Brick

by Conrad Jones

  23

  Simon looked in the rear view mirror and checked to see if the car was still there. The dark Volvo was close behind them; it had been shadowing them for fifteen minutes. He could see the driver focused on his every turn, watching and waiting for the right time. The atmosphere in the car was tense, the occupants nervous and silent. The tailing car flashed its headlights and the sergeant waved as he put on its blues and twos, bringing all the traffic behind them to a sudden standstill. It was the sergeant’s idea to put an unmarked traffic car behind them until they reached the motorway network and then stop everything behind them for a while so that no one could tell which direction they had taken. Simon knew that it would eliminate the chance of being followed from the hospital. It was a good plan as long as he used the limited time to put as much distance as he could between them and any pursuers.

  He put his foot down and Jacob’s BMW accelerated at a frightening pace, putting a safe distance between them and trouble. He stayed in the fast lane for twenty minutes until they were approaching the junction of the M56 which would take them onto the A55, the road to North Wales. The motorway networks converged outside Warrington, meaning that there was no way that anyone could know if they had travelled north or south, east or west.

  “We can relax now,” Simon said checking the mirror. “Are you okay in the back?”

  “Fine, son,” Robert answered. “Nice car isn’t it?” Robert said to his wife. She hadn’t spoken since they had left the hospital. Her face was a picture of a mother’s concern, wrinkles deeper than usual, mouth turned down at the edges and eyes frightened and watery. Every mile they travelled away from Bryn, her heart broke a little bit more, her anxiousness became more intense. She didn’t answer the question because she hadn’t heard him. Her mind was still with her youngest son; her thoughts lacerated her brain, torturing her with the worst possible outcomes. Each time she tried to put a positive spin on events, her imagination threw up a bunch of negative alternatives.

  She still couldn’t get things clear in her mind. Her fourteen year old boy, her baby, had killed a man with a brick. If that wasn’t bad enough, now people wanted to kill him and the rest of her family. Their simple lives had been turned upside down, shaken and sent spinning. It was as if she had woken up in a parallel universe. Her family was in peril and separated. It was her personal hell. “I said, it is a nice car isn’t it, Barbara?”

  “What are you going on about,” she mumbled, wanting to be left alone with her thoughts. Her husband had been her rock but her concern was inconsolable. Her pain at leaving Bryn was a very private one. Her youngest child was in danger and she couldn’t explain how it made her feel ill. She felt physically sick and she couldn’t discuss her feelings with him yet. The anxiousness was twisting her insides into knots. Conversation was out of the question; she didn’t think that she could string a sentence together. “I’m tired, Bob,” she sighed. “I need to sleep, love.” She closed her eyes and put her head onto his shoulder knowing that she wouldn’t sleep soundly but that she could doze and hide behind her eyelids where no one could ask her any stupid questions. Robert put his head back and closed his eyes too; mentally and physically exhausted. Although their minds were racing, sleep took them both within minutes.

  “They’re asleep,” Simon said to his brother. He nodded to the rear view mirror. “It’s been a tough day for them. I thought mum was going to keel over at one point.”

  “I thought they both would,” Mark smiled. “They’re not getting any younger are they?” Simon shook his head. “Poor Bryn; Broke my heart when he got upset at the hospital.”

  “I think he did well for a fourteen year old boy. I think I’d have been a jabbering wreck if it was me,” Simon said shaking his head. “Imagine being attacked by a grown man at that age. He must have been scared, really scared.”

  “He’s a good kid. I can’t believe he’s killed someone, accident or not it will be eating him away inside.”

  “What else could he have done?”

  “Nothing. He tried to run away, which says it all to me. He didn’t want the conflict, it was forced on him and he was given no choice. He hit the bloke once, just once was all it took.”

  “A blow to the head like that is enough sometimes. The brain is fragile. On another day that blow could have just cut and bruised him but change the angle slightly, even just a fraction and it is a different story, it’s not assault anymore, it’s murder,” Simon shrugged. “Just a fraction of an inch either way, Farrell would be alive.”

  “So true.”

  “Bryn is not bad, he’s unlucky.”

  “I wonder why Farrell attacked him in the first place?”

  “You know what our Bryn is like with his mouth,” Simon smiled, his teeth white in the darkness. They were passing through Llanfairfechan, the beach on their right. In the distance, across the Menai Straits, the lights of Beaumaris flickered on Anglesey. “It sounds to me like he’s had a row with the fat bloke and he got pissed off and brought his mate along to give him a good hiding. We know how the rest goes.”

  “Makes you wonder what would have happened if the Staffie hadn’t intervened,” Mark mused. “If it wasn’t for Alice, it could be Bryn in the mortuary. I think Alice is due a treat.”

  “She’s spoiled rotten; he loves that bloody dog. She’ll be worried about him wondering where he is.” Mark paused. “Listen, thanks for this. I wouldn’t have known what to do if you hadn’t turned up.”

  “He’s my brother,” Simon shrugged. “Anyway it’s Jacob we need to thank the most. We’d still be waiting for a mechanic and four new tyres if it wasn’t for him.”

  “He reminds me of Gandalf the wizard but in a three piece suit,” Mark joked. “He’s all grey and mysterious with a magical solution to everything. All he needs is a wooden staff.”

  Simon laughed out loud. “I’ll tell him that. He’ll be made up; he loves the hobbits!”

  “He does remind me of him though,” Mark laughed with him.

  “I can see it!” Simon nodded.

  “Seriously though, what is your connection? Is he your solicitor?”

  Simon shook his head. “He started out as a criminal lawyer but retrained and became an investment lawyer. He worked abroad, New York, Hong Kong, Tokyo, moving from corporate investments to international funding.” Mark nodded but looked confused. “He invested a lot of money for some very powerful people.”

  “What is he doing hanging around with a snotty nosed accountant like you then?”

  “How many times,” Simon shrugged. “I’m not an accountant.”

  “You look after people’s money and add things up for a living,” Mark grinned. “You’re an accountant.”

  “There’s no point in me explaining this to someone who has chosen to be punched in the face as his career.”

  “I chose it because I can’t add up. Carry on about Gandalf.”

  “He’s retired now but he still dabbles in finance here and there. He was a big name in his day. Now he helps people out when he can. It’s more of a hobby now. When I asked for his help with Bryn, he didn’t hesitate.”

  “How do you know him then?” Mark frowned. “Did you work together?”

  “Sort of,” Simon nodded. “I moved some money for one of his clients a few years back,” Simon said, “the deal went very well and we’ve been friends ever since. He’s a good man to know in my game. He’s given me some good contacts and puts work my way.”

  “More adding up?”

  “Mostly factoring.”

  “Factoring, I knew it. Obviously, that’s what I thought, factoring,” Mark said sarcastically. “I knew he would be into factoring. Factoring is the future.”

  “You don’t know what it is, do you?”

  “No.”

  “I’ve explained it at least once.”

  “Yes, you did at Christmas and you bored me so I’ve forgotten.”

  “I don’t know why I bother.”

  “Don’t sulk. Explai
n it again?”

  “I help businesses with their cash flow especially when they’re running out of money,” Simon explained, trying not to insult his brother’s intelligence. Mark shrugged and waited for further enlightening. “Let’s say you own a shop and you need a thousand pounds to buy more stock but you’ve got no money in the bank.”

  “Okay. What am I selling?”

  “That doesn’t matter. Shut up and listen,” Simon smiled. “You have no money in the bank but someone owes you five thousand pounds but they haven’t paid you yet. I would take your invoices as collateral and lend you the money then when your customers pay up, I would give you back the invoices and keep some of the money as my fee.”

  “Sounds simple enough.”

  “It is,” Simon nodded. “Short term loans make the world go around.”

  “Why wouldn’t I ask the bank? I mean why come to you?”

  “Because your credit rating may be crap or your business might be a little bit shady, maybe it is not what’s perceived as a legitimate business.”

  “That sounds dodgy,” Mark grinned. “Are you doing dodgy deals, bro?”

  “No,” Simon shook his head and smiled. “But I can sort out money for people that no one else would touch.”

  “So you’re like a walking talking Wonga bank?” Mark smiled.

  Simon shrugged. “I suppose so, except the interest rate is much higher.”

  “Higher than Wonga?” Mark chuckled. “If it is, you’re a fucking bandit!” Mark watched the waves breaking on the shore; the lights of the dual carriageway glinting yellow from them. He thought about what Simon had said for a few minutes. “What happens if these dodgy businesses don’t pay you back?”

  “It’s not my money that I use. I just introduce the right people to the right people and take a percentage. If they don’t pay on time then the penalties are severe. They’re late sometimes but they all pay eventually, one way or another.”

  “Sounds like it’s low risk?”

  “That depends on how much money is involved. Some of Jacob’s clients need a lot of money quickly. When that kind of money is involved, there’s always a risk for anyone connected to the deal. The richest people tend to be the most dangerous.” Mark nodded that he understood. Simon’s occupation had always been a bit of a mystery to him. “Jacob was well respected. People trusted him, important people.”

  “Like who?”

  “He once arranged finance for Kenya.”

  “The country?”

  “Yes.”

  “I bet Wonga have never lent money to Kenya,” Mark said impressed.

  “Kenyans yes, Kenya no.”

  “So if I need a few quid, I can come to you and Gandalf.”

  “You don’t have any customers. You punch people in the head.”

  “Fair point,” Mark grinned in the dull light. Simon smiled and turned up the radio. They sat in comfortable silence as they crossed the Britannia Bridge onto the island. The dual carriageway was quiet and twenty minutes later they were pulling onto the winding B roads that would take them to Trearddur Bay. A golf course went by, bungalows, old and new builds; a huge nursing home and then a steep hill down onto the bay itself. The satnav took them by the crescent shaped beach; a white hotel to their right was illuminated by spotlights. The tips of the waves glowed white in the darkness, reflecting the light for a few moments before they vanished. Breakers crashed onto the dark rocks across the bay, climbing up into the air and then disappearing. As they turned a long sweeping bend they saw a huge stone-built house on the left, perched on a rocky outcrop; it looked like it belonged in a ghost story. The sign at the bottom of the driveway said, Craig y Mor.

  “That looks like it should be in Scooby Doo,” Mark said. “Don’t tell me that is where we are going, mum will have a heart attack.”

  “I wonder who lives there,” Simon asked, bending to see it.

  “Herman Munster.”

  “Jacob said it was a cottage not a mansion,” Simon smiled “His place is another mile down here on the right.”

  “Good,” Mark yawned. “I’m knackered.” The coast road was a series of s-bends that hugged the rocky coves and tiny beaches that were the signature of that part of the island.

  “This is it,” Simon said indicating and steering the BMW across the road onto a gravel driveway. Thick hedges interspersed with tall conifers surrounded the property. Untrimmed for years their drooping branches formed a spiky canopy over the pavement. A For Sale sign was fixed to a stone gatepost; the gates wedged open with logs. The headlights illuminated an old garage with a door that didn’t look wide enough to fit a modern saloon inside and a sloping roof that was made from asbestos panels; the type so toxic when broken that no council dumps would touch them. The walls and roof were covered in ivy a yard thick at its highest. An old grass roller stood rotting next to it. The sculptured wrought iron handle was rusted, brambles twisted through the pattern. As the headlights illuminated the dwelling itself, Simon whistled. “Now that is what you think of when you hear the word cottage.”

  “It isn’t what Uncle John thinks of when he hears the word cottage.”

  “Mum says that was all a misunderstanding.”

  “That’s not what the judge thought. Anyway, I can see what you mean.” The walls were built from dry stone, rendered and painted white. The low roof was Welsh slate; a leaded window fitted either side of a studded wooden front door. Window boxes were planted with winter pansies and coloured cabbages. “At least it’s all one floor,” Mark said yawning again. “I don’t fancy pushing mum and dad up the stairs to bed.

  “We’re old but we’re not infirmed yet you know,” Robert Evans said; his voice groggy with sleep. “And we’re not deaf either.” Simon and Mark grinned at each other and opened the doors to climb out. “We’re here, Barbara,” Robert said shaking her shoulder gently. She roused slowly and yawned. “We’re here, love. It looks like a lovely place.”

  “Where are we?” she yawned.

  “Wales. You’ve slept most of the way.”

  “I was just resting my eyes.”

  “Of course you were.”

  “Have they heard from Bryn?” she asked. The back doors opened and their sons helped them out. “Have you heard from Bryn?” she repeated to Simon.

  “Not yet, mum,” he said holding her by her elbow. “Once we’re in and settled, I’ll call Jacob.”

  They walked to the front door, their feet crunching on the gravel. Simon unlocked the door and it creaked open. Mark went inside, put on the lights and then went into the kitchen and found the airing cupboard and switched on the central heating. The ceilings were low with oak beams supporting them, the doorframes were arched, the doors studded. A wood burning stove stood in a wide open fireplace, and an antique animal trap hung above the oak mantelpiece. A pastel patterned three piece suite furnished the living room and a narrow corridor ran off the kitchen to the bedrooms and bathroom beyond. Simon went to check the bedrooms while Robert began to explore a Welsh dresser for alcohol. Mark came in from the kitchen with a bundle of quilts and pillows.

  “Give them to me,” Barbara said. “I’ll go and sort the beds out.” Mark raised his eyebrows, surprised that she hadn’t just plonked down in an armchair and waited for his dad to fill up her glass.

  “There are some more blankets if you need them.”

  “Grab them, son,” she said heading down the corridor. “The place has been stood empty for a while. It will be cold until the heating has been on a few hours. These old places are always the same. It’s as if the walls suck the heat out of the air as it warms up.”

  “There is a bottle of whisky and half a bottle of port here, Barbara,” Robert said happily. “It will help us to sleep.”

  “You can have one, Bob and no more. If anything happens to Bryn, I want to be able to get up and out with no messing about,” she gave him a stern look. Mark came back with an armful of blankets and Simon came back from checking the bedrooms. They grinned at the lo
ok of disappointment on their father’s face. “Don’t sulk, Robert Evans. It doesn’t suit you. Right then, where are we sleeping?”

  “You and dad take the first bedroom on your left. It’s the closest to the toilet. Mark and I will take the bedrooms at the back. The beds are made up but it is cold. Throw those quilts on as well and we’ll be fine.”

  “Can you phone your friend Jacob and see how Bryn is please?”

  “Okay, mum,” Simon said checking his watch. “You sort the beds out and I’ll call him.” He nodded to Mark and they walked into the kitchen. Simon leaned close, his voice low and concerned. “Listen, I want you to walk around the house outside, check for any weak spots.” He handed Mark the car keys. “Close the gates and move the car to this side of the house so that it can’t be seen from the road.”

  “Okay,” Mark said, enthusiastically. He headed for the back door, which was locked and bolted from the inside. Simon took out his mobile to call Jacob when another thought came to him, “Mark.”

  “What?”

  “Pull the ‘For Sale’ sign down too.”

  “Why? Are you thinking of buying the place?” Mark smiled.

  “I don’t want anything to stand out, that’s all.”

  “Tell mum not to hang any of her big knickers on the line. That would be a big giveaway.”

  “Just go, will you,” Simon smiled and shook his head. He knew it was all bravado with Mark. Yes, he was a very talented fighter but he was also a very young man way out of his depth emotionally. He was stunned by what had happened to Bryn. Simon knew that they were very close and Mark would be struggling internally. They all were to some degree. He dialled Jacob and held his breath as the phone rang, hoping for the best. He was about to give up when it answered.

  “Simon,” Jacob said, his voice sounding tired. “Are you at the cottage?”

  “Yes, thanks to you. God knows where we would be if you hadn’t helped. We can’t thank you enough.”