The Reprisal

by Kerry Kaya

  Lucas’s eyes widened and he pushed Paul roughly away from him. “Is that what you think of me?” he glared.

  Paul shrugged his shoulders. “It’s how it comes across,” he spat back.

  “How it comes across?” Lucas snarled, repeating back the words. He shook his head slowly, barely able to get his head around what he had just been accused of. “What, you think I just spent the last year of my fucking life sucking up to that mad cunt just to watch my pals die? Have you got any idea of how it was for me? How sick I felt every single time he called me into that fucking morgue of his, that fucking abattoir, because that’s exactly what it was, let’s make no fucking mistake about that? Did it not occur to you to wonder how I felt, wondering if I’d walk in and find one of my best mates laid out on that gurney?” His face turned red and spittle gathered at the corner of his lips. “Have you got any idea of how that was for me?” He stabbed his finger into his chest. “Or how about wondering if every time he summoned me, I was walking into a trap, that the mad bastard had sussed out this plan that you fucking devised, and that it was me who was going to be sliced wide open like a pig?”

  “Point taken.” Paul had the grace to look down at the floor.

  “No,” Lucas hissed, “you put me in there. You were the one who wanted to know how he ran his business. You were the one who wanted privy to his contact list, and you don’t know the hell I had to go through to get it.”

  “You’re wrong,” Paul sympathized. “I do get it. You needed something to get you through the day and the coke … ”

  “Fuck the coke.” Lucas screwed up his face. “The day was only the half of it. What about the nights, eh?” He took a menacing step closer, their noses almost touching. “What about when he had me ferrying about body parts, or when he had me swilling buckets of blood and body matter down the drain?” His face screwed up even tighter. “But that was only after I’d sifted through the buckets first. I was up to my elbows in blood and clots as big as fucking dinner plates most nights. The mad fuck was paranoid he’d be caught bang to rights like that serial killer Dennis Nilsen was. And then there’s the screams, let’s not forget about the fucking screams. Every time I close my eyes, I hear them, they’re up here.” He pointed angrily to his forehead. “They’re up here and they never go away.”

  “I’m sorry, mate, I didn’t know.” As he took a step backward, Paul was apologetic.

  “That’s right, you didn’t know. You didn’t know fucking shit, but I still did that for you, for us. I could have walked, but I didn’t. I stuck to the plan, and as for you and Jay, well, your lives didn’t seem to change much, did they?” He gave a bitter laugh. “Nah, in fact, they only seemed to get better, didn’t they? Jay got married and as for you, you shacked up with Cathy, and now look at you, you’re gonna have a kid. Must have been fucking rosy for you, but what about me, eh? I was the one left behind.”

  It was said bitterly and shame flooded through Paul. Everything Lucas had said was true. Their lives really had seemed to go from strength to strength. He had a horrible feeling then that the friend he had sent into Dougie Ward’s firm was very different to the friend who had walked back out.

  “I’m sorry, mate,” Paul told him with sincerity. “Maybe I should have pulled you out sooner.”

  “What, just maybe?” Laughing bitterly, Lucas shook his head. “You’ve got the front to stand there and tell me you’re sorry. Well, trust me, mate,” he spat, “you’re not as sorry as I fucking am.”

  With those parting words, Lucas stormed out of the toilets, leaving Paul to stare after his back, and leaning against the ceramic sink, he sighed deeply. All along, he should have known that Lucas wasn’t responsible for the snidey coke, which in his eyes, left only one other person. Samson fucking Ivers.

  * * *

  Samson had spent the evening celebrating the up and coming demise of both Mad Dougie and Paul Mooney. In high spirits, he had sunk brandy after brandy, and as a result, he was well and truly over the drink driving limit. Not that that seemed to deter him. As long as he could walk in a fairly straight line, then as far as he was concerned, he was all right to drive. Exiting The Jolly Fisherman, he stumbled across the carpark, and belching loudly, he leaned up against the side of the car and took out a bunch of keys from his jacket pocket. It took him three attempts to align the key with the lock, and as he turned the key, the door sprung open with ease. In hindsight, far too easily, but that was the funny thing about hindsight—it only ever became obvious once it was already too late to turn back time.

  He grinned to himself as he ducked his head down to climb inside the vehicle. Once seated, he lit himself a cigar, taking great satisfaction as he took three short sharp puffs, before winding down the window half an inch to help clear the fog.

  The sudden sensation of cold steel against the side of his neck caused him to freeze, the cigar hovering just centimeters from his open lips.

  “Hello, Samson.” Despite the knife he held up to the older man’s neck, Paul’s voice was amiable.

  “What the fuck are you doing here? You’re meant to be … ” The tip of the knife dug into his flesh, and snapping his mouth closed, Samson swallowed deeply.

  “Dead?” Paul finished off the sentence, and digging the knife in a little deeper, he watched with fascination as deep red rivets of blood seeped onto Samson’s starched white collar. “Sorry to disappoint, but as you can see, I’m still very much alive and kicking. Now fucking drive.” He pulled one arm around Samson’s neck, restraining him, whilst using the other hand to keep the knife in place. “You and me are gonna have a very long overdue chat.”

  * * *

  Thirty minutes later, Samson eyed the young man before him warily. “Come on, son.” Despite the fact that he had been bundled out of the car, then subsequently trussed up like a chicken in his own home, of all places, he grinned widely, showing a row of nicotine stained teeth. “We’re practically family now.”

  Paul narrowed his eyes.

  “Cathy,” Samson nodded his head. “She’s my daughter. I’m surprised her mother never mentioned it, but that,” he sighed theatrically, “is Angie all over, isn’t it?”

  Paul’s eyes narrowed even further. The revelation was news to him and he wondered briefly if his Cathy knew who her father was. If she did, then she’d never mentioned it. She’d always thought of herself as a Heinz fifty-seven, a whodunit. They had even laughed about it in the past.

  “So you see, that baby my daughter is carrying is my grandchild. My blood will run through that child’s veins, and that, son, whether you like it or not, makes us family.”

  Paul snarled. The contempt he felt for this man was clearly evident. “Do you really think I would let you,” he took a menacing step closer, “anywhere near my kid?”

  Samson swallowed deeply. He could barely feel his hands and feet, the bindings were so tight. He’d underestimated this kid; of that he knew with a certainty. He’d been a fool. He should have taken him out himself when he’d had the chance. Only just like hindsight, it was too late to amend what was already done.

  “You set me up.” Paul’s expression became murderous and he stabbed a rigid finger toward the front door. “You sent me to my fucking death,” he spat.

  Samson didn’t answer. He contemplated lying, but what was the point? And more importantly, what could he even say? It was true. He had wanted to get rid of him, both him and Mad Dougie Ward, and until the very moment he had set foot inside his car, he’d fully believed that his plan had been successful.

  “And now this?” Paul allowed himself to grin as he gestured around him. “The drugs, the estate—it’s all fucking mine.”

  “You’re forgetting something,” Samson sneered. “This estate belongs to me.”

  “Did.” Taking a seat on the overstuffed armchair, Paul kicked his legs out in front of him and made himself comfortable. “Did is the operative word here. It did belong to you, but now,” he glanced around him for effect, as though he was sizing up
his new empire, “now it’s all mine.”

  “And you think you’ll get away with this? That my demise won’t cause ructions?”

  Paul shrugged his shoulders and gave a smile that chilled Samson to the very core. “I can handle it.” It was said with a cockiness that Paul fully believed. “Trust me,” he gave a nod of his head, “I’ve handled far worse.”

  Samson returned Paul’s steely glint. “You won’t get far, not once that mad bastard Dougie gets his hands on you … “

  “Dougie’s dead. Did I forget to mention that fact?” Paul laughed at the obvious shock that fell across Samson’s face. “Yep.” He gave a slight shake of his head and sighed with mock sadness. “Dead as a fucking dodo in fact. So you see, there really isn’t anyone to stop me, is there? And should anyone come around asking questions,” he paused, “well, it was a turf war, wasn’t it? Dealer killing dealer. I doubt the old bill will even take much notice. As far as they’re concerned, I did them a favour taking the two of you out. And as for me, well, my name won’t even come into the equation. Why should it? I’m not on your payroll. I’m not one of your soldiers, no,” he cracked his knuckles and grinned, “there ain’t jack shit to connect me to either of you.”

  Samson’s heart sank, and as beads of cold sweat broke out across his forehead and underneath his armpits, he knew his days on earth were numbered. He glanced up at the portrait of his late wife and took in the curve of her lips, the faint smile. She appeared to be mocking him. She’d warned him that he would never make old bones, that his way of life and ultimately his chosen career would one day be his undoing, and how right the stuck-up, sanctimonious old bitch had been. “And you think my men will accept you into the fold? That they’ll take orders from you?” Samson sneered. “You’re nothing but a fucking kid.”

  Paul laughed. It was a hard laugh that made Samson’s stomach sink even further. “The majority of them have been taking orders from me for the past year.” He shrugged his shoulders in a blasé fashion. “You see, Samson, they had a lot more nous than you ever gave them credit for. They knew you were on the out, just like that mad fucker Dougie. Only you were too far up your own arse to see what was going on right in front of your own eyes, and as for the ones who didn’t want to play ball, the ones who stayed loyal to you like your pal, Jerry, and our good friend, Michael Nicholls …” He glanced at his watch. “Well, right about now,” he made a slicing action across his throat and winked, “I don’t think much of their chances. It’s curtains for them.”

  Resigned to his fate, Samson momentarily closed his eyes and his voice was hard. “Just do me one final favour, and make it quick.”

  Paul gave a carefree shrug of his shoulders before slowly rising to his feet. “No final words? Or how about any last words of wisdom I can pass on to your daughter?”

  “Just get it over with,” Samson barked out. Why the fuck would he want to give his daughter any last words of wisdom? He didn’t even know her, not that he voiced this out loud, of course. His expression remained hard and he looked up at Paul with pure hatred in his eyes. He was in no mood for pleasantries. The anticipation alone for what was about to come was enough to make his heart race and his bowels loosen. He averted his gaze. They both knew what was going to take place; they both knew that at the end of the night, there would only be one victor, and it sure as hell wasn’t going to be him.

  Moments later, the cold steel blade plunged into his chest with such strength that he gasped out loud. It took a few seconds for him to feel the pain, but when it came, it was a deep piercing, pulsating, burning pain—the likes of which he had never experienced before. In that instant, he wished for death to take him quickly, just to put an end to the agony.

  As his life’s blood seeped out of his body, Samson slumped forward onto the carpet. The end was near. His last thoughts before he sunk into unconsciousness and then inevitable death, was that he had clearly, clearly, underestimated Paul Mooney.

  Chapter 13

  The funeral of Samson Ivers was a large grand affair and the chapel at Ripple Road Cemetery was standing room only. Anyone who was anyone was in attendance, and although he would have never said it out loud, Paul was somewhat impressed. He’d had no idea that Samson had had so much clout in the underworld.

  Sitting in the front pew, as was his given right, considering he was now the new kingpin of the estate, Paul glanced toward the wooden casket. The spray of lilies that adorned the lid had cost him a small fortune, but under the circumstances, he saw the elaborate gesture as money well spent.

  As the vicar’s voice droned on, Paul resisted the urge to roll his eyes and shift his weight. His head remained pointing forward, and closing his eyes, his expression was neutral. Cathy’s hand slipped into his, and turning his head, he gave her a gentle smile. She had no idea she was attending her own father’s funeral and he intended to keep it that way. He glanced toward Angie, and feeling his eyes upon her, she turned her head. The look she gave him told him everything he needed to know. She suspected his part in Samson’s demise, he was certain of it. He stuck his chin out, returning her glare, silently daring her to outwardly accuse him of murder.

  Twenty minutes later, the mourners were trailing out of the chapel and following the coffin to where it was to be interred into the ground. As they came to a halt in front of the chosen plot, Paul caught Jason’s eyes and raised his eyebrows. It took all of his willpower to keep the smug smirk from his face. They were on the up. The plan he had so painstakingly devised had finally, all these months later, paid off.

  * * *

  Standing toward the back of the crowd, Devan Barkley used the grubby cuff of his sleeve to wipe across his red-rimmed eyes. He still couldn’t believe that Samson was gone, dead, murdered in his own home. His poor mother had screamed and hollered the house down when she’d been told the news. In the days afterward, she had sat in her favourite armchair, just rocking backward and forward. In her arms, crushed to her ample bosom, she’d held a gilt- framed portrait of the big man himself.

  “Your daddy’s gone now,” Cristiana told him in her soft Jamaican accent, her big brown eyes glistening with tears. “You have to make him proud, Devan.” She gripped his hand in hers, the raw grief she exhibited frightening him. “Make your daddy proud, boy.”

  He watched the mourners begin to disperse and moved back even farther, hiding his skinny frame behind a large oak tree. From his viewpoint, he observed Paul Mooney. The man really thought he was something special. The way he swanned around, holding court, grated on Devan’s nerves, and screwing up his face, his forehead furrowed at the sight before him.

  Samson Ivers had been his father, not Mooney’s. It should have been him shaking hands with the mourners. It should have been his mother sitting in the front pew, having her shoulder sympathetically patted. Instead, she had been relegated to the back of the chapel, silently weeping, as if she was nothing, as though she had never meant anything to his father. She had born the man a son, and had pretty much raised him alone ever since, a fact that Devan conveniently pushed to the back of his mind.

  He watched Mooney move off toward the pathway to where the black limousines were waiting, and from his hiding place, he continued to observe him. As far as he was concerned, it was no coincidence that Mooney had gone searching for his father, and it was no coincidence that his father was now dead. He stored the information away. The anger he felt lodged deep inside of him. He was convinced the man had killed his dad. It had to be him. Who else, other than Paul Mooney, would have had the gall to commit such a heinous act?

  One day, Devan looked down at his skinny frame, his eyes blazing with fury, one day, he would make Mooney pay for murdering his father, even if it was the last thing he ever did.

  Chapter 14

  Part Two

  2010

  With just one year between them in age, Kieran and Jonah were not only brothers, but also best friends. They shared a close bond, were protective of one another, and woe betide anyone who dared
overstep the line with either one of them.

  Both were tall, handsome young men, and with strong muscular physiques, they were what was commonly referred to as the spit out of their father’s mouths. With dark brown hair and chocolate brown eyes, Kieran took after his father, Terrance, in looks—a fact which secretly annoyed their mother. As for Jonah, he had brown hair a shade lighter than his brother’s and sapphire blue eyes. There was no mistaking who his father was. The resemblance between Paul and Jonah was uncanny and often remarked upon by more than one person who came into their orbit.

  “Oi.” Seated in a local café, Jonah kicked his brother underneath the table. “Looks like you’ve pulled. That bird can’t keep her eyes off of you.”

  “Who?” Kieran looked up from his cooked breakfast and glanced around him.

  Jonah flicked his eyes to the right of where he was sitting. “Fuck me, bruv. She looks like she could eat you for breakfast and spit you out again for lunch.”

  Kieran grinned. It was a heart-stopping smile that looked so similar to his father’s. “Nah,” he flexed his fingers, “there hasn’t been a woman born yet who could do that.”

  Jonah smiled and shook his head in disbelief. His brother’s womanizing ways were legendary. Love ‘em and leave ‘em, that was Kieran’s motto.

  They continued eating, and Jonah had to stifle a laugh. He could see his brother eyeing the woman up and he raised his eyebrows toward him. The woman was old enough to be their mother, and not only that, she looked dog rough. With a face full of makeup and a mop of dark brown hair piled on top of her head that resembled a birds nest, he wouldn’t have touched her with a bargepole. No, he liked his birds to be the epitome of what an Essex girl should look like. Give him a bird with blonde hair, fake tan, and fake tits, and he was as happy as a pig in shit. But as for Kieran, well, if he knew his brother as well as he thought he did, then he knew for a fact that the cogs were already turning inside his head. Not only would he contemplate giving her the time of day, he would also contemplate actually taking her to bed. The very thought was enough to make him shudder.