The Price

by Kerry Kaya

  “Yeah, what do you want?”

  Fletch cleared his throat. His mouth felt dry, and he ran his tongue over his teeth. “I want to speak to George.” He peered past the man into the wood-panelled hallway. “Your boss, George Bannerman,” he clarified.

  “Get the fuck outta here.” Bannerman’s henchman was a heavy-set man. Dressed in a dark suit that strained against his bulging gut, he proceeded to push the door closed.

  “I said, I want to speak to George.” Fletch shoved his heavy boot in the door, preventing it from being slammed in his face.

  “And I told you to fuck off. If you wanna see the boss, then make a fucking appointment, like everyone else does.”

  Behind them came a loud chuckle, and leaning against the door frame to his study, George shook his head. “You never seem to learn you, do you?” He took in the sneer spread across his son’s face, and his tone became serious. “Let the little fucker in.”

  Stepping across the threshold, Fletch gritted his teeth, as he was slammed up against the wall. His clothing was then patted down to check he was not carrying any concealed weapons.

  “He’s clean.”

  “Of course he is.” George made his way into the study. His movements were that of a man used to being in control. He exuded authority and confidence, some may even say, he had a certain charisma about him. He took a seat behind the desk and leaned back on a dark green Italian leather office chair, all the while, a smirk played across his lips.

  Straightening out his clothes, Fletch made his way forward. At the doorway to the office, he hesitated. He could still recall the good hiding he’d received as a child, all because he’d had the audacity to enter this room, his father’s office, his sole domain, uninvited.

  “Leave us.” In one swift movement, George flapped his hand, dismissing the henchman. His actions were both fluid and precise, as he lounged back even farther on the chair, and slowly picked up a balloon glass, freshly filled with brandy. He took a long sip, all the while, observing his son over the rim of the glass. “What the fuck do you want?”

  A bead of cold sweat trickled down the back of Fletch’s neck. He snaked his tongue over his bottom lip, and sucked it inwards.

  “Well?” George snapped. He downed the brandy and placed the empty glass on the desk, then steepled his fingers in front of his chest. “I’m waiting.”

  Fletch glanced over his shoulder at the now empty hallway. From his position, he could see the door that led to the kitchen, the very same room where Spencer had almost lost his life. He turned back to face his father.

  “You went to my uncle’s house,” he spat.

  “And?” Not taking his eyes away from his eldest son, George sneered.

  “And you threatened my mum.”

  George laughed out loud. “You’ve got some bottle coming here, I’ll give you that. Must have balls made of fucking steel.”

  Fletch screwed up his face, dismissing the comment. “You threatened my mum,” he repeated. “And no one gets away with that.”

  “Is that so?” George heaved himself to his feet, walked around the desk, leaned casually against it, and spread out his arms. “I’m still waiting for the punchline,” he barked. “Why the fuck are you in my house?”

  Swallowing deeply, a flurry of emotions rippled through Fletch—anger, hatred, unease, fear. It was anger that got the better of him. “I should have smashed your face in while I had the chance.”

  “And like I’ve already told you …” George tensed his body, waiting for the oncoming assault. “… If you think you can take a shot at your old man, then take the fucking shot.”

  Without giving the matter a second thought, Fletch clenched his fists and charged forward.

  Side-stepping his son, George threw a wolfish grin as Fletch’s fist grazed past the side of his jaw.

  Unconcerned by his son’s attempt to lash out at him, George balled his own fists. “I’m warning you now, this is not going to end well for you,” he growled.

  Steam was practically coming out of Fletch’s ears. He swung his fist a second time, and felt nothing but satisfaction, as this time, he successfully hit his target. His victory was short-lived.

  A series of expertly executed jabs rained down upon him. George may have been tall and lean, but he was also strong—a lot stronger than he looked. He guessed correctly that it was one of the many traits from their father that he and Spencer had inherited.

  A stinging blow reopened Fletch’s stitched eyebrow, and using his fingertips, he smeared the blood away. “I fucking despise you.”

  George had barely broken out in a sweat. “You had enough yet?”

  Without answering, Fletch charged forward once more, and grasping hold of George’s shirt, he attempted to slam his knee into his father’s stomach. George was too fast for him, and after swinging him around like a rag doll, within seconds, Fletch found himself laying on his back with George above him. His meaty fist was clenched into a tight ball, poised to attack.

  “I’ll ask you again, have you had enough yet?” He stabbed his finger, none too gently, into the side of his son’s head. “I’m giving you the chance to walk away, and trust me, that’s me being generous.”

  “Fuck you.” Rolling away from his father, Fletch breathed heavily as he got to his feet. He took the cuff of his shirt and wiped away the blood that trickled down from his eyebrow.

  Shaking his head, George grinned as he returned to his seat behind the desk. As he’d known from the start, his son was of no threat to him. He leaned back in the chair and lit a cigarette.

  “I’ll tell you what your problem is.” He mockingly stabbed the cigarette toward his son. A stream of bluish grey smoke curled its way upwards, away from the burning red embers. “You’ve been following that cunt King around for too long. You’ve got no fight in you. If I didn’t know better, I’d even question the fact that are you really my son. I mean, perhaps your mother …” He kissed his teeth, pretending to think it over. “… Maybe she spread her legs for someone else, and you,” he looked Fletch up and down, “are the fucking outcome.”

  The words his father spoke hurt, much more than Fletch had ever expected them to. “Nah, I’m not that lucky,” he snapped back.

  George sniggered. “I guess that makes two of us.”

  “I want you to leave my family alone.”

  “Can’t do that,” George interrupted. With one eye remaining on Fletch, he stubbed out the cigarette in a glass ashtray. “I want to know where my brother is, and you,” he said, pointing his finger forward, “are going to tell me exactly where he is.”

  Fletch’s heart sank. He should have expected this question.

  “The fact that you’re even here, running scared, tells me everything I need to know.” George leaned backwards in the chair and studied his son. “I’m close, I know I am.” He held his thumb and forefinger an inch apart to emphasise his point. “And I know for a fact that you know where he is.” He cocked one eyebrow upwards, as a sudden thought sprang to his mind. “Or is it that brother of yours? Is he the culprit? Is he the one responsible, and you’re covering up for him?”

  “Spence?” Fletch kept his voice light, hiding the panic that spread through him. “Spence knows nothing. He doesn’t even know who you are.”

  “Now I am insulted.” George shook his head and glanced down at his wristwatch. “As lovely as this little family reunion is, you’re boring the fuck out of me now.” He gestured toward the door. “You can fuck off back the way you came in. Oh, and Harry,” he said, using his son’s birth name, “my threat still stands.” He made the shape of a pistol with his two fingers. “I want answers, and you’d best give them to me before someone gets hurt. After all, I’m pretty certain your mother won’t want to bury both of her precious sons.”

  With his tail between his legs, Fletch retreated out of the house. His cheeks burned with shame. His father was right. He was weak; he had no fight in him. He reached the car and kicked out at the tyre.


  “Bastard,” he screamed out.

  He’d fallen for the trap all right. George had been expecting him, that much was obvious, and he, like the stupid prized prick he was, had fallen for it yet again. He glanced back at the house, and taking deep breaths, he leaned his forearms over the car roof. George was onto them. He was close to learning the truth. The very thought made him shudder, and closing his eyes tight, he breathed heavily through his nostrils.

  “You all right, mate?” There was trepidation in Stevie’s voice.

  “No.” Fletch exhaled loudly. “No, I’m not fucking all right,” he muttered.

  Chapter 13

  Five days later, tears glistened Fletch’s eyes as he held his new-born son for the first time. He looked down at the bundle in his arms, and felt nothing but love and pride for this tiny being who he had helped to create.

  The fact that he could very well have missed out on this moment and ended up dead in a ditch with his head caved in, if his father had had his way, was at the forefront of his mind.

  “He’s a smasher, Teen. He really is; he’s perfect.”

  Laying back against the pillows, Tina’s whole body ached, and as for her nether regions, well, she didn’t even want to think about down there. All she knew was that it stung like hell. She shifted her weight, making herself more comfortable, and watched him as he cradled their son in his arms.

  A tiny part of her couldn’t help but feel smug. Despite his earlier speech about not loving her, she knew now that she had him by the short and curlies. There was absolutely no way he would ever walk out on their son. Not now; not ever.

  “He is perfect,” she beamed. She closed her eyes briefly. After a twelve-hour gruelling, excruciating labour, as far as she was concerned, he owed her, owed her big time. “I was thinking that we could call him Austin?”

  “Austin?” Fletch was about to screw up his face, but after seeing what she had been through to bring their son into the world, he didn’t have the heart to tell her that he didn’t like the name. “Austin it is then.” He tilted his head to one side, pretending to study his son’s face. “I think it actually suits him,” he lied.

  Tina smiled even wider. She held out her arms and he carefully passed across their baby. She unwrapped the towel covering him and began to count his tiny fingers and toes.

  “All present and correct,” Fletch laughed. “I’ve already checked.”

  She laughed in return. “He’s worth all of that pain that I went through. I would do it all over again, without even hesitating.”

  Fletch gave her a cautious smile. Not with him, she wouldn’t. He’d been caught out once, and never again would he make the same mistake. “You don’t want to be thinking about more babies. He’s gonna be running rings around us before we even know it.”

  “But I don’t want him to be an only child,” she protested. “I don’t want him to grow up lonely like I did. I mean, look at you. At least you had a brother to grow up with, someone to play with.”

  “Yeah, I suppose so,” Fletch answered, not that he and Spencer had ever had much time to play when they had been kids. All thanks to their dad, and his heavy fists, they had had to grow up a lot faster than their peers. He gave her a gentle smile. “I’ll think about it, okay?” he answered, knowing full well that he would do no such thing.

  Satisfied, Tina kissed her son’s button nose. Yes, she had him by the short and curlies, and knew for a fact that he would never leave them. This little boy in her arms was going to be her guarantee of that.

  * * *

  On returning home from hospital the next afternoon, Tina basked in the attention the family gave her.

  “Oh, he is a handsome little boy.” Jenny cradled her grandson in her arms. Ever since her son had telephoned her the previous evening, to inform her of his safe arrival, she’d been practically chomping at the bit to have a cuddle. “I’m so bloody proud of you, my darling.” Turning to look at Tina, she gave her a beaming smile.

  Tina smiled her thanks. Despite the soreness between her legs, she eagerly unwrapped a pile of gifts stacked up beside the sofa. In all her life, she had never seen so many presents, and ripping open the brightly coloured wrapping paper, she took great pleasure in discovering the gifts well-wishers had bought for her baby.

  “Of course, he’s bloody handsome. He takes after me,” Fletch grinned.

  Giving Tina a knowing smile, Jenny pulled the baby toward her and breathed in his special scent. “Frank,” she looked up, “would you like to hold your great-nephew?”

  “No.” An expression of horror spread across Frank’s face.

  “Go on, Frank.” Taking the baby from his mother, Fletch walked across the room.

  “I said, no.” Frank flapped his hand in the air. “He’s too small; I might drop him.”

  “Don’t be daft.” Kissing his son’s button nose, Fletch carefully positioned the tiny bundle into his uncle’s arms. “See, he likes you.”

  Gazing down at his great-nephew, Frank nodded his head. “You’re right; I think he does like me.”

  “Course he does.” Unscrewing a bottle of Babycham, Fletch indicated toward the bottle. “Mum, would you like a top up?”

  “Oh, go on then, seeing as it’s a celebration.” She held out her glass. Not one to drink alcohol very often, already, the bubbles had gone straight to her head, making her feel tipsy.

  “So, why did you never get married and have kids, Frank?” Throwing Fletch a knowing wink, Stevie drank deeply from his can of lager, before cocking his head to one side to look at the older man.

  “No one would bloody have him,” Fletch grinned.

  “Oi.” Frank stabbed his finger forward. “I had many a woman interested in me, I’ll have you know.”

  “Then how come you never brought any girlfriends home?” Fletch raised his eyebrows. “How come we never met them?”

  “What, and introduce them to you two scallywags?” Frank looked between his two nephews. “The two of you, out causing havoc, day and night, would have scared them right bleedin’ off.”

  “We weren’t that bad, were we?” Fletch gave his brother a beaming smile, thankful that they were once again on speaking terms. Their mum was right. They were brothers and no one could come between them, especially not George.

  “Nah.” Frank’s features softened, and he gave his nephew an affectionate wink. “You weren’t so bad, son.”

  * * *

  An hour later, Fletch, Spencer, Stevie, Billy, and the rest of his firm, were in the Westbury Arms public house, in Barking, wetting the baby’s head.

  “Austin, what kind of a fucking name is that?” Billy laughed.

  “Tell me about it,” Fletch groaned. He gulped at his glass of champagne. “She’s mad about some actor, Austin something-or-other, and wanted to name the baby after him.” He swallowed down a second mouthful of alcohol. “I dunno though, I think it’s got a bit of a ring to it. Austin Fletcher,” he grinned.

  “Yeah, I suppose so,” Billy agreed. He pulled a wad of cash out from his trousers pocket and ordered two further bottles of champagne. “Oh, I nearly forgot …” He dug deeper into his pocket and took out a solid gold infant’s bangle. “That’s from me and my Susan. The missus wanted to give the baby a present.”

  Taking the bangle, Fletch turned it over in his hand. “Cheers, mate.” His thoughts immediately turned to Susan, and he swallowed deeply at the mess he had gotten himself into. As much as he loved his new-born son, he would give his right arm to be with her. He dropped the bangle into his jacket pocket. “I’ll see that Tina gets it.”

  “Good man,” Billy grinned. “Oi, Joe?” He held aloft the wad of notes, looked across the bar, and caught Joseph’s attention. “Another drink, mate?”

  Joseph held up his empty glass and nodded his head.

  Fletch studied the man. For most of the evening, Joseph had stood away from their group, barely even bothering to make conversation. He narrowed his eyes. He had always had a feeling that the older man
didn’t like him. He’d never said as much, it was an unspoken assumption—the way he looked at him, the way he spoke to him with disregard, as though he were still fourteen years old, as though he were still a kid. Fuck, he even addressed him as, the kid. The term more often than not was used in a derogatory manner.

  “Joe, why don’t you come and join us?” Fletch called out to him, testing the waters.

  As he shook his head, a fleeting smear of hatred creased Joseph’s face. “Nah, you’re all right, kid.” He gritted his teeth as he emphasised the word. “I’d rather stay here.”

  It was a lightbulb moment. In that instant, Fletch knew. He knew it was Joseph who’d tipped off the old bill. It had to be him. A cold shiver ran down his spine, and despite the shock that rippled through him, all he felt was anger—an anger that began to grow in his belly, until it had pushed its way up through his chest, engulfing him.

  “Here you go.” Billy topped up his glass.

  Without tearing his eyes away from Joseph, he took the glass and gulped the champagne down in one go. Why? He wanted to scream. Why would Joseph have tipped off the old bill? What had he ever done that was so bad for the older man to even contemplate doing that to him?

  Unable to stop himself from staring across the bar, he continued to seethe. As if tipping off the old bill wasn’t bad enough, what else could he be capable of? The realisation that Joseph, Billy’s number two, could well be the snake in the grass, hit him full-on in the face.

  Surely not! Surely to God it wasn’t Joseph! Billy had always trusted him, tenfold. As he asked himself the question, a snarl slid across his face. Of course it was fucking him. There was no one else it could have been. There was no one else within Billy’s firm, who would have wanted him taken down.

  “What’s up with you?” Taking in his protégée’s expression, Billy frowned.

  “Not here, outside. I need to speak to you in private.”

  “What, now?” Billy looked around him, unsure of what was going on.