The Price

by Kerry Kaya

  “I don’t know; I was jumped,” he muttered in the way of an explanation. “I’m all right, Mum, it’s nothing, honest, it doesn’t even hurt,” he lied.

  “Well, you don’t bloody well look all right.” She released him and folded her arms across her chest. “And when were you going to tell me, your mum, about this, eh?”

  Fletch shrugged his shoulders. He’d hoped that he wouldn’t need to tell her, and had already decided to wait for the bruising to go down, before paying a visit to the house.

  “Tomorrow.” He gave her a cheeky grin, pulled the door open wider, and indicated for her to follow him inside the flat. “I was going to pop over tomorrow. Honest, Mum, it’s nothing for you to worry about. Tina should never have called you.”

  “Tina!?” Jenny exclaimed. “Tina didn’t call me, darling.”

  “What are you doing here then, Mum?” He paused abruptly, and spinning back around, Fletch studied her.

  Jenny’s face fell. “It’s your …”

  “What is it? What’s wrong?” He searched her face and his voice began to rise. “Is it Spence? Has something happened to him?” He knew he’d only just left his brother at the fishing lake, but with his father’s threat still hanging heavy in the air, he held his breath waiting for her to answer.

  “No.” She could hear the fear in his voice and vigorously shook her head to reassure him. “Spencer is fine.”

  His shoulders visibly relaxed. “Is it Uncle Frank? Has he had to go back into hospital?”

  Once again she shook her head.

  “What is it then?”

  “Your …” Jenny paused. She could barely believe this was happening. Just when she was finally happy, and looking forward to the arrival of her first grandchild, George had to turn up and ruin everything. “It’s your dad, darling.”

  “What?” He reeled backwards and brought his hand up to his head. He knew it. His worst fears were about to come true. “What about the bastard?”

  “He turned up at the house.” Her voice was a mere whisper as she answered. How had George even found them, and more importantly, why now, after all these years, had he shown his face at the front door? What did he want from them?

  “He went to the house?” Fletch could feel the blood drain from his face. Almost immediately, the shock he felt was replaced with anger, and stepping out into the hallway, he pulled the front door firmly closed behind them. The last thing he needed was for Tina to hear what was being said. This was family business, and if there was one thing he knew for certain, it was the fact that Tina wasn’t family. She never would be. “Are you sure it was him?”

  “Of course, I’m bloody sure it was him,” Jenny hissed. “I’m not daft, you know. I was married to the man for long enough. I’d recognise him anywhere.”

  “He didn’t hurt you though, did he?” He stood back slightly, clenched his fists into tight balls, and swept his gaze over her face. “He didn’t threaten you or anything?”

  Jenny hesitated. She reached up to touch her sore shoulder blade and grimaced. “No, of course not.”

  “Mum.” Fletch’s voice rose even further. He, better than anyone, knew what his father was capable of. His broken ribs and stitched eyebrow were proof of that. “Please, don’t lie to me or try to make excuses for him. He would have done something; I know he would have. What did the bastard do to you?”

  “He didn’t do anything.” She placed her hand on her son’s arm to placate him. “But he said he had a message, a message for you and Spencer. He said that he wants to know where his brother is, and that if he doesn’t get answers, he’ll …” She swallowed deeply, not wanting to continue.

  “He’ll what?”

  Jenny squeezed her lips together and shook her head, too afraid to say the words out loud.

  “Mum, he’ll what?”

  She searched her son’s face, and seeing the fear in his eyes, she wanted to curse her ex-husband. “Why would he even think that you and Spencer know where Albie is?”

  “I don’t know.” The lie rolled easily off of his tongue. “Don’t change the subject. What exactly did that bastard say to you?”

  Jenny sighed. She took her son’s hand into her own and gently rubbed the fleshy area underneath his thumb. “He said he will come back, come back and hurt us, starting with Spencer.”

  “The fucking bastard.” Snatching his hand away, Fletch kicked out at the door frame, his face a mask of anger. “The no-good bastard,” he roared. “I knew this would happen; I fucking knew it.”

  “What’s going on out here?” Opening the front door, Tina looked from Jenny to the father of her unborn child.

  “Nothing,” Fletch snapped.

  “But …” She turned her attention back to Jenny. “I thought I heard shouting.”

  “I said, it was nothing.” Pushing past her, he grabbed his jacket from the coat stand in the hallway. “It’s family business, nothing to do with you.”

  “That’s charming, that is.” She rolled her eyes and placed her hand across her bump. “I’m carrying …”

  “Yeah, you’re carrying my kid,” Fletch interrupted her. “That doesn’t make you family, Teen, and despite what you might think, not everything revolves around you.” He slipped on his jacket, then strode across the landing. “Mum, come on, let’s go.”

  “What? You’re going out already? You’ve only just got home,” Tina called after him.

  Ignoring the question, Fletch pressed for the lift. “Come on, Mum.”

  Jenny shook her head apologetically, and hurried after her son. Once she’d sorted out this business with George, she would need to have a serious word with her boy. The way he was treating the mother of his child, just wasn’t good enough in her eyes.

  * * *

  “Why didn’t you stop him?” Charging into his uncle’s house, Fletch’s face contorted with rage as he confronted the older man.

  “Me?” Slumped in the chintz patterned armchair, Frank poked himself in the chest. “I didn’t know he’d been here. And even if I did know, what could I do? I can’t even get out of this poxy chair without help.”

  Rubbing his hand across his face, Fletch’s shoulders slumped downwards. He could see Frank’s point. His uncle was half the man he used to be, all thanks to Mad Mickey Shank and his sword.

  “How does he even know where we live?”

  “I don’t know, Mum.” Jenny broke his thoughts and he traced his heavy boot across the brown shag pile carpet as he thought it over. He must have followed Stevie and Spencer home from the hospital. There was no other explanation for it. How else could George have known where they live?

  “What’s going on?” Standing inside the lounge doorway, Spencer narrowed his eyes.

  “Nothing.” Fletch adverted his eyes and walked across the room. Coming to stand in front of the three-bar electric fire, he placed his palms on the wooden shelf above it, and swept his eyes across the framed portraits that were proudly housed there. The majority of them were of Spencer and himself as children. Wearing their school uniforms, they showed off gap-toothed grins and wonky haircuts, as they beamed innocently into the camera. Where had it all gone wrong? How had they ended up surrounded by violence and murder?

  “Tell him.”

  “No.” Fletch swung his head toward his mother and raised his eyebrows, silently begging her not to say anything.

  “Tell me what?”

  “I said, no.”

  “Why do you always do this?” Stepping into the room, Spencer carelessly flung his jacket across the arm of the sofa. “Why do you always treat me like I’m a baby, like I’m stupid?”

  Fletch sighed. “That’s not what I’m doing, Spence,” he mumbled.

  “Yes, it is.” His brother’s apology at the fishing lake was gone from his mind.

  Stepping forward, Jenny rested her hand on her son’s arm. Her voice was gentle as she spoke. “Tell him. I know that you’re trying to protect him, my darling, but he deserves to know the truth.”


  Three pairs of eyes stared at back at him, and dragging his hand through his hair, making it stand up on end, Fletch gave an irritated sigh. “It’s Dad.”

  “Our dad?” Spencer’s eyes lit up. He gave a wide lopsided grin and bounded into the room. “Did he come looking for us? When can I see him? Can I take him fishing?”

  Fletch put up his hand in a bid to stop the barrage of questions. “You’re getting ahead of yourself, Spence. It’s not as easy as that. You’re not going to see him.” He glanced toward Jenny, then slumped heavily in the armchair beside the fire. Up until now, they had kept the extent of George’s abuse toward them to the bare minimum, and with barely any recollection of their father, Spencer had only ever been given the edited version of George’s wrong-doings.

  “Why not?”

  “Because.” Fletch looked up, blew out his cheeks, and locked eyes with his brother. “Because I said so, that’s why.”

  Spencer charged across the lounge. “You don’t get to decide,” he bellowed. “I want to see my dad. I want to show him the lake.”

  Leaping up out of the chair, Fletch stood toe-to-toe with his brother. His eyes flashed dangerously, his cheeks flushed pink, and his nostrils flared. “When it comes to you, I do get to decide, all right?”

  “No.” Spencer puffed out his chest and pushed his face forward, his eyes two mere slits, as spittle gathered at the corner of his lips. “No, you don’t.”

  “Yes, I do,” Fletch roared back. He clenched his fists into tight balls, even though he knew he wouldn’t physically lash out at his brother. He wasn’t so sure he could say the same about Spencer. “When it comes to you, I do. I look out for you, Spence; I make sure that you’re okay, and I intend to keep it that way. You’re not seeing him, and that’s that, end of the conversation.”

  “Enough.” Tears filled Jenny’s eyes as she stepped between her two sons. “Enough of this, please. Don’t you see that this is what he wants, what he’s always wanted? He wants to control us. He wants the two of you at one another’s throats. He wants to tear our family apart.”

  “Yeah well, he’s finally succeeded.” Fletch clapped his hands together, the action both loud and sarcastic in the otherwise quiet room. “Well done, Dad, you got exactly what you wanted.” As he said the words, his shoulders sagged. Of course it wasn’t true. Nothing could ever tear them apart. They were a family, and he was determined it would always stay that way.

  “You’re becoming a right arsehole, Fletch. Nah, actually, you’re more than that.” Spencer’s body shook with rage. “You’re a first-class fucking cunt, and I’ll tell you something else, shall I? Ever since you got with her, that Tina, you’ve changed. You used to be nice, but not anymore.”

  Taken aback, the words twisted in Fletch’s gut. “What?” He looked between his mother and brother, the fight suddenly leaving him. “No, I haven’t.”

  “Yes, you have.” Spencer screwed up his face. “Even Stevie said the same. You’re pussy-whipped, Fletch.” He pretended to look at his watch. “About time you went home to her, ain’t it? We don’t even want you here. Tell him to get out, Mum.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Nah, fuck you.” Spencer lifted his fist in the air, ready to strike out.

  “Do it, Spence, and I’ll put you on your fucking arse,” Fletch warned.

  “Enough, the pair of you. Will you give it a rest?” Frank shifted his weight in the chair and stabbed his finger forward. “You’re giving me a poxy headache. If you wanna kill each other, then do us all a favour, and take it outside.”

  The two brothers glared at one another, and Jenny held her breath, hoping, praying even, that at least one of her sons would have the sense to back down.

  “I’ve had enough of this. Bollocks to you, Spence, and bollocks to that bastard of a man we have the misfortune to call dad,” Fletch spat out as he stormed toward the lounge door.

  “Where are you going?” Panic-stricken, Jenny called after her eldest son. Her eyes pleaded with him. “Don’t leave, darling, not yet. We can sort this out. We all just need to calm down and talk the situation through.”

  Pausing inside the lounge doorway, Fletch’s fingers gripped either side of the door frame, his back ramrod straight, the muscles in his forearms straining.

  “That’s what I plan to do,” he snarled. “I’m gonna sort this out, once and for all.”

  * * *

  “So, how do you know where he lives?” Stevie eyed his best friend suspiciously.

  Flicking the indicator, Fletch remained tight-lipped. A huge part of him regretted bringing his best friend along for backup.

  “Well?” Stevie turned his body in the passenger’s seat. “It ain’t exactly common knowledge, is it? C’mon, spill the beans. How the fuck did you find out where Bannerman lives?”

  “I just know, okay?” Fletch gritted his teeth.

  He’d known from the off that he should have come alone. If he wasn’t careful, his true parentage would be revealed, and that was the last thing he wanted or needed. He turned into a tree-lined avenue. The houses on this side of Blackheath were large and as grand as mansions. Boasting top-of-the-range cars parked up on the driveways, and Olympic-sized swimming pools in the back gardens, the affluent area was a far cry from the Dagenham council estate that he and Spencer had been forced to grow up on.

  Stevie whistled through his teeth. Despite himself, he was clearly impressed. “Looks like Bannerman, is doing well for himself, eh?”

  Pulling over to the curb and switching off the engine, Fletch shrugged his shoulders. From his position behind the wheel, he eyed his childhood home, somewhat surprised to see that despite there being at least five large bedrooms, the mock Tudor double-fronted house didn’t seem as big as he’d remembered it as a child.

  “So, what’s the plan?”

  Fletch turned his head. There was no plan, and remaining silent, he shrugged his shoulders for a second time. He was more than aware that this was a suicide mission. If he made it back out of the lion’s den in one piece, then it would be nothing short of a miracle.

  “You’ve gotta have a plan.” Stevie’s mouth dropped open.

  “Nope.” Fletch curled his fingers around the door handle, ready to fling the car door open and jump out. “I’m just gonna talk to him, see if we can come to an understanding.”

  “Fletch,” Stevie warned. “You can’t just bowl up to the front door and expect to have a cosy little chat with him. As soon as he finds out who you are, that you’re one of Billy’s boys, he’s gonna tear you apart, limb from fucking limb.”

  “Yeah, probably,” Fletch agreed. As far as he was concerned, it was too late for that. George already knew of his identity. He tore his eyes away from the house. “Do me a favour, mate. If it looks like shit is going down, don’t try to be a hero.” He shoved the car keys into Stevie’s hand. “Get the fuck out of here and don’t stop until you’re back on our manor.”

  “Are you crazy?” There was disbelief in Stevie’s voice. “I can’t just drive off and leave you in there.”

  “Yeah you can, and you will.” Fletch gave a small smile, trying to make light of the precarious situation they were in. “No point in us both ending up battered, is there?” He took a deep breath, eased open the door, and stepped outside the car.

  “Fletch.”

  Resting his palms on the car roof, Fletch paused, bowed his head, and looked through the open window. “If it all goes tits up,” he glanced over his shoulder to look at the house, “look after my mum and Spence for me. Promise me you’ll do that.”

  Swallowing deeply, Stevie nodded his head.

  “Promise me,” Fletch urged his best friend.

  “Yeah, of course I will.” Following Fletch’s eye-line, Stevie studied the house. “You don’t have to do this, mate, not single-handed anyway. I know that you’ve got beef with him, what with Frank and everything that went down, but you’d be better off getting on the blower to Billy, get him down here, and arrange for backup.�
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  “No.” Fletch shook his head. “I need to do this alone.” He stepped away from the car and made to move forward. “Don’t forget, at the first sign of trouble, put your foot down and don’t stop until you’re back on the manor.”

  “I won’t forget.” Shifting his weight, Stevie grimaced. He didn’t like this, didn’t like what he was agreeing to, one little bit.

  “Good.” Flashing a wide smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, Fletch tapped the car roof, then hastily jogged across the street.

  He stood in front of his former home and took in his surroundings, familiarising himself with the layout of the house. Noting that his hands ever so slightly shook, he shoved them deep into his denim pockets. Taking deep, steady breaths, he turned his focus on the hatred he felt for his father. In that instant, his eyes became hard, and his body tense, as muscles he didn’t even know he had, strained against the thin fabric of his shirt. He could do this. He had to do it, he corrected himself.

  Before he could change his mind, he forced himself to move forward, more than aware that each step he took, brought him closer, not only to his father, but also to a certain fate, possibly even death.

  At the front door, he hesitated, glanced back over his shoulder, then took a deep breath. It was now or never. No time to back out, at least not without losing face.

  Just as he remembered the elaborate cast iron door knocker was in the shape of a lion’s head, he lifted it, and then in quick succession, slammed it back down three times. From the hallway, he could hear the sound of footsteps approaching. He took his fists out from his pockets and hastily wiped his clammy palms down his denim jeans. Nerves were beginning to get the better of him. Stevie was right, his dad was going to tear him limb from limb.