The Price

by Kerry Kaya

  Joseph struggled to breathe. His nose was splattered across his cheek, and bent up at an awkward angle. He grasped onto Billy’s shirt, pulling him close, his fingertips clenching and unclenching, as he struggled to keep his grip.

  Having hardly broke out a sweat, Billy pulled back his bloodied fist, ready to finish off the job in hand.

  “Betrayal? You should have looked closer to home,” Joseph rasped. His head was a bloodied mess, his swollen eyes barely able to open, let alone focus.

  Billy narrowed his eyes. He allowed Joseph to drag him down closer to him. Clearly, the words he was about to speak were for his ears only.

  “You should have taken more interest.” He gasped for breath, his voice coming out as a gurgle, as he choked on the blood filling his mouth and lungs. “You should have kept a closer eye.” His breath began to rasp.

  “On what?” Billy growled. He grasped Joseph’s shirt in his fist, keeping the man from falling to the floor. “On what?” he demanded to know.

  “On the kid and your wife.” Joseph’s eyes rolled back into his head. It took a few beats for him to refocus. “On what they get up to when you’re not around. I’ve seen them.”

  Billy narrowed his eyes. Not for a single second had he expected this. His wife and Fletch, together? An image of them cavorting sprang to his mind, and he swallowed down a trickle of bile, the acrid liquid burning the back of his throat.

  “I’ve seen him,” Joseph croaked, “seen him creeping out of your house.”

  As Joseph slumped forward onto his chest, Billy slammed him to the floor and began to kick out. A white-hot anger surged through him. Each blow, each devastating kick, intensified in viciousness, as he imagined it to be Fletch’s head on the floor, bloodied, bruised, and beaten to a pulp. Finally, Joseph took his last ragged breath and his chest lay still.

  An eerie quietness fell upon the cellar. It was over. Joseph Hatton ceased to exist. He was dead.

  Billy unclenched his fists. His hard knuckles scarred from previous tear-ups were grazed and bloodied. Large, shiny globs of claret-coloured blood and traces of pink brain matter slid to the floor from the front of his steel-toe-capped boots. He inhaled sharply and his ragged breath, as it fought its way back out of his mouth and nostrils, streamed out ahead of him.

  The exertion, coupled with the anger he felt, made his heart pump so hard and fast that he thought it would fly out of his chest. Never before had he felt so angry, so livid, so incensed. Slowly, he turned his large frame around and his eyes, resembling two dark pits that were both lethal and murderous, scanned the crowd.

  With an expression the epitome of pure evil, he zoned in on Fletch. He didn’t speak; he couldn’t speak. At the side of his temple, a nerve convulsed, all the while, Joseph Hatton’s last words rang loud in his ears.

  Chapter 14

  “You know what to do?” George paused, before passing across a black leather holdall containing fifty-thousand pounds in cash. His eyes were hard as he studied his newly appointed number two, and his free hand formed a fist at his side. It was imperative that he understood the task ahead of him. He wouldn’t, couldn’t, allow another fuckup.

  Pete nodded his dark head. “Course I do, boss.” More than anything, he wanted to impress. Having already lost a small fortune, all thanks to the stolen Ecstasy pills, he knew just how much George was counting on this deal to go ahead. “I won’t let you down.”

  “You’d better not,” George growled. He watched Pete leave the room, then slumped down in his office chair. The hard leather creaked underneath his weight as he shifted his body, making himself more comfortable.

  A thick layer of stubble covered his jaw, and he rubbed his hand across it, his mind preoccupied with thoughts of his brother, sons, and ultimately, Billy King. There was a link between the former and Albie’s disappearance, he knew there was. He could feel it in his gut and his instincts had never let him down before.

  He scooped his mobile phone out of his trousers pocket, scrolled through his contact list, and hit dial when he reached Joseph Hatton’s contact number. It went straight to the answering machine. He dialled a further three times before slamming the phone down onto the desk. Where the fuck was the little rat?

  There and then, he decided to have a serious word with his grass. When he made contact, he expected Hatton to jump to attention, regardless of where or who he was with.

  * * *

  Three miles off the coast of Southend, Joseph’s mobile phone lay at the bottom of the sea bed. A quarter of a mile away, his swollen body bobbed along with the current. Discarded from his belongings, fish nibbled and tore at his swollen, rotting flesh.

  Around his neck, a heavy steel chain had been double looped, preventing him from resurfacing. Encased within his watery grave for all of eternity, for all intent and purposes, Joseph had simply vanished into thin air.

  * * *

  From her vantage point in the lounge, Susan had watched Fletch’s black BMW roll its way down the long, winding driveway before coming to a grinding halt yards from the front door. There and then, she’d had to resist the urge to not run out of the house and jump into his arms.

  It had been months since they had last seen each other, and although they’d had more than their fair share of cossetted telephone conversations, this was the first time she had actually laid her eyes upon him, since the birth of his son.

  “He’s early.”

  Susan snapped her head around. “Is he?” She gave a carefree shrug of her shoulders. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  She averted her eyes, looking anywhere other than at her husband. Of course she had noticed that he was early, and knew for a fact that he was as eager to see her, as she was him. He told her so, every opportunity he could.

  “Yeah, he is,” Billy growled back.

  Striding out of the lounge and into the hallway, Billy flung open the front door. He leaned against the door frame, in a bid to stop his body from physically shaking, so intense was the white-hot fury inside of him.

  “You okay, mate?” he forced himself to call out.

  Fletch nodded his head, a wide grin was plastered across his face. “Yeah, all good.”

  Billy allowed a stilted smile to pass his lips. He moved aside so the younger man could step across the threshold, all the while, he had to stop himself from pulling back his fist and smashing him to the ground. He pretended to look at his watch.

  “Bit eager, ain’t you?”

  “What?” Preoccupied with his own thoughts, Fletch turned his head.

  “I said that you’re eager.” He glanced at his watch for a second time. “You’re early.”

  “Am I?”

  “Yeah, you are.” He narrowed his eyes. It hadn’t escaped his notice that both his wife and protégée used the exact same tone when they spoke to him, like he was a mug, like he was some kind of fucking muppet.

  “Well, I wouldn’t want to be late, would I?” Fletch clapped him on the back. “Is Mrs. King ready to go shopping?” he asked, as he wandered across the marble covered hallway toward the lounge.

  Staring after him, a low, guttural growl escaped from Billy’s lips. “Yeah, she’s fucking ready for you, all right,” he spat out.

  * * *

  Spencer cocked his head to one side, listening. Fifteen minutes earlier, he had followed one of George Bannerman’s henchmen to this low-rise, privately-owned block of flats, in Bermondsey. In the past, the flats had belonged to the council, until, that was, they had been sold off, developed, and then resold for thousands of pounds more than they were actually worth. No amount of sprucing the dwelling up could mask the fact that it had once been a council slum.

  From his hiding place, he’d watched Pete bound up the steps, and remaining hidden out of sight, he had followed just far enough to see which flat on the top floor he had entered.

  Anger bubbled inside of him, and he clenched and unclenched his fists. Each and every time he thought of his uncle, how Frank suffered, how all these weeks later
, he still struggled to get out of bed, or walk around the house unaided, those dark thoughts in his mind intensified.

  He wanted revenge. He wanted Bannerman and his firm to suffer for what they had done. He wanted to have their blood on his hands. He wanted them dead, and above all else, he wanted to destroy everything that George Bannerman held dear, starting with his firm.

  * * *

  “I thought he would never leave.” Watching Billy’s car drive away, Fletch spun around. “Come here.” Cocking his head to one side, he gave Susan a wide smile, his first genuine smile in weeks, and pulled her into his solid arms. He kissed her deeply and ran his fingers through her blonde hair, breathing in her scent. It was intoxicating and he couldn’t get enough of her.

  “I’ve fucking missed you.”

  “I’ve missed you, too.” She shuddered at the feel of his hard body against hers and glanced out of the window. “I wish that he would just go away and never come back.”

  “One day, babe.” Fletch scooped her up in his arms and made his way toward the oak staircase. “One fucking day, I promise.”

  * * *

  As soon as he’d pulled out of the iron gates at the end of the winding driveway, Billy swerved the car over to the grass verge and parked up. Shaded by overhanging trees on either side of the lane, he was able to stay hidden, out of sight from the house, whilst waiting for Fletch’s car to follow suit and join him on the road.

  Thirty minutes later, Fletch’s car still hadn’t emerged. That was the moment when he knew everything Joseph had said was true. It was blatantly obvious that his wife and protégée were up to no good, and that they had taken him for a fool, a mug. Seething with anger, the muscles in his forearms were rigid as he gripped onto the steering wheel.

  He shoved his fist into his trousers pocket and pulled out a fresh pack of cigarettes. Lighting up, he exhaled the smoke noisily, barely taking a breath in between each short, sharp puff, as he began to chain smoke.

  The minutes ticked by and the anger inside of him intensified. His lips were set in a thin, hard line, and the vein at his temple pulsated. Jealousy and hatred surged through him. No one touched what belonged to him, no one. Susan was his. He owned her lock, stock, and barrel, and had done so from the very first moment he had clapped his eyes on her.

  In his mind’s eye, images of the two of them frolicking on his king-sized solid oak bed became more and more graphic, until he snapped his eyes shut tight, in a bid to block out the sickening scenes, and pressed his fist to his mouth, to stop the tidal waves of nausea from consuming him. His body shook with rage and he slammed his fist down on the steering wheel. They wouldn’t get away with this, of that he was certain.

  He checked the time on his watch. Consumed by his thoughts, more than ninety minutes had passed by since he had left the house, and after taking one long, last drag on the cigarette, he flicked the butt out of the open window, twisted the key in the ignition and started the engine.

  Executing a three-point turn, he made his way back through the iron gates. Already a plan had formed in his mind, and a wicked snarl creased his face. No, they wouldn’t get away with this. He would make sure of that, even if it was the last thing he ever did.

  * * *

  “You got the readies?” Ayaan Das was in his mid-thirties, tall with cropped jet-black hair, olive-coloured skin, and cold, dark eyes. He lounged casually against a wooden dining table and looked toward Pete expectantly.

  “You got the merchandise?” Spread out around the small lounge area were several men of varying age. Pete eyed them warily, more than aware of the fact that he was outnumbered, should the deal go wrong.

  Ayaan flicked his head toward one of his henchmen, took the bags he handed to him, and then gave a smug grin. “Right here.”

  “I need to see the goods before I hand over the cash.” Pete shifted his gaze to look at the bags. From his position, everything looked legit, but he still wasn’t taking any chances. It was more than his life was worth, let alone his job.

  Ayaan’s eyes became hard, and his sudden change of stance alerted the henchmen beside him. “You think I’ve got the audacity to try and take Bannerman on, to try and tuck him up?” He grasped the bag in his fist even tighter, and flexed his chest muscles. “You trying to imply that I’m a fool? That don’t I understand how lucrative this deal could be for both parties?”

  Pete shrugged his shoulders; it was nothing personal. “Like I said, I need to see the merch first.”

  Ayaan turned to look at his henchman. The hint of a private joke crossed his lips, however, the action did nothing to erase Pete’s concerns.

  “You don’t trust me,” Ayaan surmised. “But that’s cool, man.” His expression became jovial once more. He stepped forward and pulled across the zip of a polythene bag, filled to the brim with chalky white pills, embossed with the symbol of a rainbow, at least Pete thought it was a rainbow. If truth were told, it could have been just about anything.

  Satisfied that everything was as it should be, Pete nodded his head.

  “Quality shit,” Ayaan stated, his tone becoming business-like. “Bannerman will be more than happy with his purchase.”

  Pete raised his eyebrows. George had better be happy, and if he wasn’t, then fuck this little prick’s luck. He passed across the money, waited patiently for one of Ayaan’s men to count it out, then bagged the pills.

  “Good doing business with you, and you tell your man George there’s plenty more where they came from.” Ayaan gave him a knowing wink.

  Pete slung the leather strap over his shoulder. Without bothering to respond, he strode out of the room and along the hallway. Pausing beside the front door, he swallowed down his dislike of the man, and shouted over his shoulder. “It’s Mr. Bannerman to you. If there is a next time, it’d be in your best interest to make sure you remember that.”

  * * *

  As soon as he exited the flat, Pete made his way along the upper corridor and rounded the stone staircase. On red alert he was more aware of his surroundings than usual, on the ground floor he’d spotted the looming shadow of a figure loitering.

  His boss’s threat to not fuck this deal up, hung heavy in the air, and with fifty-thousand pounds worth of Ecstasy pills in the black leather holdall slung over his shoulder, it was his duty to make sure that there were no cock-ups.

  In his back pocket was a flick knife. He took it out, flicked it open, and grasped his fist around the aluminium handle. Taking a further two steps down, he paused slightly, and looked up toward Ayaan’s flat, before jogging down the remainder. On the ground floor, he looked around him, fully expecting someone to jump out of the shadows at any moment. The lobby was, for all intent and purposes, empty.

  He grasped the knife tighter. There had been someone. He’d clearly seen the figure lurking in the shadows. Taking a tentative step forward, the muscles in his forearm were taut, as he turned his head to look at the darkened storage area underneath the stone staircase.

  A figure rushed toward him, almost knocking him off balance. Convinced it was a setup and that the man wanted the contents of the holdall, he slung the leather strap over his head and across his body, then swung into action. Over his dead body, would he allow the haul to be taken from him willingly. No, if the man wanted the merchandise, then he would have to kill him first.

  A struggle ensued, and as he poised his fist in front of him, he was able to get a good look at his assailant. Tall, dark-haired, aged early to mid-twenties, and of a heavy build, he burned the man’s face into his memory.

  “You’ve picked on the wrong fucking man,” Pete warned.

  Spencer cocked his head to one side and smirked.

  There and then, Pete decided his instincts were right. It was a set up; it had to be. What else could the nutcase want from him? He clenched his meaty fist around the blade handle and snarled.

  Spencer continued to smirk.

  Without giving the matter another thought, Pete lunged forward. He had to have the up
per hand. He needed to attack first. Pulling back the fist that held the knife, he slammed it into the man’s side. A whoosh of air escaped from his opponent’s lips and he watched him stagger backwards. Right then, Pete knew that he’d hit his target, that he’d hurt the man badly enough to make him rethink and back off.

  Spencer’s eyes widened at the pain. He’d been punched many times before, but never had it hurt like this. Involuntarily, his body leaned to the side, and as the henchman lifted his fist a second time, he backed away.

  A cold numbness took hold. He narrowed his eyes, unsure of what had just taken place, and then it hit him. A dull throbbing soon took the form of a pulsating pain, the likes of which he’d never experienced before took over him.

  He hesitated, unsure of what to do next, when the henchman lunged forward once more. He turned on his heels, pushed open the heavy entrance door, and ran as if his life depended on it.

  * * *

  Switching off the ignition, Billy’s mood was both murderous and calculating. He leaned his head against the headrest and closed his eyes tight. He needed to get a grip on himself and fast, before the white-hot fury that flooded through his veins gave the game away, and more importantly, before the two of them came to realise that he had cottoned onto their deceit, their treachery. His movements were easy, and his expression was cloaked, as he exited his car and pocketed the keys.