The Baby And The Brandy (Ben Bracken 1)

by Robert Parker

  It seems that it’s only when I’ve been alone that this has happened. When I was on the run, and now I am on the run again. But what about when I was alone, on the frontline, or when I was in prison? Why not then?

  Fatherhood. I’ve always felt ready for that, since I was very young. I can’t explain why, but I long for it one day. And perhaps that’s it. When I was in those places, I was the daddy. I was the one people went to for instruction, for an idea of what to do or where to go next.

  Christ it gets worse. The ex-con that needs a daddy whenever he’s not pretending to be a daddy himself.

  I don’t understand it, even though I’ve just had a good stab at explaining it. I’m going to take these thoughts, these weaknesses, and bury them down deep. Somewhere I won’t find them, or at the very least, somewhere they won’t jar loose under pressure. Last thing I need on this new lease of life is dregs of a life I should be putting to bed.

  I roll over, to the bedside table, and reach up for the sandwich bag that contains my phone. I remove it, and check the screen. Just the time, which reads 4.37am. Nothing, no attempts to contact me. I’m surprised not to have heard from Jack, and I’d like to know where he has got to. Felix told me he had looked after him, and I’ve got no reason not to believe him.

  Sparkles’ words are sitting in my head, his vehement denials regarding any involvement in Royston Brooker’s death. Did he get out? If he did, there’s a loose end out there, and I don’t like loose ends one bit, particularly with their uncanny ability to return and haunt me.

  15

  I am awoken by a roar of muffled laughter. It snaps me alert, and reminds me in an instant where I am. The sunlight squeezes through the gaps in the black out curtains, like rays of fresh glowing orange juice. Sitting up in this bedroom, while people downstairs are having a good time, reminds of an age when I was a moody teenager, hiding upstairs in my room on family get-togethers, deliberately late for their arrival for God-knows-what reason.

  I smell pretty appalling, a mix of sweat, and musty river water. I don’t know what’s coming, nor what awaits me downstairs, although it sounds like Christmas morning. My crumpled clothes lie on the floor by the bed, and I catch a whiff of them from here. I notice a white plastic bag over by the closed door. I get up, not as easily as I might thanks to a few dull aches and pains, particularly in my ribs. I don’t feel too bad, but not 100%. I could do a 10k, but no marathon. I check the bag, to see a red t-shirt and some check board shorts, which strikes me as a little strange, particularly as the tags are still on them.

  There is an ensuite over in the corner, which is a mighty relief - at least I can get washed up in private and give myself a little team-talk. I take my hastily purchased beach wear, which I can only assume I am to masquerade in, and hit the bathroom, to scrub the smoky exertions of last night firmly off my person.

  *

  Five minutes later, I am inching open the door decked out in my assigned costume. I can still hear the unmistakable sound of voices from downstairs, and can now distinguish that they are both male and female. The upstairs landing is a cream-carpeted luxury zone, with a series of doors along the landing, and opposite, over the staircase, a vast window overlooking a sun-bathed Salford Quays and the Manchester Ship Canal, with the gleaming, flat crest of the conservatory roof just visible below the sill. I descend, stuffing my old clothes and shoes in the recycled plastic bag as I go. The stink of luxury is everywhere, from the spotless carpets to the touch of cleaning products in the air. The staircase is wooden, but as I reach the bottom I am deposited into a marble reception area, just off what looks like the front door, which in itself is a huge mahogany piece that looks as if it could stop a medieval army. Life has been good to Felix, to which there can be no arguing.

  I figure the best thing to do is follow the voices, which increase in volume with every step. This leads me through a couple of perfect passages and through a gigantic show kitchen which looks like nothing has ever been prepared in there, such is it’s spotlessness. ‘Show’ is a good word to use to describe the feel of the house, which has been immaculate with no trace of anyone actually living here. No family photos - nothing. A shell, in which a man can live and then abandon at a moment’s notice, perhaps.

  I pass through the kitchen in the direction of the conservatory, and before I can guess what I’m walking into, I am presented with a pool-side family get-together. My trained subconscious quickly scans the scene amassing intelligence, and prepares me a hasty intel document. There is a child, about six years old, floating merrily in the pool, with another of a similar age careering along the ornate pathways. There are three men and two women, reclining on the chairs by the pool, circling the the table I had sat at under moonlight just hours earlier. Starbucks cups are on the table, with a couple of brown food bags - hey, why use that restaurant-grade kitchen back there when you can get a quick Starbucks when friends come round? The periphery looks clear of life and anything of note, save for the geographically uncharacteristic sunlight blazing in through the glass. I recognize two of the men, Michael and Mr Nike, and they too look ready for a day at the beach. What a life this is, with cosy family get-togethers in a little suburban, tropical utopia. I’m wary, and it’s growing. I’m really in the lion’s den here.

  ‘Ben! He’s up!’ shouts a voice I recognize as Felix’s, but I can’t see him. As faces turn to look at me, I spot Felix in the pool itself - or rather, just his head, bobbing along under a blue floppy sunhat. ‘Michael, give me a hand will you,’ he says.

  ‘No problem, Dad,’ says Michael, hopping up. I head towards Felix, and a man from the table hops up and offers me a meaty-looking hand, which, when I take it, I’m surprised to feel as wiry. He has a thin mustache, a tall but lithe frame and a classic Lego haircut. I recognize the man from my earlier investigations.

  ‘I had to say hello. Ben is it? I’m Leonard,’ says the man. He is a near-convulsing fissure of coiled energy, encased unsettlingly in holiday clothes. He shakes my hand as if it might be his last social gesture.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Leonard,’ I reply, keeping my cards close to my chest. I haven’t worked out how to play this yet, and don’t want to commit to one course to early.

  ‘I saw the smoke in the sky last night, you could see it right out here. It was impressive - I’ve waited a long time to see some signal of change from over there.’

  ‘Leave him be, Len,’ chastises Felix, who is now being hoisted out of the water in a pop-up disability harness, the support crane for which is being manned by Michael.

  ‘Sorry,’ Leonard says, as I walk past him. ‘I was just impressed that’s all.’

  ‘No, it’s fine,’ I say, as I walk to the poolside.

  ‘Arthritis. The docs said that a pool would be good for me, help me day to day,’ Felix says, his dangling feet being lowered to the ground. ‘They said it would be exercise without the mental commitment of exercise.’

  ‘I can see the appeal,’ I reply.

  ‘Ben, you could’t grab my robe there could you?’ Felix says pointing off to my side, where a bathrobe hangs off a chair. I grab it and bring it to him.

  He takes it and pulls himself up, with Michael’s help.

  ‘Sleep ok? I see you found the little package to make you feel a bit more comfortable.’

  ‘Yes, on both counts,’ I reply, lying through my teeth about the former. ‘I believe we met briefly yesterday, Michael, is it?’

  I extend a hand to Michael, who’s demeanor has changed entirely since yesterday, his suspicions erased and replaced with a warmness so similar to Felix’s that he cannot be mistaken for being his son.

  ‘You got it. Great to meet you properly.’ The handshake is another hearty effort.

  ‘Michael pulled you out of the river last night,’ Felix says, fastening his robe. ‘He said you were in a bit of a state when he got to you.’

  ‘Thank you, Michael, I’m very grateful. I’m indebted to you. I wasn’t going to last much longer.’

/>   Michael shrugs, and smiles. ‘Hey, one thing I know from growing up over on the quays here, is that that water is bloody cold, and it’s not going to be much different a couple of miles away in the city centre.’

  ‘Thanks all the same. Is Jack ok? I haven’t seen him since it all started getting a bit hairy.’

  Felix looks troubled, his eyes drifting lower, but Michael dives right in to smooth things over. ‘He’s fine. I took him home, made sure he was OK. A hell of a night for him...’

  We start walking to the table.

  ‘Jack has changed so much since I first met him,’ I say, but nobody is ready to take me on on that one yet. I have to tread carefully, in any event. They seem open to dialogue, at the very least.

  ‘Everyone, this is Ben,’ Felix says, motioning to the people surrounding the table. I am greeted enthusiastically. ‘Here you have Samson with his girlfriend Tina, I know you’ve met Leonard and Michael, and this is Michael’s wife, Carolyn. Those two kids are Mike and Carolyn’s, for their sins, poor buggers.’

  That brings a laugh. When Felix is speaking there is a very slight hush, as if his next words might be pure auditory gold. I know, however, the unmistakable hallmark of respect when I see it.

  ‘Jack is on his way here, and Zoe, whom I believe you met the other day,’ Felix finishes. I know Zoe calls Felix ‘Grandad’ but I don’t know where the linking family member is. They don’t appear to be here at least.

  Samson, rises, as does Tina. The man formally known as Mr Nike shakes my hand. He is tall, well-built, tanned, stubbled and decked in a vest and shorts. He looks like a Mr Universe contestant, albeit with a cruelly broken nose between dark brown eyes.

  ‘A pleasure, mate. Thanks for looking out for the young lad last night,’ he says.

  ‘Hi,’ Tina says, pecking me on the cheek. They are really rolling out the big guns today, and Tina looks like she just walked off the set of a music video. Blonde and toned, revealed by a bikini and sarong, and appears stunning but who really knows under all the make-up. That peck on the cheek, twinned with the soft whisper of light perfume, would send butterflies to the stomach of any man. The ultimate arm candy, suited perfectly to a Mr Universe.

  Carolyn appears at my side, and I’m passed from one soft embrace to another. ‘Hi Ben,’ she says. I’ve not been close to a woman in nearly a decade, and the last three seconds have been a pretty stark reminder of what I’ve been missing. Carolyn too, is intensely beautiful, but in a more refined sense. More vintage Hollywood to Tina’s MTV. Long chestnut hair, framing a face of delicate, classic lines, and dressed much more modestly. She still packs a visual punch. She is older than Tina, and carries herself as such. More motherly. More warm.

  ‘I’ve got a mocha, a cappuccino, or a tall black?’ says Michael, pointing at the cups.

  ‘Tall black, please, if that’s ok?’ I reply, taking a seat.

  ‘Sure.’ Michael slides a cup over.

  A second passes where nobody says anything at all, while Felix settles into his own chair between Michael and Carolyn. When he is settled, he looks like a squat, doughy oracle, the way we all face him.

  ‘Ben, from all of us, thank you for looking after Jack last night. His father meant a great deal to us all, as does his son. I didn’t want to bury two Brookers in one week, never mind one.’

  ‘I’m sure Jack could have got through last night by himself, but two heads are always better than one,’ I say.

  ‘You are too modest regarding your own efforts.’

  ‘Jack is a very determined, capable young man. He’ll get where he is going, eventually,’ I say, and pick up my cup, which is only slightly warm to the touch. ‘I assume from the tone of this conversation, in light of those sitting around this table, I can speak candidly.’

  ‘As long as you bare in mind the children, of course,’ Felix replies, gesturing to the two little ones, who I can now see clearly as matching blondes, a boy and a girl, possibly twins.

  ‘Just spare the gristle,’ adds Michael, with a slight smile. He’s like a slick, redux version of his father.

  ‘I was there on the basis of helping Jack. He wanted to avenge his father, and he was going to do it anyway. He has told me little about your connection to proceedings, and but he did tell me that this is where he got the information. He felt that I could be helpful to him in achieving his goals, and asked for my help. I owed him a favor. As far as yourselves, with the greatest respect, I’m not sure why I am here, or who you are for that matter.’

  That seems to drift like a bad fart into the middle of the table, and cause the men to look at each other. Felix’s voice grumbles in like an old steam engine.

  ‘Whenever I try to answer that question, which I must admit is asked extremely rarely, I always come up with some bull or other to try to justify what is we do and why we do it. Some would say we are criminal, but our aim has never been to hurt or deprive others. We would say we provide services that are outside the scheduled boundaries of the law, ushered that way by disillusion and contempt.’

  I can’t argue with, or even look down on that - there is a great deal of lawlessness to my even sitting here.

  ‘I haven’t always been here. In what feels a previous life, I worked in a joiners in Gothenburg, the city of my birth. Seduced by your Queen, and her Empire, I caught a ferry out into the North Sea, a moonlight flit, seeking my fortune on these fair shores. I loved Sweden, but I felt there was nothing for me there, and I had no family to speak of. Usually in these stories, there is an element of hardship that forces the move, but for me it was indifference. I was unmotivated, but was still in search of that something. I started in London, but London was too harsh. I tried to find work, but in post-war London, a city of rejuvenation and vitriol, I found that as a young Swede, honest work was hard to come by. Our country had passed through those devastating war years in a position of rigorous neutrality, and it was because my country hadn’t erred on the side of Churchill and the Union Jack, I was frowned upon. I was hungry, and had to take jobs I didn’t want to in order to keep any sort of money coming in. If you appear in the same dark recesses of a city long enough, those that dwell in those recesses will have something to offer, and I suppose you could say that there and then a criminal career was borne.

  ‘London was full to the brim of Cockney wide-boys and sneering post-war, iron-fisted, mob bosses. There was no room for someone who’s meagre taste had instilled in him an ambition to grow into his own. So I moved North, settling here. I saw the potential then of this very spot where we sit, and I still see it now. It became the centre of my own business. In Sweden, we have the word Berg. In English, mountain.’

  He points to the other men at the table, one at a time, with more than a hint of pride.

  ‘Väktare. Compass point, or direction.’

  He inverts his fingers to point at himself.

  ‘Toppmöte. Summit. The old Swedish businesses in the south of the country used to refer to the inner workings of a business as the Berg, with the väktare acting at the behest and protection of the toppmöte, with mutual gain in mind. Like a company with executives and a chairman.’

  So, the identity of the group has been explained. How thoroughly quaint. But I want the meat on the bones.

  ‘You’ll notice that there’s only three men here,’ Felix adds.

  ‘Because Royston was the other väktare...’ I venture.

  ‘Exactly,’ he says.

  ‘The loss of Royston is one that is felt so deeply here. As you can now see, having explained the central core of our business and how it works, what a hole is left behind.’

  The men are all looking at me with stares that illustrate honor and ask for understanding. I decide to plummet in - in their eyes, I probably know far too much now, what more can a little extra do?

  ‘What areas are you involved in?’ I ask.

  ‘Import and export is our primary concern,’ interjects Michael. ‘The logistical importance of this position on the quays provides us
transport options for a great many things and a great many places. We have our central warehouse and dock, which is over the water there, and of course there is this place here. With the right palms greased, we are in a very favorable position.’

  ‘You have some kind of police immunity?’

  ‘Not fully, but enough local assistance to know that we are pretty much untouchable on these waters. We are always trying to expand that reach, as any business model would. We also have a man in Merseyside who, for a fee, helps us with unrestricted access to the various international shipping lanes, dragging our reach into Europe and beyond’.

  ‘What commodities?’ I ask. They are really giving up the goods here, and I just don’t know why. Are they really this candid? I need to keep this momentum going, as everything that is coming out here is of extreme value and interest.

  ‘A mix of things, but we focus on a few key areas. Cocaine is one. We have a factory south of Cork, in Ireland. Arms is another. Not in terms of equipping a militia, but we do manage to transport arms to those that will pay a favorable price for it. That has not been as successful of late.’

  I detect a look between Samson and Leonard, an exchanged glance laced with meaning, but I may have dreamt it. When I check, they are both looking at Michael intently, as if they have never heard any of this before. Michael continues.

  ‘Third is, I’m afraid to say, heroin. Those reliant on the substance will always find something to abuse - it’s been happening since the dawn of time. We might as well make something out of that market demand, and provide that market with a safely available, pure product. Fourth, and on much smaller terms, is the one that started it all...’

  Michael turns to Felix who is grinning sheepishly.

  ‘Siamese fighting fish’ Felix says. ‘Betta splendens. An exotic species that is quite small, extremely beautiful and very aggressive. The males are the worst, if you show a male his own reflection, he will get so worked up he might die of pent up anger. In underground circles it is fashionable to bet on which will survive when you put two males in a tank together. The very best are so hard to get hold of, but we have an unrivaled source of the finest.’