by Jessie Keane
138
Connor hated to do it, but he’d had to put Aysha in the picture. If the Milo woman was still hanging around – and she might be – then he didn’t want Aysha being approached by some stranger and mocked for her ignorance. Within a week, Dad’s will was going to be read at the solicitor’s up West, yet another fucking dreadful thing to look forward to.
After Connor left Aysha’s, he did something he’d been wanting to do for a long, long time. Now Dad was gone it seemed appropriate somehow. He drove down to the gypsy camp where Josh had lived as a young man.
Josh had often talked about this place to his son – never in front of Mum and never to Aysha, though. He’d told Connor how he’d got started in the ring when he’d lived here. The place was a good tan, Josh had always said; that was the Romany word for a stopping place. He had told tales of his long-ago manager Cloudy Grey, of an old derelict church, and of a tribe of deadbeat pig farmers called the Cleavers who had once lived not far from the site, where a little circle of eight trailers were parked up well off the road down a bumpy gravel track. And about Linus Pole, his old mucker with the funfair business, who’d helped him as a fighter.
The campsite backed on to woodland and then on to open fields – puvs, Josh had always called them, and Connor thought how little he knew of his Romany heritage, and it was sort of sad. But then, Shauna had never wanted to be reminded of any of it. And whenever Josh had used those old words, she’d always yelled at him, told him to speak the cunting Queen’s English.
Connor paused in the lane, looking down the track that led to the site, and then he put the car in gear and drove on until he reached a place where bill boards were up saying Fun’s the game and Pole’s the name! He turned the Porsche in off the road and inched along a rutted track, hoping he wasn’t going to fuck the Porsche’s suspension. When the track opened into a clearing with trailers, he stopped the car.
Five big dogs ran out, barking. He stayed put, as Dad had told him he always must when approaching a camp. Stay where you are, Josh had always said, and they’ll come out to see what the noise is all about. If they want you to come further, they’ll call off the dogs. Don’t go wandering in there on foot unannounced, though: the dogs are there to stop you and they’ll happily do it by tearing a good-sized chunk out of your arse.
Not that Connor had ever been within a mile of any place like this, not until now. Shauna had seen to that.
A couple of men emerged from one of the trailers, followed by a girl of about eighteen with a dark-haired baby crying on her hip. They stared over at Connor’s car, then one of the men gave a whistle and the dogs fell back, slinking off into the undergrowth as quickly as they had appeared.
The man who’d called off the dogs, a big middle-aged beer-bellied type wearing braces that strained over his shirt-covered gut, came over. Connor wound down his window.
‘What you want then, boy?’ the man asked him. His face was reddened from the outdoors life, his eyes watchful but benign. He wore a large handlebar moustache.
‘I’m looking for Mr Bubba Pole.’
For a moment it looked like Connor was going to be told to piss off, then Bubba’s face cleared.
‘Well, you found him.’ Bubba squinted at Connor. ‘And . . . you couldn’t be Josh Flynn’s kid, could you? I got a good memory for faces. I saw you when I came out your dad’s place once for a chat on business. Although you’ve grown up a damned lot since then.’
‘Yeah. That’s me. I’m Connor.’
‘You’re welcome here, Mr Flynn.’
A dark-haired boy of about twelve with light-blue eyes came running up and threw his arms round Bubba. Bubba smiled down at him. ‘This here’s Archie, my youngest.’
‘Hiya, Archie,’ said Connor, reaching out a hand. Archie shook it, solemnly.
‘You got a big family, Mr Pole?’ Connor asked.
‘Archie’s one of six.’
‘I like your car,’ said Archie, his gaze running over the Porsche like he was in seventh heaven.
‘Archie do love a nice car. You in the boxing game then, like your dad?’ asked Bubba. ‘Come on in, don’t sit there. My old lady’s gonna cook you something.’
Connor got out of the car. Archie was still standing there, his eyes saucer-like and one hand stroking the Porsche’s gleaming paintwork. ‘Get in, have a try-out,’ said Connor.
Archie dived into the driving seat and grabbed the steering wheel, beaming from ear to ear.
Connor drew Bubba to one side. ‘Mr Pole . . .’
‘It’s Bubba, Connor. Our families go way back.’
‘Bubba. I’m sorry. I’ve got sad news.’
Archie was going vroom vroom and taking sharp corners at the wheel of the Porsche.
‘What is it?’
‘It’s Dad, Bubba. He died in the ring while he was over in the States. Took a bad blow and never came round.’
Bubba’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Jesus, no.’
‘The funeral was a few days ago. I’m sorry, I realize I should have told you this sooner, given you the chance to come and pay your respects, but . . .’ Connor hesitated, sighed. Shauna, Aysha, him – they had all been shattered by Josh’s death and by the news of his secret life – and none of them had been thinking straight. But he couldn’t tell Bubba that.
‘It’s all right, I understand. When my dad Linus went, I didn’t know my own arse from a hole in the ground. Ah, that’s terrible sad news.’ Bubba swiped at his eyes. ‘He was a fine man, your father. A legend. Beat the shit out of every fighter I ever put up against him – and we had some fantastic talent, I can tell you.’
‘He was a great dad,’ said Connor.
Bubba looked at Archie, who looked set to stay behind the Porsche’s wheel all day if he could. ‘Come along, Arch, get out of the man’s car. Let’s go see your mum and get him some food and drink.’
‘No, let him sit there, he’s fine,’ said Connor. ‘Bubba? You know anything about a Claire Milo?’
‘Sure I do. That was Pally’s girl, she vanished years back. Moved on somewhere, I guess. She was going to marry your father, and then it was all off.’
Connor was quiet, absorbing this. Then he said: ‘You know anything about some people called the Cleavers?’
‘I know they’re arseholes,’ said Bubba. ‘We got an agreement – they leave us alone and we don’t bother them.’
‘Someone mentioned them to me,’ said Connor.
‘Yeah? Well, that someone ought to be more careful of who they mix with. They’re pig farmers up the lane. Wife took off years ago, then the two eldest boys. Now there’s only Jeb and his dad Bill there, but they ain’t friendly.’
‘You think I could speak to them?’
‘I think you’d be crazy to try,’ said Bubba. ‘Now come on in and forget them, for the love of God.’
139
A week later, Connor put on his black suit, Turnbull & Asser white shirt and black tie, and then he drove Mum in the Porsche to the West End offices of their family solicitor for the reading of the will.
They sat in a dark-toned waiting room with comfy low seating and two over-large ficus pot plants. Pink copies of the Financial Times were laid out on a coffee table in front of them. Mum was still in the black of mourning. She was pale but crisply groomed, her eyes dark-shadowed and without expression.
Aysha arrived ten minutes after they got there, letting in a gust of cold air with her. She looked washed out, depressed. Connor reckoned that not even Benedict could cheer her up on a day like this. The receptionist offered them all coffee or tea, but they refused.
‘I’m sure he won’t be much longer,’ said the smiling girl, who was used to a procession of grief and misery passing through.
The outer door opened again, admitting another blast of chilly air, and then closed. None of them took any notice. Two women crossed to the desk. The receptionist smiled at them.
‘We’re here for the reading of Mr Flynn’s will,’ said the older one.
‘If you’ll take a seat, Miss . . . ?’ said the receptionist.
‘Claire. I’m Claire Milo and this is my daughter.’
The older woman turned toward the seating area. Connor was struck by two things before hell erupted – that his father’s mistress was prettier than his brief glimpse of her at the graveyard or in the photographs had suggested. And her daughter was a beauty. Her eyes were huge, and they were the clear pale powder-blue of the Man City strip, set under finely arched brows. Her lips were full. There was a Marilyn-type mole, a beauty spot, on her left cheek.
‘You fucking cheeky bitch!’ erupted Shauna, springing out of her seat, her hands forming claws, her nails needle-sharp. Claire cowered from her.
‘Excuse me,’ started the receptionist in alarm.
‘You bitch, you fucking cow!’ said Shauna, launching herself at Claire.
‘What the hell . . . ?’ Aysha burst out, also jumping to her feet.
The receptionist was on the phone, half out of her seat, talking rapidly.
‘Mum! Fuck’s sake!’ Connor was up too now, grabbing his mother around the waist while her hands flailed inches from the Milo woman’s face. Suki backed up, alarmed. Shauna looked demented, like she wanted to kill Claire Milo with her bare hands.
‘Let me fucking go!’ Shauna was screaming at him. ‘I’m going to flatten the cow.’
‘Sit down, for God’s sake,’ said Connor to his mother. ‘Christ, is this really going to help anything?’
He couldn’t believe the woman had summoned the nerve to show up here today. He turned angry eyes on her and her daughter while holding on tight to Shauna. ‘What the fuck are you two doing here?’ he demanded.
Claire, visibly shaken, her eyes still on Shauna, gulped and said, ‘I got a letter asking me to attend the reading of Josh’s will. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset anyone . . .’
‘You what?’ roared Shauna. Claire flinched. ‘Don’t you say his name, don’t you bloody dare! If you didn’t want to cause upset then you shouldn’t have been fucking my husband, you low-life cunt.’
‘Sit down,’ said Connor, manhandling his mother back on to her seat. ‘Come on. This ain’t helping. Aysha, sit down. And you.’ He looked at the younger blonde. ‘Whatever your fucking name is . . .’
‘It’s Suki,’ she said shakily.
‘Like I care. Sit down.’
‘What’s going on here?’ asked a hefty, sharply suited and red-faced man, coming thundering down the stairs and into the reception area. It was the family solicitor, James McCready. He looked around at them all.
‘Nothing,’ said Connor, staring at the row of seated women. Aysha looked shocked. Suki’s eyes were wide with fright. Claire was trembling but standing her ground. Mum looked like she was going to explode. ‘Nothing at all.’
‘If there is going to be any trouble, I won’t go on with the reading,’ said McCready.
‘You bitch,’ said Shauna, still looking daggers at Claire.
‘I’m not here to cause trouble,’ said Claire. ‘This is what Josh wanted. That’s the only reason I came here, to respect his wishes.’
Shauna looked set to start again.
‘I have to warn you,’ said McCready, puffing himself up.
‘There won’t be any trouble,’ said Connor, glancing over at the white-faced receptionist then looking at his mum. ‘Sorry. It’s all fine now. Isn’t it?’
Shauna just glared at him.
‘Then . . . if you would all like to come upstairs . . . ?’ said McCready uncertainly, and turned and led the way.
On entering the office, Connor was careful to place the Milo woman at the far side of the room on his left, then Suki, then he seated himself, then Aysha, then Shauna. Better to keep a big distance between Shauna and the woman Josh had been having his torrid affair with. Shauna still looked ready to rip Claire to pieces. All Connor wanted to do was get this done and get the fuck out of it.
With calm descending – and God knew how long it was going to last – James McCready quickly attended to the reading of Joshua Flynn’s last will and testament. In measured tones McCready told them all that Josh’s will had been made out a year ago. In it, he bequeathed the million-pound-plus family home to his wife Shauna, and a hundred thousand pounds to each of his children, Connor and Aysha. To Claire Milo, he left five hundred thousand pounds so that she could live in comfort in the future.
‘He what? I’ll contest that,’ shot out Shauna when McCready read it aloud.
‘That is your right,’ he said.
‘She’s nothing but a whore. I’m going to pull all the hairs out of her lousy crab-infested twat.’
‘Mrs Flynn, please moderate your language.’
‘Yeah, Mum, shut it,’ said Connor.
‘Dad left her how much?’ said Aysha faintly, looking across at Claire as if she was the stuff of nightmares.
‘Five hundred thousand,’ snapped Shauna, putting a shaking hand to her brow. She glared at Claire and at Suki. ‘But she’s not having it. She’s not having a bean. I swear it. She’s not having a penny, over my dead fucking body.’
McCready was folding the will. His job was done.
‘Come on,’ said Connor. ‘Let’s go.’
They all piled down the stairs and Connor ushered his mum and sister out the door. As he went to follow, Claire Milo caught his arm.
‘What?’ he snapped.
‘Ask your mother about the Cleaver boys,’ said Claire, her eyes holding his, her mouth trembling. ‘Ask her about what they did to me and to my dog Blue. Just ask her.’
When Connor had dropped off Aysha at her place and driven over and parked the Porsche on the driveway of the Henley house, he followed Shauna inside. She led the way into the kitchen and started making tea.
‘That Milo woman said something odd to me,’ he said, pulling out a bar stool and sitting down.
‘That fucking mare! Well, what? What did she say?’ Shauna flung off her jacket.
‘As we were leaving the solicitor’s, she said to ask you about the Cleaver boys.’
Shauna’s face took on a hard scowl. ‘What about them?’
‘She said something happened. Something with her and her dog.’
‘What the fuck’s she talking about? They’re just pig farmers. They live up the road from the site where your dad and me lived years ago. He was always babbling on about the great life we had there, I suppose he must have mentioned them to you?’
‘Yeah. He did.’ Connor didn’t tell her he’d been down there, looking at the campsite, the funfair. She’d only hit the roof. Shauna Flynn thought herself – and her son – far too good for all that now.
‘Great life, my arse. It was a shit hole, and I was glad to get out of it.’ Shauna turned away, busied herself with the tea.
140
Some days after the reading of Dad’s will, Claire’s words were still playing on Connor’s mind. No good asking Mum about it, she’d made that plain. So he drove out again, past the campsite and on to the Cleaver house, passing Bubba Pole’s site as he did so.
He parked near the farmhouse, and walked up. At the rusted, ruined gates, he hesitated. It was shady here; the temperature felt ten degrees colder than it did half a mile along the road. The house seemed to loom, as if inviting him to come closer. And if he did? Well, then it would just open the door (and its hinges would creak like a coffin lid, he knew it) and swallow him whole.
The place looked bleak. For the first time he noticed a jokey statue of two mating pigs perched above the porch. A dog was barking inside the house, a big one. He stepped forward and th
en a voice behind him said: ‘What you doin’ here?’
Christ! He hadn’t heard anyone approach. He turned quickly, nearly overbalancing on the rutted entrance and going arse over tit. He righted himself and stared at the man who’d appeared there. The man was not tall, but he was big. He was solid, wide, with sloping shoulders and a bull neck. He was dressed in an old mac and heavy mud-coloured work boots. He had dark hair turning white and a matted grey beard. And he was staring at Connor with tiny, hostile eyes.
And . . . oh shit . . .
Connor felt his bowels turn to liquid. Felt his head go light.
The man was carrying an axe.
‘You want to tell me what you’re doing here?’ he repeated when Connor didn’t answer. ‘I’m Jeb Cleaver and I’m not at home to visitors.’
Connor had never seen any of the Cleavers before, but now, standing here and confronting one of them, he could see that it was lunacy to think you could talk reasonably to these people, ask them about Claire or Blue or any of that stuff.
Connor opened his mouth to speak. Say something about his car stalling, breaking down, any shit he could think of. But he was here now. And this was not a horror movie, this was just two men facing each other in broad daylight.
‘I’m Connor Flynn,’ he said. ‘My dad used to live up the road on the campsite.’
Jeb Cleaver was silent a while, looking him over. Then he started to smile.
‘Are you, by Christ,’ he said, and then he came forward fast, raising the axe.
Shit, thought Connor, backing up.
‘You know what I’m going to do to you?’ said Cleaver, swinging the axe in his hand. ‘I’m going to send a few choice pieces of you back to your mammy in a carrier bag, how’s that?’
He lunged forward. Shocked speechless, Connor dived behind the gate and the axe swiped down, steel flashing, and hit the post, splitting it in two.
Connor stumbled back, looking around for something, anything, to defend himself with. Jeb Cleaver was laughing like a mad man, bringing the axe up again, ready for another swing.