Yet he could not be without her, and he could not stay here on the Goldsworth, could not stay in London. He closed his eyes, willing sleep to come, trying not to acknowledge that this could be the last night that he spent holding Brandy against him.
* * *
Tyrese grimaced as his call went to voicemail once more.
He had hardly expected Trent to answer the phone, not after he had ignored all his calls since he had stormed out of the flat, but it still grated on him that he was being ignored like this. His brother was angry and letting off steam, no doubt, and hopefully he would get it all out of his system tonight and would be calm and more reasonable in the morning. Or at least after the inevitable hangover.
He knew where his brother was, had heard from a few of the lads that Trent was getting plastered and shouting-off about him. It would be so easy for him to go down there and drag his brother home, but Tyrese resisted. It would do no good, and from what he had heard, his brother was not in a reasonable mood at any rate.
No, he decided, he would let his brother drink and smoke. When he had calmed down, he would explain himself and it would be water under the bridge. Then together they could sit down and talk some sense into Troy and help get their brother safely to Liverpool without Patterson catching him.
Thankfully, Patterson and the police had left after establishing that Troy was not at the flat. She had been furious, but Tyrese had known from the look in the detective’s eyes that she would not be so easily deterred. She was probably even now working on getting a warrant to search the flat for evidence that Clint had been stabbed here, and the thought worried Tyrese. He silently cursed Trent for not being here.
He would not call him again though, not tonight.
Once Trent had sobered up and calmed down, Tyrese would sit him down with Troy and finally put his family back in order. He was the boss, and he would not let these two fools ruin everything that he had.
* * *
The club was loud and dark. It was perfect, Trent thought, for forgetting what had happened and obliterating all memory of what his brother had done.
Tequila and vodka had already blurred his thoughts. He could barely retrace his steps after storming away from Tyrese outside the courthouse. The anger remained, but he was channelling it into drinking. His friends had joined him, at what time or why he could not quite remember. He had not relived what had happened in court, but he knew they sensed something. He was more boisterous than normal, he knew, even drunk. He was louder, and he knew he had slagged-off Tyrese more than once already.
He wondered if any of his friends would repeat his words back to Tyrese later. Perhaps they had already been on the phone to him. Friends was a loose term, he realised. They were guys he hung out with, partied with, but he knew they respected Tyrese more than they did him.
He no longer cared though, he realised. He had meant what he had said to his brother. He really was done with him. Done with being treated like second-best. Perhaps he would retire or set out to make a name of his own, separate from his brother. The possibilities were endless, even more so the more shots he had, the more weed he smoked.
A few girls had joined the crew, attracted by the flashy watches and the alcohol on tap in this corner of the club, the VIP booth. Trent was spending too much money, he knew, but he needed it. He wanted to splash, to forget.
In his pocket he felt his phone vibrate and he ignored it. Tyrese had tried to call him. Each time he had, Trent had let it go to voicemail. He did not want to speak to his brother tonight. Or ever.
A pretty blonde slid over to him, all fake smile and lip gloss and extensions, but she had a nice body and he fancied his chances with her. He slid an arm around her waist as she put a shot of tequila to his lips and smiled as he downed it.
One of her hands touched his stomach, lingered at his belt buckle, a seductive smile on her red lips as her hips twisted in time to the music. Trent knew he was in there. He offered her a shot, and she accepted.
His phone vibrated in his pocket again, but he did not notice. Looking the blonde up and down again, all thoughts of Tyrese were gone.
* * *
Across the street from the night club, a motorbike pulled up to the kerb. Goldie pulled off his helmet and eyed the entrance. There was hardly a queue at the door and the bouncer looked distracted, chatting-up a few brunettes in stilettos. Music blasted from the doors and the tacky neon-gold sign sparkled above the doors.
Shutting off the engine, Goldie dug his phone out of his pocket. He had a text from Corey and he shot off a reply, confirming he had arrived.
Trent was a loud and boisterous drunk and he wasn’t hard to track down, especially in the state he was in. A mate inside the club had tipped him off and Goldie had been straight down here.
He had considered waiting for another opportunity. A more private event, an easier location, but time was not on his side. Corey would have his balls if he did not get this sorted fast.
Goldie remembered the pain and the humiliation of getting his legs broken by the Banks brothers, the suffering he had gone through at their hands. He was not just doing this for the money, he thought, though Corey was paying him well.
This was personal too.
Swinging his leg off the motorbike, Goldie felt the gun tucked into the small of his back and headed across the street to the entrance of the club.
* * *
Another tequila shot and then another. Trent was slurring his words and swinging his arms, and he knew he had probably drank too much, had smoked a few too many joints. It would be time to call it a night, but he did not want to.
The pretty blonde sat in his lap, grinding on him, and he hoped he would still be able to get it up for her later. He eyed her again and felt himself stir, satisfied that he would.
The dancefloor was getting busier and their VIP booth seemed more crowded now. His mates were getting rowdier as the night went on and the champagne and shots at their table had drawn hangers-on and glamour girls who wanted a piece of the party. Not that Trent was complaining. The more the merrier, he thought.
He lifted the blonde off his lap. He needed to pee, or get some fresh air, or something. His mind was getting foggy and he needed to take a break, at least for a minute. He would go for a cigarette in the smoking area, he decided.
“You heading outside?” the blonde asked. He realised he couldn’t remember her name. “Want some company?”
He nodded, and she smiled.
Fumbling for his cigarettes in his pocket, he did not notice anything wrong. The blonde beside him screamed and threw her hands over her face. People shouted and jostled.
Trent looked ahead and saw a gun pointed right at him, just a foot away. He hardly had time to register the danger. Just as he sobered up, there was a flash and a bang and he felt the bullet tear into his chest. Blood squirted out and more screams and chaos erupted around him, his mates diving out of the VIP booth. Glasses and bottles smashed in the stampede to get out of the firing line, the blood-splattered blonde throwing herself onto the dance floor.
He half-smiled, unable to move, swaying on his feet, before the second bullet hit him square in the face and sent his lifeless body crashing through the table of the VIP booth.
Trent Banks was dead.
CHAPTER FIVE
Trent was gone. Dead.
Tyrese could hardly believe it, thoughts and memories flooding in, threatening to drown him if he did not control himself.
The police stood in the kitchen, filling the space seemingly emptied by the shrunken figure of his mother, sat weeping at the kitchen table. She looked pitiful, he thought, slumped over in grief. It was still the early hours of the morning, and darkness pressed against the kitchen window.
Trent should still be out clubbing, perhaps staggering drunkenly up the stairs towards his shower and bed, Tyrese thought. Instead, he was gone.
Tyrese ignored the officers as they spoke. His mind drifted back to his childhood, to when he and Trent had
been so inseparable. They always had been. Two brothers out to prove themselves, no matter at what, whether on the football field or in a playground scrap.
He wondered if Trent had hated him in the end. If his brother had died still angry and resentful towards him. He would never know now if Trent might have forgiven him, if they would have patched things up as Tyrese had always thought, or if Trent’s final words to him were true, not just spoken out of anger but out of a deep-rooted hatred.
They were true, he thought sadly. They really were done now. The Banks brothers were finished. The thought of his grim ending grated on him, yet Tyrese could hardly feel anger. His grief was thick and rigid, mixed with guilt and his unresolved feelings over Jessie’s death. It was all too much, he thought.
“We’ll need somebody to come and identify the body,” one of the officers was saying, shooting an uncomfortable glance at his colleague. Tyrese knew what that meant. It had been a messy killing, and it would not be pretty viewing.
“I’ll go,” Tyrese said firmly, standing up.
His mother shook her head, standing too.
“No, I’ll do it,” she said.
“Ma’am,” the officer interjected, looking concerned. “I think, given the circumstances, that perhaps -”
“I’ll do it,” Keskia repeated.
“Mum, let me,” Tyrese insisted. He did not want his mother burdened with this gruesome task on top of everything else.
“You’ve done enough,” Keskia snapped. She glared at him defiantly. Tears slid down her cheeks, but she did not sniff or snivel. Her eyes were full of anger.
Tyrese looked down at the table, ashamed once more.
“I’ll get my coat,” she said to the officers, and left the room. A few moments later she returned and left with the officers, the door slamming shut behind them, leaving Tyrese alone in the flat.
He thought of the time the kitchen had bustled with life. Arguments over breakfast, the door constantly slamming shut, raised voices, but so much love and laughter too. Jessie taking the piss out of her brothers, Troy giving her grief for her treatment of Brandy. Trent arguing with Jessie about the length of her skirt, so the other boys wouldn’t get ideas about her.
All of them were gone now, Tyrese thought. He felt tears in his eyes and wiped them away hastily. Yet not all of them were gone.
Troy was out there somewhere, not knowing that Trent was dead. He would have to be told, and Tyrese would have to be the one to do it. Right now, he needed to get his emotions under control.
He knew that he could not let grief overwhelm him, let it disable him, but the tears would not stop, and he slumped back into his chair, put his head in his hands and cried.
* * *
Troy was stirred from sleep by the vibration of his phone on the pillow beside his head. He groaned, extricating his arm from around Brandy, who remained snoring softly, rolling over to face away from him as he answered to his brother.
“What’s up?” Troy asked, rubbing his eyes with his free hand. His voice was thick with sleep and his mind was still waking up. It was early, only just getting lighter outside.
“Where are you?” Tyrese asked. “I need to talk to you, it’s important.”
Troy considered his brother. He did not trust Tyrese, did not know whether this was a trap to get him to give away where he was hiding out. Tyrese seemed to sense his hesitation.
“Troy, I’m serious,” he said.
“What’s going on?” Troy demanded, hearing the urgency in Tyrese’s voice now, no longer feeling asleep as his body became alert, tensing as if in danger. “Tell me.”
Tyrese took a deep breath.
“It’s Trent.” His voice shook with emotion. Troy sat up in bed, fear licking at him now.
“What about him?” he asked.
“He’s dead,” Tyrese replied.
Troy almost dropped the phone. He did not know what to say. His mouth hung open, his throat dry, his mind racing and yet blank at the same time. His brother, the one person he had thought he could trust, was dead.
Tyrese was still speaking but Troy could hardly process what he was saying.
“Who did it?” Troy asked, cutting him off. “Who killed him?”
“I don’t know,” Tyrese sighed.
“The Healy brothers?” Troy asked.
Tyrese did not reply. Troy knew that his brother must have considered the possibility. He wondered if Tyrese was still willing to deal with Jayden after this.
“Where are you?” Tyrese asked him.
Troy opened his mouth to answer but stopped himself.
“I’ve got to go,” he said, feeling Brandy stir beside him, her eyes opening and brow furrowing in confusion. Before Tyrese could speak, Troy cut off the call. He did not trust his brother, even less so now that Trent was dead, and Jayden could be responsible.
He felt Brandy’s hand on his arm, her eyes wide with concern.
“Is everything okay?” she asked him.
Troy tossed his phone onto his pillow and let out a long sigh. He did feel the urge to cry for his brother, his body too tense, his mind to anxious, to allow himself to grieve yet.
He relayed his conversation to Brandy, who murmured her condolences. She sat up and massaged his shoulders, working away at the tension in his muscles, and Troy closed his eyes, grateful for her, knowing that she was the only person he could trust now.
“What will you do now?” Brandy asked softly, her words caressing his neck as her lips brushed against his skin. He felt himself stirring at her touch. “Are you still going abroad?”
Troy considered her question, but he knew that he had no choice. Trent’s death changed nothing. He could not stay here.
“I’m still going,” Troy replied, his voice cracking though he was confident in his answer. He felt a flutter of nerves in his stomach. “You could come with me…if you wanted to.”
“Really?” Brandy asked, her hands pausing on his shoulders. She fell quiet and still. Troy wondered if he had made a mistake in asking her. She sighed. “I don’t know, Troy.”
“I want you to come,” Troy said sheepishly, forcing the words out, unused to showing such emotion, allowing himself to be vulnerable before her. “I love you.”
* * *
Keskia Banks closed the door of the taxi and looked up at the tower blocks of the Goldsworth Estate before her, only a few lights on at this hour, the sun beginning to rise, glinting off the windows far above her.
She wondered if it was this place that had destroyed her family, or if it was her parenting, or it was simply bad luck, plain and simple.
If she had raised her children somewhere else, perhaps they would all still be alive, be respectable, or at least things might have turned out differently. She had no way of knowing, and she doubted it anyway. The problem could be her, she realised, as she started walking back to the estate. Two of her four children were dead, and a third was a murderer. It was hardly a glowing reflection of her motherhood.
She did not want to think such terrible things, but it was better than remembering the image of Trent’s body. His face was gone, the second bullet had seen to that. She did not conjure up the image, forcing herself not to.
As she let herself into the flat, she found the kitchen empty. Tyrese must have gone to bed, she thought, grateful that she could be alone. She knew that Tyrese had not killed Trent any more than he had killed Jessie, but she could not help but hold him partially responsible. That gave way to more guilt, because if he was to blame then surely, she should hold more responsibility? She was their mother, after all.
Her grief had deepened now. She was beyond tears. If it was possible, she thought, the tears were on the inside now. Her very heart seemed to have broken, her ache so deep and harrowing that tears would do no good. Nothing would.
She had devoted her life to motherhood and she had failed. Her very being was gone.
Keskia put the kettle on, almost amused that she thought a cup of tea could do any good, but she
drummed her finger on the counter as she waited for it to boil anyway. It was something, she thought. She had to keep on living, she told herself.
Her children were gone. Troy had disappeared, Trent and Jessie dead, and Tyrese lost all the same to her.
She had no hope left, or did she?
A thought occurred to her, one that she had tried not to think about in the days she had known of his existence, but now pictures forced their way into her mind. Her children might be gone, but she had a grandson. Brandy’s son, Frazer, and he was not lost to her. He was just a baby, he could grow up to be better than any of the rest of them.
The kettle boiled and she busied herself making tea, resolving the idea in her mind. She had to see her grandson, had to give herself a purpose. She had lost her children and perhaps it was her fault, but she would not make the same mistakes again. Frazer was her chance at redemption, probably her last chance.
She would have to see him.
* * *
Amal looked at his brother questioningly. He had come downstairs to find Naz and Sanjay already seated at the kitchen table, his brother looking excited, anxious to impart his news. Amal had been up late, messaging with Shontelle, and now he was tired, not used to waking up at this hour. He hoped whatever was going down this early in the morning was worth it.
“What’s going on?” he asked, looking between them. Naz shot him a bewildered look, as in the dark as he was. “Somebody die?”
“Actually, yeah,” Sanjay nodded, though he did not look sad at the thought.
“Oh shit,” Amal stammered. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Sanjay said, smiling. “You’ll never guess what’s happened.”
Amal exchanged a look with Naz, wondering if this was a wind-up.
“Trent Banks is dead,” Sanjay said, when it became apparent neither of them was going to offer up a guess. Amal gasped. Naz’s shoulders tensed. Sanjay smiled again, looking at them expectantly. “You know what this means?”
Amal shook his head, though he had a clue that he might.
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