I can’t see Jack. Panic tremors me, and I hope he wasn’t caught by the flames. But I can hear him shouting at me. I stand and look for him, and through the orange haze I can see that we are separated by the ever-growing fire. He’s by the door, ready to leave begrudgingly. I can’t quite make out what he’s shouting, but then I get it loud and clear.
‘He’s mine!’ he shouts.
I look back to Sparkles, and begin a bobbing awkward sprint of my own. The heat is fast becoming too much to bear. I reach the edge of the corridor, and sail around the corner - straight into a shoulder charge. The impact is brutish, and throws me to the floor, which hurts like all hell. My hip takes the brunt of the fall, but, thankfully, nothing cracks. A savage kick to my gut brings tears to my eyes, and forces me to wretch for breath. I see white dots dancing in the corners of my vision, as I see a fist sail an aggressive course through them - but I bob sideways and weave away, a boxing maneuver more than anything, and haul myself to my feet. Sparkles is bringing his left fist crashing up in a hook towards my face, and I block it away with a left arm cross of my own. I follow the momentum and throw what I hope will be a huge right hand, trying to put enough force into the blow as possible. I’d love to knock him out of his boots here and now.
The connection is good, but Sparkles is obviously a tough one, and he doesn’t go down. He looks dazed, and hurt by that, taking two steps back for steadiness, but I’ll definitely need more. He comes forward in a head-down charge, and I let him, because he’s given me his forehead, a target I can definitely use. I thrust the heel of my right hand as hard as I can at his forehead, and it connects with a thick, solid thud - jangling his brain, bruising it against the bone walls of his skull, and giving him an immediate concussion. His momentum carries him stumbling forward, and he hits the wall hard. Like a tree, he goes down, felled.
I bend down and push my knee firmly down on his solar plexus, then take the three fingers of my right hand and push them down hard into the crevice of his collarbone. His scream let’s me know I’ve hit the spot. I hold on, like you would a climbing hold. It’s always horrible when you have to use tactics like this to get someone to comply, but it usually gets the job done, and when time is in short supply, my hand is often forced . That’s when the training kicks in. At times, I wish the corners of my brain didn’t contain such well-drilled secrets of torture.
‘We’ve got about 30 seconds to get out of here, so speak fast,’ I say, forcing my fingers deeper into his collarbone. ‘The truth - now.’
All of a sudden, Sparkles seems keen to talk.
‘You’ve got the wrong man,’ he says, writhing. I keep the knee pinned tight so he can’t go far, and use my fingers like a tight leash.
‘Explain that to me,’ I say.
‘We got a tip-off that a Jack Brooker was out to kill me, so I put out a hit to beat him to it. Of course, you know we found you instead.’
The flames are creeping down the corridor towards us, a crawling, arachnid pyre along the wall.
‘Who gave you the tip off?’ I bellow.
‘It was anonymous.’
‘And you took it seriously?’
‘Turns out I was right to listen though, wasn’t I?’
I can’t argue with that. ‘You know why he wants you dead?’
‘No idea. Everyone wants a piece of us here, there’s big things going on.’
The workshop out back swings into my mind.
‘What about the Berg?’
‘Jealous, controlling bastards. Don’t have much to do with them, but we have come into contact a few times.’
‘To kill Royston Brooker?’
‘Fuck, no. I don’t know what you think about us, but we are not like them. They are a different animal - a bigger one too. I wouldn’t do that unless I wanted to cause a big problem.’
‘Well you've got a big problem on your hands now, haven’t you?’
Sparkles seems sad, blood trickling from his lower lip. ‘Like I said - you’ve got the wrong guy.’
The floor starts to shake a little beneath our feet. It cannot be good. I hear the faint murmur of sirens. We need to leave now.
I’m stumped. If Sparkles did kill Royston, I should leave him here, but the story does not seem that clear cut. I don’t want to go about offing people with gay abandon. I’m interested in justice, and justice is reserved for those I’m sure are guilty.
‘Come on,’ I tell Sparkles, releasing my hold on his collarbone and rising off him. I head back to the main restaurant floor, careful of the flames. The scene is carnage, a bizarre, melting, tumultuous, wooden belly of hell. There is still a little room to the left where the windows are, that isn’t completely engulfed. Our only option.
I take out my pistol, and start to run at the windows. I fire the remaining bullets into one of the window panes, which send cracks across the surface. I run out of bullets, hop between dancing flames, and hurl myself at the glass. It breaks easily.
I’m falling, the air suddenly cool and invigorating, and I hit water, the sudden freeze of the Irwell a world away from being cooked alive a second ago. It jackknifes my senses, and I come back to the surface, breathing deep and heavy. The pirate ship is ablaze, now more like a Nordic funeral pyre, eager flames reaching out into the night air from every window, every opening.
I can’t see Sparkles, and I appear to be the only one in the water. Surely he won’t have stayed on the craft - he just can’t have, as if some twisted sense of duty meant that the captain had to stay with his criminal ship, come what may. I refuse to believe it, as the great mast begins to crumble, and come loose. It fells, and smashes right across the belly of the boat, ripping the cabin roof in two. It is greeted by explosions, as the barrels finally burst. Charred and burning debris starts to tumble down towards me, hissing loudly as it hits the cold surface. I start to swim, my clothes tugging me to the bottom, but I press on with determination. I need to get out of here. If I’m picked up by police, I’m done for. As blue and red lights bounce off the high buildings around the river banks, creating a two-tone Art Deco light show, I take a deep breath, and sink under the surface. I begin to swim upriver as fast as my bruised, singed body will allow.
12
The dark and cold feels unending, an uncomfortable dissolution of everything that humans need to feel at ease. My legs and arms are numb, my scalp burning even though I know it’s not. I’m freezing, but I can’t stop moving. If I do, I’ll sink to the bottom like a shark, and reluctantly expire with pathetic acceptance.
I rotate onto my back, and allow my face to break the surface, the air so dry and bitter that it feels like acid on my cheeks. I breathe, gulping two mouthfuls of oxygen, then sink again, hoping that I was subtle enough to avoid detection. I’m hoping Jack managed to escape the scene, but I’m unsure. He has been so fixated on revenge that he may have hung around for too long, in the hope he would see his personal mission through.
I turn onto my stomach again, to resume my sub-aquatic doggy paddle. The tiredness is extreme now, the frozen ache in my limbs unbearable. Lactic acid has built up but will do nothing to warm me - moreover, it builds a furious nausea. I keep going, committed to my escape route. I always thought the water could play a part at some point - maybe I’d have been better off going to Toys’R’Us and buying a sodding blow-up dinghy.
I know my limits however, and I’m fast approaching them. Training in the cold was never something I was keen on, nor am I used to it’s feel. I was never thrown into any freezing rivers in Afghanistan nor Iraq. I am more used to trying to regulate my temperature in the opposite direction. I need to get out of this water, and fast.
I angle my stroke left, and head towards the bank, arms outstretched, feeling for concrete. It can’t be far now. Dear God, please don’t let it be far. I’m running out of breath and I feel my torso, my very core, squeezed in the constricting grip of a quickening hypothermia.
My hand hits concrete, and I feel briefly warmed by joy. I slowly arrive at the
surface, my soaking hair surely beginning to crystalize and freeze, and I blink water from my eyes. To my surprise, I’m only a hundred yards from the boat, which is entirely aflame, huge fans of fire offering columns of thick grey smoke to the heavens. I must have only been in the water a couple of minutes, tops. My problems are not over, as I realize I’m stuck about 20 feet below the river bank, with no obvious means of escape.
Panic threatens to rise, but I won’t let it. I need clarity of thought, not to grieve for a fate that still might be averted. I look all around me, scanning the brick surfaces of the bank wall, and I can’t see anything to grab, or pull myself out with. I’m too far down. I lean against the wall, trying to think.
The cold is clenching me, and I feel a mental numbness joining the physical one. I begin to feel dizzy and disorientated. I feel drifty, my body deciding to conserve it’s remaining energy stores, by shutting down certain facets. I hold onto the brick wall, and try to steady myself, hoping that the sensation will pass, and I can have another go at escaping.
My hearing has gone now, and all I can hear is my own slowing heartbeat.
I’m in trouble.
Panic would usually take hold now, but it doesn’t. I’m not prone to panic, that reaction feeling now very foreign to me, but at the same time, I just don’t have the energy for it.
My eyes feel weighty. Suddenly each blink is like hoisting an anvil. I let them close for a moment. Bad news. I can’t open them again, my subconscious shutting that off too.
I can’t bow out now. But it seems I have no choice. I will not go quietly, and will fight to the last - but even as I think that I know it is a fantasy. I lose grip of the wall, my fingers failing me, and I begin to sink.
My mind clears, and my hold on consciousness breaks. I float down, within myself, the lid closing in on me. I feel hands grasping at me, beckoning me to the afterlife. They grab me by the lapels, and pull me to the heavens. I go, sadly, without protest. It is the end.
13
I hear a crackle, feel an immediate heat on my cheeks and the smell of something charring. It reminds me of camping. I am snapped back into the present with the horrible assumption that I’m still floating along with the burning pirate ship, just another piece of wreckage left behind.
I see flames, but they are small, and very close. Did I never make it out of the restaurant? Surely I did, I remember the tumble, then the cold...
My eyes adjust, and I see that the fire is encased in a white ceramic oval, a funnel over it sucking the smoke up and away. I follow the tube above the funnel, as it reaches twelve or so feet to a glass ceiling. Confused, I turn, and see that the glass ceiling continues along and down, in a huge 3 sided glass box - encasing the most ornate pool complex I have ever seen. A kidney-shaped pool, with a bar at one end, with little paths routing from one end to the other, lined with ornamental foliage of all description. A little glass-house of paradise - a conservatory of some kind.
Somebody saved my life.
I stand weakly, and notice that despite still being dressed as before, my clothes are damp and I am draped in a towel. Outside the glass is blackness. I am in very unfamiliar territory, and I would immediately look for escape if it weren’t for my rising curiosity, and the notion that whoever brought me here doesn’t mean me harm, if indeed this is the home of whoever pulled me from the water. As I look out of the glass, I see an expanse of water, flickering along at a high, wind-driven pace. I follow the current along the main body, and see a huge edifice lit in neon, with blocky curves and all the hallmarks of modern architecture. It is the Lowry, in Salford Quays. And that must mean... I am standing in Felix Davison’s house.
Well, that is not what I was expecting. In fact, in the seconds since I have woken up and realized I am no longer a popsicle, I hadn’t even got to working out what I thought had happened to me. But being here adds another complexity to things. Another layer to this complex unfolding onion of criminal circumstances.
Before I can think any further, a voice behinds me breaks the quiet - a low, soft, male voice, wavering and almost timid.
‘He’s up,’ the voice says.
I turn to see a little old man approaching me. He has a bald head, with a soft ring of white fluff around the ears. He wears grey slacks, and a white casual shirt, and wide round glasses. His face is ruddy, chubby and downright grandfatherly, and wear a kindly smile. I don’t whether to thank him or ask for a bedtime story.
‘I am indeed,’ I respond, playing along, not entirely convinced how to handle this. ‘Felix?’
‘Yes,’ Felix replies, taking a couple of steps towards me. They aren’t the most sure steps, so I instinctively walk forward to meet him. ‘Jack said that he would leave it to you to make your introduction.’ A very slight accent dwells somewhere in his speech, but seems clipped and well controlled. It is north European, but is buried well down, the only remnant now being the odd vowel out of place and different intonation. I don’t think he is English.
‘Jack’s alright?’ I ask.
‘He’s fine,’ Felix replies. ‘I had him taken home. He fared a little better than yourself, I’m afraid. I would have arranged for you to be dropped off home too, but I didn’t know where that might be.’
‘I’m staying in town,’ I reply.
This is the part where I give a name. Do I go with one I make up, or do I go with my own? Felix holds out a small weathered hand, and smiles, and I find myself reaching for it, still undecided. We shake.
I find myself wanting to be honest, wanting to be true to myself. I reason that even if Felix finds out my full name, it’s not like he is likely to be too onside with police or anything. And if they root into my backstory, they may find I’m a man not to be messed with.
‘Ben. My name is Ben.’
‘Ben. Thank you for looking after Jack. I mean that whole-heartedly.’
Felix places a hand on my shoulder.
‘It’s been such a difficult time for him, and I worry about him greatly. He is like his father, I’m afraid, a single-minded soul when he eventually works out whatever it is he wants.’
‘He was kind to me. I’ve known him for a little while, but I always like to repay favors.’
‘It’s nice to know there’s still decent men out there. Would you like a drink?’
‘I wouldn’t say no.’
‘Something hot, I take it?’ Felix smiles warmly as he turns. ‘Will coffee be ok?’
‘Sure. Black, please. Could do with the pick-me-up.’
‘I’ll be right back. Make yourself at home.’ Felix slowly paces back towards the main house.
To my left is the pool, and a smart table with accompanying matching chairs. I take one. I am so disorientated, my previous expectations far removed from reality, and I try to make sense of things. Is this man really Felix Davison? Is Felix Davison all those things Jack says he is? What is going on here?
In a foreign setting, my mind’s default response is to source an exit - but here I find myself longing for answers. This situation certainly holds my interest, especially now I have met the main man himself, and he is nothing like what I had imagined. It raises questions as to what more surprises lie in store. Nothing appears to be what it seems.
As I listen to the trickle and hum of the pool filter, and smell the chlorine and chlorophyll intertwining harmoniously, I feel more than a bit seduced. I have so many questions, that my head feels like rush hour traffic jammed into a blender.
I hear footsteps echoing, and see Felix is returning once more, holding a little tray with a couple of mugs on it. We appear to be alone, which I’m amazed by. Completely amazed. This old man, who some argue is most wanted and sought after, is holding court with a perfect stranger, in his own home in the middle of the night, alone. He must be confident, assured and at ease. Either that or we are not alone at all.
‘Are you warming up a bit?’ Felix asks, placing the drinks tray on the table. His eyes are warm and genuine concern seems to alight them.
> ‘Yes, thank you. I was beginning to think I wasn’t going to get out of that river,’ I grab the mug and squeeze it with my hands, staving off icy memories of earlier.
‘I’m not going to take you for a dummy, Ben. I’ll assume you know how I know your friend Jack, and why Jack dragged you over to that restaurant.’
Felix’s vision fixes on a point off in the distance, his mind pawing at something.
‘I knew that the people there were unhappy with his father. But I desperately didn’t want to tell him that. He... just wouldn’t take no for an answer. He threatened so much, and, in so many ways, I don’t blame him. If I refused to tell him what I knew... I ended up giving in. I didn’t want to, I just... wanted to do right by him. Help him. Like you.’
I listen. The old man seems torn by it, as if he’s not willing to acknowledge that that moment of decision has long gone, and dramatic and possibly deadly consequences have since been perpetrated.
‘I think it would have happened the other way round if you had not have done so,’ I say. ‘I checked into a hotel as Jack yesterday, and a man from the Floating Far East tried to kill me, assuming I was Jack.’
Felix looks disturbed, his bottom lip drooping.
‘This happened earlier?’ he asks, still softly put with a firmer edge.
‘Yes. I think the paths of Jack and Sparkles Chu were going to cross regardless of whether you told him or not.’
‘Dear God...’
‘I don’t think Jack is going to be troubled by Sparkles anymore.’
Felix’s demeanor lightens a touch, the gravity of his gloom just lifting a little. ‘No. I suppose not. What happened over there?’
‘I don’t want to betray Jack’s confidence, given your complicated relationship with him, but, as you will expect, we went to confirm if Sparkles had indeed killed Jack’s father. The occasion went sour, we were both in great danger and I had to act.’
Felix seems distracted. ‘Jack says our relationship is complicated?’ He seems a little hurt by that.
The Baby And The Brandy (Ben Bracken 1) Page 9