Splintered Ice

by Stuart G. Yates

  “Jed? Where the hell have you been?” Matthew's voice sounded as brisk and as uncompromising as ever.

  “Asleep.”

  “Asleep? Okay, listen, we need to talk. Brian Randall has come into the station and made a full confession. Splash some water over your face and switch the kettle on. I'm coming round.”

  The line went dead and Jed let out a long sigh, falling down on the little stool his dad had made for those longer telephone conversations which never happened. He glanced at his watch and swore. One-thirty, give or take a minute or two. He must have been asleep for around four hours. No studying done and now Matthew coming around to harass him some more. He groaned, panic welling up inside him. He had to do well on Monday, there was no argument about that. One day of study left. One day. Furiously rubbing his face with both hands, he went into the kitchen and heaped two spoonsful of coffee into mugs. By the time the kettle boiled he heard the throaty rev of the Mini-Cooper pulling up outside and he went to the door and opened it.

  Matthew strode in, not even giving him the courtesy of a good morning nod of the head. Sighing, Jed gently closed the door and followed his brother into the kitchen. Matthew was already heaping sugar into his coffee. He sat down with a sigh. Jed remained standing, folded his arms across his chest and stared, waiting.

  Smacking his lips loudly, Matthew leaned back and surveyed Jed with the look that Phillips, the Headteacher from school, often gave him. Distaste.

  “Randall is a friend of yours?” Matthew suddenly said.

  Jed sniggered. “A friend – you must be joking. First time I met him was at Risley.”

  “I know. We've been through that. It was the hope that you'd pal-up, given that you're neighbours.”

  “I barely knew him before then. I'd never spoken to him. He's older than me, he went to another school.”

  “Yeah. Wallasey Grammar. We know all about him, Jed. When we put you in there, we hoped that you would make a connection, and you did. What we didn't know was how far that connection would go.”

  “I…I don't understand.”

  It was now Matthew's turn to fold his arms, the leather sleeves of his coat creaking. “Kepowski. We had no idea that Brian and he were…related, shall we say. Sure, both of them were in the drug business so we assumed they must have had dealings, but we never suspected Brian was on his payroll. Not until earlier, when Randall ran into Manor Road police station demanding protection. After we'd calmed him down, he told us quite a few things we didn't know. What's the term they use on those old films, something about canaries? He sang like one, the whole lot. Tell me about Scotland.”

  Swallowing hard, Jed sat down, pressing his palms together as if in prayer. Perhaps he should pray, get some divine intervention. “Jon wanted me to go with him, me and Janet. Even now, I don't really know why. After we visited Culloden, and he disappeared. I had to make my own way back.”

  “On the train? Where did you get all the money?”

  “No, not on a train. I drove.”

  “You drove? But you can't drive.”

  “That's what I thought, but apparently I can. Not that I've tried since I got back. I drove Janet's Viva, brought it all the way home.”

  “Viva? Where is it now?”

  “In the back entry. I parked it up on the waste ground in front of the old disused garages there. You want to dust it for prints?”

  Matthew scowled. “Just tell me about Scotland.”

  “I told you. That's it, the whole lot.”

  “So, you didn't go anywhere, you didn't do anything. Did you meet anyone?”

  The old lady, the one at the visitors' centre. She'd helped him, done something to him…had she given him an antidote for whatever drugs Kepowski had pumped into him? He'd fallen sick, collapsing in the telephone box. Everything came back to him, a great rush of images. “No. I didn't meet anyone.”

  “Him, Jed. Kepowski. Did he meet up with anyone?”

  “No, but like I said, he disappeared, so I don't know what he got up to, who he met, where he went. Nothing.”

  Pushing back his chair, Matthew stood up and turned to the sink, washing out his coffee cup, then slammed it face down on the drainer. “There's something not right with all this.” He turned around, his face hard, appearing to struggle inside, chewing his bottom lip, thinking. “Brian told us about a house. A large manor house or castle, up in the Highlands, not far from Culloden. Apparently it's where Kepowski lives, or holds court as Brian explained it. Not that I know what that means. He said he'd only visited there twice so he couldn't remember anything about it. But he thinks that's where gather the drugs before they are distributed. It sits not far from a river, this castle-thing, and they get the drugs from across the North Sea, from Holland. Big business, apparently. But there's something else, something that Brian said that made me think that this isn't just about drugs. They're a big part of what Kepowski is into, but there is something more.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said, 'Jon promised me immortality, instead all I got was a warning that he'd kill me.' What does that mean, do you think?”

  Jed shrugged. “Who knows? The whole thing is a mystery if you ask me. But…” he pulled out the piece of paper that Janet had given him. He handed it over. “I'm not sure, but I think if you check that out, you'll find that it's the address of a castle-cum-manor house in Scotland.”

  “Where did you get this?”

  “A friend.” Jed held up his hand to cut off any of Matthew's demands for more information. “I'm not telling who, but it wasn't Brian.”

  Matthew read the address for a second time. “I'll check this out. If it's the place, then we'll be going to Scotland, Jed. You and me.”

  “Er…not until after Monday I won't be. It's my first exam.”

  “Sod that, you'll do as you're bloody-well told.”

  “No I won't, Matthew! I have to take that examination on Monday, at two o'clock. My next one is on Thursday. So, we will have two and a half days. That's the deal.”

  Matthew ran his tongue along his top lip a few times as he considered Jed's ultimatum. “Let's hope he has the good grace to still be at home when we call.”

  Having 'good grace' was something Jon Kepowski would never have much of, mused Jed.

  32

  The sun streamed through his bedroom window when at last he rolled out of bed. Sunday, almost noon. Cursing loudly, he ran into the bathroom to swill his face and brush his teeth. Noon – how could he let himself sleep for so long? He took the stairs at a run, switching on the kettle, slicing up some bread to put under the grill. Already he had the textbook open. It was going to be a very long and a very boring day.

  He was correct in his assumptions. He tried his very best but the words from the textbook refused to sink into his brain. His old notes from school were just as useless and the more he tried to concentrate, the more anxious he became. There was too much. Too much to take in. All of those months, years of schoolwork. History. European political history. The first of two exams, the second on Thursday. That was the British part. He was confident about the British part, had all of that nonsense about Gladstone and Disraeli neatly boxed-off into the relevant compartments of his memory. But this European stuff, it was just too complicated. Bismarck. That was the stumbling point. Real Politick. How was he supposed to remember all of that?

  By seven o'clock he could take no more. None of it was staying in his head. He'd spent the day skimming over sections, punctuating his reading with snacks. Toast and marmalade, egg and cress, cheese and pickle. Cups of tea, drinking so much he felt like a water-balloon. It wasn't good for him, all of that sugar. All of that stress. How was he supposed to make it through these. A-levels? Then university. That was his hope. Keele. He'd always fancied Keele. He sat back on the sofa, his mouth tasting awful, teeth covered in fur. Closing his eyes, sighing loudly, he realised everything was a hopeless dream. Hopeless.

  He sat up with a start, heart pounding, stress levels reachin
g their limits. Checking his watch, he almost cried out. It was gone eleven. Eleven o'clock! He should be in bed, asleep. Eight hours, give himself some sort of chance, allow his body to recover, recharge. He leaned forward, put his face in his hands. Eleven o'clock.

  A sudden thought gripped him and he snapped his head up to check the clock above the fire-place. Where was his mum? She said she'd be there by nine. That was the arrangement. She hadn't rung, the telephone would have woken him. As if to reassure himself, he went over and picked up the receiver. The dialling tone purred and he settled it back down on the cradle. No disconnection. She hadn't rung. Wandering into the kitchen, he stared at the bombshell that was the table. He should clean it all up, at least stack the dirty plates by the sink. How many cups had he used, and all those breadcrumbs…He groaned and went upstairs, telling himself it would all have to wait until the morning.

  It was well after four o'clock before he managed to get to sleep. And still his mother had not come home.

  Jed spent the following morning preparing himself, making sure his shirt was ironed and his shoes polished. Whatever the outcome of this exam, at least he would look smart. When he sat down and went through his notes, they actually did make a kind of sense.

  Keeping himself off the tea, by one o'clock he was sufficiently calm to take the slow walk towards school. He always went the same route, had done since he'd started there some four years previously. Usually he would talk to himself, trying to keep himself cheerful, dreading another day. But this time, he strolled along in silence, running through dates in his head, keeping himself focused, not allowing thoughts of Mum, Matthew, Scotland to interfere. And Dad. He should have found the time to visit him, tell him that mum had gone back to David for a short while. He promised himself he would go and see him later, after the exam and before Matthew came calling. It was only right.

  It was warm and when he wandered into the hall, he took off his blazer and draped it over the back of his chair. Some of his class-mates gave him a nod. Nobody spoke, not even Mr Butler who was invigilating, already doling out the papers as Jed sat down.

  He had his pens, and a pencil just in case they all failed. With the exam paper in front of him he took in a long breath, closed his eyes, waiting patiently for Butler to announce that they could begin.

  Two and a half hours later, Jed walked out into the late afternoon sunshine and stood, quietly gathering his thoughts. The questions were what he had expected and he had little trouble answering all four of them. In truth, the facts poured out of him and now his hand ached with so much writing, not stopping, unaware of time until Butler announced, 'You have twenty minutes left.' Then it was suddenly over and now he was free, at least for a few days. The sun felt good as he walked home, blazer draped over his shoulder, and he hummed a few tunes to himself, feeling good.

  The voice on the other end of the telephone was not one he recognised. “Is that Jed? Yes, well of course, it must be. I'm sorry, but could I speak to your mum, Jed? It's David.”

  Jed's mouth fell open, dry, tongue thick, the words unable to form properly. Panic gripped him. David. David, the man who had destroyed his family, the man who had caused his father to become a sobbing wreck, broken, belittled. Without a word, Jed very carefully put the receiver down. He half expected it to ring again, but it didn't.

  For perhaps five minutes he stood and stared in silence, attempting to piece together his mangled thoughts. So, mum was on her way, so why had he rung, to check she'd arrived? And why hadn't he dropped her off? At work maybe? But, she should have arrived last night, and no phone call to explain anything.

  Stomping into the back garden, Jed decided to drive over to the hospital and visit his dad. If the police stopped and arrested him, he didn't care. He could do with a few nights in the cells, save him from having to go up to Scotland with Matthew.

  Except, the car wasn't there.

  He stared into the space where he had parked it, a dark oil stain on the ground the only clue that it had ever existed.

  Stolen? Could he have left it unlocked? It was more than probable – it was very likely. Tired, emotionally drained, consumed with fears over his exam, he hadn't been thinking straight.

  Angry, he returned to the house and stood in the kitchen, unsure as to what to do next. He knew he should go and visit dad, but he was also aware Matthew would be calling soon. And then there was Mum. If she travelled by bus, she could arrive at any time, so he left a note, explaining everything. His meeting with Matthew, that David had phoned, that he hadn't seen dad but that the exam had gone well. She wasn't to worry, he would phone her later. He folded the note neatly and laid it against the kettle on the table. The table. It still looked like a bombsite. He should make an effort, do something to make it seem a little more presentable. But then the doorbell saved him.

  It was Matthew. Without a word, Jed pushed past him, fell into the passenger seat and waited. Matthew, as stoic as his brother, started up the engine. “Are you sure you're ready for this?”

  Jed stared straight ahead. “I'm ready for anything,” he said quietly.

  Matthew grunted, put the Mini-Cooper into gear, and set off up the road.

  They stopped at a little bread and breakfast just across the border. The woman who greeted them was small and grey-haired, a little suspicious of them both until Matthew showed her his warrant card. Then it was all smiles and cheery conversation. They booked one of the two, twin-bedded rooms available and whilst Matthew took a shower, Jed went over things in his head. He gave up after about two minutes. It had been a cerebral day up to that point and thinking was beyond him for the time being. He needed to shower and go to sleep. The following morning would hopefully give him a much clearer angle on what he should do next.

  Janet came to him in his dreams.

  She was bloody, her dress torn and dirty, as if someone had flung her to the ground and wrestled with her in the mud. Flaxen hair was streaked with dirt, her teeth broken, eyes black coals. From something out a Nineteen Thirties' horror, she stumbled towards him, arms outstretched. 'Come to me, my love,' she moaned, 'come to me…'

  He sat up with a start, pawing at his face, wiping away the images of the girl he thought he could make something of a future with. The light went on and Matthew peered at him from the other bed, face drawn, full of concern. “What is it, did you hear something?”

  Jed shook his head and lay back. He looked across to his brother, who snuggled beneath the covers and put something under his pillow. Stretching out his hand, he switched off the light.

  He had a gun.

  The rain beat down in sheets. This was only Jed's second time in Scotland, and both times the heavens had opened. As they sat down at the breakfast table, spooning down great lumps of porridge, he thought about the night before. Not just the dream. The gun. What was Matthew planning to do? And, more to the point, what could he do, one man? Was that going to be enough for an arrest?

  “Why have you got a gun?”

  Matthew paused in the act of swallowing some porridge, quickly glancing around the empty breakfast room. “Keep your voice down.”

  “Tell me – why?”

  “Why do you think?”

  “British policemen don't carry guns. At least, I didn't think they did.”

  “Well, now you know differently. Finish your breakfast, we need to get going.”

  “You're expecting trouble.” Matthew frowned. “Is that why you have the gun? You think Jon will resist?”

  “Resist?”

  “Arrest, Matthew. That's what you're going to do, isn't it? Arrest him?”

  Matthew drained his coffee. “Like I said, finish your breakfast.” He wiped his mouth with a napkin and got up. Jed eyed him nervously. He suddenly felt very cold and very, very afraid.

  * * *

  Sitting in the foyer of the hospital, waiting for the taxi to arrive, Larry Meres felt abandoned. She'd come for about five minutes, to rant and rave about the photographs. God, that was embarrassing; eve
ryone staring, exchanging glances. He felt like squirming down under the bed-clothes, anything to escape those looks! Then she'd gone, red-faced, crying. As if he were the guilty one! Hadn't she left him? And Jed. Jed hadn't been to see him, not since that first time. Nothing since.

  A man loomed over him, large, angry looking. “Are you the one who called a taxi?”

  Grunting, Larry followed the man out into the daylight. It was a grey day, threatening rain. The taxi-driver, vexed because he had been forced to get out from behind the wheel of his car, muttered under his breath as Larry struggled into the back seat. The hospital had provided him with a single crutch to aid him with his walking. 'No strain, Mr Meres,' the doctor had said. 'You have to take it easy for a week at least. I've signed you off for a fortnight, but really, at your age, you shouldn't be climbing or stretching for at least a month.' And now, here he was, straining and climbing to get into the car without any help from a taxi-driver who resented having a fare-paying customer! What a bloody life…

  It was the same at the other end. Larry paid the fare and eased himself out onto the pavement. Without giving Larry the consideration of a glance, he roared off up the road. Larry, let it go. He should have told him where to stick his bloody taxi, but with a crutch and a burning pain across the lower part of his abdomen, what could he do? He hobbled up to the door and stepped inside.

  He saw the note, propped up against the kettle. 'Mum', it said. Larry opened it anyway, read it through and sank down onto a chair. So, Jed had found the time to tell his mother he was going back up to Scotland…that was nice of him. Not a single word for his dad though. Not even a 'tell dad that I hope he's okay'. Disgusted, Larry threw the note away and surveyed the table-top. The only thing Jed had time for was to make a mess.