The Price

by Kerry Kaya

  “I know.” He watched Fletch walk away from him and threw up his arms. “Where are you going?” he called out.

  “Home,” Fletch shouted back.

  * * *

  Twisting the key in the lock, Fletch let himself into the flat. He walked straight to the bedroom, took down the box of photographs from on top of the wardrobe, and began sorting through them.

  “Fletch, what are you doing back so early?” Standing in the bedroom doorway with Austin in her arms, Tina tilted her head to one side to look at him.

  “I have to go somewhere, Teen.” He paused, and then took a deep breath, knowing that the words he was about to speak would more than upset her. “And I don’t know if I’m going to be coming back.”

  Tina’s mouth fell open and her blood ran cold. “I told you that I’m sorry for going behind your back,” she cried. “What else can I do to prove it to you?”

  “You being sorry, makes no difference. I have to go. I have to do this.”

  “What about us?”

  “There is no us,” he sighed. “I’ve told you that, over and over again.”

  “Then what about your son?” she pleaded.

  With a heavy heart, Fletch glanced toward his son. He shook his head. “I have to do this.”

  “You’re going to her, aren’t you?” Tina spat. “I always knew this would happen. You’re leaving your own son to be with another woman.”

  Picking up one of the photographs, Fletch studied it. It was of him and Spencer, and had been taken on Spencer’s twenty-first birthday. Beaming into the camera, they had their arms wrapped around one another’s shoulders. “I’m not going to another woman.”

  “And what about me, eh? What am I supposed to do without you?”

  “You, Teen …” He tore his eyes away from the photograph to look at her. “You’re going to be the best mum to our boy that you can be. You’re going to bring him up, away from this bastard of a life that I’ve been living, and you’re going to teach him right from wrong.” He turned his back on her and stuffed the photograph into his jacket pocket.

  “I’m pregnant.”

  Pausing, Fletch rubbed his hands over his face and groaned. The timing couldn’t have been any worse if she’d tried. “It’s not going to change matters, darling. I need to do this, and for once in my life, I’m going to do what’s right.”

  “And what about your children?” Tina screamed back. She could feel the hysteria growing inside of her, and pulled their now screaming son to her chest even tighter. “What about what’s right for them?”

  Fletch looked up, his eyes were devoid of any emotion. “I killed my brother.” He watched her back away from him, just like he’d known she would. Fear filled her eyes.

  “No,” she gasped. “You wouldn’t do that, you … you loved your brother.”

  “I did. It was me.” He poked himself in the chest. “I could have saved him; I should have fucking saved him, but I didn’t.” He turned his head away, feeling thoroughly ashamed with himself. “So, now you know why I need to do this.”

  He shoved past her, out of the bedroom. Nearing the front door, he stopped and turned his head. “If I don’t make it back, at my uncle’s house, underneath the floorboards in Spencer’s room, are five bin bags filled with cash. They’re yours. Take them and do whatever you want with the money—spend the lot or burn the lot, the choice is yours.”

  With those parting words, he slammed out of the flat, leaving Tina to stare at the empty space his departure had created.

  * * *

  It wasn’t until he’d been sat in the church that Fletch had known exactly what he needed to do. As the vicar had spoken about his brother, he realised that every memory he had, somehow involved Spencer. As far back as he could remember, all he’d ever done was look out for his little brother.

  On autopilot, he had driven to his uncle’s house. He knew he would find his mum there, and after the cruel things he’d said to her, he knew that just like he had, she, too, would have abandoned the wake.

  He dipped his hand into his jacket pocket and took out a small polythene bag filled to the brim with Ecstasy tablets. He tipped one out onto the palm of his hand, and then thinking better of it, tipped out a second one. Swallowing them down dry, he grimaced, then climbed out of the car.

  He needed to make amends, and now that he’d had the time to calm down, he wanted to apologise for his outburst. The words he’d said were untrue, and he should never have blamed his mother for Spencer’s death.

  It was Stevie who opened the front door, and after tipping his head in a greeting, Fletch walked into the house.

  “What the fuck did you say to your mum? She’s in bits.” Stevie’s voice was harsh, as he cornered his friend in the hallway.

  “I know.” He gave Stevie’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze and moved forward.

  “You should be bloody ashamed of yourself.” Coming to stand in the doorway to the lounge, Frank shook his head from side. “Of all the days to go and have a pop at your mum, you pick today? The day of your own brother’s funeral?”

  Barely able to look his uncle in the eye, Fletch paused. Shame flooded through him, and he bowed his head.

  “That’s why I’m here,” he answered softly. Moving off to the kitchen, he leaned his body against the kitchen door frame. “Mum.”

  Jenny’s body stiffened and she closed her eyes tight. Devoid of her gold rings, she swiped at her eyes, in an attempt to sniff away her tears. It was fruitless. Her shoulders heaved and she began to sob.

  Stepping forward, Fletch wrapped his arms around her. “I’m sorry, Mum. I should never have said those things. I was bang out of order, and lashed out at the wrong person. I didn’t mean what I said. None of this was your fault.”

  “I know, my darling. I know it was the grief talking.” She turned around and looked up at him. “But I will never, ever be sorry for giving you and Spencer life.” She rested her palm upon his cheek. “You were my boys, my babies, my life.”

  “I know, Mum.” Pulling her closer, Fletch allowed her to cry against his chest. “I’m sorry, I really am.”

  She gave him a sad smile, and after wiping the tears from her eyes, she stepped out of his arms. “How about a cup of tea?” she asked, with a deep sigh, desperate to do something mundane, something normal, something that for just a few short moments, would make her forget that her baby was gone and never coming back.

  “Yeah, go on then. Stick the kettle on.” He gave her a reassuring smile, and then walked out of the kitchen.

  “Everything sorted out?” Stevie raised his eyebrows, as Fletch joined him in the hallway.

  “Yeah.” Looking over his shoulder back toward the kitchen, Fletch nodded his head. “Do me a favour, mate, and keep my mum talking for a couple of minutes.”

  “Why?” Stevie narrowed his eyes. “Where are you going now?”

  As he bounded up the stairs, Fletch gave him a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Nowhere. I’m just collecting something. Something that belongs to me.”

  * * *

  In the bedroom he and Spencer had once shared, Fletch hesitated as he walked inside. The room was exactly as his brother had left it, the morning he had been murdered. Typical of Spencer, the curtains were still drawn and the bed was unmade. The duvet remained pushed toward the foot of the bed, trailing onto the floor, and the bottom sheet was wrinkled.

  Moving forward, he yanked open the heavy curtains, and blinked his eyes at the sudden daylight that shone through the window. A hard lump formed inside his throat. Hastily, he swallowed it down and dismissed the familiar shard of pain that stabbed at his heart.

  Reaching out his hand, his fingers glided across the cotton pillowcase. He snatched his hand back and brought it up to his chest, wishing more than ever that his brother would burst into the room and give him one of his lopsided grins.

  He closed his eyes tight, and took a deep breath, before moving forward and pulling out his brother’s divan bed. At fi
rst glance, nothing would appear to be amiss, until, that was, you looked closely at the edge of the navy blue carpet. The frayed threads were a dead giveaway that the carpet had been pulled up more than once over the years.

  Getting down on his hands and knees, he pulled back the carpet, revealing the dusty wooden floorboards underneath. With relative ease, he was able to dislodge the farthest board. He slipped his hand inside the gap and felt around. He knew that what he was looking for was there somewhere, because it had been him who’d hidden it there.

  Finally, his fingertips skimmed across something hard and cold. “Gotcha.” He pulled the item closer, until he could curl his fingers around it, and with a smile across his face, he sat back on his haunches and looked down at the firearm resting in the palm of his hand.

  * * *

  “Did you find what you were looking for?”

  Coming back down the stairs, Fletch nodded his head, and glancing toward the kitchen, he called out, “Mum, I’m off. I’ll see you later.”

  “What about your tea?” Jenny made her way down the hallway and gestured toward the kitchen. “I’ve just made it for you.”

  “Stevie can have it.” He patted his friend’s arm and headed for the front door.

  “Where are you going, Fletch?” Stevie narrowed his eyes.

  “Out.” He looked between his mother and best friend and lowered his voice, “Just out, all right?”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “Nah, you’re all right.” Fletch put up his hand and he kept his voice light. “My mum’s made some tea. Do me a favour and keep her company for a bit.”

  Squaring his shoulders, Stevie shook his head. “I said, I’ll come with you.”

  Fletch gritted his teeth. The last thing he needed was his best friend along for the ride. “Like I said …”

  “And like I said,” Stevie interrupted, “I’m coming with you.”

  Running his tongue over his teeth, Fletch stared his friend down, and shaking his head, he slammed out of the house with Stevie hot on his heels.

  * * *

  “So, where are we going then?” Stevie forced his voice to sound a lot chirpier than he actually felt.

  “Where do you think?” Fletch growled.

  As the car sped down the A13, Stevie gripped onto the door handle for dear life. “For fuck’s sake, Fletch, will you slow down? Are you trying to get us both killed?”

  Fletch eased his foot off the gas.

  Thankful that the car was now moving at a relatively normal pace, Stevie took his hand away from the door handle. “I thought you said you would never run after Bannerman again?”

  “I’m not.” Flicking the indicator, Fletch gave his friend a sidelong glance. “He’s gonna come out to me.”

  Wincing as the car weaved in and out of the traffic, Stevie’s voice was high. “Come out to you? Are you off your fucking head? How many pills have you had today, eh? Because you sound like you’re buzzing off your nut.”

  Fletch ignored the comment, and shrugging his shoulders, he continued to hurtle down the motorway. “Besides,” he added with a grin, “I’d never get past the front door, at least not in one piece anyway.”

  Narrowing his eyes, Stevie thought this over. “Why not?”

  “Let’s just say, Bannerman’s too protected. I’d never get in the house.”

  “Are you carrying?” There was a hint of shock in Stevie’s voice.

  “I’m just gonna talk to him.” Fletch turned his head. “Don’t worry about it, okay?”

  “Fletch, are you carrying? Answer the fucking question!” He looked him up and down. From where he was sat, he couldn’t see the outline of a weapon, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t stashed it elsewhere. He pulled down the glovebox and rifled through the contents.

  “You won’t find anything,” Fletch smirked.

  “Where is it?” Slamming the glove box closed, Stevie turned in his seat. “Where is it, Fletch?”

  “Look, I told you not to come. I didn’t want you here, just remember that.” Turning into a tree-lined avenue, Fletch looked up at the rear-view mirror. “We’ve got company, anyway. That car behind us has been trailing us for the last fifteen minutes.”

  Stevie turned to look back at the car. “Tell me something, Fletch,” he said, giving his friend a sidelong glance, “and be honest with me. Is this a suicide mission?”

  Feeling for the photograph in his jacket pocket, Fletch shrugged his shoulders. He knew that his chances of walking away from what was about to go down were slim, but maybe, in a way, it was what he deserved—it was his atonement for not saving his brother.

  “I’ve got a really bad feeling about this,” Stevie stated.

  As he pushed his foot down on the brake, bringing the car to a grinding halt, Fletch gave a wide grin, then without missing a beat, he banged his fist down on the car horn.

  * * *

  Sipping at his brandy, George looked up. “What the fuck is that noise?” he bellowed.

  “Dunno, boss.” Heaving his large frame up off of the sofa, Damon Wheeler made his way down the hallway toward the front door.

  “Tell them to fuck off,” George instructed.

  Damon nodded his head, and opening the front door, he stepped outside the house.

  * * *

  Sat hunched over the steering wheel, Fletch watched the front door open and a heavy-set male walk out of the house. He turned his head to look at Stevie.

  “Show time,” he said, before punching his fist on the car horn once more for good measure.

  “Oi,” Fletch shouted, as he climbed out of the car. “Go tell your boss that I’m here, and if he wants to know what happened to his brother, then he better come out and face me.”

  Following suit, Stevie climbed out of the car. “I hope you know what you’re fucking doing,” he groaned.

  “Always,” Fletch grinned back.

  * * *

  Damon lifted his hand to his eyes in a bid to shield the sun from his vision. He recognised the driver of the car, and heaved his heavy frame back toward the house as fast as he could.

  “Boss.” His breath streamed out ahead of him. “You need to come and see this.”

  “What is it?” Leaning back in his chair, there was a bored tone to George’s voice.

  “It’s your kid.” Damon jerked his thumb behind him. “He’s out there, reckons he knows what happened to Albie.”

  A slow smile crept across George’s face. Hadn’t he already stated once before that his son never seemed to learn. He sucked his teeth, placed the brandy glass down beside him, then lounged back in his chair for a few moments. Aware that all eyes were on him, he rubbed his hands together, then slowly pushed himself to his feet. It was about time he taught his son a lesson or two.

  * * *

  Seeing his father exit the house, Fletch tensed his muscles. “You killed my brother,” he shouted out.

  George shrugged his shoulders. The hint of a dark smirk played across his lips.

  Fletch could feel his heartbeat quicken. He skimmed his palm down the side of his jacket, and his fingertips brushed against the hard outline of the firearm. “I’m gonna kill you for that,” he growled.

  “Fletch,” Stevie warned. “What the fuck are you doing?”

  “That’s right,” Fletch continued. “I’m gonna kill you, and love every fucking second of it while I do it.”

  George chuckled out loud, and spread open his arms. “You killed my brother and then I killed yours. That makes us even in my book.”

  “Nah,” Fletch sprang forward. “You owe me a lot more than that, and I won’t be happy until you’re fucking dead.” He pulled the firearm out from the waistband of his jeans and aimed it toward his father.

  “Jesus fucking Christ, Fletch, what are you trying to do, start World War Three?” Not taking his eyes away from his best friend, Stevie ducked down behind the car.

  “Come on now, you don’t want to do that.” George’s eyes flickered toward his number
two, as he quietly climbed out of his car, which was also parked haphazardly across the pavement. Noting the firearm in Pete’s hand, his shoulders visibly relaxed.

  Spinning to his side, Fletch re-aimed the gun. “Don’t come any closer,” he roared at Pete.

  “Put the gun down.”

  Fletch spun back around. “Not until I’ve blown your brains all over this fucking street,” he growled, taking a step closer to his father.

  Even though outwardly he appeared calm, beads of cold sweat broke out across George’s forehead. He glanced once more toward his number two. What was taking him so long to shoot the little fucker down? He narrowed his steely eyes, urging him to take aim and fire.

  Seeing the interaction, Fletch spun to the side, his finger hovered over the trigger. “I told you not to come any closer,” he told Pete.

  The gunshot that rang out was deafening. Throwing himself to the floor, Stevie’s heart was in his mouth, and with his ears still ringing, he gingerly lifted his head. A huge sigh of relief escaped from his lips, and he bowed his head for a few moments, before staggering to his feet. Fletch, much to his relief, was still standing. It had been a warning shot.

  “End him,” George roared. “Shoot the fucking bastard.”

  Pete looked toward his boss. Reminded of the photograph of his children in his wallet, he shook his head, lifted his hands in the air, and threw the gun to the kerb.

  George swallowed deeply.

  In the distance, the wail of a police siren broke the silence.

  “Fletch,” Stevie called out, “don’t do this, mate.”