Dividing Line Origins (Short story anthology - Dividing Line Series)

by Heather Atkinson

  “You have to take over Frank, we’re fucking dead if you don’t,” said Terry, his younger brother.

  Frank ran a hand through his mane of shaggy sandy-coloured hair then adjusted the cuffs on his expensive tailored suit and nodded. “Course I’m going to take over. Who else is there?”

  “Brandon Jones. That prick’s already bragging about how he’s Michael’s number two. Everyone knows it’s bullshit and he’s talking as though Michael’s already snuffed it. He needs sorting now.”

  “And he’s going to get sorted. There’s no way I’m letting that jug-eared tosser take over anything. Where is he?”

  Terry smiled with malicious pleasure, which worried Frank. Eighteen years old and already he was a fully-fledged psychopath, his trademark a knife shoved up the rectum, although admittedly he was one of their firm’s most effective enforcers.

  “The Orchid Lounge. Been there for an hour getting pissed. I’m having him watched.”

  “Good lad,” said Frank, patting him on the shoulder. “I’ll say goodbye to Michael then we’ll head over there.”

  “We have to go now Frank. What if he leaves?”

  “I’m saying goodbye,” he hissed. “Michael could peg it any minute. He put us where we are today and he deserves that respect. You will wait here.”

  Frank strode off down the corridor, shaking his head, infuriated. His brother could be so selfish and disrespectful at times. He wouldn’t dare when Frank was the most powerful man in the north of England, he’d soon learn his fucking place then.

  Michael was in a private room and Frank had to steel himself before entering. It wasn’t a pretty sight, in fact it was bloody harrowing. Michael had wasted away to nothing. He lay on the bed, struggling to breathe, emaciated and a shadow of what he was, doped up on a huge cocktail of painkillers, but that was what you got when you smoked thirty fags a day since the age of twelve. Lily, Michael’s wife, sat by his bedside, tears rolling down her face and helplessness in her eyes.

  “Alright Lil?” said Frank quietly, patting her on the shoulder.

  “I don’t know what to do Frank,” she croaked. “How will I cope without him?”

  “I wish I had an answer for you Lil but I don’t. I’m sorry.” He liked Lily Granger, she was a real lady. She dressed tastefully and always wore expensive jewellery and make-up. Her light brown hair was neat and well cut, dancing about her shoulders. Despite her prim appearance she had one hell of a mouth on her but Michael doted on her and Frank hoped that one day he’d have a long happy marriage like they’d enjoyed. Lily wouldn’t be out shagging the first pair of trousers that came her way after Michael had died, she would mourn him for the rest of her life.

  He kissed the top of her head then went to stand by Michael’s bedside. He’d no idea if he could even hear him but he had to try.

  “Michael,” he said as gently as he could in his gruff voice. “I’ve got to go mate, Brandon Jones needs sorting.”

  Michael’s eyes flickered open and blinked up at him, fogged with pain and drugs. He grasped Frank’s hand. “You,” he wheezed into the oxygen mask covering his face. “You…business…take over…Brandon…no…”

  “It’s okay Michael, I get it and don’t worry, your businesses will be safe in my hands.”

  For a second Michael went so still Frank thought that was it, he was gone. Then his eyes slid shut again and he started to shift uncomfortably on the bed.

  “His pain medication’s wearing off already,” said Lily, getting up to call for a nurse.

  Frank had had enough, he couldn’t stand seeing such a great man brought so low, to be tormented so horribly by his own body. He hoped that when his own time came it would be quick and painless, not this slow degeneration, this betrayal by your own body as it attacked itself.

  “Bye Michael,” he whispered sadly. He’d been very fond of this man and he was going to miss him.

  Lily grabbed Frank’s arm before he could leave, outrage on her tear-stained face. “You deal with that little wanker Brandon Jones and you deal with him good and by good I mean permanently. You got me?”

  “Yes Lily, I’ve got you,” he said reassuringly before ambling out, quietly closing the door behind him, listening to Lily disintegrate into sobs. He couldn’t do anything to help Michael but he could do this for both him and Lily.

  The Orchid Lounge was a decent place. Orchids were everywhere - fake ones of course because real orchids wilted immediately in the heat. The drinks were reasonably priced, the cabaret talented and the clientele respectable, which was why Brandon Jones looked so out of place. Short and squat with a broken nose and sticky out ears, he was a bad parody of a gangster. He wore the most appalling black and white chequered suit that made him look like a chessboard.

  “Let me do the talking,” Frank told Terry as they wended their way towards him. “This calls for subtlety, I don’t want you wading in there and shouting your mouth off. Have you got it?”

  “Yes Frank,” Terry sighed. “But I’m in when you do him.”

  “Fair enough.”

  When he saw them approach Brandon put his pint of lager down on the bar and held his arms out to greet him magnanimously. “Frank, how is the old man?”

  “Michael’s two years older than you,” Frank told him flatly. He’d never been able to stand Brandon, he was a prick, a badly dressed prick at that. “And he’s not good, not good at all.”

  “He can’t last much longer.”

  “You’re looking pretty pleased about it.”

  “Course I’m not pleased, he’s been like a brother to me, but it will mean things are going to change around here.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean boy.”

  Frank was just twenty eight years old while Brandon was twice his age and he hated it when he made references to his youth because Frank knew himself to be more intelligent, quicker and stronger than him. Brandon had realised long ago that this wound him up, so he did it even more. “Obviously fucking not,” Frank said aggressively.

  Brandon’s eyes narrowed. “There’s a new pecking order around here and you’d better get on board. If not…” He trailed off and took a swig of lager.

  “You got an end for that sentence?” said Frank, feeling his temper get up.

  Brandon rolled his eyes. “I mean you really don’t want to get on my bad side.”

  “Why not?”

  “Jesus Frank, do you need me to spell it out for you?”

  “No but you obviously do. You think you’re going to step into Michael’s shoes but he doesn’t want you running his show, he wants me.”

  “Told you that did he?” he smirked.

  “Yes he fucking did, just before I left the hospital. Lily was a witness.”

  “Lily, what’s she to do with anything? She’s just a woman.”

  “Just a woman? She’d kick your arse.”

  “If Michael’s out she’s out too. She henpecked the poor bastard his whole life and that was his problem but she’s not doing the same to me. Michael’s gone, which means she’s out. She gets a say in fuck all.”

  “Michael isn’t gone yet,” snarled Frank, thrusting his face into his. He was taller, broader and more handy with his fists than Brandon, but Brandon also had four of his cronies with him while Frank only had his brother. The club was a nice place, the management didn’t like brawls. Now was not the time. “I’m bored of this pissing contest,” said Frank. “While Michael’s still alive we keep the peace but as soon as he’s dead I’m coming for you.”

  Throwing Brandon a hard look as a parting shot, Frank made his way out of the club, a disappointed Terry following.

  “You let him off too easy there Frank. What was that about?” he exclaimed once they were outside on the street.

  “What do you want me to do Terry? Top him in the middle of a club in front of dozens of people? Don’t be so fucking stupid. Anyway, he’s dumb enough to believe I won’t touch him until Michael’s dead.”


  Terry’s grin returned. “But you’re going to?”

  “Course I am. I’m not going to wait for him to come for me but the time’s not right yet. Come on, let’s get something to eat, I’m starving.”

  As he turned to walk away he spied a flash of blond hair, there was a squeal and he tripped up, only just managing to right himself by falling back against the wall.

  “Oh Christ, sorry love. I didn’t see you there,” he said.

  “You bloody stupid big berk. You’ve broken my foot,” cried the little blond woman sat on the pavement cradling her right foot. “I’m know I’m small but I’m not invisible. Why don’t you watch where you’re going?”

  “I’m sorry. Let me take you to hospital and get it checked out.”

  When he attempted to help her up she batted his hands away. “Get off me, I don’t know who you are. I said don’t touch me,” she yelled, snatching her hand out of his grip. When her eyes locked with his her anger deflated.

  Frank was captured by a pair of incredible blue eyes set in a pretty face framed by a blond bob.

  “My name’s Frank,” he smiled. “What’s yours?”

  “Martina,” she breathed, spellbound by this big handsome man who’d come out of nowhere.

  “There you go, we know each other now. Do you work in there?” he said, gesturing to the doorway of The Orchid Lounge, taking in her white blouse and black skirt, the standard uniform.

  “I was until some clumsy idiot stood on my foot,” she said good-humouredly.

  “Why don’t you let me take you to hospital to get it checked out?”

  “I need to work. I’ve just come back off being sick, I can’t miss another shift. They’ll sack me.”

  “I’m well in with the owner and I’ll have a word. I promise you won’t lose your job.”

  Those amazing blue eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t be bullshitting me, would you Frank?”

  “Never.” He loved her direct way of speaking, the strength of her personality. She reminded him of Lily. Just his type of woman.

  She smiled in response to his charming grin. “I believe you, thousands wouldn’t. Come on then, you look strong, you might just have a chance at getting me up off this pavement before my arse goes numb with cold.”

  He chuckled to himself as he lifted her up, her weight nothing to him. She was small and dainty all over except for a large and impressive cleavage that he struggled not to look down.

  “How’s the foot?” he said as she gingerly put weight on it, praying he hadn’t hurt her, he couldn’t bear the thought of hurting her.

  Martina grimaced as she put all of her weight on it then relaxed. “It’s alright, no panic. I think I can work tonight.”

  “You’re not working, you’re coming out to eat with me.”

  “But I have to work, I can’t get sacked.”

  “I already told you, the owner’s a mate of mine. You won’t get sacked, promise. I’ll take you anywhere you want?”

  “Anywhere?” she smiled.

  Christ he loved her smile, it hit something inside him. “Anywhere.”

  “Nowhere fancy, I hate those posh places with those creepy, stuck-up waiters.”

  “I know a perfect little place. You like Italian?”

  “Love it.” She looked down at her white blouse. “Except I always spill sauce on myself.”

  “Me too,” he said, holding his arm out to her.

  She accepted it and they started to walk off down the street together, gazing at each other, Martina limping slightly.

  “Oy Casanova, what about me?” called Terry.

  “Keep an eye out,” was all Frank called back, not taking his eyes off Martina.

  Terry sighed and crossed the road so he could see who came out of The Orchid Lounge. He watched his brother with the blond tart until they’d disappeared round a corner and sighed. While his brother was enjoying himself he was stuck here, watching an arsehole. But that was Frank’s prerogative. He was going to be the new big man around here. Terry smiled. One day it would be his turn.

  Frank had such a wonderful evening with Martina that he managed to forget all about Michael Granger and Brandon Jones. Everything about her was lovely - the way she looked, the way she smelt, the way she moved. She was also clever, good company and funny. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed so hard. They both sported spaghetti sauce stains down the fronts of their shirts, Martina’s over her left boob, drawing Frank’s eyes that way even more.

  “This is me,” said Martina, coming to a halt outside a red brick terraced house.

  “Do you live with your parents?” he said.

  “No. I moved out about six months ago. I rent this on my own.”

  They stood in silence, both aware of the empty house beside them, thinking of what it would be like to be completely alone together. Frank desperately wanted her to invite him in, he could see the indecision in her eyes as she looked from him to the house then back to him again. They both could feel it, the incredible chemistry between them. They’d got on like they’d known each other all their lives and Frank didn’t think he could bear to be parted from her.

  He planted a kiss on her lips, suddenly and without warning and she jumped.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled, feeling stupid.

  “Don’t be so bloody daft,” she said, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him back.

  Frank held her to him, revelling in the kiss. She tasted of the pink candy floss lip gloss he’d seen her applying, she smelt of jasmine and she felt just right in his arms. She was perfect.

  The kiss ended and he smiled down at her. She smiled back at him as he ran his fingers through her hair.

  “Ow,” she cried, hopping about.

  “Oh Christ, I did it again. I’m sorry love, I can’t believe it.”

  “What size are your feet anyway you clumsy bugger?”

  “Thirteen.”

  She stopped hopping. He’d caught her attention. “You have size thirteen feet?”

  “Yeah. I have to have my shoes specially made,” he replied awkwardly, feeling like an idiot.

  Martina looked back to the house longingly, or more precisely, up at her bedroom window. Then she shook her head. “No, not on a first date. Unfortunately,” she muttered to herself.

  “Are you alright? Did I hurt you?”

  “No, fine.”

  “Can I see you again?”

  She gave him that heart-stopping smile. “Go on, just as long as you promise not to stand on my feet again, I don’t think they can take much more.”

  “I won’t, I promise. Bloody hell girl, I like you.”

  “Like you too.” She went up onto her tiptoes to give him a peck on the lips. “Call me.”

  “You bet I will,” he said as he watched her unlock her front door. He waited until she’d gone inside, treating him to another smile before she closed the door.

  Frank walked away with his hands in his pockets, whistling happily to himself. As he got to the end of the street and turned the corner the crushing weight of his situation with Michael and Brandon returned and his shoulders slumped with it. He longed to be back with Martina, her cheery, beautiful presence banishing the horror of his life. He’d never killed before and, although he’d been quite blasé about it to Terry, the prospect made him nervous. Murder was messy, a last resort. He was certain he had it in him to do it but it would change his life forever. It was tempting to tell Brandon he could have the lot, he just wanted a quiet life, one free of the constant worry of being arrested or killed. He could have a nice life with Martina, raise a couple of kids. They’d only just met but he knew she was the one. But what would he do for cash? Villainy was all he knew. He couldn’t provide for them the legitimate way, he didn’t know how. Neither could he break his promise to a dying man, a man who had been so good to him, handed him everything on a plate. Martina didn’t know what he did for a living, he’d been purposefully vague about what business he was in but he’d splashed the cash o
n their date and he’d seen her sharp, intelligent but very pretty eyes watching him closely, attempting to puzzle out where he’d got it from, he’d already told her his family came from a crappy council estate so he couldn’t claim he was from a rich family. He’d tell her on their next date. If she couldn’t deal with what he was and wanted out then it would be better if he knew now, before he got even more attached.

  Reluctantly Frank forced Martina to the back of his mind. He needed to think about how he was going to take Brandon out. He couldn’t enjoy a future with her if he was dead.

  “Where the fuck have you been?” demanded Terry when Frank walked through the door.

  “Out and what are you doing here? This is my flat.”

  “What am I doing here?” he exclaimed. “I’ve only been following Brandon about like a tosser while you were having a good time with some tart.”

  “Do not call Martina that,” he growled.

  “Why not? Why’s she so special?”

  “She just is, okay?”

  “Just shag her and dump her like you always do with birds then you can get on with your life. We’ve got more important things to think about than cheap tramps.”

  Terry received a backhanded slap to the face that knocked him sideways. He stared up at his brother, a hand to his cheek, pain thumping in his skull.

  “You ever talk about her like that again I’ll throw you through the fucking window you arrogant little shit. Martina means a lot to me.”

  “You’ve only had one date.”

  “I know everything I need to know. She’s going to be around for a long time and if I ever hear you talking about her like that again I’ll fucking bury you.”

  This was when Terry respected his brother most, when he was angry and raging and completely terrifying. “Alright Frank, sorry. I didn’t realise you felt like that.”

  “Well I fucking do. Now, why are you in my flat? I’m warning you, this had better be good.”

  “I told you, I was following Brandon the Bollockhead about.”

  “And?”

  “He came out of The Orchid Lounge at about nine, threw up in the gutter, went for a curry with his mates then got a taxi home. Two of his mates went with him, he’s probably scared to be on his own after you threatened him.”