Davie turned the handle. The door was not locked because his mother never left the house. As long as she had beer – and him to fetch it for her – then there was no reason to ever face the outside world. He stepped inside and the smell of that very same beer filled his nostrils.
“Davie, is that you? Get in here, now!”
Davie sighed and passed from the hallway into the next room. His mother was sprawled on the couch in her nightshirt and slippers, trying to pull herself up to a sitting position but failing pathetically. Davie moved over to help her up.
She declined his hand and continued to struggle helplessly. Eventually she made it upright and immediately began to glower at him. “Where have you been?”
“I was out with Frankie.”
His mother spat. The drool landed on her nightshirt. “Frankie! I told you to stay away from that boy.”
“I know,” Davie admitted. “I will from now on, mom, I promise.”
His mother stared at him, trying to focus her eyes as she swayed to and fro. She seemed totally unaware that a bandage adorned his head. “Lies!” she shouted in his face. “Don’t you lie to me, boy.”
“I’m not. I saw what he’s really like last night. I want no more to do with him.”
“Why? What happened? What did you boys do? I best not have the police around here. I have enough to cope with.”
“Nothing happened, mom. I just found out that he wasn’t a very nice person.”
His mother took a swig of her beer and laughed. “Could’ve told you that. He’s been no good since the day I birthed him.”
Davie was weary and his usual tolerance of his mother’s bile seemed somehow absent. He’d heard enough of her venom for one night. “Maybe he wouldn’t have turned out so bad if you’d been a better mother.” The words escaped Davie’s mouth before he even realised he wanted to say them. Now that he had though, he felt a cloying pressure release itself from his bones. It felt good to speak the truth.
Predictably, his drunken mother went nuclear. She threw her empty beer can at Davie, hitting his face above the eyebrow. “How dare you, you little swine. I give you a home and feed you and this is how you repay me? Twenty years of my life down the pan for you boys. I’ve a right mind to kick you both out.”
“You wouldn’t do that,” said Davie calmly.
“Oh, wouldn’t I? We’ll see about that, you ungrateful brat.”
“You won’t throw us out,” said Davie, “because you’d lose all your benefits and wouldn’t be able to drink yourself stupid every day. As for putting a roof over your head, the government only gave it to you because of me. You’d be in a skanky flat somewhere if I were to ever leave, so I don’t want to hear anymore of your selfish bullshit, you alcoholic, hate-filled, old witch. The only person to blame for your terrible life is you, so deal with it.” Davie reached down to the floor and picked up the empty beer can that she had thrown at him. He stood up and tossed it back onto her lap. “And you can get your own beer from now on. Go outside and let the whole street see what a pathetic waster you are.”
Davie’s mother unleashed a tirade of abuse, but he was already out the door and halfway up the stairs before she even managed to complete her first slurred sentence. It was just background noise now. The things he’d said to her should’ve left him feeling elated – he waited a long time to say them – yet they didn’t. He had too much on his mind right now to enjoy the moment. The confrontation with his mother was not enough to shift the growing numbness that seeped through his mind. After what they had put Andrew and his family through, Davie felt unworthy of any emotions other than shame and regret. He wished he could put things right, but there would never be a way.
Nothing will ever make up for what we did.
Davie entered the cramped space of his bedroom and hopped up onto the unmade bed. Thoughts turned to his brother and then, unexpectedly, he became sympathetic. What Davie had said to his mother was indisputably true: what chance had Frankie had growing up with her as a moral guardian? Ending up in a young offender’s home had probably been inevitable from the moment Frankie was born.
And that’s exactly where I’ll be heading too. I never had a chance either.
Davie thought about what Damien had said about his brother’s time in prison, and felt instantly sick. Frankie was strong, respected, and feared. The thought of him being….being helplessly abused just did not mesh with the image that Davie had of him. It made his brain hurt just trying to consider the notion.
Even if it’s true, what difference does it make? Frankie is broken, and I don’t think there’s any way to fix him. Understanding a monster doesn’t change the fact that it’s still a monster.
Davie had looked into his brother’s eyes earlier and saw that there was something missing – a key piece of the puzzle that most people had. Compassion.
Does that mean he’s evil?
No, Davie told himself, he’s my brother and he doesn’t deserve the existence he was given. My whole life, he’s looked out for me. Now it’s time for me to look out for him. Whatever happens, he needs me right now. I can’t just abandon him in the mess he’s in. This doesn’t have to go any further. I have to help him while there’s still time.
Davie rolled off of his bed and took a deep breath. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the revolver Frankie had given him and examined it.
“Time to help my brother,” he said out loud. “Whatever it takes.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The Trumpet Bar and Lounge was located in a rough housing estate, opposite a rundown supermarket and a failing video store. Andrew had never been here before, but had heard enough stories to suggest that drinking here was only for a certain kind of individual.
Andrew took the first of the crumbling stone steps leading up to the pub’s entrance and prepared himself to go inside. The lights were on inside and a flickering glow gave away the presence of a natural fire. The thought of all that warmth welcomed Andrew as the evening’s icy rain continued to drench him. He took the remaining steps and approached the entrance. He stood at the windowless, wooden door for a few moments, questioning himself about whether he really wanted to do this. Was he really willing to walk inside and commit cold-blooded murder? Andrew took a deep breath and told himself, yes. He pulled open the door and stepped inside.
The pub was empty and it took several seconds for Andrew to spot even a single soul. There was a slender brunette restocking the crisps behind the bar and a dishevelled old man sat opposite, nursing a half-empty pint of bitter, but that was all. Andrew headed up beside the old man and took the stool next to him.
“A new face,” said the barmaid, noticing him sit down. “Don’t get many of those around here. I’m Steph, and this wrinkly fart here, we call Old Graham.”
“You cheeky mare,” the old man replied, grinning.
“Pleased to meet you,” said Andrew. He slid a ten-pound note across the counter. “Top the fella up and one for yourself. Mine’s a lager.”
Steph smiled. “Very generous of you.”
“Yes,” said Old Graham. “You’re my kind of man.”
“Then perhaps you could help me with something?” said Andrew.
The old man received his pint from the barmaid and took a sip of it. Then, as the barmaid went off to pour the next one, he turned to Andrew. “Okay. What do you need?”
“Kid called Dom.”
The old man raised his greying eyebrows with a look of understanding. “Black lad? A twin, yes?”
“Not anymore,” Andrew replied. “But, yeah. Do you know him?”
“Not really, but I’ve seen him and his brother in here on the few odd occasions. Played a game of pool with him once, before the old table got smashed up in a bar fight.
“Has he been here tonight?”
The old man shrugged. “I’ve only just got here.”
“He left about ten minutes ago,” said the barmaid, coming back with the second pint Andrew had ordered from her. �
�Hit the booze pretty hard for an hour or so and then went on his way.”
“Do you know where he went?”
Steph shook her head. “Never said more than a couple words to me the whole time he was here – looked kind of upset. What you want with him, anyway?”
“I’m going to kill him,” said Andrew bluntly. He let the words linger in the air for a moment and realised that he had shocked the others into silence. Maybe they didn’t think he was serious, so he elaborated. “And I’m going to do it tonight.”
“What for?” asked the barmaid, in a way that seemed like she was merely humouring him.
Andrew was happy to tell her the answer, though, despite her lack of belief. “Because, last night, Dom helped murder my wife and put my daughter in hospital. He did it for kicks.”
The woman stared at him. She was trying to work him out, to see if he was serious, or just one of the regular whackjobs that were no doubt par for the course with a barmaid’s job.
“You really don’t know where he went?” Andrew asked.
“I’m sorry, I don’t. But even if I did know, I wouldn’t help you commit murder.”
Andrew understood and thanked her anyway, the got off his stool and began to walk away. He stopped when Old Graham reached out and touched him.
“Are you telling the truth?” the old man asked him.
Andrew nodded.
“What are you doing, Graham?” The barmaid scolded the old man from behind the bar.
The old man sighed back at her, but continued speaking to Andrew anyway. “I don’t know where he was heading, but he took a phone call just before he left.”
Andrew nodded. “And?”
“I didn’t hear most of what he was saying – he was too upset and angry – but I did hear him say something about the hospital, though.”
Andrew’s stomach boiled with hot, acidic fear and threatened to expel its contents all over the badly-worn carpet. Jordan was dead, which meant his brother, Dom, would have only one reason to revisit the hospital, and only one thing on his mind.
He’s going to go after Bex – pay me back for what I did to his brother. The person on the phone was probably Frankie, egging him on – eager to have a potential witness dealt with. I have to get there first.
Andrew turned back to the bar and addressed the bar maid. “He’s going after my daughter. Please, call the hospital and tell them that Rebecca Goodman is in danger.”
The bar maid just stood there, befuddled.
Andrew shouted at her. “Just do it!” Then he turned and fled, barging through the pub’s main door without stopping to acknowledge the pain that shot through his ribs. The rain had gotten ferocious in the short time he’d been in the pub. It now hit Andrew’s skin with enough force to sting.
Andrew stopped at the bottom of the pub’s steps and allowed himself a brief second to consider his options. He needed to get to the hospital as quickly as possible, but he was at least three miles away, with no car. There was a bus route nearby but Andrew had no idea how regular it was or even where it went to.
What do I do? What do I do?
A taxi would be the quickest option, but he’d still have to wait for it to arrive, and he couldn’t take the risk of it turning up late. There was only one solution that seemed viable right now: he’d have to race back home and get to his car.
Andrew moved quickly, dodging rain-filled divots and cracked paving stones. Breathlessness came quickly, forcing a stitch into his side that merged with the pain of his bruising, but he had to keep going. Every second was one that his daughter might not have.
He ran as fast as his legs would take him.
He ran until his chest was near-bursting.
But he still kept going, not slowing down for a single second.
He ran like Bex’s life depended on it, because it did.
One street away from his own, Andrew was forced to slow down to a jog, the pain in his ribs growing to the point where it threatened to drop him to the floor. When he placed a hand against his side, Andrew discovered blood seeping from the shallow knife wound where Michelle had stabbed him. It felt hot as it trickled down his skin.
But there was no time to wallow in the pain. Andrew put aside the discomfort and drew from reserves he never knew he had. He managed to round the final corner at full speed. His car was right in front of him, exactly where he’d left it on the curb beside his house. For some irrational reason he’d worried it wouldn’t be there. He rushed over to the Mercedes and skidded to a halt beside the driver’s side, fumbling in his pocket for the keys.
“What’s up, motherfucker?”
Andrew turned around just in time to see a fist coming towards him. It connected with his jaw and sent his eyes rolling back in his head.
When he came to, Andrew found himself in the dark.
***
There was no space for him to move. Each time Andrew tried to straighten out an arm or a leg he hit against the walls of his confinement. His head spun, and a wicked lump, throbbing on the side of his temple, made it difficult to think. It wasn’t until after several minutes of being curled up in the dark, listening to a nearby mechanical humming, that he realised he was inside a car.
I’m locked in the boot.
Andrew could tell by the purring of the engine that it was his own car. Dom – if that was who had jumped him – must have grabbed the keys from him after throwing his knockout punch. Now Andrew was a hostage on his way to God knows where. He felt about himself for a solution to his predicament but failed to find anything. Bex still needed him, and while he was trapped in the boot Frankie could have been on his way to the hospital to hurt her.
If he’s not there already.
If Andrew remembered correctly, the only things inside the boot were a jacket belonging to Pen (had belonged to Pen) and a handheld vacuum – neither would do anything to help him escape. He knew there was a tool kit, too, but it was hidden in a compartment beneath the shelf. There was no way to get to it while lying on top of it. Andrew did the only thing he could think of: he kicked out with both legs as hard as he could.
The plastic mouldings of the car’s luggage compartment bent under the assault, but behind that was the unmovable steel of the vehicle’s chassis. Andrew had nowhere near enough strength to kick his way out. Something occurred to him, though. He still had his knife, could feel it digging into his side. He pulled it free of his waistband and unrolled it from the tea towel. He may have no way to escape the car’s trunk, but at least he had a weapon to use when the trunk opened.
As if reading his mind, the car began to slow down, the growl of the engine deepening while the revs lowered. Andrew gripped the knife tighter, his only hope of salvation. The car came to a full stop and jolted as the handbrake was applied by its operator. Andrew didn’t know for sure that it was Dom driving the car, but he couldn’t see it being anyone else.
The driver’s door opened and someone stepped out, rocking the car back and forth as they removed their weight from it. The ground crunched as footsteps approached the boot. Andrew’s body tensed like a coiled spring and he held the knife out in front of him, ready...waiting.
Seconds passed by.
The boot did not open.
Andrew picked up the scent of something – something acrid, gaseous.
His ears picked up the sound of liquid, splashing and pouring.
His mind put the two things together.
Petrol. The psychopath is going to burn me alive in here. He can’t do this!
Of course he can. I stabbed his brother to death.
Mortal fear seized Andrew in a grip so fierce that it could have belonged to the Grim Reaper himself. Some part of him had already resigned himself to the possibility of dying tonight, but the thought of being burned alive sent a primal fear through Andrew that sent his mind into an animalistic frenzy.
He kicked frantically at the boot lid and cried out, trying to reason with the person about to set him on fire. It was no use, thoug
h, the petrol continued pouring, seeping through the gaps in the vehicle’s bodywork and finding its way onto Andrew’s clothing and making his eyes sting. He tried to figure a way out before it was too late, clawing desperately at his surroundings. Each of the four walls was flat and featureless – nothing to grab hold of – but eventually Andrew’s hands caught against something above him. It was the locking mechanism for the boot. He fiddled with the contraption but couldn’t make sense of it in the dark. All he could think to do was stab at the lock with his knife. The blade lodged into the plastic covering and stuck. Andrew pulled it out and stabbed again. And again.
Again.
Again.
Petrol continued to soak through into the boot.
He stabbed again, this time harder.
Eventually, part of the casing began to come away, revealing the lock fittings inside. Andrew crammed his fingers into the gap and snatched at anything he could find in the dark. He pulled and prodded, praying desperately that he would find a way out.
Something clicked.
A sliver of light entered the boot space and Andrew felt his heart leap into his chest. The person outside was still busy pouring petrol and didn’t seem to notice that the boot lid had opened a couple of inches. Warily, Andrew edged the bonnet open further. He could see the person’s legs through the gap, lit by the car’s headlamps. He took a deep breath and held it in his lungs until they began to ache. Then he unleashed his entire body, springing up like a striking cobra. His head and shoulders hit the boot lid and forced it open while his legs kicked out and launched him away from the car. He barrelled into his attacker and the two of them tumbled to the ground, landing in a heap. During the fall, Andrew lost his knife, but he wasn’t deterred by the lack of a weapon and shot up to his feet, kicking out at his attacker before they had any chance to reach their own feet. It did indeed turn out to be Dom as he’d expected. The teenager rolled over onto his side, cursing in pain and anger as Andrew kicked him again.
Andrew looked around and considered making a run for it. They seemed to be in a wood somewhere. The cold rain, mixed with the late hour, made the whole place seem menacing, like a scene from a horror film. If Andrew ran, he would probably end up lost, and he couldn’t afford for that to happen. Besides, the time for running was over. Andrew had wanted Dom and now he had him.
ASBO: A Thriller Novel Page 18