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

by Robert Parker

  2

  Inside, the pub is just as he imagined. The shell of the pub is the archetypal, hulking, inner-city drinking public house, the shape of tradition festooned with the trappings of time and changing trends. Within that same shell, is a dark sticky-floored boozer, all spit, sawdust and too many plasma televisions, all blaring Sky Sports News at an intolerable volume. He approaches the bar, across a central wooden dance-floor that looks like, judging from the sickly mass of assorted drinks stains splattered right across it, it has seen a great deal of action. Nobody appears to be about at all, but he sticks to his role of ‘cheeky drinker who should really be in work’. As he gets to the bar, his senses kick in, pondering options and possibilities, confirming strategies and plans.

  He feels there must be at least one weapon behind the bar, close to the cash register. Most fights break out over money. He spies the cash register at the far right hand side. Ben thinks that may well be too far right to protect the entirety of the bar, so he reasons there must be another one on the far left. After all, you don’t get to the highest branch of London’s gangster tree by being lazy when it comes to security, do you? Ben heads to that left hand side, with a plan in mind to establish where the firearms dwell. Exits are where he came in, and presumably through the kitchen. The bar itself is open plan, with seating areas sectioned off by wooden partition walls. No other exits. Ben convinces himself he won’t need one. MIght as well get started, he thinks. Make contact with a barman, get the ball rolling.

  ‘Hello?’ he shouts. ‘Anyone about?’

  He gives the request that jovial lilt, that kind of vocal exuberance that doesn’t suggest anything other than ‘happy fellow’. He waits. A door clicks somewhere, as Ben’s eyes are drawn to the kitchen door to the left of the bar, and he waits with an expectance that he desperately tries to keep hidden from his face.

  ‘Just after a quick pint, but if you’re shut...’ he follows up. That should have set the bar staff’s expectations for the visitor before they even lay eyes on me, he thinks. The kitchen door suddenly swings open, and to Ben’s amazement, in walks Terry ‘The Turn-Up’ Masters. He looks unhurried and relaxed. Ben presses on with his task, even though it feels like he might drop his guts. He was not expecting alone time with Masters - at any point.

  ‘I saw the pub and wondered if I could get a quick pint? I should really be in work, but you know...’ Ben asks, while wondering if he laid it on a touch thick. Up close, Masters looks different - too much plastic surgery, which, away from the TV cameras and in the real world, looks extremely peculiar indeed. With that ludicrous thatch of jet black hair over a face full of improbably shiny and smooth angles, he looks like a part-melted Jim Henson creation. However he smiles with genuine warmth.

  ‘I know the feeling!’ Masters counters. ‘Of course, we are open. What can I get you?’

  There is a vulnerability to Masters that seems to come from his appearance - deep down there are some insecurities that needed to be masked by that near-ridiculous surface. This vulnerability, this patter... Ben was prepared for a lot of things, but he certainly was not prepared for him being likable. So he keeps going.

  ‘Brilliant, thank you! Well, I’m a bit of a real ale man, so what can you recommend?’ Ben gestures to the T-bar and the pump-clips above. ‘You appear to have quite the selection!’

  ‘Most of this stuff is forced upon us by the brewery - you know how difficult the pub industry can be at times. Always trying to cut corners, and leveraging against landlords - you’d be forgiven for thinking that the brewery’s were trying to run the pubs out of business!’

  Ben laughs genuinely, catching himself off guard, then chastises himself inside. ‘Jesus, Ben’ he thinks ‘Be careful.’ Masters continues.

  ‘Despite all the wishy-washy cat-piss we are sometimes forced to stock, I always manage to sneak one in that’s my own choice, which we do with one of our local suppliers by the barrel.’ With that, Masters takes a small glass from behind the bar and squeezes the pump handle on the end of the T-bar, pouring Ben a little taster, which he duly hands over. ‘Give this one a little try’.

  Ben takes it, while Masters stares at him with hope and expectance, like he genuinely hopes that his own personal beer selection will impress the stranger. Ben smells it, and takes the small measure in one gulp.

  ‘That’s very good,’ Ben says. Masters smiles warmly, and begins filling a pint pot with that same ale. ‘You may have me here all day at this rate!’

  ‘You’re welcome anytime.’ Masters responds, and puts the pint on the bar. Ben thinks about the second firearm he was hoping to pinpoint, but is forced to acknowledge that Master’s hasn’t done anything at all to reveal it - if it’s even there, in fact.

  ‘What do I owe you?’ Ben asks.

  ‘My treat - it’s nice to meet a fellow ale drinker’ replies Masters.

  At this point, Ben is left in no doubt how Masters is as respected as he is, and how he finds himself perched high as London’s crime kingpin. He is extremely charming, with a manner that commands both respect and loyalty. Ben feels more than a touch seduced, but he knows why that is - Masters reminds Ben of his father. The kindly, respectful, pub-dwelling charmer who goes by the name of Frederick Bracken. Ben hadn’t seen him in years, and his own reaction to Masters’ character surprises him in revealing just how much he misses his father - or indeed a father figure. Ben raises his glass.

  ‘To sneaky pints’ he suggests.

  Masters nods and smiles. Ben needs to get to it, and needs to make this quality alone time count for something other than a hearty chit-chat.

  ‘Is it always as quiet as this?’

  ‘More often than not,’ Masters replies. ‘We only really get the same old faces in this place, and even they are few and far between’.

  ‘It’s a shame. It’s a nice place.’ Ben has a nice sup.

  ‘Is that why you’ve been parked outside it for the last couple of days?’ Masters asks cooly.

  Ben damn near spits his ale out, but manages to keep it down. He glances at Masters over the rim of the pint glass at his mouth. Masters stares back expectedly with exactly the same demeanour as moments earlier. If the question wasn’t loaded with spiteful intent, you’d never know. Ben is faced with a moment where he fears he has made a grave mistake. He thought he had been so careful with his own movements so as to avoid detection. He now feels extremely foolish, and totally underprepared - and worse than that, he feels like he has been smoked out. He realizes he has been drinking for an abnormally long time, and he needs to recalibrate his thoughts and think on his feet. He lowers his glass, and decides to fight fire with fire - still wrapped in the amenable nature of the conversation so far. His objective screams at him from the back of his mind: ‘Get that confession!’

  ‘Frankly I wanted to meet you. And you gave me a chance.’

  Masters gravitates slowly towards the left of the bar, under the pretense of cleaning a glass with a mucky dishrag. For Ben, it all adds to the notion that there is a weapon secreted over there somewhere.

  ‘The cloak and dagger stuff suggests you’ve got it in for me. Is that so?’ Masters asks, hopping up to perch on the counter at the back of the bar. Ben walks over to follow him to his position, remembering he needs to stay close for the microphone to pick up anything that comes out of Masters mouth.

  ‘I was hoping to have a chat with you, and we’d see how it went’ Ben responds.

  ‘And how is it going, in your opinion?’ asks Masters. This polite verbal sparring is so off-kilter, with it’s undercurrents of violence and menacing sentiments wrapped in lexical fluff.

  ‘It’s been extremely pleasant so far, but I would imagine you’re about to give me some bad news on that front.’

  ‘It depends. You can categorize most people who want a word with me as either police, those looking for a favor, or those stupid enough to think they can have a pop.’ Masters fixes him with a searching sideways glance that crawls right under Ben’s fingernails
and itches. ‘Which one is it that you fall into?’

  Ben drinks some more, wondering if he can keep the conversation in amiable territory. Masters’ candour has unsettled him so much, he feels that he must have some backup plan ready and waiting to instigate at a seconds notice. The longer he can stop that from happening, the better.

  ‘While you are procrastinating...’ says Masters.

  Abruptly, Masters’ gets up and creaks the kitchen door open. Ben flinches hard, readying himself for a sticky situation... but all he can hear is an odd slapping and clicking. A lot of slapping and clicking, getting closer. Masters whistles loud and shrill. The door thuds and clunks, the slapping and clicking unmuffles and is somehow in the room, and suddenly, three pitbulls run around the side of the bar into bar area, claws clattering off the wood around Ben’s feet.

  Ben looks down at them, as they wander about sniffling and waddling. They are compact and muscular dogs, with huge under-biting incisors below crumpled fleshy faces. They behave excitedly, as if they’ve not been this side of the bar for a while. Ben is struggling to believe what a fool he has been here - wading into a dangerous mobster’s pub with a microphone, an impotent swagger and jack-shit else.

  ‘Alright... what can I help you with?’ Masters asks, perching back onto the counter-top. Ben tries to stay as cool as possible, given that three nasty-looking dogs are sniffing around his feet.

  ‘I saw you on television’ Ben says. ‘You were on the court steps.’

  ‘Ah, yes. The camera adds at least ten pounds, I was shocked too.’ Masters quips.

  ‘I was more interested in what you were saying, not how you looked. Although, now you mention it, you did look like a dementia ward patient in that jacket.’ counters Ben. He tips his glass to Masters and glugs. This was part of the initial plan, so nothing to worry about so far. Irritate Masters into spilling something either out of anger or through showing off.

  ‘You liked that jacket? I’ll tell you about that jacket...’ Masters starts to smile. ‘That jacket is a hand-me-down. The original owner, well, he was an old fellow who... was reluctant to share. I wore that jacket to remind him how to share.’ Masters’ eyes flick to Ben and bore straight through him. ‘Or at least, his old associates will have seen such a gentle little reminder.’

  Ben just stares back - so close to a confession of any kind, but nothing yet. If he dropped that off to the police, the audio would find the waste bin pretty soon after the play button had been hit. Nevertheless, Ben wonders what the real story is behind Masters’ anecdote.

  ‘Before you get antsy, and you get any more excited, just have a look at the table by the fireplace,’ Masters instructs. Ben slowly twists his head, but doesn’t know where he is supposed to be looking. ‘4 o’clock’, guides Masters. Ben follows the instruction, and catches two eyes looking back at him, from beneath the table. There is a third duller eye, but he knows what that is - the scope on a rifle. He nearly loses the contents of his there and then. He cant’s see the man in the murk, but he can see that it is an old hunting rifle, and it is trained directly between Ben’s eyes. All bets are off. Ben’s earlier suspicions regarding Masters’ involvement in arms dealings seem pretty much confirmed. Ben glances around for cover - there’s pretty much nothing in the vicinity that would protect him from that. Nothing at all.

  Masters speaks. ‘You know why I know you are here for a reason? To anyone, man woman or child, within a 3 mile radius, this place is off limits. I barely even lock the door anymore. I run the charade of a pub, with the TV’s on and the pumps active, but really? You’re in over your head.’

  ‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ says Ben.

  ‘You’ve been sat in your car for the last couple of days, that shit little Ford. You must think either you’re something special or I’m mentally defunct, because do you think I don’t know for one minute everything that goes on in this street, the next street, the street after that, the street after that, the sodding street after that?’

  Ben is stumped. He was expecting a wily character, but nothing like this. He feels outsmarted, outfoxed and outplayed.

  ‘Simply put, do you have anything to offer me? You’ve been gradually sticking your beak in here, and I’m not looking for new friends. So unless you’ve got something of value to me, I’ll be doing away with you here and now. So... I’m listening.’

  The true Turn-Up has been revealed. Ben senses the terror that so many people must have felt at the feet of the this man, but keeps it at bay through sheer disrespect. There is nothing Ben admires about this man, and that is becoming the tool that Ben will draw upon to achieve his objective. He despises everything about this man’s success, and he intends to let Masters know it.

  ‘I was in Iraq as a grunt. Later, I was In Afghanistan as a captain. I’ve seen jumped up little Napoleons like yourself before, in a lot of different guises but a lot more menacing than you. I’ve seen things that would make your eyes widen despite yourself. I could tell you stories that’ll make you want to march over to your precious beer pump and pour yourself another and another and another until you forget you heard them. If you think I’m scared of a few dogs, a bloke lying on a beer stained carpet with a peashooter unsuited to the job and an old fellow who looks more like David Gest held over a match for too long, then you are extremely incorrect.’

  Masters veneer doesn’t waver - moreover, it appears that Ben may have accidentally activated an even steelier layer, as Masters’ lip begins to curl in a cruel sneer.

  ‘Those dogs at your feet. They have scant regard for your sob stories from abroad. They won’t listen to you when your trying to justify your pitiful, pointless existence. However, they will listen to me when I tell them to rip your fucking feet off.’

  Ben senses movement from the other side of the room, and whips around to check it. The sniper is up and moving, but he’s not coming with attack in mind. He’s actually hopping up onto the bar, off the floor. As Ben notes that Masters himself is up off the floor, the penny begins to drop.

  ‘Let’s see what you’re made of, grunt’ Masters spits, then shouts ‘Git! Git!’ and whistles loud and long.

  The dogs at Ben’s feet look up, as if to smell the sound of the whistle. The dog on the left growls, a low throaty rumble through lots of teeth and saliva.

  ‘Attack dogs were all the rage in the 60’s. We used to train them and pit them against each other, and I never forgot the knack. The trick was finding a trigger and conditioning them with brute force. Batter them full of hate, that you can release with a simple whistle. Works a treat, even if I do say so myself’.

  Ben looks at the dogs nervously, who are now circling him like squat fur-clad sharks. Ben gets into a crouch of his own, ready to fight tooth and nail just like the oncoming three might. He’s never fought a dog before hand to hand, but he has had to get involved on a couple of occasions. Once, when he was in his teens, the family cat had got on the wrong side of a greyhound that was passing the front of the house with it’s exhausted owner in tow. Ben had been sitting in the front room playing Playstation when he had seen through the window, the greyhound break it’s leash and sprint breakneck at the poor bewildered cat. The cat had no chance, and the greyhound took it in it’s mouth without problem. Ben ran out, and got his hands on the greyhound, but he just could’t get the dog to release the cat. The dog just stared at him, it’s jaws locked tight as titanium. It was all a big game. The dog never broke eye contact with Ben, while it slowly clamped down on the cat, popping and cracking it’s ribs one by one. And they say cats are mean, thought Ben. Ben tried with his own hands to force the jaws open, but couldn’t do it for the life of him. He gave up, and as soon as that happened, the dog didn’t see the point in the game anymore. Ben had had to finish the cat off to put it out of it’s misery - it was a harsh lesson but one that did him good for the years to come.

  The dog in the middle charged - head up, teeth bared, spit flying. Ben had no teeth to counter with (well, none that would make
any difference), so he threw a punch. Same principles apply - humans, dogs, it’s still in incoming target. As his fist sailed through the air he had no idea how it would work out.

  As it turns out, it works out pretty horribly. He manages to strike the mutt on the collar, and actually cuts his knuckles on the silver buckle. The force of the hit manages to send the dog sideways, so at least, for Ben, it’s a start. The other two dogs are on him. The left one has a mouthful of trouser leg and shin bone, while the one on the right is airborne like the last. Ben swings his right boot into the dog clamping his leg, and makes good contact that doesn’t even shift the muscular hound. The flying dog clamps onto his right arm, and bits hard. It is absolutely excruciating, and as the dog swings down still hanging, it feels to Ben like the most awful wet Chinese burn imaginable. He limps to the bar with the two dogs attached, raises his right arm with the dog dangling and swings the dog down onto the t-bar as hard as he can. The dog clatters, smashes and yelps as it releases it’s grip and tumbles behind the bar. ‘I hope that felt as ugly as it looked’, Ben thinks.

  The other dog has now joined the other in ripping his left calf to bits. Ben bends down and unleashes a hail of punches on the pair, left and right, left and right, all across the back, head and hindquarters. Nothing budges them. Ben can feel the flesh of his leg being shredded and separated. He grows increasingly desperate. He bends and twists himself as he does, so that he is practically straddling the nearest dog. He reaches for both the dog’s front feet, grabs hold, and yanks up to the ceiling as hard as he can. Disgustingly, the dog’s legs follow, and crack loudly as they too point at the sky in an improbable and fatal angle. He has ripped the dogs ribcage apart, and he didn’t enjoy it one bit. The stricken dog slumps. It will be a horrible death for this one, and Ben takes no pleasure at all in it. The last remaining dog lets go almost immediately at seeing the fate of it’s broken comrade, and backs away.

  Ben stands there, his leg shredded and bleeding, with a gurgling, dying pitbull at his feet. He looks up at Masters, as if to say ‘You were saying?’. Masters own face splits with rage, and he leaps off the counter whistling as he goes. The gunman rushes over, with a shocked look on his face too. It’s a face that Ben recognizes - Markland, Masters’ son.