Frank’s booming voice called out from the lounge. “What’s going on out there?”

  With his finger still wrapped around a strand of Jenny’s hair, George’s back stiffened, and he turned his head to look in the direction of Frank’s voice. “Get rid of him.”

  “I can’t.” Her heart pounded inside her chest. “He was injured. He can’t get out of the chair.”

  “Jenny,” Frank repeated. “What’s all the noise about?”

  “Unless you want me to go in there and finish the job off, tell him it’s nothing.” George tightened his grip on her hair.

  Jenny took a deep breath; she didn’t doubt him in the slightest. “It’s nothing, Frank.” As she blinked up at her ex-husband, tears filled her eyes. “I dropped the shopping bags, that’s all.”

  “You woke me up,” Frank grumbled. “Make me a cuppa, will ya? Nice and strong, just how I like it, with three sugars.”

  “Will do,” she called back, desperately trying to keep her voice from shaking.

  George gave her a wicked grin. “So, back to my question.” He looked back down the hallway toward the staircase. “Where are they? Where are my sons?”

  Jenny followed his eye-line, thankful that Spencer was obviously out. The last thing she wanted was for her ex-husband to see her youngest son, her baby.

  “They’re not here,” she stated. “I don’t know where they are.”

  “Well, now ain’t that a shame,” he grinned down at her. “Just you and me then, eh? Just like old times.” He pushed his weight against her, and ignoring her cry of fear, he grasped her heart-shaped face in his meaty fist. “Now, you’re going to deliver a message to those precious little bastards who you call kids. You are going to tell them that I want to know where my brother is.”

  “Albie?” There was confusion in Jenny’s voice. Why would the boys even know of her former brother-in-law’s whereabouts?

  Ignoring the question, George tightened his grip. “Do you understand me?”

  Jenny paused.

  “Do you fucking understand me?” he growled.

  “Y … yes,” she cried.

  “Good.” He dropped his hand to the side, moved closer, and whispered in her ear. “If I don’t get answers, then I will come back here and pick you off, one by fucking one, starting with Spencer.”

  Tears rolled down Jenny’s cheeks. Despite the fear she felt, she pushed him roughly away from her. Sickness washed over her body and she could taste acrid bile rise up the back of her throat, before hastily swallowing it down.

  In response, George raised his fist in the air. “Don’t make me angry,” he snarled. “Have you forgotten what I’m capable of? Have you forgotten how angry you would make me? What your disobedience pushed me to do?”

  She cowered backwards. She would never forget what he was, nor would she ever forget what he was capable of. She’d experienced fi
rst-hand the damage he could do to both her and the boys.

  He stabbed his finger forward in a final warning. “I’ll be waiting.” Without saying another word, he then left the house as quietly as he’d arrived.

  Sinking to the floor, tears rolled down Jenny’s cheeks, and placing her head in to her hands, she began to weep.

  “Jenny, where’s my fucking tea?”

  Her head snapped upwards, and swiping at her tear-stricken eyes, she got to her feet. “Piss off, Frank. You’ll get your tea when I’m good and fucking ready.”

  First thing’s first—she needed to speak to her eldest son, and grabbing up her handbag, she cautiously opened the front door, before fleeing out of the house to the safety of her car.

  Fifteen minutes later, Jenny’s heart was still pounding. She pushed her foot on the brake and looked around her. Noting that the coast was clear, and that George was nowhere to be seen, she hastily switched off the engine, jumped out of the car, and pulled her woollen coat protectively around her slight frame, before rushing toward the tower block where her elder son lived. Ever so slightly, her fingers shook as she tapped in a series of digits on the keypad entry system. The heavy entrance door sprang ajar, and flinging it open, she hurried across the foyer to the lift.

  Moments later, the lift came to a shuddering halt on the fourth floor, and as she stepped out onto the corridor, a strong odour of bleach hit her nostrils. She resisted the urge to wrinkle her nose, took a deep breath to steady herself, then walked across the communal landing toward her son’s home.

  “Mum, what are you doing here?” Standing at the front door, Fletch clutched his hand across his broken ribs and cocked his eyebrows. A shiver of worry edged its way down his spine. It was so unlike his mum to turn up uninvited.

  “What am I doing here?” she shrieked. For a brief moment her ex-husband was gone from her mind. “What on earth happened to you? She took his bruised face in her hands and tilted it from side to side, inspecting the damage. Across his left eyebrow, a slit had been stitched closed, the wound still dotted with dried blood looked angry and red. “Who did this to you?”