Ben Bracken: Origins (Ben Bracken Books 1 - 5)

by Robert Parker

  The two men are both crossing the room now, towards the entrance hallway. One of them is a squat powerhouse, a cube of human muscle. In this confined space, Ben knows he will be a nightmare to stop. A steroidal bull in a tiny China shop. It’s a miracle that they could find a suit to fit him, let alone the sharp navy number he is wedged into. The other man is of average height but is so sprightly on his feet Ben almost misses him completely. He has crossed the room before Ben knows it. Two very different adversaries that, in the outside world, Ben would have no trouble taking on. But together, at the same time, in this tiny space, with Freya in the middle of it all? No way, he thinks - a different approach is needed.

  By the way the men have trotted across the room, Ben has surmised that neither of these guys is the boss. On hearing Ben’s entrance, the main man was never going to just poke his head around the door for Ben to have a crack at. He assumes the man must be in the bedroom. He leaps over the counter top, and motors straight for the bedroom door, opening it and flinging it shut behind him. He is not keen on leaving Freya alone, but considering their desire for the laptop, he is banking on them not touching her until they know where their prized possession is.

  Inside the room a man in his sixties is quickly pulling his trousers up. The man turns to Ben, and his expression is indeed that of a man caught with his pants down. The expression turns to venom-fueled spite, as he clanks his belt clasp closed. He is tanned, grey, wrinkled, with sparkling blue daggers for eyes. Ben shudders at the thought of how many girls have been seduced, betrayed and abused by those eyes over the years.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ the man spits. Ben answers with a forearm to the throat, hard and spiked, right into the man’s adams apple. The man bends, but doesn’t crumple, and Ben holds him upright to face the door. Ben shifts right behind him and plunges his hand into the man’s jacket pocket. He had noticed it as soon as he saw the man bending to pull his pants up - that heavy sag across the left breast-piece of the jacket. An unmistakable gun. As Ben’s fingers touch it there is a horrid moment of reconnection within Ben’s mind, as if he and the gun have a love-hate relationship borne out of experiences both good and bad, but predominantly awful -‘There you are, you bitch’, ‘Oh it’s you again, couldn’t stay away for long could you...’

  Gun in hand he holds it to the man’s head and thumbs off the safety. He pushes the man towards the door.

  ‘Name’ Ben states.

  ‘Fuck off’ the man offers, and Ben roughly pushes him towards the door and into the living room - where the other two men are now waiting. Steroid squat man holds Freya up by her hair, who writhes uncomfortably like a fish on the line. Ben can see dark bruises forming on her legs. The other man holds a gun against her chest. At the sight of their master with a gun to his head, they flinch slightly but maintain form.

  Ben begins to speak slowly and clearly.

  ‘You are to let her go or I end this man’s life. Nothing can be gained from this situation anymore - the laptop is destroyed.’

  This seems to stop everyone a little cold - apart from Freya, who still tries to stay upright despite being held out by her hair.

  ‘If you want to take issue with anyone, it’s me. The lady has no purpose or part of this anymore’ Ben continues.

  ‘Like hell she doesn’t. She’s our leverage now. You’ve done me quite the favour. Destroying the laptop destroys any evidence of our lovely little cash cow - I could thank you,’ growls the man Ben holds. Ben pulls the man closer so his right ear is tight to Ben’s mouth. He whispers.

  ‘You are as low as anything I’ve come across. You are low-rent shit in a modest apartment. Nothing more. But I’ve got a big problem with you. You fucked with my friends. You are part of the plague this country finds itself swallowed in. I know exactly what you are: you are the vile central cog of an obscene child sex ring. You are as low as low gets - profiting from the gross sickness that is paedophilia. Your precious laptop is gone, and with it that empire. But I’m not sure. The only way to be sure, is to kill you and your friends here and now, and I’m here to wipe the dog shit off Manchester’s heel.’

  ‘Don’t let her go, boys’ says the man.

  ‘Is that how you want to play this? You two - you want to play this too?’ Ben asks.

  ‘Fuck you. Kill her,’ barks the man. Freya screams on hearing the words she has been dreading since the ordeal began.

  ‘Finally, Keith,’ replies steroid squat man.

  Keith. The name resonates with Ben - every now and then, a name brings something to mind. Often it’s to do with relationships or celebrity. For Ben, the name Keith will always be synonymous with evil.

  Ben shoves Keith sharply into the kitchen, and drops to one knee. He calls to mind an occasion in Basra when he was hidden beneath a broken-down lorry on a roadside, and a member of his team had been captured by Taliban forces. As they were passing his position, he had to choose between letting them get away and probably execute his colleague, or shoot up their legs, knowing that that would not kill anyone, that the wounds would be severe, but if his colleague took a bullet or two, he would survive. That time, he fired his automatic weapon into the passing group of captors and captive. He managed to get his man out of there alive - just. His colleague took a bullet in the thigh (from Ben) and one in the shoulder (from the enemy). But he got him out of there. Now, Ben was holding a semi-automatic 9mm, a much more controlled weapon in an environment where there is only one other gun. The odds seemed pretty good to him.

  Taking aim, Ben fired as carefully and as forcefully as he could at the group opposite him, while taking care to aim for trouser legs and not delicate female calves. The contrast in targets reminds him of his training and, somehow, 3 of the 6 shots fired hit trousers, with the other three hitting the wall behind. Poor tall guy, thinks Ben - didn’t even get a shot away. It strikes Ben that they really weren’t prepared for combat, or at least not the kind of highly trained combat and tactics that Ben would be bringing to proceedings. Ben ponders whether to show mercy and leave this scum to the authorities, then he remembers what was on the laptop. Mercy vanishes, and, as they hit the floor one at a time, bullet holes in their lower legs, he finishes them both off with the remaining two slugs in the clip. Freya is left standing over the two men, and again, shock permeates her features.

  Ben’s eyes dart left, as Keith sprints for the door. Ben is firmly in command now, and he starts to sprint after him, and as he passes Freya, he grabs her hand. They run out of the apartment, hopping over the body of the key-slashed doorman, and down the corridor after Keith. Keith is running for his life, ragged and panicked - but his age slows him.

  ‘Take this right - opposite 3267 is a secret door in the wood panelling. Look for the keyhole. Trev is beyond it. Go with him - NOW’ Ben lets go of Freya, who slows to look at him.

  ‘Thank you’ she says with feeling.

  ‘GO.’ Ben says firmly.

  Freya starts to continue running. People are emerging into the hallway, having heard the commotion. Ben wants to make sure she gets out but doesn’t really want to risk someone getting a great ID of him or losing Keith. He presses on, and, for Freya and Trev, hopes for the best.

  After ten more strides, he is almost on Keith. It hits Ben how pathetic an adversary Keith is, but how awful his crimes are. The minute you turn your back in a town like this, it seems a vile puke with some awful ideas will regurgitate horrors on the unsuspecting. Keith will get everything he deserves.

  Keith is running out of both breath and corridor - up ahead is a huge window. He slows to a canter, the window and the horizon beyond becoming a haunting reminder of the freedom he had only moments ago - before this vigilante do-gooder decided to concern himself with his dealings. He turns and walks the last couple of paces to the window backwards, so he can face Ben.

  Ben has no bullets left in the gun, but knows he won’t need it. He knows Keith doesn’t have another, and Keith’s body-language betrays a submission that he is very unfamiliar wi
th. Ben thinks of all the poor girls, of all ages, Keith has towered over. He stops himself, before the hate gets too much, ten feet from Keith, and checks behind him. A couple of faces peep around ajar front doors, too scared to come out fully, which is a relief to Ben.

  He thinks about saying something to Keith - one last sign off, but he holds himself. He has said everything he needs to - Keith will go to Hell knowing it. He picks up a short, two stride sprint, and leaps into the air in a dropkick - two feet forward. At the point of impact, he kicks out both legs fully, kicking and stretching with as much brute power he can muster. One foot connects with Keith’s chest, the other with the point of his nose. The effect is devastating to Keith. Ben picked these points of impact for two reasons. Firstly, the pain of his boot shattering Keith’s nose will cause Keith’s body to stiffen rigid as a board. Secondly, the boot in the chest will shove the board-like body at high speed into the glass. Ben reasoned the combined effect would be just enough to fracture the enforced safety glass of the window - and it does just that, with a vile wet crack. Ben hears the soft whisper of wind, as Keith’s body crumples.

  Ben knows the main problem with breaking the window was always going to be that first crack, but that’s no longer a problem. As Keith slumps, his nose at a disastrous and unfixable angle, Ben catches him.

  ‘The pain you’ve caused will never leave those girls, but all that pain you might cause in future is going with you to the pavement below.’

  Keith gags angrily as if to tell Ben where to get off, but his busted nose and the blood flowing from it into his mouth won’t let him. Even to his last moment he is a gross depiction of defiance who fails to recognize a shred of evil in what he has done - which makes Ben’s next action all the easier. He swings Keith, with one hand on his lapel and one on his waistband, straight at the centre of the window. The glass gives with no resistance. The safety shield of the glass holds firm at the window edges, so the glass simply parts on the crack to allow Keith through, like a huge, jagged, transparent door. Keith slides through the widening crack, buffeted by the force, and suddenly, he is outside, howling and going down very fast. Gone.

  Ben takes the tablespoon from his pocket, and throws it out after him, down to the waking street below. He waits to hear an impact, but none arrives. His eyes drift to the vista of the city, thinking of all the other hidden horrors this society might have to offer.

  With the threat neutralised, his hangover comes back almost immediately, as if someone hoovered his adrenaline away to reveal his true ugly state beneath. No time yet for wallowing. He needs to get out - he doesn’t give a a damn about the police knowing it was him, but he doesn’t want them to find out when he’s in their custody. That would be no good at all. He picks up another explosive sprint, and heads back down the corridor, and takes the left turn back for the hidden door he sent Freya to. He hopes, above all else, that they made it - he has a feeling that they did, and he clings to it with resolve.

  6

  Trev has gone through the whole range of emotions today, and he feels it. His brain aches from what he has seen and felt - the horrors of watching Ben maim those women, the lows of losing Freya and the threat of her death, and the sheer spiraling high of having her back.

  But he knows that precisely none of it compares to what Freya has been through. He looks at her, sitting next to him on the sofa back in their Northern Quarter apartment. The place is still pretty much destroyed, but they are safe and together. He pulls her close. She is holding a coffee. Trev didn’t have one - he’s still trying to lose the taste of the super coffee he hastily poured down his gullet earlier.

  ‘Do you think he got out?’ asks Freya, her knees bunching up under her.

  ‘Yes, I do’ Trev replies. Trev didn’t know if he was lying or not.

  ‘We’ll have to invite him over at Christmas’ says Freya. Trev smiles.

  ‘Yes we will’ he says. Out of the stillness, his phone beeps. He checks it, shifting Freya gently so he can reach into his pocket. It’s a text message from Ben.

  ‘YOU WON’T SEE ME FOR A WHILE. AFTER READING THIS, DELETE MY CONTACT DETAILS IN THE PHONE. GO TO THE POLICE. TELL THEM WHAT HAPPENED - GET THE HELP YOU NEED. REGARDING WHAT HAPPENED UP THERE, TELL THEM EVERYTHING. I HAVE A NAME TO CLEAR’

  Trev reads the message twice. And smiles grimly. He shows Freya, who silently reads it and digests it. God knows what Ben did up there, but Trev knows it was in the name of good. He flicks through his contacts, and brings up Ben’s name, to which he clicks another button. The phone asks him:

  DELETE CONTACT: BEN BRACKEN?

  Trev pauses, then slowly presses the green affirmative command. And with that Ben Bracken was gone - his whereabouts unknown.

  THE BARONESS

  1

  Something wakes Michael up. Not sharply, merely that soft tug of reality you experience when in the warm squeeze of a deep sleep. Consciousness won’t release it’s grip, as he tries to ignore it and slip back into the dark tranquility he was so happy in seconds before. His eyes crack open, and he knows that that’s it - he’s up.

  Damn it, he thinks. He has a long overnight shift coming up, and he really can’t afford to be missing his rest - as the overnight security guard at Llechwedd Slate Caverns, it is hard enough at times in that inky abyss down there, without the threat of drowsiness. As he sits vaguely annoyed, his frustration is gradually overtaken by another nagging feeling - that something is not right.

  He rolls over - the bed is empty, but that is exactly what he expected. Sharon hasn’t spent the night with him in far too long - he still loves her, but he barely ever sees her. She is away with her new man, that smarmy piece of gutter slime in Bangor, about 20 minutes away by car. For all intents and purposes, he is single now and he must get used to it. However hard that may be.

  The room is dark, the curtains tight shut, but the soft light of dusk beyond permeates the fabric. His senses sharpen one at a time, search each other out and bond - he is coming round. And it’s as he comes round he realizes what woke him - a soft, high-pitched whistling. He is up straight away, tugging on the dirty jeans by his bed and hopping/buttoning them as he gets to the bedroom door.

  When out into the hallway, the whistling is a touch louder but not by much. He marches down the hall, which doesn’t take long in his old bungalow - an old miners cottage on the edge of Llanberis, Snowdonia, North Wales. It is usually warm, with the faded carpets getting sparser every year, but somehow retaining a quaint cosiness. This evening, however, it is a little cold inside, which peaks Michaels concern a touch higher.

  He knows he could shout for Sharon, but that would be too much like wishful thinking. It would be purely wasted energy, but Sharon isn’t his primary concern - his thoughts are with Matthew, his 3 month old son. Matthew’s room is back up the corridor next to the master bedroom, but he is such a light sleeper that Michael was hesitant firstly, to shout, and secondly, to disturb his boy. He knows if he disturbs him, his grandmother, Michael’s mother, will pay for it through the night. Sharon had decided within moments of Matthew’s birth, that she was unready for motherhood - and the effect on all of them had been both dramatic and traumatic. Michael’s job couldn’t bend to meet the burden of being a single father, so their routine had to accommodate his hours. He is relieved his son is such a good sleeper.

  As Michael walks back down the corridor from whence he came, he notices the whistling again - and it’s increase in volume. And as he gets closer to Matthew’s door, it is clear that the whistling is beyond it. He pauses by the door and listens. Yes, he thinks, definitely whistling. He thinks for a second that it must be the baby monitor, that is running out of batteries, or going faulty for whatever reason. He holds his breath and creaks the door open.

  As he opens the nursery door, and pokes his head around, he sees the familiar modest kids’ room - animal prints on the walls, stuffed animals on the floor, clothes folded loosely on the changing unit, the vast cot. The only thing that’s missing from th
e setting is the child itself - the cot is empty. Michael is struck by a wave of sick dizziness, the kind that only a parent will ever know when fear for their offspring kicks in. This dizziness becomes a full-on feverish panic when he sees the window open by an inch or two, the soft twilight breeze rattling against the old window frame, causing that eerie, haunting whistle as it enters the room.

  Michael almost can’t even speak, his words clogging in his throat as panic for his boy surges. He searches the room desperately. He can’t really crawl, he can’t have gone far, thinks Michael, desperately. But he knows the worst has happened. Every parents nightmare. Unless Matthew stood up and reached out of his cot to open the window, then somehow climbed out, which seems desperately fantastical, his only son has been snatched.

  Moments later, Michael is sprinting as fast as his jellied legs can carry him, into Llanberis - a quiet village which is part tourist-trap, part hikers’-retreat on the banks of Padarn Lake. Michael is mid-thirties, and not in the best shape, so as he rounds the road into the high street, he cuts a rather pudgy, wheezing figure. He knows where he is going though - in the quiet autumn months, when the tourists have all gone back to whence they came, the locals occupy the only pub that’s not an over-priced, faux-trendy, gastro-pub, love-in. And he can see it on the horizon. The Flapper and Firkin. A stone pub embodying every tradition that the pub trade seems to have forgotten in recent years - a warm welcome, with a tasty, locally-sourced pint. Perfection ordinarily, and on his nights off, Michael can often be seen in there shooting the breeze with whoever might be supping. Plus, with it being firmly a local haunt, the secrets of the village are laid bare within those four walls on a nightly basis - and if anyone knows anything, that would be the place to start.