Raucous

by Ben Paul Dunn

  “Yeah, probably, but I don’t actually like you all that much.”

  Jean threw a straight right at Raucous, aiming to clip his chin. Raucous moved slightly to his left and avoided the shot. He reached his arm up and swung it down, catching Jean’s elbow in his armpit. He added his weight and pushed at Jean’s shoulder and forced Jean to the ground.

  “Leave it be,” Jim said.

  Raucous smiled but didn’t release his hold. “We’re here for you. No one else.Fancy taking a seat in the back of our very well-kept van?”

  Jim didn’t move. Raucous applied pressure to Jean’s arm, and the force made Jean squeal as her shoulder twisted to breaking point.

  “No need to be the hero, Kid,” Raucous told Jean. “As I said, we’re here for him.”

  Jim looked down at Jean. “I would have liked to have said more, explained things more clearly, but it looks like I won’t have the chance.”

  Jim stepped around Raucous and entered the van.

  Timothy slid the side door shut and entered the cab.

  Raucous looked down at Jean, he released the pressure but not the hold. “You’re looking good,” he said. “We’ll be seeing each other soon. A few things to clear up. Try and relax first, get a bit of you time in there.”

  Raucous patted Jean on the cheek, released his hold, stepped into the cab, started the engine and put the van in gear.

  “You know the other one?” Timothy asked as they pulled into traffic.

  Raucous turned to face him.

  “Kind of," He said. "You know I served seventeen years, right?”

  “As only the moronic can,” Jim said.

  “Well, five of them were for killing him.”

  “And the others?”

  “For killing my daughter,” Jim said.

  Timothy looked back at Jim and then at Raucous. He laughed. “The good old gangster days, honour among thieves. You guys were just so much more fun back then.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  He had to accept now. He couldn’t make excuses. If he truly wanted resolution, she thought, yes would be his only answer. Watching Jim leave had been the start. It was beginning.

  She was walking suburbia, one associated with the post-war era of council houses. A long terraced row, the end unseen as the curve of the street bowed the houses away to the east as if separated by the trail of a snowboarder. Cars lined both sides and the space of open asphalt was not enough for two cars to pass. Every third car was a white van, some with markings indicating trade and name, the majority without and worn and dirtied. The fronts of the houses were identical by design, individualized only where families had added windows to double glaze, or changed the color of the door. The majority of traditional front gardens had gone. There were no more small strips of grass and flowers, but thick slabs of concrete for weekend projects and a parking space.

  Charlotte counted the numbers, the odd side of the street. Thirteen, Fifteen, Seventeen (A and B) and nineteen. The light of the day changed as she paced, cloud cover taking the brilliant sun and its winter heat before slipping away and letting the rays hit the earth. She stopped at twenty-one and looked down the three metre path. The two large steps had been painted red years before and were now faded and chipped. The green door with five semi-circular frosted glass panes was a post-war relic that had been kept going by a lazy hand. A brass knocker had once hung, but its place was empty and the color faded. Stolen or rotted away. She pressed the rectangular bell button next to the door. A white sticker sat under the bell, a name was scrawled in black marker. Roach, a name written a long time ago. The ink had run and faded. Charlotte knew his first name, but everyone called him Roach. Charlotte listened to the last regular chime hum to silence before the door opened.

  Roach opened the door slowly, he was dressed in blue rayon pajamas and a toweling nightgown, but he didn’t seem to have slept. He was middle-aged but looked worn. He had the flab and gait of a man who liked a traditional English breakfast. Even in the loose fitting bathrobe his stomach protruded. His hair had not aged as badly as his body. It was thick and short but the original dark brown was only visible in small patches hidden within the light grey.

  Charlotte said, “I’m. . .”

  Roach didn’t let her finish. “I know. I remember. Those documents aren’t for me.”

  He tried to close the door, but Charlotte thrust the documents she carried through the ever closing space, their edge touched his chest.

  “These are the ones I held back,” she said.

  Roach looked down at the sheets of paper in new brown cardboard file.

  “And why am I interested?” he asked.

  “Jim is dead.”

  Roach opened his eyes as if buzzed by caffeine.

  “Did you see?” He asked.

  “I saw him go.”

  “In his VW?”

  She nodded.

  “He took his time,” Roach said.

  Roach looked at the ground; he lifted his right foot and the slipper in which it was encased to scratch this left shin. He nodded his head like someone listening to Motown on headphones. He stopped and looked up. They paused; Charlotte fidgeted, rocking on her heels.

  "He took his time," Roach said again.

  "Christian is alive."

  "I always thought he was."

  She couldn’t help but think Roach was disappointed. This was the moment, the decision he had already taken, already promised. But now he wavered.

  "Do we start?" She asked.

  "You've given me the papers. No more watching?"

  "Nor waiting.”

  Roach opened the folder. He turned and pushed the door with the outside of his left foot. He walked back into his house as the door closed and said,

  “I’m not inviting you in,” he said.

  She watched the door close, hearing the click of the latch.

  “You never have.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “He got in by himself. He wasn’t forced, he was asked and he went,” Mitch said.

  Mitch had been sat there an hour and said the same words thirteen times. He hadn’t been arrested but told it was in his best interests. A dirty, bare room, military green walls, a Formica table and two cracked red plastic chairs, faded in parts to pink. Mitch sat in one, his back to the frosted glass window, and Detective Parker in the other.

  The town had a small police station. It had once been thriving, but cuts, and the apathy toward late night drunken fights, had meant the station was on bare bone staff.

  They called at 8 a.m. Two uniformed policemen at Mitch's front door. They drove him without lights or sirens all the way to the back door of the station and walked him straight to the interview room. He waited alone until an old man, at least sixty-five, face starched from tobacco and caffeine entered. He was wearing an expensive but old-style tweed suit, indicating his after dinner habits were cigars and port. His large red bulbous nose told the story of a man who was never satisfied with the one glass.

  He introduced himself as Detective Parker. He sat down and made sure his jacket didn't crease.

  “At least I was,” he said. “I retired and moved on. I now work in a consultancy faculty, more for the elite class.”

  He said this as if he had worked hard enough to be one of them, without knowing you could only be one if you were gifted the position.

  Mitch knew his own salary put him firmly in the easy-life rich category. He had never worked but he earned four-thousand-sterling a month for simply being alive. But he figured this guy knew that already.

  “Witnesses say you tried to fight. Would that have been to save him? Protect him?” Parker said.

  “I don’t even know the man.”

  “A strange reaction from you for a stranger.”

  “Sometimes I lose my head.”

  “Every three days?” Parker asked.

  Mitch looked up, and Parker looked back, arching an eyebrow, feigning to be surprised that he had got Mitch’s attention.

&
nbsp; “Accurate guess,” Mitch said. “Maybe it’s to do with the lunar cycle.”

  “Maybe it’s to do with who exactly you believe you are.”

  Mitch opened up his arms. “I’m just an over-aged teenager getting bored with nothing to do. They should open up a youth club, keep us off the streets.”

  “I believe they closed that specific institution down, let the loons out.”

  Mitch pushed his tongue inside his right cheek.

  “Are you too old to be politically correct?” He asked.

  “Too experienced to believe what you say.”

  Parker pushed the photo across the table again.

  Mitch pushed it back.

  “I’ve already seen it. It’s a photo of the man who voluntarily got into the van. He told me his name was Jim. You confirmed that was true, and told me his surname is Sharples, which means you know more about him than me.”

  “I know a lot more. More about you.”

  “More than me?”

  “Well, what do you know?”

  “That his name was Jim, and he wanted to get in the van and speak to his friends.”

  “Did you recognize the other two?”

  “One probable plumber, although his hands didn’t look nearly swollen or gnarled enough for him to be doing too much work, and an educated one, who probably isn’t educated at all but would just like to be that way because he is an empty shell of confusion.”

  “Did you see into the van?”

  “Yes, there were seats and a steering wheel. I believe they were tuned into BBC radio 2. Although I can’t be sure, but I think I heard the dulcet tones of a DJ that used to be hip and cool twenty years back and is now flogging the same old tired banter crap for the middle-aged generation in search of their fun youthful days.”

  “You’re very observant.”

  “I just hate DJs.”

  Parker paused. He half-closed his left eye. He smiled and shook his head. “And that’s all you can remember? No, idea who those two men were,” he asked.

  “The chuckle brothers?”

  “No idea who they are.”

  “Not a kid’s TV watcher.”

  “No I am not.”

  “You should try. Some really good stuff there.”

  Parker paused again. He placed his hands on the edge of the table in front of him and pushed. “We haven’t really hit it off, have we?” He asked.

  “My mum always told me, never trust an alcoholic. Or is your nose like that because someone punched it. Repeatedly.”

  “And what was your mum’s name?”

  “It depended on the context, but generally she was called mum, what with being a mum.”

  “Everyone called her mum?” Parker asked.

  “Are you casting doubts on the fidelity of my mother? Are you saying I have secret brothers and sisters?”

  “You are not being overly cooperative. Why is that?”

  “Because I’m bored. I would have an hour ago but now you’re annoying me. And if you say, shall we go back to the start, I will, only my start I’ll take as being in bed when your friends knocked on my door.”

  “Are you annoyed I was delayed?” Parker asked.

  “You weren’t delayed. The car-park is right the other side of that window. Nothing has been in or out since I sat down. Sure, you could have come in the front way, but the door has a buzzer to have it opened and that didn’t sound. You were already in the building and you made me wait. That’s rude. So sow what you whatever and so on and so forth.”

  “I was working.”

  “You told me you had just arrived, so how am I supposed to believe what you say when you have already lied to me. What are you, a big fan of the Catholic church? Please, I know we are a corrupt, sickly wealthy organization of crime and punishment, but please ignore that and let me be your moral guardian for your stroll along the path to redemption and a place in the fantasy land in the sky. Honesty begets honesty. Dishonesty begets dishonesty. You lied, I don’t trust you. And drunks speak too much.”

  “Your mother again?”

  “Don’t bring my mother into this, god bless her soul.”

  “Is she dead?”

  “You’re the detective. Or are you? We’re in a closed police station. You haven’t shown me your badge.”

  “My client would like to know information.”

  “And that client is who?”

  “Not at liberty to say.”

  “Well, I am at liberty to leave. Thanks for the test run for my next involvement with fake police.”

  Parker reached inside his tweed jacket. Mitch saw the shoulder holster, and knew Parker wanted to show his power. There are few who can carry concealed pistols without fear of arrest but Parker wanted to show Mitch he was one. Parker pulled out a folded piece of white paper between his middle- and forefinger and placed it on the table.

  “This is for you,” he said.

  Mitch looked at the paper for ten seconds before deciding he would open it. The paper had been folded into four. Written folded and placed in a pocket. He opened the paper out and read the address.

  “And what is this?” He asked.

  Parker smiled and stood and walked to the door in silence. He looked back as he stepped through the door. He smiled and spoke through a grin.

  “It's a place where you need to go because this town is not yours any more.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  His promise was coming. He should do it now, pull the trigger on the old man. But he couldn’t. He was making excuses, avoiding the inevitable. He had promised.

  Raucous passed the food, a metal tray with a single plate, a knife and fork and a glass of water. The plate held bangers and mash with gravy, a dish Raucous had prepared in the large kitchen of the Turk's establishment. The kitchen had been clean and empty. Business started in the late evening. Dinners for men who would stay on to enjoy the women who danced for their pleasure. At 10 a.m. the place had been wiped down and was dormant ready for the night ahead.

  Jim was being kept in a room in the basement. The room was for women or men to rest. A single bed, with light blue sheets was along the right wall, a single desk and chair on the left. A room two meters by three, no window and a heavy wood door with a single large lock. Jim sat on the bed and accepted the tray. Raucous sat at the desk and faced Jim. The door was closed.

  Jim placed a napkin into his shirt collar. He took the knife and fork and cut the first sausage into small chunks; he spread mash onto the chunks and dipped them in gravy. He placed a piece into his mouth and chewed slowly, savouring the taste.

  Raucous watched the old man, thinking about when his own death would come. Jim had no escape. He knew that. He had known as soon as he had gone to see the boy, to see Christian. Only thing to concern the old man now was the how: quick or slow, easy or painful.

  Jim finished up. He wiped the white porcelain plate clean with a single, thick-cut slice of farmhouse bread. He pulled the napkin from his collar, folded it into a small square and placed it on the plate. He handed the tray to Raucous. Raucous accepted, stood, opened the door and left. He locked the door behind him as Jim stared at the white wall.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Ben didn’t fight, even when he outweighed and out-aged people by an easy amount. These two men were not in those categories. They were late thirties, shaven-headed goons. They were big, probable power lifters not looking for definition but single effort strength. They wouldn’t run marathons but they could crush a neck and choke someone to sleep with ease. They were suited. Grey nylon jackets looking like slim-fits when they were probably the size of a two-man tent.

  “We’re here to remove you,” the taller of the two said.

  Ben had opened the door expecting a parcel of Japanese action figures. A Dragonball level four Goku that he had never held. In the UK they were rare, in Japan they were teenage boy’s Barbies. These two were empty handed.

  “Remove me?” Ben asked.

  The shorter, still six
inches taller than Ben, thrust a paper forward smacking Ben’s chest, and pushing him back. The men stepped into the space Ben had vacated.

  “Notice of eviction,” the shorter man said. “You need to leave.”

  “I. . .I don’t understand.”

  “Nothing to understand. Pack up and get out,” the taller said.

  “Hurry now, we’ll watch,” said the shorter.

  Ben fumbled with his phone. He took it out the back pocket of his jeans. He almost dropped it as his hands trembled. He started to dial. He had pressed the first nine when the pain came. The shorter stepped forward and drove an oversized fist into Ben’s gut. Ben buckled in two and fell to his knees. His phone slid away on the hardwood floor. Ben could see the electronic nine, big and black on its white background. One of the two men, Ben couldn’t look up to see, smashed the heel of a hand-made leather shoe down onto the Gorilla glass screen and it shattered. The heel of the shoe had a metal curve nailed into the leather sole.

  The shorter of the two crouched down as Ben sat forward as if he had just committed hari-kari.

  “You’re right, we’re being unreasonable. Too much to take in, I guess. We’ll give you a day. Twenty-four hours. We’ll come back. And you’ll be gone. Won’t you?”

  Ben nodded and thought about how he could alter the destination address on his e-bay delivery because tomorrow was Jean's problem.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  He thought of how long Jim would stay compliant. His mind was toying with his courage as he prepared the food. The same process the same ingredients, the same care. Sausage, mash and gravy. The farmhouse bread was warm. He walked down the stairs to the basement, balancing the tray, pacing the steps to keep balance. He placed the key into the lock and pushed the door open. Jim was sat on the bed as if he hadn't moved since the last meal twenty four hours before. Jim took the food and followed his same routine. He cut the food, he chewed slowly, and he cleaned the plate and folded his napkin. He handed the tray back to Raucous.

  Raucous stood and stepped to the door.

  "Strange seeing him?" Jim asked.

  Raucous turned. "Always strange to see someone you killed."