The Reprisal

by Kerry Kaya

  “Good boy.” Angie’s shoulders slumped with relief, and as she continued to stir the tea, she grinned happily.

  Chapter 18

  In Stepney, East London, Lucas’s eyes lit up and his hand greedily snaked out to take the wrap of heroin from Marty Hanratty.

  “Now what do you say?” Snatching the bag out of the big man’s reach, Marty laughed heartily. He loved nothing better than to goad the junkies. It was one of his favourite pastimes, and should be declared as a national sport, in his opinion.

  A bully as a child and an even bigger bully as an adult, Marty had a short stocky build, round face, and mousey brown hair. He was no looker, and was the first to hold his hand up and admit that fact, but what he did have in abundance was a cunning that, over the years, had stood him in good stead. He liked to be on the winning team, and right now, he was hedging his bets on Devan Barkley emerging as the victor. It was only this fact that made him so outwardly loyal to the man.

  Once again, he dangled the wrap in front of Lucas, and with his large palm wrapped around the tiny, knotted plastic bag, he taunted his latest victim. “I asked you a question. Now what do you fucking say?”

  Eyeing the closed palm that contained his much-needed fix, Lucas’s skin flushed with shame. “Please?” It was said quietly and with as much dignity as he could physically muster.

  “Nah, I can’t hear you.” Cupping his ear, Marty chuckled. Oh, he did love winding the scumbags up. It actually made his day that much sweeter to see them beg.

  “I said, please.” Lucas’s eyes were hard, alerting Marty to the fact that there was a bit more to this particular junkie than met the eye.

  “All right, keep your fucking hair on. I was only having a laugh.” Bored with the scene before him, Marty dropped the wrap to the pavement, and as the big man scooped down to pick it up, he contemplated kicking him in the head. He would have actually followed it through, if Lucas hadn’t been so quick. Before he could even lift his foot off of the floor, the big man was stalking away from him. However, he would get him the next time, and he made a mental note to remind himself.

  * * *

  “Who is he?” Sitting in his car, Paul intently watched the scene that played out before him. His expression was hard and his lips were curled in disgust.

  Jason peered through the windscreen. “That, to me, looks like Marty Hanratty, one of Devan Barkley’s so-called crew, better known as his right-hand man.” He nodded his head. “Yeah, that’s him. I’d bet my fucking knob on it.”

  Paul nodded, and starting the ignition, he eased the car forward. It had taken a lot longer than he’d expected for Alek Symanski to open his mouth and talk. Begrudgingly, he had earned Paul’s full respect by keeping schtum for as long as he had. In the end, the man had begged for death, screamed for it, in fact. He, being the generous type of bloke he was, had been more than happy to oblige. He had no concerns of a comeback where Alek was concerned. The middle men were ten a penny in their world, and there was always someone eager to take over their business interests. He flicked the indicator, and keeping a reasonable distance, he began to follow on behind Marty’s car. “I think it’s about time we introduced ourselves, don’t you?”

  Jason lit a cigarette, and as he pulled the smoke deep into his lungs, he curled his free hand into a fist. Fucking Devan Barkley. They should have known right from the start that he was somehow involved in Lucas’s latest downfall.

  * * *

  Marty was whistling as he took the concrete steps two at a time, up to his small bedsit. Behind him, he heard the communal door slam closed, and with a grin across his face, he turned his head. Within moments, the smile was gone and he narrowed his eyes until they were two mere slits in his pale bloated face.

  “What do you want?” A coward through and through, there was a tremor in his voice, and he wiped his sweaty palms down the front of his jeans.

  “That’s not very nice, is it?” Paul’s voice was jovial as he ascended the staircase.

  Marty shrugged, and jutting out his chin, he reworded the question. “What are you doing here?”

  “We,” Paul gestured behind him to Jason, “we just want a little chat, that’s all.” With the smile still firmly held in place, Paul had reached the top of the staircase. “Shall we?” He gestured toward the front door.

  Reluctantly, Marty dug his fingers into the denim pocket of his jeans and pulled out his door key. “Can’t we talk out here?” His voice had a whine to it and his hands ever so slightly shook. The last thing he wanted was to be trapped inside his bedsit with Mooney and the heavy-set man beside him.

  “No, Marty, we can’t.” Despite the smile across his face, the tone to Paul’s voice was hard. “So do us all a favour and open the fucking door.”

  * * *

  The inside of the bedsit resembled a pigsty, and as he was frog-marched through to the kitchenette area, Marty watched the men wrinkle their noses at the stale stench that permeated his home. He’d never been one for doing housework. He fully believed it to be a woman’s domain, tied to the kitchen sink. That was exactly where the bitches belonged, and as a result, his belongings were flung haphazardly around the room, and piled up in the sink, and across the grimy scum encrusted draining board, were dirty dishes covered over with dried remnants of moldy food. Carelessly scattered amongst the dishes, were discarded greasy takeaway containers. The congealed fat that had dripped down and across the plates resembled large white shiny orbs. Buzzing overhead, were several large black flies.

  “Bit of a shithole this place, eh, Marty?” Paul raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “Not that I’m surprised really. I can’t quite see you with a can of furniture polish in one hand and a feather duster in the other.”

  “It’s a good job he hasn’t got any mates then, isn’t it?” Jason added as he slammed Marty none too gently onto a wooden chair. “I mean, as if you’d willingly bring anyone back to this shit tip?”

  “Nah, you’re right. Who would want to bring anyone here?” Shaking his head, Paul sighed theatrically as he looked around him. “How about a cup of tea?”

  “Really?” Glancing toward the plates and chipped, tea stained mugs piled up in the sink, Jason recoiled slightly. “We’ll end up with a fucking disease if we drink out of those cups.”

  “Yeah, why not,” Paul grinned. “I’ll tell you what,” he winked, “I’ll even make it.” He moved across the small kitchen, lifted the plastic kettle off of the stand, then stepping across to the sink, he pushed the dirty dishes out of his way and twisted open the cold water tap. “Do you take sugar, Marty?” he asked with a grin.

  Marty looked between the two men, and stunned by this turn of events, nodded his head. “Yeah, five, please.”

  “Five?” Paul’s eyes widened and he shook his head once more. “Fuck me, no wonder you’re so fucking fat, mate. You need to cut down on the sugar.”

  “Yeah, I plan to.” Marty’s cheeks flamed bright pink at the slur, not that he was going to argue the case. He was fat and there was no denying or hiding that fact. He’d been meaning to lose a bit of weight, and had even contemplated joining a gym, but as his old mum had often stated to anyone who cared enough to listen, he was big boned, and no amount of exercise was going to change that fact.

  With the kettle now filled to the brim with water, Paul replaced it onto the holder and flicked the switch for it to boil. Leaning casually against the worktop, he smiled. “You see the thing is, Marty,” he paused for a moment to light a cigarette, “you don’t mind if I call you Marty, do you?”

  Marty shook his head; it was his name after all.

  “You see, the pubs,” he took a deep drag on the cigarette, then blew the smoke out noisily, “now, by rights, they belong to me—to me and Jason over there.”

  Marty looked up at Jason for confirmation, who nodded down at him in return.

  “Legally, they don’t belong to Lucas.” He held open his arms. “It’s an easy mistake to make, I know, and well, your good pal, Devan,
well, he must have caught the wrong end of the stick, because for some strange reason, he seems to think that he can barge his way into my boozer and shout the odds.”

  Sweating profusely, Marty nodded his head. “That’s right, and like you said,” his voice was thick with fear and he spoke fast, “it was an easy mistake to make. We didn’t know.” He looked between the two men. “We didn’t have a clue, in fact. How could we have?”

  “That’s right.” Paul grinned good naturedly as he continued to smoke his cigarette. “Now, the little mistake that the two of you made, I could swallow, but to come into my boozer,” he stabbed his finger into his chest to hammer home his point, “and then to terrorize my staff …” Screwing up his face, he flicked the cigarette butt into the sink, and as it landed on a glob of fat, the burning embers hissed loudly. “Well your pal, Devan, he just made the situation personal.”

  On the kitchen worktop, the kettle had reached boiling point and a thick hot trail of steam billowed out of the spout.

  “And then …” Paul sighed theatrically and shook his head as though Marty had thoroughly disappointed him. “Then to top it all off, you know, just to make my day that little bit more fucking abysmal, I watch you, yes you, Marty,” he stabbed a stiff finger forcibly into Marty’s chest, “I watch you treating one of closest pals like he’s a fucking no mark, like he’s some kind of fucking cunt.”

  Marty opened his mouth to speak, only to be stopped by Paul raising his hand in the air.

  “And that, Marty,” he said with a low menacing growl, “I can’t and I won’t fucking swallow.”

  Calmly, he turned back to the kettle, lifted it off of the stand, and then peeled open the plastic lid. The boiling water spat over the worktop and the hot steam billowed up into the air. Without saying another word, he turned his body and threw the steaming contents full-pelt into Marty’s face.

  The action resulted in carnage. Holding his face between his hands, Marty slid from the chair onto the floor, screaming and howling, whilst Jason, who’s ankles had been splashed in the process, was hopping from one foot to the other.

  “For fuck’s sake, Paul, you could have fucking scalded me,” Jason yelled. “A bit of a heads up on the situation wouldn’t have gone amiss.”

  Paul shrugged apologetically, and stalking forward, he stood over Marty’s prostate form. Steam continued to radiate from his body, whilst his skin melted into the thin cotton. It was going to sting like fuck when it came to removing the garment, he rightly guessed. On the floor, Marty continued to scream a high pitched wail, all the while, his head, face, neck, and chest, had turned a deep crimson. Already, the beginning of large white plasma filled blisters were beginning to break out across the scalded, nerve damaged skin. He’d need several skin grafts if he survived, Paul surmised, not that he gave one iota about his survival. In fact, he hoped the slimy little fucker did die. In fact, if Paul had his way, it would be a real slow and painful death. As far as he was concerned, it was exactly what the bastard deserved.

  “Stop screaming like a fucking tart and listen.” Paul kicked his foot out with the maximum of brute force, his heavy boot connecting with a sickening thud upon Marty’s kidney area. The man would be pissing blood for weeks, and the thought made Paul want to smile. “Now, I could have beaten you to a fucking pulp.” He clenched his fists into tight balls, all the while, battling within himself to keep his temper in check. Once upon a time, he would have thought nothing about steaming in and kicking Marty to death, but today, he wanted a message relayed and it was imperative that Marty was still alive for the time being, at least, to pass it on. “I could have slit your fucking throat, but I didn’t, and every time you look into the mirror, that’s if you survive first, of course, you are going to see exactly what happens when you upset me.” He kicked out once more for good measure, his heavy toe-capped boot connecting with a hard thud against Marty’s soft flesh. “And you have fucking upset me, Marty, make no mistake about that.” He crouched down and breathed heavily through his flared nostrils. As he studied the blisters that had begun to break out across Marty’s upper body, he felt no remorse, and why should he? The ponce had taken liberties and this was his comeuppance. “You’ll most probably pass out from the pain at some point,” he stated matter-of-factly, “but when you come around, you’re going to get onto the blower to your old pal, Devan, and you are going to relay a message, and tell him that he can consider this a fucking war.” He grasped Marty’s jaw tightly in his fist, and ignoring the shriek of pain that came from the man, he allowed himself to smile. “A war that I will win, make no mistake about that. So let that sink in before you even think about coming near me or mine, trying to cause aggro in the future.” Still smiling, he straightened up, his voice taking on a cheerful sing-song tone. “Have I made myself clear enough for you, Marty?”

  Despite the agony that ravaged through Marty’s body, he ever so slowly and painfully nodded his head. It was clear to see that he’d made a mistake by throwing all of his eggs into the wrong basket—a very big mistake.

  * * *

  Devan had been cruising along the Romford Road when the call came through, and slamming his foot down on the brake, he did a three-point turn, all the while, screaming out a tirade of obscenities. “The fucking bastard, the fucking cunt.” He punched his fist down on the dashboard, barely able to contain his anger. So Mooney wanted a war, did he? Well, he’d come to the right place. A war was exactly what the smug bastard was going to get.

  The fact that Marty had taken a hit should have meant absolutely nothing to him. After all, his number-two meant fuck all to him, and even more than that, he was replaceable, as was everything and everyone else in Devan’s life. Instead, he saw the attack as a personal affront, a piss take, a slur on his own reputation.

  Pushing his foot down on the accelerator, anger continued to build throughout Devan’s body. Mooney, Paul fucking Mooney, the no good slag. At the back of his mind, a little voice niggled away at him. Wasn’t this exactly what he’d wanted, for Mooney to feel the full force of his wrath, to know that there was a vendetta against him, to make him feel fear, to have him know how it felt to lose something or someone he cared for?

  Reaching across to the glovebox, he yanked it open and took out a zoot. Placing the joint between his lips, he lit up, and inhaled the grass deep into his lungs. He wished now that he’d taken Mooney clean out, that he’d crept up behind the bastard and shot him in the back of the head, instead of playing games and toying with him, and more importantly, allowing him the chance to retaliate and fight back.

  Chapter 19

  Jonah was helping himself to a bottle of beer from behind the bar when Kieran walked into The Jolly Fisherman.

  “Do you want one?” Jonah gestured to the bottle in his hand.

  Kieran raised his eyebrows. “Are you paying then, bruv?” he asked, taking a seat on a barstool.

  “Leave it out.” Jonah rolled his eyes. “What’s the point of owning a pub if we can’t have a beer on the house every now and then?” he asked in a low voice so their father couldn’t hear.

  “Yeah, I suppose so.” Taking the bottle, Kieran took a deep swig. “Is he here? Dad, I mean.”

  “Yeah, he’s up in the office.” Jonah lifted the beer bottle toward the ceiling.

  For a few moments, Kieran was thoughtful, and studying his brother, he cleared his throat. “Have you ever,” he paused and began again, “have you ever noticed how different me and you look?”

  “What?” Jonah screwed up his face.

  “Me and you,” Kieran swallowed deeply, “how different we look.”

  “Well, we ain’t fucking twins, are we?” Jonah laughed off his brother’s words.

  “Nah, I know that.” He swallowed again. “You look like Dad, and I look like …”

  “Mum?” Jonah volunteered.

  “Yeah, I suppose so,” he answered, his voice flat. He was quiet for a moment and began peeling off the label from his beer bottle. “You’re right,” he
sighed deeply, “I look like Mum, I suppose.”

  “Are you all right?” Jonah tilted his head to one side. His eyes narrowed with concern.

  “Course I am.” Slipping off of the bar stool, Kieran forced a grin across his face. “I’m gonna go up and see Dad.”

  “Okay.” His eyes still narrowed, Jonah watched his brother make his way around the bar. “Are you sure that you’re all right?” he called after him.

  “Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?” Kieran answered as cheerfully as he could.

  * * *

  “What did I tell you?” Sitting behind his desk, a smug grin was plastered across Paul’s face. “I told you, Barkley was fuck all for us to worry about. Two weeks, and the snide cunt hasn’t even had the bottle to show his face.”

  “I already knew that,” Jason answered dismissively. “He was nothing as a kid and is still fuck all now.” He chuckled lightly. “Do you remember that night in the carpark? You smashed the windows of his car and the little fucker pissed himself.”

  Paul laughed. “Yeah, I vaguely remember.”

  “Who pissed themselves?” Walking into the office, Kieran smiled a greeting.

  “Barkley.” Lounging on the sofa, Jason chuckled. “Him and your dad had a bit of a confrontation one night, and Barkley, the useless prick that he is, pissed himself.”

  The smile left Kieran’s face and he cleared his throat. “Actually, Dad, can I have a word?” He glanced toward his uncle. “In private?”

  “Sounds ominous.” Paul frowned, then leaning back in the chair, nodded his head. “Your uncle was just leaving anyway.”

  Kieran smiled his thanks, and as his uncle stood up, he took his vacated seat.