“Are you from London, honey, huh?” the American lady asks, and I turn to see her permed hair and green eyes glaring at me.
“I am, I’m afraid.”
“I’m so sorry,” she says, “terrible, doll, real terrible.”
“To be honest, it doesn’t surprise me,” I murmur.
Before I walk away, I catch the tail-end of the report and watch as a man with a hood over his head, handcuffed and shackled is taken from his home and deposited in a white prisoner transport. I almost die of shock when it becomes clear whose house that is.
Freddie’s.
The American woman is back to chatting animatedly with her husband and the rest of the patrons go back to their tables now the report is over.
I somehow shuffle to an empty table and plonk my arse down. A waiter is quick to serve me but I ask for a ricard and water plus a dessert menu. Sod the pizza. I know Europeans frown on people who bring out their phone at the dinner table but I can’t help it, I need to know.
I type in ‘Chapo of London’ and a ton of search results appear. As I look up and scan the restaurant to see if I’m already being condemned, I see a number of other patrons already scrolling excitedly through their phones, maybe loving it because the British look really bad right now, allowing that shit into their country. Yeah, because there isn’t loads of that stuff in every other country in the world… it just doesn’t always get captured, that’s all.
I’m impatient with the waiter when he brings me my ricard, grabbing the dessert menu from him and pointing at the biggest thing I can find—a slab of gateaux. I show him my phone screen with the Guardian article about London’s El Chapo I’m reading and exclaim, “Crazy. Crazy. Merde.”
He raises his eyebrows and backs away quietly.
I read deeper into the article, which confirms who’s been arrested—a Mr Frederick Lancaster, otherwise known as Frederick ‘Freddie’ Kitchener Jnr. The police raided his house after a tipoff about a murder weapon. They’ve not only linked him to Fred Kitchener Snr’s murder, but during the raid they discovered a ton of drugs in the basement of his house. The building plans said nothing about a basement, which had been developed without planning permission, but one plucky officer found a locked door and the police had it open before Freddie could mount a case against them for wrongful harassment (the article mentions he filed numerous cases against the police in the past, none of which were ever took to court but kept the spotlight off his basement, I guess).
I suppose that’s what happens when you get cocky… you keep drugs in the basement… you bring your work home and you even forge your foundations off of illegal substances that not only ruin lives but kill, consume and devour good people until they no longer resemble themselves. Bad foundations… bad living… and now his walls have crumbled.
After my cake’s delivered, I pick up my phone and dial. With the phone wedged between my shoulder and chin, a fork in one hand and the ricard in the other, I speak to Alexia, who answers quickly.
“Freya, you saw?”
“I saw. Have you read about it yet?”
“I don’t read well… I’ll wait until it’s in the Portuguese press tomorrow.”
“I can’t believe they got him.”
“I can. Even a pestilence doesn’t last forever. It destroys until there’s no more to destroy. He’s going to get what’s coming to him… hopefully maximum-security prison. International condemnation and interrogation, the works.”
“Yeah, but what if he rats out his accomplices for a shorter sentence?”
“He won’t, he has children and a wife. He’ll serve… I don’t know how long… they will uncover other murders now, for sure.”
That makes me wonder… “Perhaps Ruben’s?”
“Let’s hope they get him for everything,” she says. “Now, I must go.”
“Oh, won’t you come visit me, Alexia? It’s lovely here. Cooling off and quieter now. You’d love it. I could use your opinion on a few things.”
“No, darling. I won’t leave Portugal. Here’s where I shall spend the rest of my days. But visit me if you wish. Anytime. Ciao, angel, ciao.”
Just like that, she’s gone.
I suspect much of her went with them to the grave and what’s left of her doesn’t have long left. Poor lady.
Back home, I say hello to the dogs, let them out for a bathroom break and find my tablet. Taking it to the porch, I watch the dogs find a sun-drenched bit of grass to lie down on before the day’s heat is gone altogether.
Pulling my knees up to my chest, I wrap my arms around my legs and rest my chin on my knees, holding out the tablet in front of me to study.
I’m on the BBC website, re-watching the footage of Freddie being taken away. It seems like a thrilling drama rather than real life, but maybe he’s one in a million—and maybe it took somebody even more unique to bring him down.
Even so, $100million of drugs seems excessive for someone as young as Freddie, but maybe it’s what he inherited from Fred. Strange, though to keep it all under your own roof. Why not a warehouse in the country, beneath a haybarn or even an empty tower block—just not near your own premises.
A lack of experience might explain his demise. The connections Fred had and the bargains he’d made—maybe they didn’t apply to Freddie. His immaturity is clear, because like a child clinging to its toys—he stowed all his precious goods close to him, not wanting to let any of it out of his sight.
I must have watched this footage a dozen times already, but I’m trying to see something that would explain how Freddie could have got so clumsy. I mean, Fred took it so far that he was able to buy a mega-mansion in Mayfair with the profits of his misdeeds. Something tells me Fred was clever beyond any other criminal and that’s why he got away with it. Maybe the inland revenue actually believed he owned so many properties from driving a taxi, or else Alexia recorded massive earnings from the sale of her art and that explained it all away. She did once tell me that she was the breadwinner, but maybe she was giving me that line because it was the one she’d been told by Fred to deliver.
I wonder what my mum and dad think of this. It wouldn’t surprise me if they’ve tried to distance themselves altogether and may have even started to deny they ever attended Freddie’s wedding…
…and they said Ruben was the one who couldn’t be trusted.
I’m watching the footage for about the fifteenth time, when something catches my eye.
There’s Freddie being stuffed into a legit heavily armoured vehicle which none of his accomplices might ram off the road and kill him inside. Then there’s the moment the camera points at the back of the police vehicle as it’s driven off Freddie’s property… and then there’s a shot of all the paparazzi gathered at the gate of his house, ready with their cameras pressed to the window, still hoping for a shot of Freddie without his hood on. Among the paparazzi there’s just one man stood still with his arms folded, legs apart, like an aggrieved neighbour who can’t get his tractor down the lane today and wants a word with Freddie… but whoops, he’s being carted away for questioning at a secure facility somewhere, maybe even GCHQ. Who knows?
I watch the footage to the end again… the police vehicle skids around a corner and leaves the scene, then the reporter tells us they will have more on this story later. Just as she’s about to finish her report, the man with his arms folded walks behind her in the direction of all the many news crew vehicles parked up on the verge outside.
I rewind two seconds and pause it, studying what’s on the screen.
This man has a shaved head and shaved face, plus he’s built like a wrestler, but there’s something about the way he walks. That gait… and the way he stood earlier with his arms folded and legs spread.
It can’t be. It must be a cousin of Ruben’s and Freddie’s, or something.
It isn’t Ruben.
Ruben wouldn’t look like that if he had a shaved head, would he? The man on the screen looks incredibly chiselled and fierce. Ruben mu
st have had a beautiful skeleton beneath all that hair on his head and face, but videobomb man’s arms and shoulders are massive, much bigger than Ruben ever was. He had a footballer’s physique, tall, lean and an even spread of muscle, not toppling shoulders and arms.
I’m imagining it. It’s crazy.
I go inside the house and the dogs follow.
The sun is setting quicker every night now and it will soon be time to drape the house in fairy lights, stock up on firewood and buy the dogs a set of winter coats.
I grab a glass of wine from the fridge and contemplate calling my mother. Seeing as though it’s growing into such a big story, about how someone on home soil could’ve netted such a massive amount of drugs, maybe the press are going around questioning everyone who ever knew Freddie or Debbie. Who knows?
I contemplate it for a minute before I decide against calling her. She made her choice so long ago, and with Adam leaving for university, soon she’ll be able to revel in that as much as she pleases—housebound with Dad.
The next day is a workday and I’m trotting down the hill towards my favourite coffee shop, when a bright sunbeam catches me in its glare and I have to stop and absorb the rays a moment. Sometimes you have to root yourself and just look up and be reminded of life’s simple pleasures. I inhale a breath of warm Nice air, a hint of salt mixed with a smattering of sun cream and coffee wafting up from the café nearby.
I walk into the shop and see Caro, my regular barista. She can speak good English but I always try to attempt French with her, much to her amusement.
“Big news coming out of UK today, no?” She grins, already grinding the beans for my macchiato. “Crazy stuff.”
“I was walking through Old Town yesterday afternoon and it was like every TV everywhere had become a scratch and sniff, everyone had their noses pressed to it.”
Caro turns to me and frowns, then bursts out laughing. “You’re so funny, Freya.”
She turns back to working on my drink, fashioning it with all the usual craftswomanship she puts into everything she makes. I’m admiring her chocolate-filled croissants and wondering if I can get away with one today.
“Go on, you know you want to,” she giggles, catching my look of admiration.
“Sure, why not?”
“Wise choice,” she whistles, popping the lid on my takeaway drink before fishing out some tongs to retrieve a croissant.
“Beautiful day today, isn’t it?” I watch as she pops it into a paper bag and throws in some napkins, too.
“I love this time of year, I do,” she says, expressing herself as much through her hand gestures as with her words, “tourists gone, air clear, my hay fever better, everything good.”
I turn to look out of the window and admire the view. Her little café is perched on the corner, at the top of a hill, and from here you can see right across the old parts of the city and towards the ocean.
“Life couldn’t be better,” I murmur.
I’m turning back towards the counter to hand over some money when something catches my eye. A man sits by the window on the other side of the café, his head and face shaved, his body big, brawny… then some aviator shades. His pale-ish skin looks slightly green against the dark black of his stubble and hair regrowth. There’s a bag on the floor by his feet, a full rucksack, so either he’s going somewhere or just got back.
When I watch him worry his lip in the way he used to when he thought I wasn’t looking, I know it’s him and I almost hit the floor. In fact, I’m glad I’m wearing my Bulgari shades or else Caro would spot that my eyes are filling with tears.
I hand over a 20 euro note, thrusting it at her so she doesn’t see my hand is shaking.
She hands me my change and it’s at this point I realise I need a reason to stay.
“You know what? I’m having a private viewing today. What do you have I could wow them with? A cake, something like that.”
She almost dances on her feet with glee. “Wow, wow, wow, well, I have a special tarte in the back. I was saving it for when the one on the counter sold out, but tonight I can make another.”
Grinning, I exclaim, “Perfect.”
“Give me a minute to box it up.”
“Sure.”
I rest my wrist on the counter in front of me, my coffee and croissant in a paper bag with handles in my other hand, which would be fidgeting if there wasn’t anything in it. My feet feel like rocks and my head is throbbing with anxiety.
It seems utterly deplorable right now but I’m wondering if Caro would mind if I just went over to that guy and clubbed him.
Why’s he here?
Why now?
Is it him? Am I insane?
That it hits me like a sledgehammer… if it’s him… he took down Freddie. He did all of this. Only he could do it. Nobody else had personal reasons strong enough to take him down.
Or is it more than that?
Gia…
…me…
…the possibility of something happening to me?
Is that why he’s not returned to me? Because he fears if he does, I might get hurt?
Instead he’s on camera at the scene of Freddie’s arrest, and now he’s right here, not approaching me—spying on me.
I take a deep breath and turn, staring right at him. He’s still pretending to be looking out of the window, the espresso cup in front of him empty and no other reason for him to be here except he’s a stalker.
He doesn’t turn to look at me and even though I’m now a hundred per cent certain it’s him because I recognise his hands, which are fidgeting, I can’t find it in me to go over. I’ll turn into a big mess and it’ll get ugly. It won’t be pretty and I’ll probably die of shock if it is really, really him.
“Here we go, it’s lucky you don’t have far to go because the cream might slip,” she says, ringing in my second purchase. I pay with my card, slapping it against the contactless machine. Never mind it’s more than 30 euros for one cake, eh?
I’m shaking when I turn around to leave.
“Enjoy your day!” she bellows after me. “Ciao, ciao!”
Something stops me, something powerful and annoying that cannot be ignored.
I stand on the spot and turn around again. “Caro, might you help me?”
She looks puzzled as I return to her counter with my third request of the morning.
“I need a pen and paper,” I mutter, jerking my head towards the beast sitting a way down, but still making his presence known.
“Okay…” She looks at me closer, maybe now interpreting the colour in my cheeks and the stupid purchase of an entire cake for nobody but me, because I’m not really having people over today. It’ll just be me and any walk-ins.
I write down a message on the notepad she just gave me and rip the page off, folding it in half. “When I’m gone, and no longer in sight, give this to the man with the shades by the window. Okay?”
She nods her head excitedly, maybe thinking this is one of those classic movie moments—and it’s happening in her shop—where strangers meet and their love affair sparks a whole adventure, a life-changing experience and a summer of love which will ensure neither of them are ever the same again.
“Trust me, I shall deliver,” she says, suddenly looking like the best sergeant to my major I’ve ever known.
“Thank you, Caro. Bonne journée.”
“Et toi, ma petite soeur, et toi!”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Still Kicking
(RUBEN)
Canada is far away. Safe. Bigger. Easier to get lost in. Nobody would know us there. I thought she’d listen and go to Canada, but when she didn’t, I had to make other plans. I’d been hoping to join her there and surprise her, “Hey, I’m still alive!” but I realised that was idiotic of me, to imagine she’d welcome me back just like that. I should’ve known Freya would never leave for Canada, not when there wasn’t anything pulling her there. Little did she know, I’d be there waiting for her, safe and alive and hers, b
ut she couldn’t know that before boarding a plane.
In the days leading up to us leaving London for Florence, I installed a bug in her handbag and that’s how I found her at Heathrow when she tried to run away—I overheard her telling the cab driver to take her to Terminal Four. I also overheard her wailing the night she found out I was dead. That was the hardest one of all to take.
Freya doesn’t know about drugs, though. She doesn’t know about how they cruelly rip away potential, hope and destiny. My brother was destined to be more, I know he was. There were many factors that contributed to his death but I know, deep in my heart, the reason he died was that he struggled with his mental health and drugs rapidly ate away at him until they seemed, ultimately, like an easy way out. I know that I should’ve stepped in, but I wasn’t the only one. There were four people responsible: my parents, me and Freddie. We all should have stepped in and saved him, but it was a tangled mess and I can admit now that I fought to have a football career outside of the UK so I could escape my father and live my life on my own terms. Who knows if Laurent would’ve survived if he’d had different parents or a different brother? That’s an uncertainty I will have to live with. My only comfort is that where he is now, he doesn’t feel pain or suffering anymore, he’s free.
In my heart of hearts, I always knew Laurent died at his own hands. Yes, it was terrible and tragic and painful and would leave my mother forever grieving, but for me, it was what happened to Gia before that which ripped the fabric of my reality, irreversibly rendering me scotched and bruised and broken beyond repair. I made a big deal of Laurent’s death to the world and to Freya, but Gia was the tipping point for me—the moment she died was the moment I realised just how evil my father was.
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