by Kerry Kaya
The rumble of the engine was the only sound in the otherwise quiet vehicle. Sandwiched between two lumps on the uncomfortable van floor, his heart hammered wildly in his chest. He wasn’t afraid to admit that the eerie silence unnerved him. It was a clever tactic on their part, and he, better than anyone, knew that this was his capturer’s intention. It was used as a strategy to both disorientate and perturb him, a fact that he was loathe to admit was working.
For what felt like hours, he had been driven at speed. His backside was numb from the hard metal floor and he yearned to stretch out his legs and have a drink. His throat felt so dry and the cloying petrol fumes stung his eyes and made his chest wheeze with each and every breath he took. He took a wild guess that they were on the motorway somewhere. For all he knew, they could be driving him to the ends of the earth, someplace remote, somewhere no one would be able to hear his screams. A sense of panic set in. Were they planning to burn him alive? Was that the reason he could smell petrol? It was both a heady and terrifying thought.
Despite his best efforts to get some kind of acknowledgement out of the men, they remained silent. Who were they, and more importantly, what did they want from him? He tried to wrack his brains, thinking back over the previous weeks and months of who exactly he could have upset. The list, much to his chagrin, was long. Even his own mother had often proudly remarked that he could cause a row in an empty room, such was his mindset.
* * *
Pulling out a wooden chair, Paul sat down. They were in a disused public house on the border of Suffolk and Essex that he and Jason had recently purchased. They were still in two minds whether or not to pull the premises down and then rebuild to their own specification.
He lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, then blowing out a cloud of smoke, nodded his head toward Darren and Charlie.
As the hessian sack was pulled from his head, Alek screwed his eyes shut tight, the sudden onset of light momentarily blinding his vision. It took a few moments for him to acclimatize to his surroundings, and when he finally realised exactly who it was that had captured him, fear flickered across his face.
“For fuck’s sake, Paul, was this really necessary?” He nodded down at the thick chains that bound him to the chair, his voice a decibel higher than usual. “Haven’t you heard of a fucking telephone?”
In silence, Paul continued to smoke his cigarette. The atmosphere sizzled with anticipation, the occupants of the room awaiting his next move.
Alek looked around him. He was beginning to perspire again and wished they would have at least let him take off the coat. The thick leather was sticking to him like a second skin. “Paul …”
“I want the names of every dealer who shifts brown on my manor.” Paul’s voice was loud and strong.
“Don’t tell me someone has stepped on your toes.” Alek looked around him a second time and took note of Darren and Charlie hovering in the background. They were commonly referred to as the cleanup team and they were good at their job. He had even used their services himself on occasion. “Is that what all of this old bollocks is about? You haven’t been paid your fucking dues, and now you want to collect?”
“I’m going to ask you one more time, and trust me, Alek, it is in your best interests not to fuck me about. You’re the middle man. You make it your business to know what is going down, who is buying, who is selling, etcetera, etcetera, so,” his voice became a low rumble, “who is selling brown without my specific say so?”
“I can’t divulge something like that.” There was a hint of shock in Alek’s voice. “Have you lost your fucking mind? If I started spouting my mouth off, it’d be the end of me. Come on, Paul.” He smiled lightly to take the edge off of his words. “You know I can’t divulge information, not even to you. What are you trying to do, man, have me topped?”
Paul stood up and returned the smile. It was a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, a fact that was duly noted by those in the room. “I don’t think you quite understood what I said.” His voice held a note of menace. “Let me make this clear; it wasn’t a request. So I’ll say it again. I want to know who is supplying, and you, Alek, had best start fucking talking.”
“Come on, Paul, we’re mates, ain’t we?”
The sudden punch to Alek’s face silenced him, and standing over the man, Paul’s face darkened. “I asked you a question.” He executed a second and third punch with such force that the chair holding Alek’s large frame swayed from side to side precariously. “Who is supplying brown?”
“You know that I can’t …” Blood poured from Alek’s mouth. Already, his left eye was beginning to swell. He was terrified and it showed. Despite his huge bulk, he wasn’t a natural born fighter, and deep down, he was well aware of that fact. If truth were told, without backup, he wouldn’t be able to punch his way out of a paper bag. He didn’t have a Bona fide reputation as a hard man like the man in front of him did. He’d only gained his rep by a natural cunning, and ordering others to do his dirty work for him. “If I open my trap, I’m dead, you know that.”
“We can stay here for as long as it takes.” Paul walked across the bar. From a small round wooden table, he picked up a claw hammer and a six inch nail. “But you are going to talk, and then I’m going to kill you. It’s as simple as that.”
Alek’s eyes widened and he flicked them between Paul, Jason, and then finally to Darren and Charlie, the aptly named cleanup crew. “Come on, Paul,” he shouted, “you don’t have to do this.”
“Oh, but I do,” Paul grinned in return.
“Come on, Paul.” Clearly terrified, Alek struggled against Darren and Charlie as they held his hand flat down on a table. “Don’t do this,” he cried.
As the nail was hammered through his flesh and muscle, Alek let out his first blood curling scream of the day.
* * *
Lucas sipped at his drink and looked around him. A creature of habit, he could sniff out a dealer from ten miles away, and his eyes settled on a man sitting in a corner booth at the far side of the pub. He needed a fix and fast. His skin was already beginning to crawl, and as he scratched at his arm unconsciously, his grimy fingernails dragged across the soft flesh, leaving angry red welts. The dealer was like a beacon to him, and he could barely drag his eyes away.
“Lucas.” Glancing over his shoulder, Kieran knew that he had to keep the older man’s attention, and he opened out his arms, hoping more than anything to block out Lucas’s view. “You were going to tell me what you can remember.”
“Yeah.” Barely acknowledging the boy, Lucas’s eyes remained focused on the dealer.
“Lucas.” There was more than a hint of annoyance in Kieran’s voice.
“What?” Lucas picked up his glass.
“I need a name, remember? You agreed to help me out.”
Swallowing down a large mouthful of whiskey, Lucas groaned. The quicker he got it over with, the quicker the boy would fuck off and leave him alone, he decided. “Go on then.” He helped himself to a cigarette from the packet on the table and lit up. “Tell me what you know.”
Kieran grinned. “His name, the bloke who might have been topped, is Terrance Matlock. He came from over Barking way.” He took a sip of his drink, oblivious to just how still Lucas had become. “You and my dad came from over that way. My old nan still lives there. Did you ever hear anything about this bloke?” He gave a slight shrug of his shoulders. “I mean, what could have happened to him? Apparently, he just disappeared into thin air.”
“What are you dragging that up for?” Realising that he had already said too much, Lucas downed his whiskey and wiped the back of his hand across his lips. The colour slipped from his face, leaving in its place a slight grey tinge. Of all the names young Kieran could have come up with, it had to be that one. “Speak to your dad, son. I’m not saying anything more.”
Kieran sat back in the seat and narrowed his eyes. It wasn’t the reaction he’d been expecting. “I’m asking you,” his voice had a steely tone to it, “not my
fucking dad.”
“And like I said, I’m saying fuck all.” He made to stand up. “You wanna know about Matlock, then do us both a favour and ask your old man.”
Taken aback, Kieran clamped his hand over Lucas’s wrist, restraining him. “It was my dad, wasn’t it?” He gave a half-laugh, his eyes wide. “It was him. He topped the bloke.”
“I’m saying fuck all.” Wrenching his hand free without a backward glance, Lucas walked away from the table. As far as he was concerned, the conversation was closed and his lips would remain firmly sealed.
As the man walked away from him, Kieran slumped back in the seat. Instinctively, he knew he would get no more information from his father’s friend, no matter how much he might want it. So, just what was the big secret? It wasn’t as though his dad topping someone would have come as a big surprise. He already knew that he’d killed. His dad had told him and Jonah one night after they had all sunk one too many beers.
He thought back on Donna’s words. She’d said that Matlock had been married, and that she suspected the wife and her new fella, a supposed face, of his murder. So his dad must have been seeing someone, a married woman, long before he met his mum.
Picking up his pint glass, he downed the lager in one large gulp. Still, it didn’t make any sense to him. His parents had been together forever; they had been childhood sweethearts. At least that was the story they had told him and Jonah. So when exactly had he been seeing this married woman? Had he cheated on his mum? Was that the big secret? Was that what Lucas was so afraid of revealing?
He glanced behind him and watched as Lucas stuffed a small package into his pocket. Just what was the big man so afraid of? Whatever it was, it was more than enough to make him keep schtum.
He continued to think back to the very first time he had met Donna, and as her words came back to haunt him, he felt his blood run cold. She’d told him that he looked just like this Terrance Matlock bloke, that he was his double. A sickening wave hit him, and as he sat up straighter, beads of cold sweat broke out across his forehead. Supposing his mum had been the married woman, and his dad … no, he shook his head, pushing the dark thought to the back of his mind. No way. He looked like his dad, his mum had told him that so many times over the years.
An image of Paul and Jonah sprang to his mind. Not only did they look alike, but they were also mirror images of one another—same height, same build, same smile, same dark blue eyes, same mannerisms. He recalled his own eyes. Unlike his brother’s, his were dark brown, his hair was a shade darker, too. Standing abruptly, he shoved his cigarettes and lighter into his jacket pocket, and as quickly as he could, he left the pub.
* * *
Opening the front door, Angie eyed her eldest grandson with a measure of suspicion. “Well, look who it is. What do I owe this pleasure, eh?” She studied the handsome young man before her. “Why ain’t you at work, you lazy little bugger? Are you skiving off again?”
“Cheers for that, Nan, and it’s nice to see you and all.” Stepping over the doorstep, Kieran made his way down the narrow passageway toward the kitchen. The familiar scent of lavender furniture polish and stale tobacco assaulted his nostrils. It was somewhat comforting.
“Your dad will skin you alive if he catches you skiving, you know that, boy.” With her hands placed on her hips, a Rothman cigarette dangled from the corner of her mouth. As the smoke drifted upward, she screwed up her eyes.
“What dad?”
“What do you mean, what dad? Your dad.” As she followed her grandson through the hallway, Angie rolled her eyes to the ceiling in annoyance. “How many dads have you bleeding well got?”
Kieran turned, and lifting his eyebrows, he looked his grandmother dead in the eyes. “That, Nan, is exactly what I would like to know.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Angie’s heart began to hammer wildly inside her chest, and a prickle of unease gripped the back of her neck. Her daughter, not to mention Paul, would skin her alive if she ever let slip the truth about the boy’s true parentage.
“I think you already know the answer to that question.”
Angie looked up at this big handsome grandson of hers and sighed wearily. He was Terrance’s double all right, of that much she did know. Deep down, she had often wondered why the boy had never questioned how different he looked to his brother and the man he called dad. Like carbon copies of one another, the resemblance between Paul and Jonah was uncanny, and not just in looks. They also shared the same mannerisms.
“Come on then, Nan.” Sitting down at the Formica covered table, Kieran crossed his arms over his chest and grinned amicably. “I think you’d best start talking, and fast.”
Angie raised her eyes to the ceiling. What she would do for a drink or two right now. After all, it wasn’t her secret to tell, and God only knew how many times she had told her daughter to tell the boy the truth over the years. Now look at the upshot. The aftermath of Cathy’s lies and deceit had been brought to her door. It wasn’t even anything to do with her, not really. All she was, was an innocent bystander, wasn’t she?
“Well?”
“Speak to your mum and dad, sweetheart.” Stubbing out her cigarette, Angie joined her grandson at the table. The fact that she could barely look him in the eye, was not lost on either of them.
“No.” Kieran thumped his fist down on the table, anger clearly evident across his handsome face. “I’m going to batter the next fucking person who tells me to do that. I need to know, Nan. Please, just tell me the truth.”
Closing her eyes tightly, Angie took a deep breath. “Your mum will kill me, and as for your dad …” She gave a shake of her head. Who knew what Paul was capable of. Serious bodily harm? Murder? She would put nothing past the longtime partner of her only daughter, and deep down, she still believed that he had killed her Samson. Oh, he could deny it until he was blue in the face, but she knew. She could see it in the arrogant stare he gave her whenever she mentioned the man’s name. The very thought was enough to make her blood run cold.
“Is it true?” Kieran sat forward in the chair. “Is … is Terrance Matlock my father?”
Angie hesitated, then slowly nodded her head. “Biological father, yes,” she shrugged slightly, “but your dad,” she paused momentarily and clutched her grandson’s hand, “I may not be Paul’s biggest fan, but he is your real dad, sweetheart. Make no mistake about that, and he’s the only dad you’ve ever known. From day one, he was there for you and your mum. He brought you up, and for that, I can’t fault him. Not once has he ever treated you differently to Jonah. In his eyes, you are his son, and it’s as plain and simple as that.”
“But I’m not, am I? I’m not his son; I never was.”
He looked so crestfallen that Angie’s heart went out to her eldest grandchild. “Yes you are.” She gave his hand a squeeze, and using her finger, wiped away the lone tear that slipped onto his cheek. “You, my boy, have got more Mooney in your little toe than you will ever have Terrance Matlock in your entire body. Take my word for it, sweetheart.”
Kieran shrugged his shoulders, and sniffing loudly, he looked down at the table. “What was he like,” he looked up, “Terrance, I mean?”
As she lit a fresh cigarette, Angie thought the question over. “Terrance,” she smiled gently, “he was a handsome fucker all right, and you are the image of him, like two peas in a bleeding pod, but that is where the resemblance ends. He was a womanizer and he treated your poor mum abysmally. He was handy with his fists, too, and more often than not, he treated her like a punching bag.” She sighed deeply. “Many a black eye or spit lip your mum would have, all thanks to him and his bloody temper. I begged her to leave him, begged her, but by then, she was already pregnant with you, and well,” she shrugged her shoulders, “it wasn’t so easy for her to up and leave him then, was it?” She watched her grandson screw up his face and her voice became gentle. “And that, my darling, is why you are nothing like him. In here,” she poked a finger into his chest, “you
’ve got a good heart.”
Kieran sighed, wondering where his Donna came into all of this. Just the mere thought that this man, his father, had been with her before he had, made him feel physically sick. “So, what happened to him? Where did he go?”
“That,” Angie said, pointing the cigarette toward her grandson, “is the million-dollar question. The bugger just upped and left one day. Him and your mum had had a bit of a ding-dong, nothing new there,” she grinned. “They were always having some sort of barney, and well, I suppose he wanted a change of scenery, a change of woman. He had tarts all over the place. Bugger should have been a sailor, a woman in every port and all that.”
Raising his eyebrows slightly, Kieran laughed. Until he’d met Donna, that had been him all over, but he decided to keep that little piece of information to himself.
“So,” getting up from the table, Angie crossed over the kitchen and switched on the kettle, “does that answer your questions?”
“Yeah.” Leaning back in the chair, Kieran placed his hands behind his head. “I suppose so.”
Angie smiled, and pouring boiling water into two mugs, she glanced toward her grandson. “Maybe we should keep this between us.” She placed the kettle down and stirred in a dash of milk. “I mean, you ain’t got to say anything to your mum and dad, have you? Why upset them now after all these years?” It was said craftily. As always, with Angie, she was only looking out for herself.
Rolling his eyes, Kieran stood up, and walking across the kitchen, he wrapped his arms around his grandmother’s tiny frame. “Thanks, Nan. You know, for letting me know the score.” He smiled down at her. “And I’m not going to say anything, you’re right,” he sighed. “My dad is my dad, no matter what.” More than anything, he didn’t want anything to rock the boat or alter the relationship he had with Paul. They had always been close and had even shared the same interests.