Like Father, Like Son

by Sarah Masters

  He shivered. It was a bit nippy in here, which added to the shakes that periodically rattled his body. At times, he couldn’t work out whether it was the cold or the shock making him shudder. Maybe a bit of both. Who the fuck apart from him cared, anyway? If he didn’t get a chance to spill the beans soon, it wouldn’t just be his fingers he’d be missing. Robby had heard all about The Hardarms and how they tortured, of course he had. He’d have to have been living under a rock not to. There had been this one time, when a bloke had held out until his whole hand had been chopped off. Kevin someone or other. The silly bastard had stolen some Hardarm drug money after a night of collecting, thinking he could get away with it by saying some thug had jumped him and nicked it. In the end, he’d admitted it had been him, paid it back and now lived up north somewhere, out of the way.

  Robby couldn’t blame the bloke for running off. If he could do the same right now, this second, he would, but only to relieve the pain in his hands and tailbone. He didn’t want to run away for good. The chair he was tied to wasn’t the most comfortable of seats. Wooden ladderback, made out of pine, he thought. The knots in the ropes around his ankles chafed his skin—he’d started to bleed there after finger two had been removed. Too much jostling about on his part, what with struggling to get free and failing. He should have just stayed still, zoned out or something, but the pain had been too horrific for that.

  He thought of his ma and how she wouldn’t have reported him missing, even though he’d been here for what seemed like weeks. Months. He wished he’d gone to see her on a regular basis so she’d know that by him not turning up for a cuppa or a bite of dinner lately, there must be something wrong. Hindsight and all that—and too late to do anything about it now. When this was all over, he’d make a point of going to see the old dear twice a week, in case this kind of crap happened again.

  It wouldn’t, though. Somehow, he’d convince The Hardarms to let him work for them. The thing was, he wasn’t exactly endearing himself to them by keeping what he knew to himself. If he’d give up the information they wanted he could get the ball rolling on him being one of them, but the bloke he needed to speak to wasn’t available. Fuck, what a quandary. His mind reeled with what he should or shouldn’t do and—

  Someone was coming up the stairs. He anticipated more torture, which led to the shivers coming on stronger. He expected more of the shouting in his face that hurt his eardrums. More of the breaths hitting his skin when one of them came so close he could smell what they’d had for their last meal. A meal he’d kill for. God, he was starving. He’d eat a scabby dog, given half the chance.

  He shivered again.

  Fucking needs some heating on in here.

  The door was flung open, and the handle bashed into the wall, stripping away small chunks of plaster. They dropped to the floor, a scatter of them, some dust hovering before dissipating. Weird how shit like that had become such an interesting focus, along with the peeling, dated wallpaper, the ratty floorboards, and the picture rail that had a few rusty hooks in it. No pictures, though. Nothing nice to look at while he was alone. Nothing to relieve the boredom or take his mind off what had happened to him and why.

  The bloke who’d cut his fingers off stood there, and Robby swallowed down a glut of fear. He’d come to hate his fingers—the two pointers that were left—knowing they were a bargaining chip he’d lose if he didn’t open his mouth and toss out his secret. How could he, though? The finger cutter, Damien Fox, was the person the secret was about. Robby needed to speak to the leader, not the right-hand man. Trouble was, the leader never seemed to be around, so Damien said.

  Damien stared at him from the open doorway, all brawn and height, a gym beast if ever there was one. The silly bastard had styled himself on Stallone in Rocky, Robby would bet, especially the hair. Damn stuff was shaggy, black and curly, covered in gel. A red headband looked like a thick streak of blood around his head, more suited to Rambo than a boxer. No matter what he looked like, Damien was an arsehole through and through, and if there were to be a fist fight, Robby would lose even if he’d still had all his fingers. Down on his scrawny backside within a second, he’d be.

  “Boss wants to see you,” Damien said, “seeing as you won’t talk to me. You might find yourself opening up that gob of yours with him. Any funny business when I untie you, another finger goes, got it?”

  Robby nodded, too tired to give the bloke any fuss. And besides, what he’d wanted all along was about to happen. A meeting with Starky, the one with the final say on everything. The man hardly ever seen because he stayed out of the way and let everyone else deal with the grisly bits.

  Although it was what he’d been after, what he’d been holding out for, Robby didn’t relish speaking with Starky, not really. What he had to say could go two ways. If Starky believed him, Damien would be the one losing more than just fingers. If Starky didn’t believe him—well, goodbye to Robby’s hand. Maybe goodbye to his life and all.

  I should have kept my nose out of things. Shouldn’t have been so stupid to have been caught. Should have found another way to be noticed by The Hardarms.

  Too late now.

  Damien gave him a filthy look, as though Robby were scum, and Robby supposed he was, considering he was a Jugular. The Rocky-wannabe kneeled to loosen the ankle knots. Robby wondered for a brief second whether, if he raised his chafed, bound-together wrists, his double-handed fist would be enough to knock Damien out if he whacked it on the top of his head. He doubted it, remembering the story he’d heard about someone smacking Damien with a baseball bat on the temple—Damien unmoving from the assault, not even a flinch appearing on his face. Whether the tale had been embellished or not, it was best Robby did as he’d been told.

  Being freed from the ankle bindings wasn’t as great as he’d imagined. He still felt bound just by being here. But at least he could stretch his muscles by having a walk to wherever he was being taken. Downstairs, probably—and he knew he was on a second level because they’d hauled him up some steps when they’d brought him here. Sack over his head or not, he’d known they’d been steps.

  His legs wobbly from the lack of food and sitting in the same position for hours on end, he followed Damien from the room, itching, at the top of the stairs, to give Damien a good old shove and send him flying down them. What he wouldn’t give to do that. To just once get the better of Damien Fucking Fox. He resisted, thinking that whatever he did wouldn’t affect the big man, so Robby would be wasting his time and energy.

  Damien gestured for Robby to go first, which had him wondering if what he’d just thought was on Damien’s mind, too. Did Damien fancy launching him down the stairs? Probably. Robby had pissed the bloke off by not talking, no doubt. Bruised his ego. If pushed, Robby would topple arse over tit and break some bones, he was sure of it.

  He made it to the bottom without being touched—thank Heaven for small mercies, as his ma would say. Some other fella was waiting there, a tall, skinny, ginger-haired fucker with red-raw acne as big as pennies. Some of the spots were about ready to erupt, and the sight of them churned Robby’s stomach. Who was this kid? A latest recruit or what? He appeared the type to prefer reading books in a library over being part of a gang.

  Talk about looks being deceiving.

  “Take him to Starky,” Damien said. “I’ve got some other bit of stuff to do.”

  I bet you do.

  Damien walked off, arms bowed out by his sides, like he was ready to punch someone’s lights out. Robby watched him go, again getting the urge to hurt the bloke. To run up behind him and hit the wanker until he fell to the floor, wrecked and bleeding, letting him know how it felt to be abused. But the ginger lad sucked his teeth, drawing Robby’s focus to him.

  The kid led the way down a hallway, and Robby reckoned he could take this chap on. Loop his arms around his neck and tug, strangling him from behind, the knot on the rope around his wrists pressing into the lad’s Adam’s apple. But again, he’d need energy for that, and he didn’
t have much in reserve. What he did have, he’d need for telling Starky what he knew.

  Robby sighed, entering a room with the kid, who then left, shutting the door quietly, as if doing it any other way would do Starky’s head in and make him lash out. A fluctuation to his pulse had Robby feeling queasy, as did seeing who was sitting behind an old-fashioned teak desk. Yeah, Robby had been expecting to see him, but doing so took his breath away. It wasn’t often the main man gave anyone an audience or was even seen around the city.

  Starky stared at him, finger resting beneath his nose.

  Robby envied him that finger.

  “Sit,” Starky Parky said, the nickname from his childhood something the man apparently hated being called now. People avoided using it to his face at all costs, just calling him Starky.

  Robby obeyed him—like he was in a position to do anything else—and selected one of two spare chairs, a comfy bugger that must have once belonged to a three-piece suite. It was heaven on his aching bones, and he had to stop himself from closing his eyes and dropping off there and then. Man, he was weak from only drinking water since he’d been brought here. A decent Big Mac would go down a bleeding treat at the minute.

  “Talk,” Starky said.

  “You won’t like what I have to say.” Robby’s words were slurred, and his brain seemed sluggish. Had the walk downstairs tired him out that much? “And you won’t believe me.”

  “Try me.”

  Starky’s hair had been cut since the last time Robby had seen him, outside Starky’s house when Robby had been doing a bit of spying. It was styled like he thought he was one of The Krays, and the neat suit he had on enhanced the resemblance. Except Starky didn’t have a mad twin by his side. He didn’t need one. Starky was mad enough for two people. Three, even.

  “Get a fucking move on,” Starky said. “I ain’t got all day.”

  Christ, he even sounds like The Krays.

  “Your missus,” Robby said, “is fucking Damien Fox.”

  Blunt, but oh well.

  “Is she now.” Starky’s expression gave nothing away. He had resting bastard face down pat. “And you know this how?”

  “Saw them one night. Down the alley beside The Winchester. Kissing and shit.”

  “And shit…?”

  Robby managed a nod. It hurt his neck bones. “Yeah, you know, doing stuff.”

  “Doing stuff. Stop pissing me about. Elaborate,” Starky said.

  Robby closed his eyes and imagined the scene. “She was against the wall. He was touching her tits.” Oh, God, had he really said that? “He had his hand up her skirt at one point, too. She asked him to fuck her because she couldn’t wait any longer. Said she was desperate for it.” He opened his eyes again. Looked at the ceiling. Better than looking at Starky, who must be angry as hell by now.

  “Enough of that,” Starky said. “Why were you outside my house the other night? The night you were brought here?”

  “I’d been following Damien. Wanted to make doubly sure he was actually giving her one before I told you, because it’s not the kind of thing I wanted to get wrong. Like, I didn’t want to give you duff info. So yeah, I followed him, and he went to your house. Only, he didn’t go inside. He was at the front door, looked like he was about to ring the bell, but he turned and saw me in the bushes. Then he came over, punched me in the face, and some other blokes turned up, stuck a bag on my head then brought me here.”

  “Why allow yourself to lose fingers over this?”

  Allow myself?

  “I didn’t get much choice. I asked to speak to you every time, but Damien wouldn’t let me. I reckoned you’d told him to get information out of me, and he was doing as he’d been told. I couldn’t let on that the information I had was about him.”

  “Generous of you, to relinquish your fingers like that.”

  “I’d lose a lot more, or be dead, if I told him what I knew.”

  “There is that to consider. He’d want to shut you up. Permanently.” His nose twitched.

  Coke habit?

  “Probably,” Robby said, realizing he’d possibly not only answered Starky’s statement but his own question, too.

  “So even though you don’t work for me, you’re prepared to be loyal to me. You have concern about what’s been happening behind my back. Why?” Starky leaned forward to pick up a mug. He drank deep.

  Robby envied Starky for that, too.

  “Everyone knows you should be respected,” Robby said, warming to his theme, to attaining his goal. “Just because I’m with The Jugulars, doesn’t mean I want to be. Bloody second-rate outfit, they are.”

  “I see. You want to be a Hardarm, is that it?”

  Robby nodded. “Always have. Was never granted an initiation, even though I’ve asked a few times.”

  “I’d say you’ve already been initiated,” Starky said, surprising the hell out of Robby. “A bloke who’s prepared to lose six fingers for me is a bloke I want on my side, know what I mean?”

  It couldn’t have been that easy, could it? Was Robby a shoo-in already?

  “I have pictures,” Robby said. “Loads of them. I was going to show you, but Damien took my mobile. He won’t be able to see them, though. Need a fingerprint to open my phone.” He grinned. “He hasn’t chopped the right finger off to be able to use it to unlock it. Anyway, I have backups on my laptop.”

  “Ah…” Starky grimaced. “We can get around the fingerprint issue when we take people’s phones. Got some fella who’s a whiz at accessing info. But your phone’s been wrecked, anyway. Standard procedure, although I wish in this case it wasn’t. And your laptop doesn’t exist as it once did. Damien was sent round to your gaff to trash it. Shit your flatmates up, I can tell you. So you’ll have to get me more pictures, won’t you?”

  Robby nodded. “Yeah.” He laughed, feeling out of his depth and a bit manic. “At least I’ve still got me thumbs. I can take shots easy enough with those.”

  “I’ll give you another mobile.” Starky placed his mug down. “Grand a week suit you?”

  Robby’s energy returned at that. He sat straighter, eyes widening in shock. “A grand?”

  “What, not enough?” Starky cocked his head.

  “No, that’s plenty.” Blimey, Robby could kit his ma’s house out good and proper with that amount. Buy her a new microwave, seeing as hers was on the blink. And a set of those cups she’d been eyeing in B&M Bargains. And those shoes in Primark, the ones with the butterflies all over them. Dolly shoes, were they? Fucked if he knew, but he’d get her a pair regardless.

  “Wages are paid in advance. Fuck up, you get it docked from the following week. Fuck up badly enough, you’ll end up with no wages until the debt’s cleared. Fuck up even more…well, you know the deal. Understood?”

  “Yeah.”

  “After this job, you taking more pictures, there’ll be others. Welcome to The Hardarm payroll, son.”

  Robby almost laughed again. Starky, seven or eight years older than him, calling him ‘son’. Starky could call him what the hell he liked for that sort of cash. Shit for Brains, C U Next Tuesday, it didn’t matter.

  “You’ll still be with The Jugulars, though, you got that?” Starky said.

  Yeah, Robby got that all right. He’d be a mole. Not the best of situations to be in, but he’d take what he could get. Besides, he’d be protected by The Hardarms should The Jugulars twig what he was up to. At least he assumed he would be.

  “Damien isn’t to know what we’ve discussed,” Starky went on. “No one is to know you work for me. It’s between us two, all right?”

  “All right.” Robby nodded until he was sure his head would roll off.

  “If I find out you’ve blabbed, it won’t just be fingers missing. People who cross me have a habit of disappearing, as do people they care about. People like your mum.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Shit, not my mum.

  “I’ll get Damien to go out and pick you up some food.” Starky lifted the phone on the desk.
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  “He’s gone out. Said he had some bit of stuff to do.”

  Starky smiled. “Probably my missus.”

  He delivered that so casually Robby wondered whether the bloke cared about his wife at all.

  “Thought the same thing myself,” Robby mumbled.

  Starky jabbed at the phone buttons then said into the handset, “Nip to Burger King and get us a few Whoppers, will you? Yeah, dopey arse, I realize they won’t be open yet, but Hippy will be there. Knock on the back door. Tell him I sent you. He’ll make the fucking Whoppers.” He cut the call. “New kid’s going to get them.”

  “That the one who brought me in here?” Robby asked, imagining the Big Mac he’d fancied but a Whopper was close enough. Still, he couldn’t help thinking that he never, ever quite got exactly what he wanted. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, though.

  “Yeah. My missus’ nephew. Weedy little runt. Useless piece of shit, but what could I do when my other half insisted I give him a job, eh?”

  Robby shrugged. “Dunno. Never had another half.”

  “Doubt one will come knocking any time soon with hands like yours.”

  “No.”

  “Don’t worry about that, though. By the time I’m finished building you up, you’ll be the one doing the knocking. The girls will fall at your feet because of who you are. Who you’ll become.”

  “I don’t get what you mean.” Robby frowned.

  “Keep it under your hat, son, but I’ve got the perfect spot for you, something to keep you going in the interim. You know, a goal to aim for.”

  ‘The perfect spot’ made him think of the new kid’s acne. “What’s that, then?”

  Starky grinned. “My right-hand man doesn’t have to be a beefcake, you know, but it helps. Along with your wages, you’ll get a gym membership. I want you there, every day, three hours minimum. Once you’ve built yourself up to my satisfaction, there’s a right-hand man job up for grabs.”

  “What? I’d take Damien’s place?” Fuck me sideways…

  “Don’t see why not. If you’re the kind of man who follows another bloke around, taking pictures of him while he’s doing someone else’s missus, I’d say I don’t have that to worry about with you, do I?”