Dark Fragments: a fast paced psychological thriller

by Rob Sinclair

  Out of the corner of my eye I noticed one of the men – Joey – jump at the brutal sight. Another of them, Colman, had already looked away. The only one still staring intently at the ruthless beating was the detestable Mickey Egan. I could well imagine the delight going through his mind as he watched a fellow human suffering. In fact, I think I noticed the faintest of smiles on his face.

  O’Brady had spotted the reaction of his other men too. He launched himself, face snarling, toward Colman – the man who was unable to look. O’Brady threw his arm around Colman’s neck and dragged him over to Wrafter.

  ‘Look at him!’ O’Brady screamed. ‘I want you all to look at him. This is what happens when you mess up. When you don’t do your fecking job. Understood?’

  All of the men nodded and O’Brady shoved Colman away from him. The relieved look on his face said it all. He knew he’d been let off lightly.

  Then O’Brady turned his attention to me. As his eyes caught mine I felt a sudden wave of nausea build in the pit of my stomach.

  ‘Get him out of here,’ O’Brady said, his eyes still on me but his hands indicating his fallen doorman.

  Two of the other brutes moved over to their battered colleague and dragged his bulky body away, leaving a trail of smeared blood on the office floor.

  ‘So what are you doing here?’ O’Brady shouted at me.

  ‘I … I’ve got your money,’ I said, reaching into my pocket for my wallet. My hands were shaking so much that it took me a few seconds to manage the simple feat.

  O’Brady raised both eyebrows. I took out the cheque and extended the piece of paper to him. O’Brady frowned and snatched it off me.

  ‘What the hell is this?’

  ‘It’s the money,’ I said. ‘All of it.’

  ‘This isn’t money, ye bleedin’ tick.’

  ‘It’s a cheque.’

  ‘I know what the feck it is. It isn’t money.’

  I stood, mouth wide open, as the snarling O’Brady began to tear up the paper. My heart sank. I visibly lost a few inches as I slumped down. With each angry tear the sense of dread grew inside me.

  O’Brady flicked the remnants of the cheque into my face. I managed not to blink as the pieces of paper fluttered to the floor.

  ‘I want money. Get it? Cash. Something I can use. I don’t need a pissing cheque. You know what? I’m sick and tired of your crap. The price just doubled.’

  ‘What! You can’t –’

  ‘I can and I just did. Two hundred thousand. But I’m a generous soul and don’t you ever think otherwise – I’ll give you two weeks. If it’s not in front of me by then, the price doubles again and I’ll be taking a piece of you and your wifey for my troubles.’

  ‘I …’

  ‘Now piss off!’

  O’Brady turned away from me. He was done. Nothing I could say or do was going to change his mind. I looked over to Egan, who was moving toward me. He was a few inches shorter than me, but was thick and muscled with a scarred face and a look in his eyes that screamed violence. I knew a beating was coming, and after just witnessing the bloody fate of Wrafter, I should have turned and ran. Got as far away from there as I could.

  I should have. I know that. I’m not sure why I didn’t.

  Instead I stepped forward, swung back my arm and threw my fist into Egan’s ugly face.

  CHAPTER 23

  I couldn’t see a thing out of my right eye. It had swollen up within seconds of the beating I’d taken at the club and was entirely closed. My work shirt was torn and had spatters of red on it. My nose was bloodied and my bottom lip was protruding and fat. I had aches and pains all over my torso – it was very possible that one of my ribs was broken.

  I hobbled up to my front door, daggers shooting up my left leg, on which I could barely put any weight. I drew my door key shakily from my trouser pocket and fought hard to fit it into the lock. When I turned the key and the door swung open, I stumbled into the house, somehow managing to stay on my feet.

  ‘Ben!’ Gemma gasped.

  I groaned when I realised my wife was standing right there in the hallway. On seeing the state I was in, she cupped her hand to her mouth.

  ‘I thought you were at work,’ I slurred.

  ‘I finished early. What’s happened? Who did this to you?’

  ‘Who do you think?’ I said, limping into the lounge where I collapsed on the sofa.

  ‘That O’Brady guy? Jesus, Ben, we have to call the police.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘We really don’t.’

  ‘The money,’ Gemma said. ‘He got the money? At least tell me that. Tell me this can all be over with now.’

  ‘Not exactly,’ I said, managing a wry smile. ‘Me looking like this isn’t his way of saying thank you.’

  ‘But Dad gave you the money?’

  ‘He gave me a cheque. Apparently that’s not good enough.’

  Gemma’s face fell even further. ‘So what are we going to do now?’

  ‘Pray.’

  Gemma fought hard against the tears. I could see she was filled in equal measure with fear and anger. In the end the latter won out.

  ‘How could you do this to us?’ she said.

  ‘Thanks for your concern about my wellbeing.’

  ‘Of course I’m concerned about your wellbeing! But you’ve dragged us all into this. What if they come around and do the same to me and the kids?’

  ‘They won’t.’

  ‘You don’t know that! I can’t believe you could do this to us. You’ve put us all at risk. For what?’

  ‘You’re talking like I haven’t tried to sort this already. I’ve done everything I can to make sure this doesn’t affect you. To get him off my back.’

  ‘I’m struggling to believe you on that.’

  I wanted to argue the point but didn’t. I’d come home to rest. To get my head straight. To figure out what the hell to do next. And to get cleaned up and later spend some time with the kids, who were about the only thing in my life that I seemed to have got right. I really didn’t need a slanging match over what an idiot I was.

  ‘I need to take a shower, get changed,’ I said.

  I winced as I tried to get up off the sofa. Gemma stepped over and reached out her hand to me. I was about to turn down the offer of help but she moved forward and hauled me back to my feet.

  ‘You need to be quick. The kids will be back soon.’

  ‘Soon?’ I said.

  I hadn’t expected them back for a couple of hours. It was Wednesday and Harry usually went to an after-school club until Gemma, or occasionally I, finished work. And Chloe was with the childminder on a Wednesday.

  ‘I knew I’d be finishing early today, so Mary is bringing them both straight around when school’s finished.’

  ‘Oh, great,’ I said.

  ‘Well, nobody was expecting you to come home covered in blood, were they?’

  ‘No. Me included,’ I said.

  ‘Come on, let’s get you upstairs,’ Gemma said, taking my hand. I took the small gesture as a sign of support, though I wasn’t really sure if that was the intent.

  I scrambled up the stairs as best I could and Gemma helped me strip off my wrecked clothes and then guided me toward the shower. I washed away the blood quickly, and then began to feel my body soothed by the water, its heat encouraging blood to flow into the wounded areas. I would have stayed there, enjoying the sensation, but through the mist I could see Gemma standing on the other side of the screen, towel held out in her hand, waiting for me to emerge.

  I turned off the water and stepped out. Gemma placed the towel around my shoulders and gently rubbed my back dry. I finished the job of drying as Gemma inspected my bruised body. She looked at my face, staring into my eyes with sympathy. Then she turned around and opened the cabinet above the sink.

  ‘It just seems to be a lot of bruising,’ Gemma said, taking out some cotton-wool balls. ‘There’re no big cuts, even though you look a real state.’

  She handed me a handfu
l of the balls. I wasn’t quite sure what she expected me to do with them.

  ‘Your nose,’ she said. ‘It’s still bleeding a bit.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said.

  I looked in the mirror and dabbed at the blood coming from my nostrils, then decided to just be done with it and stuck a piece of cotton up each one. I looked at Gemma and she shrugged.

  I touched my left side, around my ribs, where there was a constant stabbing pain. I resisted the urge to cry out when I hit the most tender spot.

  ‘Is it broken?’ Gemma asked.

  ‘No idea. It hurts like hell.’

  ‘You need to go to a doctor.’

  ‘Yeah, maybe. What time is it?’ I asked.

  Gemma looked at her watch. ‘Almost half three,’ she said. ‘The kids will be here any minute.’ The tension on her face and in her voice was unmistakable.

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘I need to get dressed.’

  I walked back out into the bedroom, but then spotted something over by the dresser that stopped me in my tracks.

  ‘What the hell is that?’ I said to Gemma.

  She walked over, an uncomfortable look on her face. She looked … embarrassed.

  ‘What do you think it is?’

  I looked at the suitcase, its open lid propped up against the wall. It was half-filled with clothes. My clothes.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘I wasn’t expecting you back so soon,’ Gemma said, hanging her head. ‘I was still packing when I heard you at the door.’

  ‘You’re throwing me out,’ I said. A statement, not a question.

  ‘I was, yes,’ Gemma said, unable to look me in the eye.

  ‘But?’

  ‘Well … I don’t know. I wasn’t expecting you to come home half-dead, was I?’

  ‘And now that you’ve seen the state I’m in, you want me to stay?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe. But the kids? They can’t see you like this.’

  ‘So what now then?’

  ‘I didn’t want this,’ Gemma said, her voice weak and unsure. ‘I don’t want us to end, Ben, but look at the trouble you’ve got us into. And it’s not just that. You’ve been moping around for months, barely speaking to me, and when we do speak, we just argue. Neither of us is happy. This has been building for ages. It’s heart-breaking to see you in this state and I want to help, but … maybe we just need a break.’

  I was lost for words. But really what could I say to that? Everything she said was spot on. And it wasn’t that much of a surprise; I’d been feeling her drifting from me for some time. Perhaps if we’d spoken to each other more, we could have tried to work things through sooner. As it was, our silence only seemed to have accelerated what I guessed was inevitable.

  Really our separating, even if only in the short term, was a natural next step. But it still hurt to hear Gemma confirm it. I loved her even if it was clear our marriage wasn’t working. And the timing of her rejection was all the more painful given the state I was in, not just physically but mentally too.

  ‘This was coming anyway,’ she added. ‘You have to admit that?’

  I huffed but didn’t say anything.

  ‘And then you … O’Brady … I can’t let our children be part of that. I just can’t.’

  Anger bubbled to the surface at the mention of my children, my only saving grace. I’d do anything I could to prevent them coming to harm. ‘Harry’s not yours,’ I sneered.

  ‘Don’t say that,’ Gemma said. I could see the hurt in her eyes.

  But I was hurting too, and before I could stop myself I plunged the knife deeper.

  ‘Harry’s not yours,’ I said. ‘He’s mine. He’s Alice’s.’

  At the mention of Alice I saw the switch inside Gemma flip. All of a sudden she was seething.

  ‘You don’t get to decide what happens to Harry,’ I added.

  ‘Piss off, Ben!’ Gemma screamed. ‘Why would you say that? He’s mine and I do get to decide. I’m the only one around here who actually gives a damn.’

  With that, Gemma started moving in a frenzy, whipping clothes out of drawers and flinging them haphazardly into the case. I stood there motionless, just staring at her, but anger was now taking control of me too.

  Gemma zipped the lid and picked up the case, then grunted as she threw the weighty luggage over toward me. It bounced on the bed and smacked into my legs, knocking me back a step.

  By that point I was fuming, but I stood my ground, trying not to blow. I knew the situation was only one step from getting out of control. I wanted to keep it together. I really did.

  ‘I can’t believe I was actually having second thoughts about this,’ Gemma ranted, coming back around to my side of the bed. She stood the case up next to me, then started gesticulating irately as she carried on her tirade. ‘When you came home and I saw the state you were in, I actually wavered. I wanted to help you. I thought perhaps I was wrong. That we could work through this. That we would be better sticking together. But you know what? Not a chance. It’s never going to happen. Not now. I want you gone.’

  ‘You’re not stopping me seeing the kids,’ I said.

  It was all I could think about. My kids. I couldn’t lose them. I could see the disappointment in Gemma’s eyes. What had she expected? That I would fight back and beg her to change her mind? That I would grovel and tell her how much I loved her and how I couldn’t live without her? Even if that had been true, I wouldn’t have said it. I was too angry.

  ‘You’re not fit to be their dad,’ Gemma said. ‘Look at you. They can’t be part of what you’re involved in.’

  Gemma put her hand up to her head – exasperation? Confusion? She let out a long sigh as her mood softened from full-on anger.

  ‘Look, maybe when it’s over, if it ever does end … maybe things can be different.’

  ‘No. If you throw me out now, I’m never coming back.’

  I stood there glaring at Gemma as tears rolled down her cheeks. Without warning she threw her arm back then whipped her palm toward my face. The ferocious slap caught me completely by surprise. I reeled back.

  ‘Don’t threaten me, Ben!’ Gemma blasted. ‘You should be walking out of that door of your own free will. If you had an ounce of decency, you would do it. If not for me then for the kids.’

  I was dumbstruck. But it only took me a couple of seconds to regroup. Finally, after months of torment, all of the pressure and tension and anger that had been slowly building and weighing me down more and more each day, came to the fore.

  ‘You stupid –’

  My arm pulled back. My fist balled.

  Gemma just stood there. She didn’t cower or squirm away. I wondered whether she wanted me to hit her. Whether she wanted the excuse.

  I lowered my arm. My whole body was shaking.

  ‘You’re a coward, Ben,’ Gemma said. She stepped aside. ‘Just go.’

  I picked up the case and left.

  CHAPTER 24

  ‘Tell me about the list,’ she said.

  I frowned. ‘It wasn’t a list. It wasn’t as planned or as thought out as that.’

  ‘You referred to it as a list before.’

  ‘Did I? Well, I meant it figuratively. There was never a piece of paper with words written on it. It was just in my head.’

  ‘Okay. So tell me what was in your head.’

  ‘My head was a mess. Simple as that.’

  I wasn’t deliberately being vague or obstructive with her. I just wanted to make sure I gave her a straight answer to a straight question.

  ‘After you left the house,’ she said, ‘when Gemma threw you out, what was going through your head?’

  ‘Regret. Bitterness. Anger.’

  ‘You’re an angry person?’

  ‘Is that a question?’

  ‘Do you think it’s true?’

  ‘Yes and no.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘I wasn’t always angry. It’s something that’s built up. And I’m not sure it’s subconsciou
s. In many ways I want to be angry. There’s a lot to be angry about.’

  ‘So it’s your way of coping?’

  ‘Maybe,’ I said.

  ‘And can you remember a time before? When you were able to control your anger?’

  ‘I’ve always been able to control it.’

  ‘Do you really believe that, or do you just not want to admit defeat, that it’s finally got the better of you?’

  ‘Maybe. I guess I suppressed my anger for a long time.’

  ‘Why?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m not sure. To fit the mould of who people thought I was perhaps. To fit the mould of who I thought I was.’

  ‘Who did people think you were?’

  ‘You know, a loving husband, a dad, a hard-working family man.’

  ‘You’re saying that wasn’t really you?’

  ‘No, it was me. But … what I’m saying is that there’s a certain way you’re expected to act based on how other people perceive you.’

  ‘Can you explain that?’

  ‘I’m not just talking about me, we all do this. We pigeonhole every person we ever meet, usually in a matter of minutes. And it’s very hard to change that first impression.’

  ‘How does this relate to you and what’s happened?’

  ‘What I’m trying to say is that those first impressions aren’t always a true reflection of who someone is and what they’re capable of. And I guess I was too concerned with living the expectation, of living the life of the person that I thought others saw in me.’

  ‘So what changed?’ she said.

  ‘Everything. Alice was the turning point.’

  ‘Her murder?’

  ‘No, before that.’

  ‘Her cheating on you?’

  ‘Probably,’ I said. ‘It’s hard to pinpoint when my outlook changed. There’s no single point of reference I can look back to and say, “That’s it.” You don’t always see how people change. It happens so slowly, bit by bit. But then one day you wake up and bam! You realise everything is different.’