I committed to spending time with her, and wanted our relationship to blossom, eager to see where it panned out to. Sex was a natural by-product of our time together, and it was that first time I had experienced the physical act with a different slant - that it was based on love, or at least the onset of it. It gave the act a perfection. Or at least I thought it had. It most definitely had from my side.
She announced, casually in conversation, that she was pregnant. But as soon as she had dropped that bomb, and the fallout from such news had settled, she revealed that she had actually, in her words, ‘got rid of it’.
It was about a minute or so between the two revelations, but in that minute my mind had hop-scotched betwixt delight, joy, shock, pride, mild-concern, protection, love and a throbbing sense of purpose. I was alive. I had so much to live for. I was going to be a daddy with a girl I thought I loved. It was the happiest minute of my life.
I can’t say how hurt and betrayed I felt. I was broken. I was furious. Surely, it was partly my decision to make? Could we not at least have talked about it? No, it seems. My child was gone. Who knows what it was.
There is an alternate reality, out there, where I am a daddy. In this vision, the child has no face or gender. Merely an infant stick figure, features indefinable but no less there. We are happy. I never went to war. I stayed to look after my girlfriend and our unborn child, and devoted my life not to overseas combat, but to providing a safe, stable, happy home. I would give anything for that life, over the one I have now. And, in taking the decision away from me, and making it by herself, this possible future was taken from me too.
I have always wondered if I was too hard on her, in being as devastated as I was. We were both young, early twenties, and she was to carry a child out of wedlock. The child of a soldier, who, such as the risks and trappings of his chosen vocation, may not always have been around. She wasn’t to know that I would have done anything for her and our child’s happiness, including quitting the army. She was possibly acting out of self-preservation. But none of this will ever wipe the bitter taste of hate that stings the back of my throat every time I think about this topic.
‘You want a glass of champagne?’ Tina asks me, snapping me out of my reverie. I slide into the booth, opposite them.
‘Thank you, if you don’t mind, that would be great,’ I reply.
‘Of course,’ says Tina. ‘The guys are on their way over. We thought we’d come and get a head start.’
‘And why not?’ I say, as a bottle of bubbly and a fresh flute is taken from the lockbox.
‘How are you feeling tonight?’ asks Tina.
‘Much more refreshed, thank you.’ The fizz is passed over to me. ‘Cheers. Yes, it’s surprising what a quiet afternoon can do for you. I feel like a new man.’
‘Well, the guys are all very impressed with you,’ Tina says, replacing the bottle. ‘They’ve been talking about it most of the day.’
I catch Carolyn give her a sideways glance, as if she shouldn’t be talking about this with me. She still hasn’t said anything since I got here.
‘Jack is so upset about his dad,’ I say. ‘He is devastated. I’m afraid he won’t be joining us this evening, it’s been just a... a hell of a few days for him. I’ve told him to get some sleep and take it easy.’
‘That’s probably a good idea,’ Tina says. She is very confident, and very assured. She wears silver glittering eye makeup, that looks like crushed gems placed carefully along the lateral angles of her eyes, giving her the impression of some kind of exotic, historical princess. However, her long, flowing, purple dress negates that impression, and the look is more Jersey Shore than Ancient Egypt. In contrast, Carolyn (still mute) wears a black turtle neck jumper and thick dark eye-makeup, an altogether more subtle ensemble. She looks at me, as if unsure of how to speak with me.
I remember what her husband did to Jeremiah. She looks so much younger than Michael, maybe as much as ten to fifteen years. She is far quieter in character than Tina, and if her reaction to my stories earlier is anything to go by, easily the more sensitive of the two. She seems a little nervous, and more than a touch agitated. Perhaps, like Zoe, these two know something I would find of critical value. Best keep them talking.
‘Besides, we might as well enjoy our nights out while the kids are being looked after, am I right?’ Tina says.
Carolyn smiles, quietly and inwardly, as if well-practiced in the art of putting up with Tina’s brassier moments. In only spending a moment with them, you can already see that they are not the most conventional of friends. In fact, they are in a lot of ways polar opposites, and it is very much like they have been thrust together by this situation, and expected to get along. Only Tina appears genuinely to love it, and Carolyn is a bit more put-upon. And worked up. It’s unmistakable now. Perhaps she doesn’t want the Berg to catch Tina divulging what they’ve been talking about today.
If that’s the case, it must have been something juicy. Let’s see if I can wangle it out of them.
‘Thank you both for being so accommodating towards me,’ I say, playing bashful. ‘I feel a bit out of place at the moment and it’s nice to make some new friends.’
Yes, you play that cutesy sympathy card, Ben. Keep shamelessly burrowing into their good graces.
With the suddenness of apparent teleportation, Leonard appears at the end of the table. He is dressed snazzily, with a white blazer and pink shirt more fitting to a Wham music video than a night out in Salford. That pencil tache-caterpillar gives me the creeps, wriggling and cavorting while he talks, and his eyes fix me with unnerving intensity.
‘Ladies and Mr Mystery, nice to see you all!’ he says. ‘Does the lockbox have enough in it, because I’m about to make a heavy bar run!’
We say hello, and Tina checks the fridge. I can’t see inside. Leonard does a quick sweep of the bar, his eyes roving.
‘No Jack?’ he asks me. On closer inspection, his eyes are pinpricks. He is high as a bloody kite.
‘No, I’m afraid not. Getting a well deserved early night,’ I reply.
Leonard seems thoughtful at that, his dancing eyes glazing a touch. ‘A shame,’ he says. They are strange men, this group. Fettered by secrets, shrouded with mystery, despite my earlier conversations with them, and what I have gleaned from my other sources. I don’t know where I stand, despite the pleasantness. All I know is, I am alert for any eventuality, and I must stay that way.
‘It depends what you are up for tonight, Len,’ Tina says. ‘We’ve got enough for a couple of rounds of champers, but after that we are down to bits and bobs of vodka and mixers.’
‘Well that will not do,’ says Leonard, hands on his hips theatrically. ‘We must show our new friend the utmost hospitality, in all it’s possible definitions.’
Behind Leonard, a shadow in the darker recesses of the bar expands as it approached, and forms through the deep light into the shape of three men. They enter into the glow of the booth, revealing themselves to be Samson, Michael, and Felix. The two younger men flank Felix, guiding the elderly man to the table. Seeing Michael makes my skin crawl, after what Jeremiah told me.
‘Sorry everyone,’ says Felix, walking slowly. ‘I’ll get there in the end. Seems to take me longer to get back here every time we come!’
‘Felix, what can I get you?’ Leonard asks, his tone taking on an entirely more respectful lilt.
Felix places himself down slowly on the same bench as myself, and begins to slide down next to me. I’ll be between the wall and a mob boss, not completely dissimilar to a rock and a hard place. This is a little poor planning on my part. ‘I’ll have a mineral water, please Leonard, with a small vodka and cranberry to wash it down,’ he says.
He finally comes to a rest, and let’s out a deep inhalation. In the dim light, he looks very old, his face a doughy mask of soft crags and wrinkles. He sidles up next to me, and I have never been this close to him. He catches me glancing and smiles.
‘Good evening, Ben. Thank you fo
r coming,’ he says. He extends a hand outwards to the women opposite. ‘And ladies, you both look beautiful. It’s lovely to see you.’
The ladies smile, and Tina even blows a kiss. Carolyn’s pursed smile still carries that worry, that preoccupation. Felix catches it.
‘Are you ok, Carolyn? Is it the children?’ he asks.
‘You know I can never fully switch off when I’m not with the kids,’ she says. I’m intrigued by her. The doting mother. The gangster’s mol. The classic beauty. So many cliches, yet so paradoxical, an oxymoronic specimen if ever I saw one.
‘They are good kids. They are my grandchildren! They will be fine, they are from good stock,’ says Felix. He smiles and tries to let his warmth and humor sooth her. It seems to work, as she thaws a little.
‘That solid Swedish stock?’ she says.
‘Exactly,’ he replies.
Samson takes a place next to Tina, pecking her on the cheek as he does so, and Michael sits next to his father, who himself is turning to face me, his body language signaling an impending collusion. His voice lowers, and he speaks to me in as much privacy as one could get in a booth with six people.
‘Young Jack... He is not here, is he?’ says Felix.
‘I’m afraid not,’ I reply. ‘He sends his apologies.’ He most certainly did not but I don’t want to propagate discord.
‘Such a difficult time for him. I feel so deeply for him, but, for so many reasons, I can’t reach him. He shuns me, he shuns us, and I can understand why. But it cannot stop me caring for him. His father was so desperately important to us all, and we feel indebted to Royston to keep an eye on his son, if his son will let us.’
‘How honest would you like me to be here, Felix?’ I ask.
‘Very,’ Felix replies earnestly.
‘We are both concerned about Sparkles. About no body being found. We are also both aware that, with great respect, Sparkles may not have actually killed his father, and another suspect has come to light.’
Felix listens, intently. His eyes meet mine, and in the intimate space, I can see pure potency swirling inside them.
‘Who?’ he says, with a touch more firmness than before.
‘A man named Nigel has presented himself, one way or another, as a suspect. I’m going to look into it.’
Felix looks away, as if hurt that his own information hans’t been deemed reliable enough to go off.
‘I think the question is,’ I continue, ‘how confident are you that Sparkles did it?’
Felix leans back, and breathes out. ‘I wish you could have met Jack’s father. He was a very loyal, kind man, despite the connotations that usually affix themselves to people that do what we do. Violence was not a preoccupation of his, and neither was making enemies. Sparkles took very unkindly to something that Royston said, and interpreted it that his honor had been provoked. A provocation of honor is a cross-cultural danger, because it means something different between societies. For example, if you and me were to walk down Deansgate tonight and I took your hand, you might probably be confused and a bit mortified. But if I did that in Jordan for example, you might be struck with the highest pride at my gesture of friendship and respect. So you understand?’
‘I do’ I reply. I have actually experienced what he is referring to, and when the gesture was explained to me, it indeed filled me with great honor and pride.
‘I think Royston might actually have unwittingly very much offended Sparkles, in a cross-cultural misunderstanding, and it got out of hand. He made a death threat to Royston, and that’s the only time I have ever heard of that happening where Royston is concerned. He didn’t court trouble and trouble didn’t concern itself with him. That’s why I am sure it was Sparkles. I dealt with Sparkles’ Uncle prior to dealing with him. He was an unpredictable so and so also, with a very short temper. I have seen little difference in dealing with his nephew.’
That seems to make sense. He was certainly very quick on the draw last night, and had his team well-drilled in enacting a prompt lethal defense of his floating fortress.
‘So this other lead that’s emerged, Nigel. You don’t think it’s worth following up?’ I ask.
Felix mulls it over.
‘It’s not that, Ben. I think your astute enough to handle yourself, and smart enough to make your own judgements and assessments here. If I can help put flesh on the bones of this environment for you, to help you to understand it better, I will. I’ve never heard of a Nigel, least of all one that had a problem with Royston. Further to that, and this is a part of my position that I’m not comfortable with but is a necessary by-product of what we do, but I do know we are an entity of considerable scale, commanding city-wide respect. There are only a few people who would dare do what happened to Royston, and most of them are no longer with us.’
His face reminds me of a grandfather figure talking about his Second World War experiences, rather than inter-criminal politics and conflict. Perhaps that is what happened, while most men of that era were fighting abroad like I did, he was waging a defense at home of his illicit business. It’s a rare partial-admission of a violent side to his activities, at least in the time I have spent with him. He carries on, his authoritative tone at times mesmerizing. He would be a spectacular bedtime storyteller on kids’ television.
‘One of those people I considered capable of such an act was Sparkles Chu, and more than that, he actually threatened it. He said he would kill him if he ever saw him at that place again. Royston went back, and was not seen again. It makes a lot of sense to me.’
It’s hard to argue with that.
‘When you put it like that, it seems the most logical explanation,’ I reply.
‘For Jack’s piece of mind, however, it might be right to follow this Nigel figure up, in the sense of dotting all the I’s and crossing all the T’s. But I genuinely, honestly think that Sparkles did it. They even tried to take out his son, for Christ’s sake.’
I have no comeback, his case so compelling. If it weren’t for the strange text message conversation earlier with Nigel, I’d shut this investigation down right here and now. The drinks arrive, and finally I reach for the Champagne. Leonard pulls up a chair to head the table, and takes off that jacket, folding it neatly over the chair back, straightening the cuffs and wiping away specks of lint. There is definitely a curious obsessive compulsion to this guy, which, twinned with the seemingly bottomless battery of his energy, gives him a jarring psychotic slant. And his appearance only accentuates my overall impression. He carries himself like a fully fledged psychopath, with all the airs and graces.
Suddenly, Michael speaks, while raising a pint of what looks to be a pale real ale, perhaps an IPA of some kind. My mouth floods with saliva.
‘To our dearest friend Royston, and his son, Jack. We miss you pal,’ he says. His eyes are bowed, but fixed. He doesn’t seem like a man dominated by emotion, and that he is more of a ‘function over form’ kind of man. There’s an economy to him, a well-managed control. Which makes his reported actions all the more concerning and unnerving. There will be mysterious depths to him - men like that always do.
Everyone drinks, and this time so do I. The champagne is sharp, sweet yet dry, and it feels like an electrical charge has been set off in my mouth. It is a thing of considerable enjoyment, and my senses sing.
‘And one quick toast to Ben,’ he says, gesturing his glass to me. ‘For looking after, Jack, and for settling the score’.
Drinks are drunk again, with added grimness. I don’t know whether to smile, drink, protest - not a clue. I find myself nodding at Michael, who nods back. Christ alive, I’m getting good at this duplicity, here at my enemy’s side. Schmoozing my enemy is something that I never expected to do, nor ever had to before, but I feel much can be gained from doing so.
‘Ben, I’ve made some inroads into that thing you were after before,’ Michael says.
‘Really? How’s it looking?’ I ask.
‘It won’t be a problem. My guy just needs a n
ame, a photo and he’ll do the rest. What do you fancy calling yourself?’
‘Sean,’ I say. ‘Sean Miller. I’ve no idea why, but I’ve already started getting used to it.’
I can feel myself dangerously brushing that fine line between playing my cards close to my chest and over-sharing. That’s the name I’m checked in under at my hotel.
‘OK then. I’ll let him know. Should be ready tomorrow. Face me,’ says Michael, holding up a camera phone to me. I sit up straight and look to him. The flash goes, and he pockets the camera, his economy of movement still visible even in such a simple mundane, action.
‘Blimey, that’s fast. How best to settle the balance with your guy?’ I ask.
Felix pipes up between us. ‘I’m taking care of it, Ben. As a thank you.’
I don’t like this. Favors, last night, this morning, now... I don’t want to be indebted to this man nor his people. This is counterbalanced by the notion that it is genuinely a help, and that to have a totally new identity to walk into, a big weight is lifted.
Problem now, is that this group of people know what I’m going to be called, and if I am to use it in any sense, they will be able to track me down. This is not a good idea. It’s only six people, but still... I’m far from keen. It rankles within me, offends my sensibilities which ordinarily dictate an acute carefulness.
‘What are you going to do with your new identity, Ben?’ Felix asks. ‘What future plans do you have?’
What a question. How best to answer... It hurts, to be asked this. I’m gutted this moment has come with this man and not my own father. This moment, a chat over a quiet drink, was all I wanted from my father when I came home in disgrace. And in rejecting me, and sending me on my way, my father has essentially set me on another course, that led me to this point. He has pushed me from one father figure to another. Is it any wonder I am fucked up?
The Baby And The Brandy (Ben Bracken 1) Page 16