An Old Score

by Edie Baylis

  His eyes flicked towards the closed kitchen door, hoping to God the woman didn’t wander in, only to find her seething husband, boyfriend, or whoever the hell this geezer was.

  ‘The house you went to? Yesterday?’ the man’s growling voice interrupted Joe from the unpleasant scenarios washing around his head.

  ‘H-House?’ Joe spluttered. ‘What house?’

  Alan’s eyes darted towards Joe. ‘Joe, you...’

  Joe watched in horror as the second man – the one with the mangled ear, lurched forward at record speed to give Alan a swift kick in the side of his face.

  Alan yelped in pain, whilst the man reverted to his statue-like position to the side of them.

  Pulling Joe up from his enforced close-up view of the kitchen table, the first man slammed him down into the one remaining kitchen chair. ‘Don’t fuck about, otherwise you and your mates will see me lose my temper. Do you understand?’

  Joe nodded feverishly, sweat running down the back of his neck. This was not good. He had no idea what any of them were supposed to have done.

  ‘Now tell me about the house. Your girlfriend lives there, right?’

  Joe’s fuddled brain desperately tried to work out what on earth this man was talking about. House? Then it suddenly fell into place. The guy was talking about the place he’d gone to dump Teagan? What the hell?

  Seeing recollection on Joe’s face, the man grinned, his maniacal smile making him look even more ferocious. ‘Coming back to you, is it? Your mates here informed me your girlfriend is called Teagan. Nice looking bird she is too.’

  Joe glanced at Dave and Alan once more, both still avoiding his gaze by staring at the floor. What the fuck had they told this bruiser and why? ‘S-She’s not my girlfriend. We split up yesterday and...’

  ‘Look, dickhead,’ the man growled. ‘It’s not like I’m going to tell her you’ve got some slag in your bedroom. That’s your call. I don’t give a flying fuck, so don’t talk shit.’

  Joe swallowed uncomfortably, his throat still half-crushed. ‘She really isn’t my girlfriend anymore. I...’

  ‘Who owns the house?’

  ‘The house?’ Joe repeated. ‘I...’

  ‘That’s what I fucking said, wasn’t it?’ the man snarled, grabbing Joe’s hair again and pulling his head backwards, forced him to look into cold reptilian eyes. ‘Who. Owns. The. Fucking. House?’

  ‘I-I don’t know. My girlfriend... my ex-girlfriend started working there for an old woman,’ he muttered.

  ‘This old woman – what’s her name?’

  ‘I-I don’t... I don’t know,’ Joe spluttered.

  Joe found himself being dragged out of the kitchen by his hair. His nails scraped futilely against the scuffed walls attempting to slow his journey, but within seconds the man kicked open the door to the downstairs toilet and pulled him inside.

  ‘No! NO! Wait!’ Joe wailed, his voice promptly cut off when his head was forced into the toilet bowl. He screwed up his eyes as the stench of at least two weeks’ worth of leftovers from the uncleaned bog assaulted his nostrils, panic thundering as his head was held down.

  He didn’t even have the chance to wish he’d bothered flushing the loo after using it earlier, when piss mixed with God knows what else pushed into his mouth and up his nose.

  ‘Fucking state of it in here,’ the man muttered, pulling the chain, unloading an avalanche of water onto Joe’s head. ‘Have you thought of her name yet?’ he growled. He’d shove this prick’s head into the U-bend if he didn’t hurry up and start talking sensibly.

  Think, Think! Joe panicked, his scalp burning. He flailed his arms around frantically and was relieved when the grip on his head was released.

  Coughing and sputtering, he fell back against the wall, gagging at the taste in his mouth. He looked up through his dripping hair at the giant of the man crammed into the small cloakroom with him. ‘I-I think it’s Dulcie. Yeah, that’s it. Dulcie. Don’t know her surname.’

  The man smiled menacingly. ‘Dulcie? Ok, that wasn’t so hard, was it? Right, so now we’ve got that sorted let’s talk about the bit of work you’ll be doing for me. Your girlfriend will be helping too.’

  ‘But she not m...’

  ‘If she’s your ex, like you say, then make it so she’s not.’ The man’s mouth formed a sinister grin. ‘Now, pin your lugholes back and listen to what you’re going to do.’

  ‘YOU DON’T NEED TO BE SORRY,’ Dulcie said as Teagan apologised for the third time. She crossed her legs daintily in the chair opposite. ‘You said that enough times yesterday, so don’t waste one more tear on that buffoon!’

  Teagan laughed sadly amid the tears still coursing down her cheeks.

  ‘It’s no laughing matter, girl!’ Dulcie continued. ‘The boy’s an idiot! You may not think that now, but you will, believe me. I’ve had a few of those in my time and they’re a waste of space. You’ll know when you meet the real one.’

  Teagan sniffed miserably. ‘I thought I had...’

  ‘Poppycock! No way was that creature right for you. I only had true love once myself.’

  Teagan nodded. ‘Your husband?’

  ‘Christ, no!’ Dulcie exclaimed. Getting up from the chair she strolled over to the cabinet. ‘Let’s have a gin. I’ve never cared whether it’s too early.’ She turned to Teagan. ‘Oh, don’t look so startled. My husband was an idiot and a selfish one at that! I only married him because, oh I don’t know... because I was stupid as well, I guess.’

  Dulcie poured two large gins and shoved a glass into Teagan’s hand. Sipping it, Teagan almost choked on the burn of the neat spirit and watched astounded whilst Dulcie drank hers like water.

  ‘Peter was a moron. Very much like that one of yours. He had lots of women on the side too - the difference was I didn’t care.’

  ‘W-What happened?’ Teagan asked tentatively.

  ‘He was a barman and worked at The Feathers with me but fancied himself as going up in the world. He resented I was on the stage and partying with all the celebs whilst he was stuck behind the bar.’ Dulcie laughed. ‘And of course, that was what got him killed. He annoyed the wrong people and then he was no more...’

  ‘But that left you and the children and...’

  ‘I was glad to be rid of him!’ Dulcie spat. ‘It meant I could be with the man I really loved.’

  Teagan sipped at her drink, waiting for Dulcie to continue, unsure whether she was making everything worse by humouring these vivid stories. She watched her refill her glass, then walk over to the French doors. Was this another one of her stories too?

  Dulcie shook her head and then glared at Teagan. ‘I spent years waiting for Michael... How I loved him!’ She rose from her chair and fished around in a tiny drawer inside the walnut bureau. ‘I know it’s in here somewhere...’ She frowned. ‘Oh, I can’t seem to find it.’

  Teagan smiled kindly. ‘Never mind. I’m sure whatever it is will turn up eventually.’ This was so sad. Dulcie really believed all of this. She really did need help – a lot more help that she had the capacity to give. She knew Helen was aware that Dulcie had got worse, but was she aware of just how much worse? Unlikely, because Dulcie acted normal quite a lot of the time.

  Teagan sighed inwardly. She would have to tell Helen. It was only right she was made aware. Helen would be so distressed though and Dulcie, well, Dulcie would be devastated to have to go into one of those homes, but there wasn’t a lot longer she could let this continue. It wasn’t right. There was also the persistent worry that sooner or later Dulcie would injure herself whilst wandering around. What was in her head was so real, it was heart-breaking.

  Seeing the sadness on Teagan’s face, Dulcie smiled. ‘You’re thinking about that boy again, aren’t you?’ she said suddenly. ‘Well, don’t! I mean it, Teagan. You still have lots of time to meet the real one. I met mine and lost him, but you haven’t.’

  Teagan nodded, smiling weakly. She hadn’t been thinking about that, but she’d let Dulcie believe so
. It was a lot easier than having to explain to her that she was planning on betraying her confidence and speaking to Helen.

  The question was, when would be right time to do that?

  JOE, DAVE AND ALAN sat around the table for a good five minutes before anyone spoke.

  Once the men had left, it had taken Joe some time to free his housemates from the chairs they’d been bound to and several more minutes to painfully rip the gaffer tape off their mouths. Unsurprisingly, they were not happy. He was not happy. He stank like a public urinal and didn’t think he’d ever get the foul taste out of his mouth. Neither would he analyse where the suspect hair going round his mouth had come from... But aside from that, fear had taken priority.

  Joe didn’t need to check to see if the girl in his bed was still there because he’d heard the front door slam for the second time shortly after the men had left. She’d clearly taken the first available opportunity to make a sharp exit and he could hardly blame her - he’d have done the same if it were possible. And to say he was confused, not to mention, terrified, was an understatement.

  He didn’t do shit like this. He was into free love and a good time, not dealing with thugs manacling his mates to chairs in his kitchen and trying to drown him in the fucking bog.

  ‘Are you going to tell us what the fuck all of that was about?’ Dave said, rubbing the red raw wheals around his wrists.

  ‘How the hell do I know? You heard what I said to that bloke. I don’t have a clue what he was talking about,’ Joe replied, glancing at Alan who was also eyeing him suspiciously. ‘Seriously, I don’t. I don’t know anything about it!’

  Dave shook his head. ‘Whatever’s going on, I don’t want to be involved. I don’t know who they were and I don’t want to either!’

  ‘But now, thanks to them following Joe back from that house, they know where we live. Cheers for that,’ Alan added, gingerly touching the red skin around his mouth, courtesy of the gaffer tape and the already darkening, swelling bruise across his cheekbone.

  Dave folded his arms across his chest. ‘We need to go to the police.’

  ‘Are you serious?’ Joe gasped. ‘You heard what he said would happen if we made the ‘mistake’ of bringing the police into it.’ If Dave had missed that bit, he certainly hadn’t. There was no way on God’s earth he was going to the Police. Those people were the sort you didn’t mess with. The sort you saw in films. And he knew what happened to people who spoke to the police in situations such as this...

  ‘Could this be Teagan’s way of getting her own back on you for dumping her?’ Alan suggested. ‘I mean, she’s always been a bit full on and it’s a bit weird that you haven’t heard from her, don’t you think?’

  Joe frowned. He’d been surprised too. He’d have presumed he’d have had at least fifty text messages and a thousand missed calls by now, but he hadn’t had one. But Teagan wouldn’t know where to start to arrange for two psychos to intimidate him. He shook his head. ‘It’s not her. She’s too dippy for that.’

  ‘What are you going to do then?’ Alan asked. ‘If you don’t sort it, you can fuck off. I’m not having that again, I can tell you that much!’

  ‘You can’t kick me out! We’re the Three Musketeers!’ Joe smiled, attempting to make light of the situation.

  ‘This isn’t fucking funny,’ Dave barked. ‘If you won’t let us go to the cops, then you’ll have to do as he said and I hope for everyone’s sakes that this shit doesn’t get complicated.’

  ‘But I’ve dumped Teagan. I told you that last night. How am I supposed to do th...’

  ‘Undump her, then,’ Alan cried. ‘Just bloody sort it!’ He stood up, still rubbing at his wrists. ‘Screw this. I need a drink and a smoke. You coming, Dave?’

  ‘Damn right,’ Dave glanced at Joe nastily. ‘Don’t even think about joining us. You’ve got things to sort out, remember?’

  Joe watched Alan and Dave walk from the kitchen and straight out of the front door. He put his head in his hands and stared at the congealed beans again. Fuck. They were right. He’d have to do what was asked. But how could he wheedle his way into some old dear’s house off the back of Teagan? And furthermore, why did these blokes want him to? Just that she’d got something of theirs? Like what?

  He hadn’t felt it wise to further question the gorilla who had a steady grip of his neck whilst forcing his nose into the U-bend. If they wanted him to get keys for the place, then that’s what he’d do. Then perhaps he could get on with his life Teagan-free, like he had been happily planning, until this had happened.

  The only problem was, he was in no way sure how he would do it.

  Fourteen

  HEATH HOVERED IN FRONT of the large expanse of glass, taking occasional glances through the window, hoping he wasn’t being obvious.

  It had taken a good hour and a half to get here, thanks to being stupid enough to set off during the rush hour, but once he’d reached Maidenhead, finding the place was easy enough. Shepherd, Percival and Proctor occupied a prominent position on the High Street of the affluent market town and the gentile atmosphere of the place was a stark contrast to where he lived.

  A ripple of unease ran up Heath’s spine. Judging by what he was seeing, Helen Shepherd had done alright for herself. What if this Dulcie woman had cashed in the spoils a long time ago? If the benefits had been already festooned on her children, then it would be too late for him. But if the benefits had been given to Dulcie’s children, they couldn’t have lasted long.

  Although looking pristine on the outside, according to the research he’d done on Shepherd, Percival and Proctor on the Companies House website, it had traded at a loss for the past three consecutive years, with the last financial years’ turnover being the worst yet.

  Whatever façade Helen Shepherd liked to portray about her company, it was not doing well at all. And in that case, the chances were that Helen Shepherd wouldn’t be either – which could leave the way open for some very useful negotiation.

  Heath focused harder on who was behind the large shop front. From what he could see there were three women and two men in there – all of whom looked like they worked there. But which of the women, if any, was Helen Shepherd?

  When one of the women noticed him staring, Heath hastily made a show of perusing the colour printouts of featured houses for sale in the window, each positioned behind columns of Perspex. He feigned extra interest in a farmhouse-style property, wincing at the £2.1 million price tag. Although smart in his work suit, would a twenty-six year old enquiring about a £2.1 million gaff be taken seriously?

  Heath clenched his jaw. Why not? If he had anything to do with it, he would have a hell of a lot more than that soon.

  Taking a deep breath, he strolled inside only to be faced with an over-thin middle-aged woman with a botoxed face. He watched as she forced her frozen muscles into something partly resembling a smile.

  ‘Good morning,’ the woman said. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I hope so.’ Heath smiled, noticing the woman’s eyes travelling over him, making no secret she was assessing him for worth. He moved towards the desk, quietly wondering whether this botoxed creature was Helen Shepherd. His charm worked like a dream with car sales, but would it fare equally as well with middle-class women of Berkshire, even the ones hiding behind a posh frontage covering financial ruin.

  ‘I’m interested in one of your properties.’ Heath motioned to the window. ‘I saw it the other day and was going to call, but being as I was coming to the area, I thought I’d pop along in person.’

  Heath looked to see if Ms Botox had a name badge to give him a clue if she was the one he was after, but there was nothing. He could hardly peer at her chest too long without it being taken the wrong way. Not that by the looks of it there was much to see.

  Ms Botox shuffled paperwork and glanced at him with disinterest. ‘Which property is it that you’re interested in... Sir?’

  Heath kept his smile in place, despite not missing the emphasis placed on the
word ‘Sir’. The snotty bitch. ‘The farmhouse called ‘The Gables’? It’s in the window and...’

  ‘The Gables?’ Ms Botox repeated, glancing at her colleague.

  Seeing his chance to locate Helen Shepherd slip further away, Heath decided he’d better up the game. ‘Excuse me one moment.’ He pulled his mobile from his suit jacket.

  Stepping away from the desk he pretended to answer a call and listened for a couple of seconds, hoping his phone wouldn’t start ringing for real. Now that would be embarrassing.

  ‘It needs to happen today!’ Heath barked in an authoritative voice. ‘It has got to get sign off. One more take and then that’s it!’ Making a flourish of ending the non-existent call, Heath turned his attention back to Ms Botox. ‘I’m very sorry about that. Business is hectic at the moment. Now, where were we?’

  A blonde woman suddenly appeared from a separate office at the back of the room. ‘Thank you, Joanne. I’ll look after Mr...?’

  ‘Harding,’ Heath blurted, stepping forward and extending his hand. ‘Darren Harding.’

  ‘I hear you’re interested in knowing more about The Gables? I’m Helen Shepherd, partner of Shepherd, Percival and Proctor. Please come and sit down and I’ll tell you about the property and you can let me know your current situation.’

  Heath smiled widely. Probably too widely. Bingo. This was her? She wasn’t too bad for an old bird, this aunt of sorts. Was she an aunt? Half-aunt perhaps? Was there even such a thing?

  Confidently following Helen Shepherd into the swish-looking office at the back of the estate agents, he was unable to help from giving Ms Botox a smug smirk as he passed. Now she’d be kicking herself about not giving him her full attention and working out just how much commission she’d just lost. Well, she would be if he had any intention of buying the place, which he didn’t, but that wasn’t the point. Either way, the woman needed a refresher course in customer service.

  But it looked like his initial theory about Helen Shepherd may have been correct. He’d always had a bit of a gift for being able to read between the lines and he could see that despite the deliberate dignified and controlled poise the woman in front of him held, he was fairly certain that flickering below the surface was stress and worry – all pointing to deep personal troubles. This woman distinctly had things on her mind which bothered her.