The Taken

by Casey Kelleher

Confirming his suspicions, Joshua saw Vincent abruptly dismissing Saskia as he took his phone out from his pocket. His brother’s conversation played out, heated; Vincent’s face thunderous. Whoever it was on the other end of the line was really riling the man up.

  Hanging up, Vincent rubbed his temples, agitated, then with a darkening brow he looked up to the balcony to where Joshua was standing. Even from here, Joshua could see the anger glimmering in Vincent’s eyes. Joshua held up his glass, motioning for his brother to come up and join him. Whatever it was that was troubling the man it was about time that Vincent filled him in.

  * * *

  ‘Pour us a couple of Scotches will you, Marnie?’ Joshua smiled at the pretty young barmaid as he took a seat in the booth next to the bar. ‘Make ’em large ones yeah?’ Joshua added, as Vincent strode towards him. He had a feeling that they were going to need them.

  ‘I see the delectable Saskia didn’t “do it” for you?’ Joshua mused as Vincent slumped down in the booth next to him, his huge frame filling the chair.

  ‘I just ain’t in the mood tonight, bruv.’ Vincent shrugged. Then, seeing his brother’s unconvinced expression, he added, ‘they do my head in, the lot of them. Fake hair, fake tits, and until you cough up a bit of cash, even their fucking smiles are fake, yet women have the cheek to harp on about wanting to find a real man? What’s that about, huh?’ Shaking his head, Vincent reached for his drink, downing it in just a few gulps before raising his brows questioningly. ‘Don’t you get bored with it all?’

  Any other bloke would have a permanent boner with the likes of Saskia draped over them, but then, Vincent wasn’t like any other bloke. Vincent always told it how it was. He had no qualms in upsetting people.

  ‘I dunno, Vincent, you could be missing a trick. They have their uses. It’s a fucking cliche but it’s true what they say, you can’t live with ’em, you can’t live without ’em.’

  Vincent shook his head.

  ‘I couldn’t cope with some bird sitting in my ear giving me grief every five minutes. I like to be my own man. You remember the amount of aggro mum used to give dad. Fuck that shit!’

  ‘Yeah, but come on, the old man took the royal piss out of our old woman. Always sneaking off for a bit of strange. It was no wonder she was constantly on his case.’ Joshua raised his eyes. ‘What about that old bird down the road. What did we used to call her? You know the one, parading around in mini-skirts with a face full of slap.

  ‘Who, old Brenda the fucking bike? She was shagging half the bleeding street.’

  ‘That’s it! Brenda.’ Joshua laughed. ‘The old man was up her like a bleeding ferret every time mum left the house to play her bingo.’

  Since their parents had died, he’d taken the role of head of the family. Taking Vincent under his wing, Joshua was determined to look out for his younger brother. He was all he had, at the end of the day.

  Sitting back in his chair, he eyed his brother with seriousness now.

  ‘So? Who was that on the blower just now? You having problems?’

  ‘You could say that!’ Turning to the barmaid, Vincent indicated for another drink. He’d been dreading this conversation all evening, but he couldn’t put it off any longer. ‘Though it’s more a case of “we’ve” got problems, bruv… ’ Vincent cleared his throat. ‘We might have to cool off the op for a bit.’

  ‘Good one.’ Joshua laughed at Vincent’s ridiculous suggestion, then seeing brother’s face remain deadpan, he narrowed his eyes.

  Vincent wasn’t fucking about. Whatever was going on this was serious.

  ‘We’ve just coined in over three million quid. Why the fuck would we cool it off now?’

  ‘There was a fuck-up this morning with the shipment. The boat ran into some trouble.’

  Taking his drink from Marnie before she placed Joshua’s Scotch down on the table, Vincent circled his thumb around the rim of the glass, contemplating how to break the news.

  ‘Trouble?’ Joshua glared. He’d counted the money himself. It was all there… what the fuck was Vincent talking about? ‘What kind of trouble?’ Tapping the table between them with his fingers he felt suddenly agitated. Vincent had been here all evening. If something happened this morning why the fuck was he only just hearing about it now?

  ‘There was a fire. A couple of miles out from the drop off point in Weymouth. The boat never made it. Apparently some dog walker reported finding a body washed up on the beach this evening. I only found out a few hours ago myself. The coastguard’s scouring the sea for more bodies as we speak, but it’s not looking good, bruv.’

  ‘Are you fucking kidding me? I’d say it’s a little bit more than a fuck-up, wouldn’t you?’ Joshua was fuming now. All fucking evening he’d been laughing and joking with his men, celebrating their good fortune, only to find out now that the operation was in jeopardy. ‘A sinking ship is a fucking catastrophe. Why the fuck didn’t you tell me sooner? How many people were on board?’

  ‘A hundred, tops.’ Vincent raised his hands up. ‘I’m handling it. I didn’t want to burden you with the minor detail unless I had to… ’

  ‘Minor detail?’ Joshua gritted his teeth. ‘Since when did a hundred fucking dead bodies floating in the English Channel become a minor fucking detail?’ Shaking his head Joshua was fuming. ‘Are you sure that there are no survivors?’

  ‘The boat went down this morning, apparently. I’d say that any chance of finding survivors now is slim to none. The only thing they’ll be fishing out of the water will be corpses.’

  Joshua sat back in his chair, deep in thought, quiet for a few minutes as he digested the news.

  Finally, he spoke again. Calmer, back in control.

  ‘Nothing can be traced back to us can it?’ This op was far too lucrative to shut down, but Vincent was right. They’d need to cool it. Lay low for a bit so that the authorities wouldn’t be onto them.

  Vincent shook his head.

  ‘The fishing boat was bought privately – for cash – as per usual. Everyone on board had paid up. We made sure that no one carried any kind of ID on them; everything was kosher, like always. Done by the book.’

  ‘Good!’ Joshua interrupted. Leaning forward in the chair, relaxed a little. ‘You’re right. We’re gonna have to cool things off for a bit. It’s a fucking inconvenience but we don’t have much choice. We’ll lay low for a few weeks. Three maximum. Just until the heat’s off.’

  He was thinking now, his brain in overdrive.

  ‘To be fair, the coastguard probably won’t probe too much into it. This country’s fucking overrun with immigrants as it is without another boatload of the fuckers.’

  Joshua glared, his expression suddenly deadly serious.

  ‘Next time the shit hits the fan, Vincent, I wanna be the first person to be told. Brother or not, this is my operation, my business. I brought you in on this because I need the muscle. You said you could handle it? Next time something like this goes down you do not keep me in the dark, do you understand?’

  Vincent nodded. Heeding his brother’s ruthless warning, he finished the dregs of his drink.

  Joshua grinned, his composure regained as he focused on the money they had already made. In the grand scheme of things, a few weeks of laying low wasn’t going to affect them really. It was unfortunate that people had died, but that was the business they were in. Those people were nothing more than collateral damage.

  ‘Fuck ’em. We’ve got our money. Tonight’s still a success. You win some, you lose some eh!’

  18

  Rattling the door wildly as he stared out from the tiny gap, he let his eyes flicker frantically across the darkened room. He could hear the metal padlock scraping against the edge of the wooden doorway, but it held fast.

  Trembling, he wrapped his arms tightly around his torso. He was beyond cold. Dressed in only his pants, the baggy waistband sagging at the narrowness of his hips, the soiled cotton material sticking to his skin.

  The faeces had been warm at first, now
they had gone cold and he’d been forced to sit in the damp pool of liquid. His bottom felt sticky and sore.

  She’d be angry with him when she finally came. Angrier than she already was.

  She loathed the way that he never seemed to be able to control his bowels, hated the sickly acidic smell that radiated off of him in waves.

  She’d punish him for this, he knew that.

  As if leaving him locked inside ‘the hole’ wasn’t punishment enough. She was always so angry with him. For ruining her life: that’s what she said when she repeatedly beat him with her shoe and the belt that was draped over the back of the bedroom chair. His eyes rested on the silver buckle now, gleaming like a brilliant gem as a thin sliver of moonlight from outside penetrated the darkness of the room. Only it wasn’t a jewel at all, it was a weapon.

  Running his fingers along his bony thighs he traced the tender red welts that she’d inflicted on him earlier.

  His lips were cracked, dried up just like his throat.

  Where was she?

  When would she come?

  Prepared for her wrath – but he was desperate for food and water. His stomach was hollow with an emptiness that made him feel physically pained. The void in his belly ached with such intensity he had no other choice but to try to antagonise her, to call out until she came. Even if it meant that he would forfeit any chance of being let out of here.

  Maybe she had forgotten that he was in here? Locked away in the hole by himself.

  Shouting loudly, he banged his fists against the wooden door.

  ‘Mother!’ he bellowed. ‘Please, Mother. I’m hungry. Please.’

  The bedroom door burst open.

  He’d done it now. Finally, he’d summoned her to him. He listened as her footsteps stomped across the room, until she was standing just outside of the hole now, screaming wildly at him to shut up, her hands frantically unbolting the padlock.

  She tugged the door open – a harsh yellow light flooding the tiny space.

  He squinted then, startled by the brightness.

  Pushing himself backwards he cowered up against the back wall, screwing his eyes up, shielding himself from the blinding light and his mother’s presence.

  He waited a few moments before he opened his eyes. She was there, looming in the doorway, her face mottled, her curly hair wild. Her eyes wide with fury.

  The only emotions he recognised in her were those of anger and hate.

  ‘Look at the fucking state of you. You fucking stink,’ she spat. Her lips twisted in disdain at what she saw before her.

  He was a mess. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d washed himself, or sat on the toilet. Instead he’d been cramped in here – in this tiny space – day after day, left to fend for himself. His body was underdeveloped, emaciated. His ribs were jutting out of his chest, his collar bone prominent. His eyes were sunken in his head. His skin pale and gaunt. He looked more like a toddler than a boy of eight.

  He was crying now. Thick, heavy tears rolled down his cheeks as he sobbed.

  His heart heavy with emotion.

  ‘Please Mother. I’m hungry… ’

  She clenched her fists in anger, incensed by the boy’s brazen demands. ‘I told you to shut up didn’t I?’ she screeched. Bending down, she grabbed him by his throat, hoisting him into the air, lifting him up so that he was eye level with her.

  He struggled, kicking out. His eyes bulging in his head as he frantically gulped the air around him, desperately trying to release the pressure of his windpipe.

  His tiny frail body was no match for hers. She squeezed him tighter and he saw the grin on her face as he convulsed in her grip – recognised the empowerment he’d given her as he gave into his fear.

  Her eyes were manic now. The smell of the alcohol overpowering, even mixed with the sourness of her breath. She looked crazy, out of control. Like she wanted to throttle the life out of him. To put him out of his misery once and for all.

  His lungs screamed for air, wheezing, sucking, but there was none to be had.

  He gave in then, unable to fight anymore. His exhausted body suddenly limp as he gave himself to the darkness, slipping into unconsciousness.

  He wondered if he was dead. It was like tunnel vision now. Like he was watching himself from afar as his tiny body was being dragged back into the hole.

  She pushed his leg in with her foot; locking the door behind her before she left him alone once more.

  He was right back where he started. Trapped in his hellish prison, lying limp on the floor, slowly dying of starvation.

  No one would find him.

  No one would ever know.

  She’d told him that many times.

  The walls started closing in on him, suffocating him. His body sprawled out in the tiny space as bugs crawled up from under the bare floorboards, feasting on his rotting flesh.

  Springing bolt upright on the bed, Colin inhaled a deep breath of air, dripping with sweat as his heart hammered inside his chest.

  It was a nightmare, he told himself, nothing more than a bad dream. A nightmare that constantly haunted him.

  It was his mother’s fault. She’d really pushed him tonight; triggering off his night terrors with her incessant bullying.

  He tried so hard to bury the memories deep down inside of him, but they always found their way back up to the surface.

  His mother might not force him inside ‘the hole’ anymore, but he was still imprisoned by her. Only, now the captivity he suffered was purely psychological.

  He was trapped. Stuck in his mother’s monotonous company, forced to listen to the constant barrage of cruel taunts.

  The woman always seemed to come alive when she drank. Her eyes sparkled with a glint of something sinister as she passionately spewed the venomous poison from inside of her. All of it aimed at him.

  ‘Why did they take her?’ she had bawled, not waiting for an answer. ‘She was my baby, my sweet little girl? Why? Why?’

  Another of her breakdowns. Colin knew the warning signs well; he’d suffered enough of them over the years. His mother had never got over Karen’s death.

  ‘It should have been you,’ she screeched. ‘Look at you now, nothing more than a bitter disappointment… Forty years of age and still living at home with mummy. If Karen was alive, she’d have made me proud. She’d have been somebody. Not like you… ’

  Colin winced at his mother’s venomous words. She wished more than anything that it had been Colin who had died. Not her precious daughter. She’d told him enough times over the years.

  He’d only been three years old when his sister Karen was born. She’d only lived for a few weeks before she’d passed away. Cot death, they said.

  Colin hadn’t understood any of it. His mother, imprisoned in her own grief, had cut herself off from him. That was when she’d started drinking.

  They’d left the cot in his room for weeks. Taunting him. Oblivious to the fact that Colin was petrified of it. Convinced that after killing Karen it might try and get him too.

  Karen’s death had affected them all. His mother the worst. Tonight she’d been incessant, bitter – her grief eating her up.

  ‘You’re just like him,’ she sneered then. ‘That useless good-for-nothing cunt. He should have taken him with you when he left; only he didn’t want you either, did he!’

  She was talking about his dad now. How he’d walked out on her, left her. Unable to cope with her drinking and her depression. Yet his mother had always blamed Colin.

  Her voice, the high-pitched screeching, radiated through him, grating on his brain with her every word.

  ‘Everyone left. Why the fuck didn’t you?’ she sneered. ‘Oh that’s right, you can’t fend for yourself. I keep forgetting how you’re special in the fucking head.’ Mary cackled, remembering the words of one of the many social workers that had passed through her doors over the years. ‘All those do-gooders dishing out counselling as if they were on fucking commission or something. Where are they now eh
, Colin? No one gives a shit about you now, boy.’

  She was laughing, mocking him. Just as she always did. Taking him to the edge and then letting him dangle.

  Karen’s death had affected him too. His father leaving meant Colin’s life had been turned upside down. His mother had made every waking moment a living hell.

  ‘Well, you’re not completely useless.’ Slinging her glass at him she added, ‘run along, mummy’s boy, and pour me another glass will you.’

  Colin stood in the kitchen, his fists clenched in tight balls at his sides, an irritating twitch pulsating in the corner of his right eye, his chest tightening.

  He was having to fight harder than normal to suppress the urge to pounce on the woman, to smash her ugly, thick skull in. Suppressing the years of abuse had made him feel weak and pathetic, but he could feel his anger boiling under the surface.

  Then he saw the tablets discarded on the kitchen windowsill. They would shut her up. For a while at least. It was so simple he wondered why he hadn’t thought of it sooner. All those nights he’d waited so patiently for the drink to take its inevitable effect. All the abuse he had endured while waiting for her to slowly drink herself into unconsciousness when the remedy to silence her vulgar mouth had been right in front of him all along.

  Crushing up a handful of pills, he sprinkled the fine white powder into the glass before giving it a stir with his finger, praying that the quantity would have the desired effect. Then doubting himself, he crushed up a couple more, as generous with his dosage as she was with her hatred.

  Walking back into the lounge he handed her the glass, but standing beside her in silence he felt suddenly anxious.

  What if she recognised the bitter taste of the tablets?

  He needn’t have worried. Snatching the glass from him with her bony hand, her dark beady eyes didn’t leave the TV screen as she greedily drank the concoction down in one go.

  ‘I was wrong to say that to you, Colin,’ she said now, staring up at her only son.

  Colin felt his chest constrict at her words; his face flickering with confusion.