Raucous

by Ben Paul Dunn

  Raucous scraped against rough, loose woven cloth. He dug quicker, using his nails to scrape around the edge of what he had found. He levered his forefinger under and pulled up. The package moved, and he gripped the edge with his thumb, index and forefinger. He pulled, and the package slid out.

  Raucous sat down, cross-legged, the wet earth seeping through his tracksuit bottoms, the wet hitting his skin immediately. He placed the package on his lap. A cold wet rag, wrapped an object like a Christmas present given in medieval times. Raucous pulled open the package slowly, unfolding flaps until he saw the clear plastic package underneath. It lay square in the centre of the dirty cloth. The package had been vacuum wrapped. No air had been inside for seventeen years. And there, clean and unused sat the Beretta hand gun.

  Raucous wrapped the plastic back up in the dirty cloth. He stood and smiled and started his walk back to the car. And he thought, as he walked, so you told the truth about that, Parker.

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  Their nightmare was always the same. Very clear and quick. Sat on a balcony, their body but they had no name. The dream logic of being you but someone else. The sun shone but not too hot, a warm day for the continent but a full summer in the UK. The beaches would be full in England with flabby white kids getting burnt without skin protection and diving in the English Channel to come out blue-lipped and shivering. It could be the balcony to a posh bar, but the man was alone. Two chairs, the other empty but another person was speaking but they never saw who it was, nor made sense of the quick garbled conversation coming their way. Whatever was being said made them happy, made them relaxed, as if the most important question they had ever asked was being answered and there was nothing more to know or learn. Seagulls squawked and looked for victims in the street below. And the sun’s rays warmed their face. They lit a cigarette and passed it to the person who only had a voice. They watched and smiled as smoke blew their way, and inhaled and smiled and were about to laugh. A loud noise shocks through the image and they turn to see the door swing open and slap against the cream wall. It bounces back and a large hand stops it swinging closed. The peace is broken, the person unseen. And then they wake.

  They each had the dream. Identical. It was Mitch’s turn this time. He woke, sweating in a bed, not alone. Sophie slept next to him but it would be an hour before she would come round. Light broke through the slits in a Venetian blind and made striped patterns on the light blue bed covers. Mitch slid from the bed and looked for his clothes. His head throbbed from the alcohol. He hated the sensation, the feeling of being ill, the stomach that needed food but didn’t want and the mild paranoia of what to do.

  He walked naked to the refrigerator looking for water. He found a carton of Apple Juice, he drank the full litre and momentarily felt better until his stomach realized it was too much too soon. He sat down on the sofa, leant back and thought.

  Everyone knew them, treated them as one. The big guy, Raucous, giving a knowing look like they were lifelong friends. Sophie immediately making the move. Jean eating it up like her dreams were coming true. The safe home gone forever, the easy life, the boring life gone. Ben wouldn’t cope, they would manipulate him, break him, make him do what they wanted. And then there was him. What could he do? These were people they didn’t know, offering a chance at a life he wanted nothing of. They knew about them, they had to; there was no way that they couldn’t. They were playing, prodding looking for information. They had none. They were nothing. They had always been told by men and women who had studied, who knew, had seen their like before, that they were broken, fragments of what had been. There was no way of putting a single piece together to make a whole. They would be this way forever. There was nothing they could offer, nothing that they held that could help people like this. But they were alive, there was a way in. They couldn’t be a danger, not yet, if ever. The past, the years as infants as adolescents as teenagers was nothing. They had one incomplete illogical dream, one nightmare that repeated night after night and yet they had come. First Jim, then Parker, then Raucous. They were being pushed into a single lane that went forward without their control. Everyone asked, insinuated demanded but explained nothing. They seemed to be waiting for an internal epiphany. They had come, they had been found and there was no way of stepping back. But they were pushing and waiting, waiting for them to say something they needed to hear. Seventeen years in institution and nothing was left. This was a new life with no escape. Mitch could not understand. But he knew he had to try to find a way through to the end. The old rules he had created to keep them safe were no longer holding, no longer valid. The system of holding themselves together was broken, the wrong frame for the present state. He looked through the open window above the kitchen table. He saw the dark clouds mixing with the white, the Christmas illuminations that were never taken down. He rose and dressed. He had made his decision.

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  Raucous tried to hide his emotion. He could do it well, and when he failed, he masked what old men would call weakness in pure anger. He had envisaged this moment, sometimes he killed, sometimes he spoke, mostly he tortured. But not now. He had a different outcome, he had been convinced. Hold it back, he thought. Now is not the time.

  Turk was sat at the restaurant table. The restaurant was his, the food was cooked by a chef with equal skill in food preparation and perversion. The Turk ate one and fuelled the other. There were no Michelin stars, no notoriety, but famous people came to eat and the Turk entertained them through free dinners and the finest Italian wines.

  Turk had told him to be there at nine, to dress as smart as he could and to say nothing beyond pleasantries.

  Raucous entered through the darkened glass doors. The interior was mock Atlantic city from the 1920’s. Circular tables, fine cutlery sets of silver and the waiters looked like they idolized a clean-cut Charlie Chaplin. All the tables were full, the higher classes, important men with women who accepted the money they could give in exchange for indifference and the role of a fashion accessory to impress their friends. Expensive cars and pretty, obedient wives or lovers defined the importance of a man. There were many important men and the conversation revolved around money and power.

  The Maître D’ recognized Raucous. He moved forward, walking as if on skates. A drift and then he arrived. He told Raucous to follow. They walked through the crowded room, through the wall of chatter, faces turned to see if Raucous was important enough for a hello. He received no greetings. A wooden swing door with a circular glass window opened at the smallest push from the Maître D’ and a small white room was revealed. There was a table, without cloth or cutlery and the Turk and an expensive suit sat waiting for Raucous. The Turk looked away from the suit to watch Raucous stand uncomfortably inside the closed door. The Maître D’ left without word. Turk spoke.

  “Here he is. The new man.”

  The Suit turned, an elderly man, thick white hair with longer strands above his ears. He had large grey eyes, full of confidence and arrogance. Raucous looked into them, and hid his emotion.

  “You probably know who I am,” the Suit said.

  “Enlighten me; I’ve been away for a while.”

  The suit stood and offered Raucous an outstretched hand. Raucous took it and the suit, looking toward seventy, held the shake firm and for too long. His white head came up to the shoulder of Raucous. His old-age stoop had taken centimeters from his youthful height. But the guy had worked out a lot in his life, muscles still showed but his paunch said his gym days were long since gone.

  “I’m Alex Chamberlain, and you, I am led to believe, go by the name of Raucous. Glad to make your acquaintance.”

  “And yours,” Raucous said. “Your face looks familiar.”

  “I’m a well known man.”

  Raucous pulled a gold gilded chair from the table.

  “No need to sit," the Turk said. "He just wanted to meet you. You can go."

  Raucous looked to Sir Alex.

  “I am usually a very g
ood judge of character,” Sir Alex said. “Years of experience. I remember everything."

  Raucous knew he should leave, smile, and make for the door. He couldn't.

  “Not everything," he said. "You forgot we have already met.”

  Alex squinted.

  “I’m sure I would remember a man of your build.”

  “I was a young boy.”

  Raucous could feel Turk’s stare and see Sir Alex do impassive but his eyes were trying all they could to bore into the mind of Raucous. He thought long and hard and smiled.

  “Did we have a pleasant time?” he asked.

  Raucous returned the smug.

  “I learned a lot.”

  “I always like to educate. And I’ll see you tomorrow as the Turk has told you.”

  Raucous nodded and turned.

  "And Raucous, I believe you have a sentimental connection to Christian. Maybe you have thoughts of finishing something you started all those years ago. I would strongly suggest that if that is the case, you cease to hold such desires. They will bring only harm."

  Raucous paused, looking into space.

  “Only man to blame is myself,” he said. “I have no revenge to make.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

  Jean said yes, she always would. Mitch and Ben had avoided the question, but they knew. Doing nothing made them agree. Jean had no thought of consequence and the deal was too good to turn down. This was a life and the others would have to adapt. Boredom was a battle she had faced for a decade. She’d fought it off but now she had found the opportunity she wanted.

  Sophie knew the place, most people in this quarter of the city knew the Den. A teenage boy's place of passage, a dream location within their own area.

  There was nothing different; it had been designed to be exactly what it was, a large mirrored wall, four podiums with their floor to ceiling poles. No windows so the day could be twenty-four hours of night. And the walls covered in seventies mosaics of afro-headed women and coloured spots overlapping and glossy to reflect the beams of light that spun at speed to loud bass music.

  Jean entered at midday, the Den was closed. Two aged women were mopping the smooth linoleum stage. The lights were bright and harsh. The Turk sat at a circular industrial steel table. Raucous was standing near the entrance and the Twins hung back, three meters behind the Turk, one to the side of each of his large rounded shoulders. The Turk stood.

  “Welcome home,” he said. “Take a seat.”

  Sophie walked two paces with Jean but she could go no further as Raucous stepped before her.

  “Not you, Sophie. Go home, get some rest,” he said. “Come back tonight.”

  Sophie didn’t move until Jean nodded an OK. She shrugged turned and left. The double doors closed slowly on their hydraulic hinges behind her.

  Jean looked at the four men in turn and smiled. They each held her look and smiled recognition. Jean pulled a chair and sat down in time with the Turk as if they were synchronized.

  “I wasn’t expecting to see you again,” the Turk said. “But on the positive side, I don’t feel so bad about not being able to attend your funeral.”

  “Don’t sweat it, I didn’t go either.”

  Turk looked around the room while pointing at Jean, a smile and a move he had stolen from a prime De Nero.

  “Humor," he said. "I like that. So what happened since we last met?”

  "When did we last meet?” Jean asked.

  “Seventeen years ago.”

  “Long time, I guess, if I need to be brief, I’d say I spent it working out.”

  “You do look in shape,” Turk said through a smile.

  “You less so.”

  “I don’t need to be.”

  “Tell that to your doctor.”

  “I have a personal physician.”

  “Try a dietician.”

  The twins exchanged a glance. Turk was smiling.

  “You're very confident,” Turk said.

  “Is there a reason not to be?”

  “Depends what Sophie told you?”

  Jean looked around the room, making sure she made eye-contact with everyone in turn. She returned her attention to Turk.

  “She said the really big fat bastard is called the Turk. So that’s you. The big guy by the door is a touch flabby, but you’re the only one in the room who’s obese, if I don’t count the cleaning lady, but she doesn’t strike me as the pimping type.”

  The Twins were tense in muscle. But Turk gave them no sign.

  “Sophie speaks a lot,” Turk said.

  “Way too much,” said Raucous.

  Turk held up his right palm for silence.

  “So why did you come?” Turk asked.

  “I’m interested in a career change. I heard maybe you have some apprentice opportunities for someone like me.”

  “You don’t look like a stripper,” Raucous said.

  The Turk continued to smile. He leaned back. “I can match your previous income,” he said.

  “You know how much that was?” Jean asked.

  “Four thousand net a month.”

  Jean nodded.

  “I didn’t have to do that much for it.”

  “With me you will.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

  The Governor refused an informal meeting. From his voice Charlotte sensed his anger and superiority. Roach had called in a favor and the Governor could not turn down the meeting. But he made his own demands in a futile attempt to balance out the lack of superiority. Their conversation would take place in his office, in his place of work, when he was free. He made it clear he was granting them a great and unique privilege. Charlotte imagined his chair higher than theirs because low-level psychological manipulation was effective with his general workplace encounters.

  They arrived an hour before the scheduled three o’clock meeting. They parked their car in the visitors area, a vast asphalt square divided into rectangles by white lines. There were enough places for three hundred cars but theirs was the only one. It was two p.m. on a non-visiting day. The staff, Charlotte assumed, had a private secure parking behind the prison.

  The building was a large grey concrete block. The institution divided in two, the larger compound an area for the highly dangerous criminals who used violence to achieve their goals. The second, smaller compound, housed extremely dangerous individuals, or those who were in danger of being killed themselves. Razor wire ran along the tops of the walls that enclosed the large exercise area. A wire mesh, like an extended pigeon protection net, covered the whole yard. They were met by a large guard, who without uniform would be seen as a stereotypical doorman. Shaven head, large muscled neck and shoulders broad enough to require specially tailored suits. Tattoos poked out from his collar and shirt sleeves, a tribal design, invented by a Londoner for men with a desire to be chiefs. He asked them to follow him and they did at a slow steady pace. The main entrance was a small steel door cut into the larger double doors which only opened for prisoner transit vehicles. Once inside the guard instructed them to walk a corridor of wire fence toward the next steel door one hundred metres in front of them. They were watched all the way by clones of the first guard who were positioned on high walkways that circumnavigated the courtyard. When they reached the end there was a white line on the floor, they waited this side of it. A camera zoomed in on them. A lock clicked, the door opened automatically and a metallic voice told them to step through. They did and the door closed behind them.

  In all they passed through four steel doors. Charlotte had the impression that they always turned left and were doing a large circuit of the building. She had not met the Governor but she imagined this was his way of scaring them, of making them mentally shaky for their meeting. Charlotte smiled. It was no different from arriving at a large London airport and making your way outside to a waiting taxi. The routine the same each time. Wait, be identified and then pass through.

  After the last door they were searched.

  They were instruct
ed to remove their shoes and belts and to place all their belongings in an airport x-ray machine. A metal detector was passed over their bodies. They were physically searched. The soles of their feet, the lining of their clothes and the inside of their mouths were all checked in a routine that told them each guard had done this a thousand times. There was no speaking only gestures, and Roach and Charlotte complied without resistance

  The original guard returned their belongings to them. Clearly there was a quicker way to arrive here than the one they had taken. They passed through a single steel door. A final CCTV camera zoomed in on them as they stood inside a yellow box painted on the floor. A steel door popped open and they entered a different environment.

  The corridor could have been any office building in London from the 1960s. The corridor had a faded red carpet. There were four doors on each side, evenly spaced, each made of wood. The walls were painted a red only just the darker side of pink, and the door-frames were a bright clean white.

  The steel door behind them closed. And the third red door on the right opened. They paused not having instruction. A woman stepped out into the corridor.

  “This way please,” she said.

  The governor was sat at his desk. A large mahogany antique that had spent its formative years in a Barclays bank.

  “Take a seat,” the Governor said without looking up.

  They sat, and Charlotte smiled. The governor was either six feet seven or his chair was on a platform. The governor looked up, and then angled his eyes down to stare at his three o’clock appointment. The governor was pale, bald and had hanging double jowls that made him look like a fat old albino basset hound