The Reprisal

by Kerry Kaya

  “Yeah and?” Pushing past Cathy, Donna’s back was up. “Your boat didn’t look too clever either, I’ll have you know.”

  Once Cathy’s laughter had subsided, they made their way back out to the hallway.

  “Do you think that could have been him, you know, Lucas?”

  Cathy shrugged. “Could have been, I suppose.” She looked toward the staircase and cocked her eyebrow. “Only one way to find out for sure though, eh?”

  “What? No.” Donna grasped Cathy’s hand. “No way, I’m not going up there.”

  “Then wait here for me.” Shrugging Donna away from her, she slowly ascended the staircase, the torch lighting the way. On the upper landing, she came across four closed doors, and unsure of which one to open first, she gingerly reached out to turn a door handle. Over the years, the metal had been painted over and it felt chipped and rough to her touch.

  The first room she entered was in the same state of disrepair as the main room downstairs. It was also empty. Slowly, she crept across the hallway and placed her hand upon the door to the second bedroom. The sound of a faint mewling stopped her in her tracks, and for a brief moment, she cocked her head to one side, listening before gently pushing open the door.

  “Hello?” Her voice was barely a whisper. In the torchlight, she made out the shape of a bed and what looked like a bundle of blankets thrown haphazardly across it. She inched closer, her eyes straining to accumulate to the darkness. The faint mewling she’d heard from the hallway had grown louder. It was a heartfelt cry, reminding her of a wounded animal. She took a step closer, fully expecting to stumble across a wounded cat or maybe even a fox.

  The torchlight settled on a large form at the foot of the bed, far too large to be an animal, and she rocked back on her heels, in readiness to run from the room. In her haste to escape, she spun around, and as she did so, the torchlight picked up on a flash of distinctive blonde hair that rooted her to the spot. Within a matter of moments, she had taken in the scene before her—the sobbing, the tourniquet, the syringe. Her hand flew to her mouth, and as her heart began to hammer a tattoo inside her chest, the colour drained from her face, she would recognize him anywhere. It was Lucas.

  As quietly as she had entered, Cathy backed out of the room, and looking over the bannister rail, she called out for Donna to join her.

  On hearing Cathy’s voice, Donna turned her face upward. “Is he up there?”

  Cathy didn’t answer, and running down the steps, she grabbed Donna’s arm and dragged her up the staircase.

  “Bleeding hell, Cath, have a day off, will ya?” Pausing to catch her breath, Donna’s chest heaved. “You’re scaring me half to death.”

  “In here.” She shone the torch forward and motioned for Donna to follow.

  The room was in darkness, just as Cathy had left it moments earlier, and shining the torch on the large form at the foot of the bed, she inched closer.

  “Lucas.” Her voice was gentle. She could see the fear in his tear-filled eyes, mingled with something else Cathy noted … shame. Turning to look over her shoulder, she raised her eyebrows. “Lucas, it’s me, Cathy, Paul’s wife.”

  His fingers were poised around the syringe and it took all of Cathy’s strength to not run from the room, so acute was her fear. She’d always known that he was a user, an addict, but to suddenly be faced with his demons was downright terrifying.

  “You don’t want to do that, mate.” It was Donna who spoke, and in that instant, Cathy could have kissed her. “What’s it going to solve, eh?” Her voice was beguiling as she knelt on the floor in front of him. “It’s not going to make your troubles disappear, is it?” She shook her head sadly at him. “The demons will still be there,” she tapped at the side of her temple, “up here. It never goes away, does it?”

  He was shaking his head and when he finally spoke, his voice was gruff and wavering. “I didn’t kill them.”

  “Of course you didn’t,” Donna answered, glancing up at Cathy with wide eyes, “but I think you know who did.”

  The tears came then, big fat tears that left him gasping for air. “I didn’t kill them,” he repeated, over and over again, like a mantra.

  * * *

  “Incapacitated?” Stella threw her arms up in the air. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “Exactly what I said,” Cathy answered. “He’s incapacitated. In other words, he’s incapable of telling us anything.”

  “Well, that’s bleedin’ great, that is. So how are we supposed to find out who was responsible now?”

  The four women were sitting in Cathy’s kitchen. In the background, the faint chords of “Anyone Who Had a Heart,” by Cilla Black, was playing on the stereo, and all eyes turned toward her, waiting for a response. She shrugged her slim shoulders. She had no answers for them. With Lucas incapable of giving them the answers they so desperately needed, so were her plans of revenge.

  Over and over again, she had revisited the scene in her mind’s eye—from the tears, to the tourniquet, to the syringe. He’d obviously known a lot more than he’d been prepared to let on, and after spending just over an hour in his company, begging him not to jack up, they had finally left the squat with heavy hearts.

  “He was scared.” Donna stated matter-of-factly. “That man is so fucked up in the head that it’s actually painful to watch him.” She paused for a moment. “I’ve seen it before, you see. My elder boys’ dad, well, he was a user, an addict. The bugger would swallow, snort, inject whatever shit he could lay his hands on. It got so bad that in the end, I couldn’t even leave a bottle of aspirin lying around. I had to keep the kids’ medicines in the washing machine. It was the only place I knew the bastard wouldn’t look.”

  “What?” Stella’s mouth dropped open at the revelation.

  Donna shrugged. “Did you notice, Cath, that the rubber tubing was tied around his left arm.”

  Cathy nodded her head. If she was being honest, it was a scene she didn’t think she would ever erase from her mind.

  “And what the hell does that have to do with anything?” Stella snapped.

  “He was left-handed.” Cathy swallowed down a mouthful of wine as she looked across to Donna. “Just like Kieran was. We always joked about it in the past, you know, what a coincidence it was.”

  “Exactly.” Donna was nodding her head. “Kieran was left-handed.” She mimicked the action of trying to tie something around the opposite arm she wrote with. “Why would he have chosen to use his weaker arm to jack up?”

  Cathy shrugged. “He wouldn’t, unless, of course, it wasn’t him who tied the tourniquet.” She sat up straighter in the chair. “Whoever helped him tie that rubber tubing wouldn’t have known that, would they?”

  “Oh my God.” Donna wrapped her arms around her slim frame and involuntarily shuddered. “You know what this means, don’t you? It must have been him.” She looked to Stella and Katie. “We were in the house and heard someone come down the stairs. It had to be him.”

  Stella thought this over, and playing with the stem of her wine glass, she looked around the table. “Well, that’s that then, I suppose. There’s no way of finding out who was responsible, now is there?”

  Sighing deeply, Cathy downed her wine. No matter how much she hated to admit it, her sister-in-law was right. Without Lucas’s input, they would forever be none the wiser. The knowledge did nothing to erase the ball of anger that had settled in the pit of her stomach.

  Chapter 23

  Maneuvering little Chanel’s buggy through the entrance door of a busy café, Keisha swore underneath her breath, as the plastic shopping bags she had placed over the handles, became caught in the frame.

  “Do you need some help?” Donna smiled warmly. She instantly recognized the woman. They had been friends at school, but over the years, had lost touch.

  Keisha looked up. “Donna?” she exclaimed. “Bloody hell, I’ve not seen you in years. How are you keeping, mate?”

  Despite the smile that remained plas
tered across her face, Donna’s heart sank. How was she? How on earth was she supposed to answer that question? She felt dog rough most days and her heart ached for Kieran, so much so that she still cried herself to sleep at night.

  “I’m good,” she lied.

  Seated behind a table, Keisha had placed little Chanel’s buggy beside Donna’s. “How old is he?” She nodded down at Daryl.

  “Just turned two.” Donna sipped at her tea and glanced toward the door as it opened, bringing with it a blast of cold air. Even though it wasn’t particularly cold in the café she shivered. It was the anticipation, the hope that it could be Kieran walking through the door larger than life. As daft as it sounded, she still looked out for him, hoping against hope that the past few weeks had all been a terrible nightmare, a mistake, and that somehow, he had survived the attack.

  “Is he your only one?”

  There was genuine interest in Keisha’s voice and Donna shook her head. “I’ve got three older boys.” She didn’t tell her about the baby. Her tummy was still flat, and even as she rested her hand upon her abdomen, she wanted to keep her news quiet. In that moment, she wondered if Kieran was looking down on her, or if he was happy that she was growing their child inside of her. She hoped so. “And how about you?” She forced herself to ask the question and nodded down at little Chanel.

  Keisha sighed. “She’s the only one,” she rolled her eyes, “and will probably be my last, if her father has his way.”

  Sipping at her tea, Donna grinned. “Like that, is it?”

  Keisha nodded, and giving her order over for a cooked breakfast, she turned in the seat. “He didn’t even want her; told me to get rid of it when he found out I was pregnant.”

  Donna raised her eyebrows and glanced at the little girl. With light brown hair and deep blue eyes, she was a pretty little thing. How could anyone not want her?

  “He reckoned becoming a father would ruin his bad man reputation.” Keisha lowered her voice and sighed. “He’s such a wanker.”

  Donna didn’t answer. She was actually at a loss for words. She’d always assumed that Keisha would have more sense than to get lumbered with a man who only thought of himself. Out of the two of them, Keisha had seemed to have a bit more nous about her. She’d even had a Saturday job in a trendy hairdressers when they were younger, which was much more than she herself had ever done.

  “And like I said to Devan,” she laughed, “if you didn’t want kids, then you should have put something on the end of it, simple as that.”

  “Devan?” Donna instantly recognized the name and she lifted her eyebrows in a quizzical fashion. “Devan Barkley?”

  “That’s him.” Taking a bite of her sausage, Keisha chewed thoughtfully. “He was in our year at school.”

  “I remember him.” Taken aback, Donna sipped once more at her tea. What on earth had Keisha ever seen in the likes of Devan Barkley? He’d been a timid, acne prone, scrawny, scruffy kid, who as a result, had been mercilessly bullied throughout his school life. He certainly hadn’t come across the way Keisha described him. In fact, it was quite the opposite. The Devan she knew wouldn’t have said boo to a goose.

  “He even chucked me and our Chanel out of the house,” she said in a hushed tone. “We had to go and stay at his mother’s house for a while, until the council gave us a flat over on Gascoigne estate. He’s a bad one all right, the fucking ponce. The tight bastard owns a string of brothels over Stepney way. He’s raking it in and can’t even pay me a bit of maintenance for our Chanel.” She slurped at her tea, and glancing around her, she lowered her voice even further. “Did you hear about that bombing over in Barking?” It was said with a hint of excitement, and her cheeks were flushed pink as she surveyed Donna over the rim of her mug.

  The breath caught in Donna’s throat, and as she nodded her head, she swallowed deeply, not trusting herself to answer.

  “Well, that was him.” She took a second bite of her sausage and chewed. “I heard him planning it all out, you know, before he chucked me out of the house. I didn’t actually think he would follow it through, though.” She took a sip of her tea. “Just goes to show you, eh? You never really know someone, or know what they are capable of, come to that.”

  Abruptly, Donna stood up. A sliver of panic spread through her veins, and gathering up her belongings, she could barely look her old friend in the eye. The way she spoke about the bomb, as if it was nothing, as though the murders were nothing, repulsed her. Her man was dead and the way Keisha was carrying on, anyone would think she was discussing something as mundane as the weather.

  With the mug of tea held up to her open lips, Keisha sat up straighter. “Was it something I said?” she asked with concern.

  Donna shook her head. “I’ve got to go.” She choked out the words, and rummaging inside her purse, she fished out some loose coins and placed them on the table. “Shirl,” she called out to the waitress, “the money for the tea is on the table.” Hastily, she pulled the wedged buggy out of the tight space where it had been parked. “See you around, Keish.” She didn’t wait for a reply, and as fast as she could, she left the café, her heart thumping wildly inside her chest and her mind still reeling.

  * * *

  Forty minutes later, Donna was climbing out of a taxi outside Cathy’s home in Chigwell, Essex. Placing her son on her hip, she dragged the collapsed buggy behind her. “Bastard.” Over and over again, she muttered the word to herself.

  Within moments, Cathy had opened the front door. She took one look at Donna’s face and ushered her inside the house.

  “What’s happened?” Her eyes strayed to Donna’s abdomen. “Is it the baby?”

  Donna shook her head. She watched the older woman’s shoulders slump with relief and felt the first stir of tears glisten her eyes.

  “What on earth is wrong?” Cajoling the younger woman through to the kitchen, concern was etched across Cathy’s face.

  “It was him.” The words came out in a sob.

  “Who?” Taking the child from his mother, Cathy sat him on a chair and absentmindedly opened the kitchen cupboard. She took out the biscuit barrel, placing a biscuit into the little boy’s chubby fist as she sat down at the table. “Who has upset you?”

  “I was in the café, and Keisha …” She began to hiccup through her tears. “Keisha, a girl I went to school with, she was my mate.”

  Cathy nodded, her head trying her upmost to keep up.

  “Well, she said her bloke, this Devan,” she hiccuped again, “it was him, him that planted the bomb.” She cried even harder, her heart breaking all over again. “It was him, Cath, she said it was him.”

  Placing her palms on the table, a jolt of shock resounded throughout Cathy’s body. She had all but given up on ever finding the culprit responsible for the murder of her family. “What did you just say?” Her voice shook with incredulity.

  “It was Devan.” Donna used her fingertips to wipe away traces of smudged mascara from underneath her eyes. “Devan Barkley.”

  “I’ve never heard of him.” Shrugging her shoulders, she stood up, and moving across the kitchen, she switched on the kettle, purely for something to do while she thought the situation through. “Who is he?”

  “He went to school with me and Keisha.” She wiped once more at her eyes. “He was a skinny kid, bullied mercilessly most of the time. He used to say he was Samson Ivers’s son. I never really believed him at the time, I mean Samson was a face, wasn’t he? And Devan, well, he was scared of his own shadow.” She sniffed back her tears. “I just can’t believe he would do something like this.”

  “Samson?” Pouring boiling water into two china cups, Cathy’s eyes widened. “We, me and Paul, I mean, we went to his funeral.” She thought back to the day in question. It was so long ago, she could barely remember the details, but as for the man having a son, she couldn’t remember seeing one or any family members come to that, at the funeral. “Blimey, Donna, you’re going back some years. I was pregnant with Jonah at the time
.”

  “Keisha said he owns a string of brothels over Stepney way.” She shook her head and took the steaming cup of tea from Cathy. “What do we do now?” she cried.

  Cathy was thoughtful, and looking down at little Daryl, she was reminded of her own sons at the same age. As she spoke her voice hardened. “First of all, we find him and when we do …” Her voice trailed off.

  Donna nodded her head, understanding the meaning behind Cathy’s unspoken words. “We’re going to make the bastard pay.”

  Chapter 24

  At a haulage yard in Leytonstone, East London, Devan was watching Sean Matthews intently. For all intent and purposes, and much to his displeasure, it appeared that Sean had loose lips. As his father had often stated, loose lips sank ships—a saying that had stayed with him throughout his lifetime.

  Mob-handed, Devan had turned up at the yard where Sean worked as a security guard. That should have been his first warning right there. For all his gangster talk, Sean was nothing other than an employed lackey, albeit a dangerous lackey, with not only the mind of a genius, but also the morals of a complete and utter nutcase.

  Sean, for his part, seemed to be unfazed by his sudden appearance, and was as usual full of arrogance. A fact that was beginning to royally piss Devan off.

  He allowed the man to carry on speaking, boasting about his life in the Army, how he’d killed in the past, and had literally got away with murder, time and time again. Devan almost laughed in his face. Hadn’t he, too, murdered and got away with it, with Lucas Vaughn being his latest victim?

  “You ever taken a hit?” Devan was grinning as he asked the question.

  Sean narrowed his eyes and shrugged. “Shot at? Yeah, course I have.”

  Devan continued to grin. “So you haven’t then? You haven’t actually taken a hit?”