Dead Man's Gift and Other Stories

by Simon Kernick

  Oh no, The Gang! In all the excitement I’ve forgotten about him, and now I’m out of spray. A second later he comes into the room – twenty-five stone of muscle and jelly. The guy’s amazingly fast for one so immense, I have to give him that.

  ‘Run!’ shouts Vanya rather unnecessarily, but he’s almost upon me, leering like a demented clown and, worse still, The Knife is starting to get to his feet, obviously not quite as knocked out as I’d thought.

  I strike The Gang with a three-punch combination, every blow slamming into his tiny, childlike face, but they might as well be kisses for all the damage they’re doing, and he keeps coming forward, wrapping his great arms around my torso and dragging me into a vice-like bear hug that quite literally takes my breath away. I try to say something, but no sound comes out. I feel my ribs giving way. I have never been in such pain in my life and I think that, if I die like this, it will be a truly terrible way to go. And it’s all because of that arsehole, Kevin.

  In the background I can see The Knife rubbing his eyes. He hisses to his colleague not to kill me. He wants to end my life himself. It almost seems preferable to what I’m going through now.

  But then The Gang’s grip loosens and he suddenly goes boss-eyed. I get my right arm free and deliver an uppercut that catches him under the chin. The grip loosens still more and I struggle free, bumping into Vanya, whose hand is thrust between The Gang’s legs, twisting savagely. As the Americans would say, this girl has spunk.

  We turn together, just in time to see The Knife slashing his weapon in a throat-high arc, and it takes all of my old reactions to fend off the blow, using my right arm to block his, and my left to deliver two vicious little jabs – bang-bang – right into his pock-marked mug.

  He actually says ‘Ouch!’, then goes straight over backwards, landing on the carpet, only to be trampled on by The Crim, who is still blundering around the room like a drunk gatecrashing a ballet performance.

  And then we’re out of the door and down the stairs, taking them two and three at a time, and I can hear The Gang lumbering behind us. Vanya stumbles and I grab her arm and pull her upright. We hit the street at a mad dash, veering right in the direction of the BMW. She starts fiddling in the pocket of her jeans for the keys, thinking that’s she’s going to be the one driving, but there’s no way that’s going to happen.

  ‘This is my car, darling!’ I shout, pulling out the spares and flicking off the central locking.

  Reluctantly she jumps in the passenger side, while I leap into the driver’s seat and switch on the ignition. The engine purrs into life, and I pull out into the road. I can see The Gang in the rear-view mirror, coming down the road after us. He’s gaining, but there’s not a lot he can do now, and I accelerate away, feeling pleasantly satisfied, at least until Vanya tells me that Bowbury Gardens is actually a dead-end road and I’m going in the wrong direction.

  I do a quick three-point turn in the middle of the road and swing the car back round, accelerating. Twenty yards away The Gang is in the middle of the road, looming up like an immovable stone monolith, but this is a strong car and a good deal more substantial than the man currently standing in front of me.

  I think The Gang must belatedly realize this because, at the last second, he leaps to one side, belly-flopping onto the bonnet of some poor sod’s Renault Megane with a huge crash. It takes me a moment to realize that it is in fact The Wolverine’s car, and that now he’s definitely going to be walking home tonight.

  I keep driving, gliding round the bend and onto the main road. Mission almost accomplished.

  ‘Thanks for that,’ says Vanya, leaning over and putting a hand on my arm. She smells nice, and I think there might be passion in her pale eyes although, to be fair, I’ve been wrong about this sort of thing before.

  ‘What the hell was all that about?’ I ask her, and she tells me.

  Apparently Stephen Humphrey is providing lucrative defence contracts to one of The Crim’s front companies, in return for cash. A very big contract is coming up and, on hearing that The Crim is driving one of the new BMWs, Humphrey wants to take possession of the car in lieu of his usual payment. The Crim reluctantly agrees, and Humphrey and Vanya go for a spin. Vanya, however, has been tiring of Humphrey of late, and they end up having a violent argument. In the ensuing melee, Vanya physically removes the MP from the car, damaging his toupee in the process, and then drives off home, concluding that London life isn’t actually for her. She decides to take the 7 Series and drive it, and her meagre possessions, back to Slovakia.

  But just as she’s leaving, The Crim and his boys turn up, along with a crooked-haired Humphrey, thirsting for revenge. Which is where I came in.

  I ask her if she’s going to take the plane home now.

  She looks disappointed. ‘Is this really your car?’ she asks.

  ‘I’m afraid it is,’ I tell her.

  ‘So,’ she says, looking at me with an interest she’s never shown before, ‘what are you going to do? The men you attacked are going to be pretty upset, and I understand that Mr Sneddon is a very powerful man.’

  It’s a good question, and one I haven’t really given a lot of thought to. ‘We’ll have to see,’ I say enigmatically.

  By this time we’ve pulled up outside Aunt Lena’s house. I know that whatever happens, I’ve got to keep her out of the way of The Crim, who’s going to be looking to settle scores in any way he can.

  But there’s something odd here. In Aunt Lena’s one-car carport sits another 7 Series, brand-new like mine. I park up behind it and, taking the spare keys from Vanya, just in case she decides to do another runner, tell her to wait for me.

  As I reach the front door, it opens, and who should I see standing there but the fugitive himself, Cousin Kevin? He immediately opens fire with a barrage of excuses for his absence, as well as heartfelt apologies and gestures of thanks. The whole tirade’s a pile of bullshit, of course, but you have to give him ten out of ten for effort.

  ‘Where’s your mum?’ I ask him, and then remember that I actually told her to stay round at her friend Marjorie’s house on the next street, until all this boiled over. ‘Have you got The Crim’s money?’ I demand. ‘He reckons it’s thirty-four grand.’

  ‘Thirty-four thousand?’ he pipes up, ‘that’s ruinous. Tell you the truth,’ he adds, which is usually the prelude to a lie, ‘I’ve been down in Monaco. Made some money on the tables. Had everything ready for The Crim, but then I saw this motor in the showroom near the casino,’ he motions towards the car, ‘and I just had to have it. It’s beautiful, Billy,’ he says. ‘Supreme engineering.’

  ‘I know,’ I answer, ‘I’ve got one. So I’m taking it you haven’t got the money?’

  He gives me a rueful expression. ‘Supreme engineering doesn’t come cheap.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t,’ I say, pondering the evening I’ve had, then I clap him on the shoulder. ‘Look, stay here tonight, Kevin, and we’ll straighten out The Crim in the morning. I’m just popping off back home.’

  We say our goodbyes and I get back in my car and put in a call to The Crim on my mobile as we drive away. Not surprisingly, he’s none too pleased to hear from me and is full of curses and bluster, until I tell him that Kevin’s waiting for him at Aunt Lena’s house with a present that I guarantee will make him happy, and which will simultaneously clear the debt.

  I also add that it would be a lot better for everyone if my family stayed in one piece, and if no one got to hear about The Crim’s crooked relationship with Mr Hairpiece himself, Stephen Humphrey, MP.

  Before he can say anything else, I end the call, settle back and turn to Vanya.

  ‘So,’ I ask, as we reach the bottom of the road, ‘which way to Slovakia?’

  Flytrap

  Her

  I’m walking along a near-deserted stretch of St Lucian beach when I see him sitting at a table in the sun outside a beach bar. He’s about forty-five, very tanned, with curly black hair and a hairier chest than you usually see on men
these days. He looks Mediterranean, and sure of himself too. Confident, without seeming arrogant. He’s wearing dark glasses, and of the handful of people sitting at various tables out the front of the bar, he’s the only one not on his phone. Instead, he’s looking out to sea, but I can tell he’s clocking me as well, and that’s fine. I like to think I’m still a pretty good-looking woman.

  I keep walking, splashing my feet in the warm waters of the Caribbean, until I reach the end of the beach, then turn and head back the way I came, enjoying the heat of the mid-afternoon sun on my back.

  As I pass the bar again ten minutes later, I see the guy’s still there. This time I don’t keep going but walk past his table, giving him a small smile, which he returns, before ordering a virgin pina colada from the cheerful bartender, who tries but fails to stop looking at my chest as he pours the drink.

  ‘Care to join me?’ the man asks as I walk back from the bar.

  It’s such a classic, clichéd scene, like something out of a sub-standard romcom, but you know what? Sometimes it’s nice when real life resembles a Hollywood movie. So I take a seat opposite him and put out a hand. ‘Jane.’

  He takes it. Smiles again, showing gleaming white teeth and perfect dimples. ‘I’m Matt. Pleased to meet you, Jane.’ He’s taken off his sunglasses and I see that his eyes are very blue. ‘Are you down here on holiday?’ he asks me. I tell him I am and he asks me where I’m from: ‘I detect an accent. Is it Aussie?’

  ‘South African. But I left there a long time ago. I live in Atlanta now.’

  I sip my drink and we talk some more. He’s got a nice, easy manner but it’s one I’ve seen on plenty of bad boys before, and when I tell him I’m single and here on my own, I can see his interest ramping right up. He tells me he’s a retired businessman and I tell him he looks too young for that, which is true, but it’s a compliment he clearly enjoys. He explains that, having sold his company in the States, he’s bought a yacht and now spends his time sailing the Caribbean. He stretches in his seat, rolling his broad shoulders, and looks around. ‘It’s a beautiful life,’ he says.

  ‘Doesn’t it get lonely?’ I ask, because I figure it would.

  ‘Occasionally.’ He smiles. ‘Why? Do you fancy joining me?’

  Now it’s my turn to smile. ‘I think I need to get to know you a bit more for that.’

  ‘Well, there’s only one cure for that. Why don’t you join me on my boat for dinner tonight?’ He fixes me with those piercing blue eyes as he asks the question, and I can feel the sexual energy coming off him.

  I think I take all of about three seconds to say yes, which I know is exactly what he’s expecting.

  Men. They’re so much more predictable than they think.

  Him

  I watch the woman called Jane go, her butt shimmying as she walks, and I know she’s doing it deliberately. She’s hot. A raven-haired milf with a body that would grace a woman half her age, and I want her badly.

  I check the other tables. The place is empty. The couple who were sitting a few tables away just before she arrived are gone, and the bartender’s sitting with his back to me, staring at his phone. No one’s interested in me. And right now, that’s how I like it. I’m pretty certain that this woman Jane didn’t recognize me. If she did, she’d have said something. I look different from how I looked then. My hair’s longer, I’ve lost weight, and I wear contact lenses that have done a great job of turning my eyes from pale brown to perfect blue, but then I did pay serious money for them.

  So now I’m anonymous. Anonymous and free, and if the woman called Jane knew anything about me, she’d run a mile. But then of course they never know anything until it’s too late …

  Her

  I’ve been single for a while now. My last proper boyfriend was a physically beautiful specimen ten years younger than me called Brad. Conversation was never that good, not because he was stupid (he wasn’t) but because he was such a complete narcissist, with zero interest in other people. At first I could handle it because the sex was so good and, since my husband died, I’ve preferred not to get too serious with anybody anyway, but the day I caught him staring longingly at himself in his bedroom mirror while we were humping, I knew it was time to call it a day.

  After Brad, I went completely in the opposite direction and took up with Vincent, a tall, awkward professor of psychiatry, who was also intellectually brilliant and hugely witty. The sex, however, was awful, and although I tried hard to teach him how to please a woman, he was a hopeless case. Still, he’s remained a very good friend – probably the only one I really have – and he looks out for me. He would have hated Matt, the man I’m meeting tonight. He’d have had him down as a predatory personality – a sub-clinical psychopath incapable of empathy, who uses women as sexual playthings.

  But then Vincent’s the jealous type.

  I arrive at the appointed pick-up place – the beach in front of the bar we met at earlier – at 7 p.m. This being the tropics, it’s already dark and the bar provides the only light. It’s still as quiet as it was earlier, and I wonder how it can make money, what with all the big all-inclusive resorts there are on this side of the island. There’s no sign of a yacht anywhere in the bay, and as I stand there waiting, I wonder, with a twinge of anxiety, if he’s changed his mind.

  Then I hear the low buzz of an engine and see Matt coming in to shore on a small rib. He slows a few feet out, does a dainty little turn with the rib, then cuts the engine. I take off my flip-flops, lift my dress a little and wade out to meet him.

  ‘You’re looking beautiful, Jane,’ he tells me, helping me into the boat with a big smile.

  ‘You’re looking pretty good yourself,’ I say. And he is. Better than good. This guy is almost ridiculously elegant, dressed in a linen shirt and chinos, his feet bare, his rich, dark hair tousled in the breeze. His aftershave is obvious but not overpowering, and I recognize it as Creed Aventus, one of my favourites.

  He turns the rib away from the shore and we head back out to sea.

  ‘So, where’s your boat?’ I ask. ‘Are you keeping it hidden for a reason?’

  ‘I don’t like to draw attention to myself,’ he answers and, as we pass the headland, I can see why. In front of us, anchored a hundred yards away, is a sleek, black superyacht, a good one hundred and thirty feet long and with three separate decks.

  ‘Wow!’ I say, looking suitably, almost gullibly, impressed. ‘I’m hoping this is yours.’

  He looks genuinely proud. ‘You like it?’

  ‘I love it.’

  Matt stops the rib at the back of the boat, where a huge, heavily muscled bald man is standing on the wet deck waiting for us. As we get closer, the bald man stares at me with a malevolent blankness and I feel the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. I’ve got a good antenna and, straight away, I can see that this man is trouble.

  ‘After you,’ says Matt. ‘Frank will help you up.’

  I don’t have a lot of choice, so I let Frank take me by the forearm and pull me onto the boat. He nods his head in what I think passes for a greeting, but doesn’t meet my eyes, and I move away from him as quickly as possible.

  I wait for Matt, who leads me up a couple of flights of steps onto a spectacular back deck with a large table already set for dinner. I look at the view out to sea, with the first stars already glittering in the night sky, as Matt opens a bottle of champagne and hands me a glass. We’re a long way from people out here, and it strikes me that it would be a perfect location for a murder. There’s a whole black ocean to get rid of a body in.

  ‘Cheers,’ says Matt, coming in close to me, and we clink glasses.

  ‘Who was that down there?’ I ask, referring to the big, bald man.

  ‘Oh, him. He’s just one of the crew.’

  ‘How many other crew members have you got?’

  ‘None. It’s just me and Frank.’

  ‘He doesn’t look like crew. He looks more like a bodyguard.’

  Matt frowns, watching me carefu
lly. ‘He acts as both,’ he says eventually.

  ‘Why do you need a bodyguard?’

  He sips his champagne. ‘You ask a lot of questions, Jane.’

  ‘Because I’m interested.’

  ‘I guess I’ve made enemies over the years. But that’s all in the past now.’

  Now it’s my turn to look at him closely. ‘You know, you look familiar. I’ve seen you before, I’m sure I have.’

  ‘I very much doubt it,’ he says, but this time his smile looks forced.

  ‘No, I definitely have.’ I keep staring at him. ‘I’ve seen you on the TV. I can’t remember when, but I have.’

  ‘You haven’t.’ His voice is sharp now.

  I turn away and put down my champagne glass. ‘Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea coming here.’

  He sighs. ‘All right, I’ll tell you the truth, but you’ve got to promise me one thing. You’ll at least let me explain myself before you judge me. Is that a deal?’

  I nod my head, but deliberately keep some distance between us. ‘Okay. Deal.’

  ‘My name’s not Matt. It’s Greg Fairman.’

  ‘Jesus!’ I said. ‘I remember you.’ Greg Fairman. The man who was tried and acquitted of the murder of his girlfriend. His case had made the news a few years back, mainly because most people thought he was guilty. Fairman owned a very successful business and was reputed to have Mafia contacts. He’d been accused by the prosecution of getting those contacts to get rid of his girlfriend’s body, which they’d obviously done very effectively because it had never been found. Before the trial, Fairman had sold his business for a lot of money and, after the trial, he’d disappeared from view.

  His shoulders sagged as he looked at me. ‘You know, I’ve spent the last seven years trying to escape my past. Not because I’m guilty. But because everyone thinks I am. But I didn’t kill her, Jane. I promise you that.’

  ‘No offence,’ I tell him, ‘but you’re always going to say that.’