by Rob Sinclair
Harry had been a little over twelve months old when Alice was killed. He couldn’t really remember her, I was sure of that. I could tell he held a fondness for her, though, a false memory if you like, built up from us looking at pictures of them together and the stories I told him about Alice. He probably imagined himself in those pictures, the familiarity tricking his brain to the point where he really believed he could remember being there. Memory is a funny thing. It feels reliable and absolute, though it’s anything but.
I was upset that Harry wasn’t with me, but I knew he had his own life to lead, and I knew deep down that Gemma was only looking out for Harry’s best interests. She was his mother now. In all the years that had passed I hadn’t been able to let go of Alice, of what had happened to her or of the impact of her death on me. Maybe it wasn’t a bad thing if Harry could.
As I stared at the picture in my hand, my brain took me back to the day Harry was born. I’m not sure I’ve ever had a day with so many ups and downs. Alice had been nearly eight months pregnant. We had been visiting her parents up north for the weekend and had arrived home in the Midlands tired and groggy from a horrendous journey down the M6. Alice, fiercely headstrong as she was, had insisted that she help with unpacking, knowing I was drained from the gruelling drive. In the end it was nothing more than an accident. She’d slipped on the stairs with the suitcase – a seemingly innocuous fall, if she hadn’t been so heavily pregnant.
I’ve never heard such screams of despair as came from her in that instant. It was as though all the possible horrors of life had suddenly flashed before her eyes. I’ll never know what she truly felt in those moments – how any mother felt knowing that the baby she had been carrying with such love, with so much hope, might be taken away.
Within seconds we had both flown into a mad panic. One way or another the baby was coming, there was no doubt. I called an ambulance immediately, but barely seconds after putting the phone down we were in my car, heading the short distance to Good Hope A&E, which was less than two miles from our home. It felt like we had no other choice. We couldn’t bear the thought of waiting even another two minutes for the ambulance to arrive.
By the time they got Alice onto a gurney, she was already fully dilated. I remember imagining that the baby’s head was pushing out – not that I dared look at the business end of things. Moments later, there was a whole new problem brewing. The umbilical cord was wrapped around the baby’s neck. If Alice kept on pushing – almost impossible for her not to do, given the huge contractions that were consuming her – there was a real chance the baby would suffocate.
The subsequent half hour went by in a blur. Alice somehow found the strength and focus to sign a consent form before she was rushed into an operating theatre for an emergency caesarean. Completely lost and ghostlike, I stood by Alice’s head, squeezing her hands and looking into her teary and bloodshot eyes. Trying my best to avert my gaze from the gaping, bloody hole in her stomach that was being accidentally reflected in the monitor in front of me.
Her body bucked up and down as the doctors tugged fiercely at her midriff, pulling apart the layers of fat, muscle and tissue to reach the baby. My impression of a delicate procedure was miles from the reality and the look of horror in Alice’s eyes grew with every jolt.
And then, when it was over, when we should have been greeted by the cries of our first-born, there was only a deathly silence. The baby couldn't breathe properly. In an instant he was rushed off to another room with barely a word spoken to us. I held tight to Alice’s hands as the doctors and nurses who were still present worked on stitching her up.
Minutes later a nurse came back into the operating room, a small bundle wrapped in a light-blue towel cradled in her arms. She beamed at us and I knew what it meant. Tears began to stream as uncontrollable joy washed over me. She handed me the baby. My baby. Our baby. Harry. And when I looked into Alice’s eyes, no words were needed.
From that moment, Harry had always been such a happy baby. It was almost as if the trauma of his birth had mellowed him, like he was trying to apologise for having put us through so much angst. And Alice, exhaustion aside, was such a natural and loving mother. I know everyone says that but it was true. She was so proud of her son, as I was of her.
Yet Harry’s mother – his biological mother – had been taken away from him, from me too, so cruelly and unexpectedly. Seven years had passed since her murder. Gemma thought it was morose that I still came to the cemetery twice a year, on Alice’s birthday and on Harry’s birthday. Or maybe she was just jealous? It seemed only right to me that a mother should get to see her son growing up. And I would continue to visit her grave even if Harry wanted to break free.
Each time I came, I left a picture of Harry next to the flowers so Alice could see the fine young boy he was becoming.
I felt a tear roll down my cheek. A fierce gust of wind blew it off my face and it flew away in the cold, damp air.
Harry had always come with me before. Had always been there by my side.
But this time, all Alice would see of him was a picture.
CHAPTER 4
I laid the flowers down by the gravestone, then propped the picture in place in a plastic frame cover. I took away the old picture from five months ago when I’d last been there, on Harry’s birthday. The picture was now dirty and faded, parts of it almost entirely scratched away from the battering of wind and rain it had taken.
I looked at the gravestone and silently read the gold letters that said little of Alice’s life. Just a few facts that in a hundred years would mean nothing to anyone. Then I turned to leave, unable to muster any words.
I was nearly back at my bike when I saw them.
The black Range Rover – the same one I’d spotted at the park the previous day – was clumsily pulled up on a grass verge some twenty yards past my Yamaha. This time, though, it wasn’t just there so the occupants could spy on or spook me. Two men were already out of the vehicle, walking toward me. Both wore long black coats that reached down to their knees, jeans underneath and shiny black shoes – similar attire, but there was a considerable difference in height between the two men.
I’m a shade over six foot one. Not a massive guy by any stretch, but above average. The taller of the two men, though, was a giant: six foot six, maybe as much as six eight, and almost as wide as he was tall. His thick neck burst out around the collar of his coat and his arms – probably the size of my thighs – strained the fabric of his sleeves.
I knew from past encounters that his size was largely muscle. He was one of those freaks of nature, just naturally gigantic and strong. No amount or combination of drugs or weights or effort could ever make me or ninety-nine per cent of people that size. Hundreds of years ago he probably would have been a fabled warrior, perhaps a leader of a clan, a king of men even. In today’s society he was just a brute. An oddity.
The other man? Well, he couldn’t have been more ordinary to look at. He was shorter than me by four or five inches at least. He had an unassuming face, thick-rimmed glasses and mousy hair cut neat and short. He wouldn’t have drawn a second glance from any passerby were it not for the man-mountain that strode with him.
And yet it was the smaller figure of the two whom I was loath to see: I truly detested him and I hugely feared him. That was why, when the men reached me, my heart was already pounding in my chest and I could feel the nerves building, my hands and legs shaking in response.
‘Mr Stephens. Funny place for a walk,’ Callum O’Brady snorted in his thick Irish accent.
‘What are you doing here?’ I answered back, sounding a lot more confident than I felt. Whatever power O’Brady had over me, I knew that showing weakness to him was the last thing I could afford to do.
‘Your good wife said you’d be here.’
‘You’ve been to my home?’
‘Well, we didn’t come across her while out getting milk and bread, my man.’
‘You’ve got no right going to my house. Talking t
o her. She’s got nothing to do with any of this.’
‘Calm yourself,’ O’Brady said. ‘I didn’t bone her. Though I could tell she probably needs a good screw. I think you need to take better care of her.’
‘Oh, she wanted it all right,’ the big man said in his grating southern accent. ‘A proper naughty girl that one.’
‘Fuck you,’ I said, my heart skipping a beat at my ill-thought-out response.
The big man stepped forward, fists clenched, but O’Brady put an arm out to stop him.
‘Not nice, Stephens,’ O’Brady said. ‘I’m being civil here. But if you’re going to be a prick about it then Elvis will happily pummel you into the ground.’
Elvis. It wasn’t his real name, of course; I had no clue what that was. I also had no idea why O’Brady had chosen that moniker for his most trusted muscleman – I wasn’t a party to that in-joke.
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry. But that’s my wife you’re talking about. Of course I’m going to defend her.’
‘Understood. We’re both family men. Like you.’
Elvis grunted. I imagined him with his litter of little apes – some kids had no chance.
‘Just please don’t go to my house again,’ I said. ‘I don’t want Gemma or the kids brought into this.’
‘What, are you ashamed of your business partners?’ O’Brady scoffed.
‘You know it’s not like that.’
‘Yeah, at the moment you’re probably right. Because it’s starting to feel like we’re not business partners at all. It’s starting to feel like you’re treating me like some sort of dope. Taking me for a ride. Is that what you’re doing, Stephens?’
‘No. Not at all. I –’
‘I need the money,’ O’Brady stated.
My shoulders slumped at the inevitable turn in the conversation.
‘You’ll get it,’ I said.
‘But I haven’t got it. That’s the problem. So where is it?’
‘I’ll get it. Just trust me.’
‘Trust you? Well, isn’t that the whole basis of our relationship? Isn’t that how it’s worked from day one? If I hadn’t trusted you, we wouldn’t have started out in the first place. But you’re wearing my patience thin now. I need the money. You’ve got two days.’
‘Two days?! I can’t just –’
‘Two days, Stephens,’ O’Brady said, turning to leave. ‘Or your precious wife will become more involved in this than you’d care to imagine. Elvis.’
I opened my mouth to protest and never saw the fist from the big man coming. It smacked into my midriff and I let out a painful exhale. Before I knew it I was on my knees, the world spinning and blurry. I took deep breaths, trying not to puke.
By the time clarity started to return the Range Rover had already backed off the verge and was heading out toward the road.
Two days. That was all I had to find one hundred thousand pounds. If I didn’t, I could kiss goodbye any semblance of a normal life that still remained.
For years I’d tried to keep my life on an even keel. I’d never truly overcome the trauma of Alice’s death, though with the help of Gemma and the kids I’d certainly come close to salvaging a life for myself. At one point it had really looked like I would come out the other side on top.
That was all in the past now, though. I’d been dragged right back down to the bottom once more. Callum O’Brady had been there every step of the way, and was only too happy to watch me fall.
I was in a bind. It wasn’t just my life on the line, it was the lives of every member of my family. With O’Brady on my back, I firmly believed that.
I had to get that money.
CHAPTER 5
I headed away from the cemetery with my mind on fire. I was in too deep to get out on my own. I needed help. Yet that was easier said than done. Could I really push my pride aside and ask for the help I so desperately needed? If the solution was that simple then I would have done it years ago. Pride comes before a fall. Well, I was certainly falling.
There was always another option. One I’d considered many times over the last seven years but had always been too much of a coward to see through.
Could I really do it this time, though? It would certainly be a way out for me. In time, it would release Gemma and Harry and Chloe too. O’Brady surely wouldn’t care. He’d find some other mug to bleed dry, and no-one else would bat an eyelid.
Could I really do it?
Did I want to?
Instead of heading back home, I turned right out of the cemetery toward the A38 dual carriageway. I twisted the throttle and the 1000cc engine of the Yamaha growled and whined with pleasure as the bike shot forward at speed.
I’d bought the Yamaha two years previously, against Gemma’s wishes. She thought it was dangerous and pointless. We already had two cars to get around. She told me – only partly in jest – I was having a mid-life crisis a decade too early. I’d always wanted a bike, though, but had long put off buying one in favour of spending on more sensible things. Finally, two years ago, I’d put better judgment to one side and gone with my heart for once.
Riding the bike was a release from the real world. I loved the feeling of getting away from everything. Alice’s dad, whom I still saw every few months when the kids went to visit him and his wife, often warned me of the dangers of motorbikes. In fact, it had become one of his favourite pastimes, it seemed. He’d been a rider for many years and had been through his fair share of scrapes. The stark warning he’d first given me was simple: everyone comes off. And he wasn’t wrong. I’d fallen off the bike twice. Not at great speed, otherwise I surely wouldn’t have lived to tell the tale. Both times had nonetheless shaken me.
The second time had been worse than the first. I’d leaned into a corner at a little under thirty miles an hour and the back tyre had inexplicably lost traction. I don’t know why. The conditions were good and I wasn’t travelling too fast. Whatever it was, I’d ended up off the bike, scraping along the ground until I came to a crashing stop against a parked car. The friction had burned through the right leg and arm of my leathers and taken away a good chunk of skin from each of my limbs.
A couple of weeks in bandages had seen me through, but the scars on both my leg and my arm remained as a warning. If I hadn’t had the leathers on, the fall would likely have taken away flesh and muscle too.
In the aftermath of the accident Alice’s dad had been only too keen to share stories of skin grafts and amputations and life-long physical deformity. I’d seen and heard first hand just how dangerous motorbikes could be. But as I headed toward the A38, those stories and memories and my own caution couldn’t have been further from my mind.
I reached the roundabout and headed right toward a long stretch of dual carriageway that had little traffic, particularly during the middle of the day. Within seconds the powerful bike eased past one hundred miles per hour. The road was regularly used by bikers who congregated at the Bassetts Pole roundabout from where I’d just come. I’d never been part of that social scene, but I could see why they enjoyed the roads around there so much. I’d put the Yamaha through its paces on numerous occasions but had always stopped short of its full potential.
This time I wasn’t going to hold back.
I pulled on the throttle further and the bike gained another twenty miles per hour with ease. I edged it into the fast lane to overtake a lorry and the bike wobbled in the heavy slipstream. I whizzed past a car, the bike still gaining speed, and barely heard the honking horn above the din of my engine.
I didn’t slow down. In fact, by that point I was home free with not a car or bike or lorry in sight ahead. I turned the throttle further, adrenaline making my heart pump faster. My hands squeezed the grips and my legs tensed, as though doing so would somehow help to keep me on the speeding machine.
I closed my eyes.
I thought about O’Brady. Alice. I thought about Gemma and the children. I thought about my life and how it seemed to be moving from one disaster to the
next.
I needed a way out. For me. For those I loved.
I turned the throttle as far as it would go. I squeezed my eyelids tightly shut, trying to close everything out. Trying to shut out the thoughts, the memories, that would change my mind.
Body braced, I waited for the inevitable.
After a few seconds, no matter how hard I tried to keep a blank mind, the doubts began to creep in. I tried to push them away, but it was no use. It was like trying to sweep away the tide: no matter how much I pushed, the waves just kept coming and coming, crashing ashore, destroying all barriers in their path.
How much longer would it take? I wasn’t sure I could hold out. By my calculation the next junction was still about a mile away. Perhaps twenty or so seconds. Or would I come off the bike before then? With the growing doubts in my mind, I contemplated whether to just pull on the handlebars and head straight for the central reservation. Would I feel pain or would I be obliterated the second the bike tipped me off?
I couldn’t do it. Something was stopping me. With my eyes still closed, with the engine fully revved and loving every second of having been set free, I willed something to happen. Willed my life to end right there.
And then it happened.
A stone in the road perhaps. Or a gust of wind, though it was impossible to tell because the air was already howling past me at such speed. Whatever it was, it knocked the bike off balance. The Yamaha wobbled from left to right under me.
If I’d just let myself go, if I’d let the bike do its work …
But I couldn’t. An image flashed before me and my eyes shot open. Immediately I braked and fought for control. The engine whined then growled then spat. The rapid deceleration made me shoot up and forward in the seat, and it was only because I was so tense and my hands were so tightly gripping the handlebars that I didn’t fly off. As the speed shot down, the wobbling worsened for a second or two until I finally regained control. In just a few moments the bike was almost at a complete stop.