by Kerry Kaya
“It won’t come to that.” Fletch shook his head.
“It’s already come to it,” Stevie roared back. He jabbed his finger toward the patio doors. “He’s out there on a fucking rampage, trying to kill all and sundry, and you’re just sitting there like it’s nothing. How long have you even known about all of this, eh?”
Fletch looked down at the floor. “Since the first one … Albie.”
Stevie’s mouth dropped open, and he shook his head. “And you’re allowing him get away with it? You’re actually condoning what he’s doing?”
“Of course I’m fucking not.” He jerked his head up.
“Then what are you doing to stop him, eh?” Stevie breathed heavily through his flared nostrils. “When Bannerman finds out, he’s gonna hurt him, you know that as well as I do. Do you even understand what I’m saying to you, Fletch? He is really going to fucking hurt him, and that’ll be on your head. Is that what you want?”
“Of course it ain’t.” Fletch swallowed and looked away. “He won’t find out. I’ll speak to Spence again. If I have to, I’ll even speak to Bannerman. I’ll clear everything up.”
Stevie shook his head sadly. “It’s your funeral, Fletch, and you know that as well as I do.”
Lost in his own thoughts, Fletch didn’t answer. He didn’t know how to.
* * *
Taking in the scene before him, George sneered. From his position behind the wheel, he studied the terraced house in Dagenham, where his wife and sons lived. Just a few moments earlier, a taxi cab had pulled up outside the house and he’d watched Jenny hop out. He continued watching as she fussed over a young man, who gingerly climbed out behind her.
He narrowed his eyes, as he watched the man straighten up. He was tall, roughly the same height as himself, and with a mop of dark brown hair, and similar features to his eldest son, George guessed correctly that this was Spencer. It had to be.
A slither of fury rippled through him. He wasn’t stupid, and as each second passed, it became more and more evident to him that it was his youngest son who had been responsible for trying to steal the merchandise from Pete. Right then, he wanted to smash his fist into his boy’s face, to teach him a lesson that he wouldn’t forget in a hurry.
His hand curled around the door handle, ready to leap out of the car and have it out with him. Spencer. He repeated his son’s name, over and over, inside his mind. What was it that Pete had said, that he believed the attack had been personal, rather than an attempted robbery?
He looked across in time to see them disappearing inside the house, and he narrowed his eyes once more at the possibility of his son’s involvement into his brother’s disappearance, and the murder of his cousin, Mickey.
The notion niggled at him. It wasn’t the first time he had wondered if this was what his eldest son had been trying to cover up, and dropping his hand away from the door handle, he turned the key in the ignition and drove forward.
As he passed the house, he began to dissect everything he knew to be fact. Albie was missing, presumed dead. Mickey had been topped, and now on top of everything else, Pete had been marked. It was only through sheer luck that he’d been able to walk away from the scene of the attack unscathed.
With a sudden clarity, he knew it had to be a vendetta against himself, and let’s face it, his own sons had more than enough ammunition. He wasn’t exactly Father of the Year, not that he’d ever pretended to be anything different. If anyone wanted to see him personally maimed, then it would be his two boys. He’d even heard it from the horse’s mouth, so to speak. Hadn’t his eldest son said as much?
In the rear-view mirror, he glanced back at the house. There was only one way of knowing for certain if his youngest son was involved, and that was to have Pete identify him as the culprit. Driving back toward South London, George’s lips were set into a hard line. More than ever, he rued the day the boys had been conceived. Not for the first time, did he wish that he’d successfully beaten them out of his wife’s belly, and God only knows, at the time, he’d tried.
* * *
Despite the pain in his side, Spencer grinned at his brother before taking a seat on the sofa.
“Now, these are your painkillers.” Jenny set the little brown bottle down on the nest of tables beside her son. “You need to take one after your lunch, and then one more before bed. Just the one though, Spence, no more than that.”
Spencer nodded his head. He could feel his tummy growl with hunger. “Can I have something to eat now, Mum? I’m really hungry.”
Jenny glanced at her wristwatch. “Course you can, my darling. How about you, Fletch, do you fancy a sandwich? I’ve got your favourite ham in the fridge.”
“No thanks, Mum.” Fletch shook his head from side to side. Food was the last thing he wanted or needed. He waited for her to leave the room, then took a seat on the edge of the armchair.
From across the room, Spencer continued to grin at his brother. “You should have seen the nurses who were looking after me, Fletch. Some of them were proper stunners, looked just like super models, they did.”
“I’m sure they did.” Fletch sat forward in the chair, uninterested in what the nurses looked like. “Spence, what we talked about at the hospital, what you said about Albie Bannerman, and Mickey Shank.”
“There was this one nurse …”
“Spence,” Fletch interrupted. “As lovely as I’m sure they were, you need to forget about the nurses for a moment. We really need to talk.”
Spencer turned his head away. “Have a go at me, you mean?” he grumbled.
“No, I mean talk. What you said about Bannerman. You know this needs to stop, right? That you have to get these thoughts of revenge out of your head.”
“I suppose so.” Spencer shrugged his shoulders.
Gritting his teeth, Fletch shook his head. “No suppose about it, Spence. It needs to stop, right now.”
“Here we are.” Jenny returned to the room, putting an end to the conversation.
As she set a bowl of steaming chicken soup and four slices of thick buttered bread in front of his brother, Fletch studied him as he ate. There was no getting through to Spencer, he knew that as well as he knew his own name. No matter how much his brother may try to, he was unable to comprehend the severity of his actions. The bottom line was, he just didn’t get it.
Silently brooding, Fletch wiped his hand over his jaw and briefly closed his eyes, wishing more than anything that he could go back in time. He couldn’t help but blame himself for everything that had taken place. He should have listened to his gut instincts, and questioned Billy at the time, when he’d picked out Spencer to do a lone job for him.
He could have put a stop to the murder of Albie, and now this was the upshot. His brother had a taste for blood. Killing meant nothing to him. It didn’t even register in his brain that he was doing wrong. As he continued to watch Jenny fuss around, he couldn’t help but feel depressed. When was it all going to end? And even more importantly, how was it going to end?
Chapter 18
Pete was impressed—talk about a fast worker. In just twenty-four hours, George had come up with the name of a suspect.
“How did you find him so quickly?” Pete asked.
“That isn’t important.” George dismissed the question. He leaned back in his office chair and steepled his fingers in front of his chest. “What is important, is that you give me the nod if it’s the same geezer who was waiting for you when you came out of Das’s flat.”
“Yeah, I can do that.” Pete tapped the side of his head. “I got a good look at the bastard, and believe me, I won’t forget him in a hurry.”
“Good.” George thought it over then stood up from behind his desk. “Well then, no time like the present.”
“What, now?” Pete raised his eyebrows. He knew that his boss had taken the attempted attack on himself seriously, but hadn’t realised just how much.
“Yes, now.” George was out the door, before Pete had even stood up.
Chasing after his boss, Pete’s chest swelled with pride. He was obviously a lot more important to George Bannerman than he’d realised.
* * *
Thirty minutes later, George pulled the car over to the kerb. “That’s the house over there.” He pointed toward the house where Frank, Jenny, and Spencer lived. “See the one with the green front door. Go knock there and ask for Spencer.”
“Spencer?” Pete reaffirmed.
George chewed on the side of his cheek and nodded his head. “Just ask for Spencer. Take a good look at him and then come straight back to the car.”
“Yeah, all right.” Staring toward the house, Pete nodded his head. He’d like to do a bit more than walk away, not that he would go against an order. George obviously wanted to play this out his own way, and a ripple of excitement filled him at the prospect of seeing the prick who’d attacked him pay for what he’d done.
He opened the car door, stepped outside, and flung back his shoulders. With a purposeful swagger, he crossed the street, opened the gate, and then walked down the pathway. At the front door, he rasped his knuckles on the small window pane.
“Yes, can I help you?”
He gave the woman who opened the door his best smile, instantly putting her at ease. “I’m looking for Spencer, darling. Is he in?”
“Yes,” Jenny returned his smile. “Let me just get him. I think he’s having a little doze in the armchair.”
The door was closed on him and he heard her footsteps retreating down the hallway.
Moments later, the door reopened, and instead of the woman, a man stood there. Pete took a good look at him, and eyed up his six-foot-three frame. His dark hair and face were exactly as he remembered. It was definitely the man who’d attacked him. He’d recognise him anywhere.
“Sorry, mate, wrong house.” He released his clenched fist, then turned and walked away.
From his position in the car, George watched as Pete crossed back over the street and walked toward him. As he neared closer, he stuck his thumb up in the air. Bingo. As he’d already known, his suspicions were correct. They had their man.
* * *
“So, what are you gonna do, Fletch?” Stevie eyed his best friend over the rim of the pint glass.
“I dunno,” Fletch sighed. It was lunchtime, and he glanced around the pub before gulping at his beer. Swallowing a mouthful down, he wiped the back of his hand across his lips and shrugged his shoulders. “I suppose I’m gonna have to go and have a chat with Bannerman, ain’t I?”
“You know he’s not going to take it lying down, though, don’t you?”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Look,” Stevie moved in closer and lowered his voice, “at the end of the day, Spence is his son. Is he really gonna do him that much damage?”
Fletch raised his eyebrows, and without answering, downed the remainder of his drink.
“I mean, I know I said that Bannerman would hurt him, but you don’t do that to family, do you, especially not to your own son?”
“And how do you think I ended up with broken ribs, or how I got this?” Fletch asked, pointing to the pink scar above his eyebrow. “Why do you think my mum left him in the first place, or how Spence ended up the way he is? He won’t care if Spencer is his son. He’s never cared about us, end of.”
“You mean,” Stevie’s eyes widened, “he was the one you had a run-in with and … and he’s the reason Spence is so fucked up? Fucking hell, Fletch what did he do to him?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Fletch shook his head. “But yeah, it was him. So, you were right. In fact, everything you said was right. He’s gonna really hurt Spence if he finds out the truth, son or no son. It’ll make no difference to him.”
Stevie thought this over. “So, how do we stop him from finding out?”
Turning to look at his mate, Fletch gave him a small smile. He couldn’t help but notice that his problem had now become their problem. “I’m going to have to take the bull by the horns, aren’t I? I’ll talk to him. Maybe, with a bit of luck on my side, I’ll be able to steer him in a different direction, one that’s far away from Spence.”
“And if you can’t?”
“If I can’t,” Fletch looked around the pub for a second time, “then I’ll be left with no other choice. I’ll have to take matters into my own hands, won’t I?”
* * *
With Austin’s pram loaded up with shopping bags, Tina struggled to push her way through the entrance door of the flats. Not for the first time, did she want to curse her son’s father. If only he had rented them a house instead of the flat, then it would have made her life so much easier.
“Here, let me help you.”
Tina looked up at the man stood behind her, and smiled her thanks, as he leaned across her and pushed open the door.
George returned her smile. “These buildings are not really suitable for young families, are they?”
“You can say that again,” Tina laughed. She set about rearranging the shopping bags. “That’s exactly what I said to my baby’s father, but he wanted to live here, and so here we are.” She gave a bitter shrug of her shoulders and made to walk forward.
Glancing at little Austin as he lay wrapped up in the pram, George studied the child’s face. There was no mistaking who his father was. The baby was a mirror image of his eldest son. He followed Tina through the lobby toward the lift.
“I’ve come to visit my son,” he said casually.
Pressing for the lift, Tina glanced over her shoulder and gave him a wide smile. “That’s nice.”
“Yeah,” George nodded his head. “My eldest son, Harry. He lives here. Maybe you know him?” He watched her reaction closely, and when he saw no recognition flicker across her face, he quickly added, “He often goes by the nickname, Fletch.”
“Fletch?” Tina’s eyes widened. “Of course I know him! I live with him.” She nodded down at the pram. “He’s my son’s father.”
“Get out of here.” George feigned surprise. “So you must be …”
“Tina,” she volunteered.
“Of course, you’re Tina.” He stood back slightly, as if to take a better look at her. “He said you were pretty, and I can see now that he wasn’t exaggerating.”
Fluffing out her hair, Tina couldn’t stop the smile that spread across her face. “He didn’t say that about me,” she giggled.
“Course he did.” George guided her inside the open lift. “He couldn’t stop talking about you when we last met up.”
Still basking in the compliments Fletch’s father was giving her, Tina pressed the button for the fourth floor. “I think that Fletch is out, but … would you like to come up for a while, maybe have a cup of tea and wait for him?” She chewed on her bottom lip, feeling suddenly shy around her son’s grandfather. “I’m not too sure what time he will be home though,” she warned.
George glanced once more at his grandson. Taking a step closer, he bent over the pram and rubbed the baby’s tiny hand. “I’d like that.” He straightened up and flashed a wolfish grin. In fact, he could think of nothing he would like better, than to gain access to his eldest son’s home.
* * *
Sipping at a cup of tea, Jenny was in a world of her own.
“You all right, girl?” Frank joined her at the kitchen table.
“You know how it is.” She rubbed at her eyes wearily, smudging mascara across her eyelid.
“Something on your mind?” Taking out a cigarette, he lit up and noisily exhaled a plume of smoke above his head.
It wasn’t often that they sat down for a chat. In fact, Jenny could count on one hand the amount of times they actually had. The bottom line was, even though they were brother and sister, they had never really been particularly close. They may have shared the same roof over the years, but that was as far as it had ever really gone. If truth were told, she’d always felt as though she and the boys had been a burden to him, and somehow held him back.
“Well, come
on, I know something’s up.”
“I was just reminiscing is all.” She placed the mug on the table in front of her and gave him a small smile. “I was thinking back to when me and the boys first came here to live. Do you remember?”
Frank nodded his head. “I can remember picking you up from over the other side of the water. You looked half scared to death.”
“That’s because I was,” Jenny laughed. She looked down at the table. It wasn’t funny, not really. She could still recall the terror she’d felt as they stood in a freezing cold telephone box, waiting for Frank to collect them. Her arms had been wrapped around her two sons, while they clung onto her legs, petrified that George would find them. “I think he would have ended up killing us if we’d stayed.”
“Don’t say that.” Frank screwed up his face.
“It’s true. Sometimes I worry about the boys.” She leaned her face on her elbow. “What if the things they witnessed when they were little damaged them?” She pointed to her temple. “I mean up here.”
“Where’s all this coming from?”
“I’m their mum.” She shook her head to rid herself of the familiar sense of foreboding that shuddered through her. “And sometimes, I see and hear things that they don’t want me to, but I’m not stupid. I know what’s going on, and sometimes, the things I hear frighten me. It’s almost like listening to George all over again.”
“Nah, they are nothing like him,” Frank spat out. “They’re good lads.” He looked down at the table, clearly embarrassed. “I wanted to kill him, you know.”
“Who?” Jenny raised her eyebrows.
“George, for what he did to you and the boys.”
Reaching across the table, Jenny clasped her brother’s hand in hers. She didn’t answer him; she didn’t need to. Just knowing that, all along, he had cared about her and her sons, was enough.