Brothers in Blood

by David Stuart Davies

  Satisfied with his reconnaissance, Laurence drove back to town calling at a pub on the outskirts for a pint and time to ponder. As he sat in the gloomy snug, he sifted through the elements of his plan, tying them in with the evidence he had gleaned from his excursion and from Alex’s account of that terrible evening. One thing was clear. It was not going to be easy. Taking on one man had always been fairly straight forward – but in this case there were going to be three and these fellows knew how to handle themselves. The only real advantage that Laurence and Co. would have was the element of surprise. That needed to be great. Greater than even his comrades in arms realised. A trip to Leeds on the train was next. Apparently Matt worked in an estate agent’s office just off the Headrow – Alex had also done some homework.

  Tom Harris had suddenly developed an interest in a nice little semi in Headingley. He sauntered into the brightly lit show room and, while pretending to look at the array of properties on display, he surreptitiously cast a glance at the various employees sitting at their desks who appeared to be busily doing nothing in particular. What was really engaging their attention Laurence could not determine but they created an air of studied industry which prevented them from taking note of the silent customers scanning the range of properties on display. There were five worker ants in all: two young girls, blonde totty, if he’d ever seen any, easy on the eye, dim of brain; a matronly grey-haired lady who looked as though they’d built the office around her; and two men. One of these was a sleek, pale faced creature with cadaverous features who snatched eager gasps on a home-rolled cigarette as he scribbled away with his pen. The other was Matt Wilkinson. Matt the bastard. He was big but well honed with hair that looked like a slick Brillo pad. His face was broad and glistened with fake tan and moisturiser. What ever he was doing at his desk, he was doing it slowly and almost absent-mindedly. Briefly, he broke off to retrieve a mint from his waistcoat pocket. The procedure of popping it into his mouth was a performance, carried out with delicacy, style and flair. Briefly his eyes closed as he sucked on the mint and then he returned slowly to his task.

  What an amusing pillock, thought Laurence as he pulled one of the leaflets from the rack and walked over to Matt’s desk.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he barked in a broad Leeds accent, ‘is this semi freehold?’ He shook the leaflet in front of Matt’s face, so close that the man had to pull back. The frown of annoyance lasted for only a few seconds but Laurence took great delight in observing it. Soon the mask of professional caring was back in place, but that ill-guarded moment had revealed so much of the real Matt, the man behind the suntan sheen. Taking the leaflet from Laurence, with great deliberation he turned it over and ran his fingers down a column of print, stopping at the sentence: ‘This property is Freehold.’

  Laurence bent over and peered at it, catching a strong whiff of Matt’s cologne.

  ‘Oh, I see. I hadn’t noticed that. Silly me,’ he said, grinning inanely.

  Matt did not reply. He turned over the sheet and looked at the picture of the semi-detached house. ‘Are you interested in this property?’ he asked.

  ‘Possibly. Would you recommend it?’

  Matt’s eyes narrowed momentarily, deciding which approach to take. He gave a quick glance at Laurence before continuing. ‘It’s a nice little place but if you are interested in the area and can stretch your budget by five thou or so, I’d recommend ‘Rushholme’, it has a larger more secluded garden and the road is quieter. Let me show you.’

  Smooth bastard. Empty and soulless as a paper bag. That’s our friend Matt, thought Laurence as he journeyed back to Huddersfield on the train. He gazed unseeingly out of the window at the crowded hillsides near Dewsbury, dotted with new townhouses, cheek-by-jowl executive rabbit hutches with paper-thin walls and tiny gardens. He was glad he’d got some kind of measure of the man. Laurence could gauge that he was a cold calculating kind of beast. What he had experienced was the shell of the man, his professional persona, not the perverted bully. Strangely, there had been little evidence of homosexuality in his demeanour. Certainly, he was sleek and moisturised, but his beefy build and macho movements were deceptive.

  Laurence smiled. Yes, he would take great pleasure in giving the cruel bastard what for. The thought of this lightened his mood and he was still smiling as the train pulled into Huddersfield station.

  That night he visited the gay nightclub where Alex had first encountered Matt Wilkinson. He wanted to check it out for himself. For this occasion he wore a long blonde wig, a black T-shirt and very tight cord jeans. He fitted in beautifully with the clientele. Being a week night, the punters were thin on the ground and a sad lot they seemed: lonely singletons adrift in a macho world seeking solace in the sweaty gloom of a gay club. Indeed, Laurence hadn’t been in the place for more than fifteen minutes before he was being chatted up by a fat perspiring fellow with thinning sandy hair. This pleased him for it confirmed that his assumed persona was convincing, or convincing enough in the dim lighting of the club at least, although he had hoped to engage the attention of a more attractive fellow. He played along with his would be paramour for a while before gently giving him the brush off. After another twenty minutes, during which he carried a full survey of the premises, even running the gauntlet of visiting the toilets, he was satisfied that he’d seen enough. He high-tailed it back to his hotel and lay on the bed with a large glass of whisky.

  Well, he thought, as he swirled the drink around in the glass, I think I’m ready now.

  EIGHTEEN

  Matt Wilkinson returned for the third time to the bathroom mirror to appraise his appearance. He gave himself a false grin and adjusted a few strands of hair over his forehead. Satisfied with the result, he stood back from the mirror and turned sideways scrutinising his profile. The face was fine, the jaw line reasonably tight, but he was dismayed to observe that his shirt bulged rather unpleasantly at the front. He was getting a tummy. Blasted Mars bars. He would have to knock that habit on the head before he turned into a fat slob. Still, he looked all right. Quite the catch in fact, although, he mused, he wasn’t the one who was going to get caught. This thought brought a genuine smile to his lips.

  ‘Right guys, are we ready to rock and roll?’ he said as he breezed into the sitting room. His cohorts, Ronnie Fraser and Dave Johnson, who were lazing on the sofa sipping gin and tonics, nodded in unison. Whatever Matt said was OK with them. They were more than happy to acknowledge that he was the leader of their pack

  ‘As ever,’ said Dave before downing the dregs of his drink. ‘Come on darling,’ he added ruffling Ronnie’s blonde thatch, ‘rouse yourself.’

  Ronnie giggled. ‘Later, sweetie, later.’

  It was always the same in the Starlight on Saturday night: a heaving dimly illuminated sweatbox with sudden flashing coloured lights spraying the faces of the punters with rich rainbow hues. It was a kind of discothèque version of hell: bodies writhed, music boomed, hands groped and squeezed, eyes scrutinized and liaisons made.

  As usual Matt, Ronnie and Dave split up as soon as they entered, each seeking his own little adventure to begin with, a frisson of pleasure, an appetiser, before the main course later. While Ronnie and Dave skirted the dancing area, Matt made for the bar. He grabbed the last available stool and ordered a ginger ale from the slim youth who served there all on his own. Usually on these occasions he rejected alcohol, not wanting his sensibilities to be impaired in any way. Booze would help him relax later but for now he wanted everything to be pin sharp and real.

  As he turned on his stool to face the dance floor, some lanky goon with shoulder length blonde hair stumbled into him, knocking the glass from his hand.

  ‘Ooh, I am sorry,’ he said, throwing his hands up to his face like a camp version of Edward Munch’s The Scream.

  ‘Bloody idiot,’ growled Matt.

  ‘I am, aren’t I,’ said the blonde in a disarming fashion. ‘Let me buy you another. What was it?’

  For the first time Matt looked at the interlo
per. He was tall and slender with pointed features, and remarkably bright blue eyes. He had to admit that clumsy though he may be, this bloke was quite attractive. Could be that he’d hit upon the jackpot very early on this week.

  ‘Ginger ale,’ he said and managed a smile.

  The blonde raised an eyebrow. ‘How exotic. Can’t I press you to a short or something?’ The voice was camp, sibilant and pure Huddersfield.

  ‘Ginger ale is fine.’

  ‘Well, I suppose it is appropriate.’ He giggled. ‘I’m Barry by the way.’

  Matt nodded. ‘Matt.’

  And so it began.

  In another part of the club, Russell lurked, keeping an eye on Matt while trying hard not to catch anyone else’s eye. He wasn’t very comfortable in this environment. He knew he did not have the flamboyant skills to carry out any charade if he were to be approached by one of the prancing fellows who seemed to press in on him from all directions. It was all very surreal and unpleasant. The claustrophobic dark made him feel very vulnerable. For the first time ever he wished he was not involved. Not involved in this crazy game that had now grown personal and much more dangerous. It really was too close for comfort. But he was trapped. He was part of the team – the bonded brotherhood – and there was no getting out. The journey had been started and one must follow the road to the end.

  Russell glanced at his watch. God it was only nine o’clock. It was going to be a long night. He envied Alex waiting outside in the car.

  Russell felt a hand on his thigh and he brushed it off with a brisk motion.

  ‘Sorry I’m sure,’ said a voice in his ear.

  Without looking at the owner of the voice, Russell moved away to another part of the room. He wondered how many times he’d have to do that before the evening was over.

  Matt and his new blonde friend were dancing now and seemed to be getting on famously. Ronnie and Dave who had gravitated to the bar watched the pair’s gyrations on the floor with great pleasure.

  ‘He’s got a lively one there,’ said Ronnie. ‘Ooh, I do like a lively one.’

  ‘He reels them in, doesn’t he,’ observed Dave. ‘He’s just got the knack.’

  ‘Lucky for us, eh?’

  Grinning lewdly they clinked their glasses in a mock celebratory toast.

  Around ten thirty, Russell saw Laurence head for the toilets. He followed him. Luckily they were empty, allowing them time for a brief conversation.

  ‘How goes it?’

  ‘Thumbs up, I should say. I’m rather good bait. Keep an eye out for his mates: the blonde haired guy in the check shirt and the baldy in black. I reckon they’ll be leaving soon.’

  The door thumped open and two other fellows staggered in, noisy and tipsy and so the conversation was at brought to a halt.

  Matt eyed his new conquest as he made his way from the toilets, circumnavigating the dance floor and its throng of gyrating bodies to join him at a small table in a dimly lit alcove.

  ‘Are we having another drink or what?’ asked Barry as he resumed his seat, his hand stroking Matt’s.

  Matt pulled a face, ‘It’s a bit dull here tonight. And a bit restricting. How about coming back to my place?’

  ‘Your place?’ Barry seemed hesitant.

  Matt nodded. ‘I’ve got a cosy bijou pad in the country. Nice and quiet. No neighbours to hear the moans of ecstasy. Clean sheets and all mod cons. The lot.’ He grinned.

  ‘That’s some invitation.’

  ‘You’d better believe it. Well, are you on?’

  ‘I trust you make a mean breakfast.’

  ‘Just you wait.’

  Barry grinned and nodded. ‘OK then. Lead on, Macduff.’

  ‘I’ll just get some fags and then we’ll make tracks.’

  Matt wandered to the bar and seemed to indulge in a brief conversation with two men there before making his purchase. They moved away from the counter before he’d paid for his cigarettes. Russell clocked them as they headed for the door in a far from casual manner.

  With some relief, he followed them.

  Outside, Alex waited. He was sharing similar thoughts to Russell. He now wished that they’d never started this project. He had been carried along by Laurence’s enthusiasm and zeal and his own desire to exact revenge. But this desire had cooled considerably. There really could be no effective vengeance. That awful night was branded on his consciousness and would stay with him for the rest of his life. A childish getting your own back wouldn’t lessen the hurt. He was also aware, like Russell, that the thing was too personal. The enjoyment and indeed the safety of their previous ventures was in ending the life of a stranger, someone with whom there was no connection whatsoever.

  Was it too late to turn back? he wondered, while already knowing the answer.

  It was nearing eleven and one or two punters were starting to leave. His stomach churned menacingly when he saw Matt’s mates emerge from the club. There they were: the two men who had helped to rape him. He would never forget their faces or their voices. Unlike the others leaving the premises, they did not saunter, but moved quickly and with a purpose to a black Corsa and drove off at great speed. Moments later Russell emerged and headed for Alex’s car.

  ‘All systems go,’ he said as he slid into the passenger seat.

  ‘Are you sure we should go ahead with this?’

  Russell glanced at Alex, his face ghoulishly green, illuminated by the lights on the dashboard. ‘What on earth do you mean?’

  ‘I… I don’t think it’s right. I’ve got bad vibes…’

  ‘Now’s a fine time to start having second thoughts…’

  ‘And you haven’t?’

  Russell turned away and gazed out of the window. ‘Yeah, of course I have… But then I always do when we have a project on the go.’

  ‘But this isn’t the usual.’

  ‘It isn’t… Don’t you think I know that but I think it’s too late for this conversation now. Look.’

  Standing on the steps of the Starlight Club were Matt and Laurence. As he swaggered forward Matt slipped his arm through Laurence’s and gripped it tightly as though he was announcing to the world that this fellow was his.

  ‘The show has begun,’ said Russell quietly, almost to himself. Even as he spoke, his mouth suddenly felt very dry.

  Matt and Laurence walked down the street and turned the corner.

  Automatically, Alex started up the engine and drove slowly, following them at a distance. On a nearby side street, they saw Matt opening up his large 4x4. When Alex caught sight of vehicle, his stomach retched. It was the very same one that he had travelled in. The same one that had transported him to his nightmare. The sight of the 4x4 suddenly brought horrid images welling up before him. Things that happened to him that night. ‘My God,’ he cried faintly, shocked at his own reactions. He should have been expecting this, to be disturbed and unnerved by what he saw and what memories it would regurgitate, but strangely he hadn’t considered it. Not given it a thought. Perhaps, subconsciously his brain had blanked such things from his mind. But now, seeing that bloody vehicle again, he was shaken to the core.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Russell.

  Alex shook his head. He didn’t want to explain. To verbalise his thoughts would make it so much worse. Instead he concentrated on trying to bring his turbulent stomach into check and banish all images from his mind.

  Both men saw Laurence clamber aboard the vehicle and within seconds the beast roared forward into the night, the exhaust booming. With gritted teeth, Alex slipped his car into gear and followed.

  The streets were empty and Matt took advantage of this, racing the car through the centre of Huddersfield at high speed, soon reaching the long stretches of country roads. Alex had great difficulty in keeping up with him. He knew that he couldn’t hang too closely on Matt’s tail for fear of giving the game away but no way could he afford to lose him just in case they weren’t headed for Matt’s lonely house.

  But they were.

  So
me fifteen minutes later Matt turned off a winding B road on to the narrow track that led to his home.

  ‘This is it,’ said Alex, bringing his car to a halt and switching off his lights.

  They watched as Matt’s car pulled up outside the isolated house about a third of a mile ahead of them. Dimly they saw the two occupants emerge and head for the front door.

  ‘Right,’ said Russell, grabbing the door handle.

  Alex nodded. No further words were needed. They were well rehearsed in their plan and knew exactly what they had to do.

  Swiftly and silently, they retrieved their balaclavas and the shotguns from the boot of the car and began making their way down the road to the house. It stood there like a spooky haunted house from some ghost story, dimly silhouetted against the moonless sky.

  NINETEEN

  ‘Another drinky poo,’ said Matt Wilkinson, his arm making a grand sweeping gesture towards the drinks trolley.

  Laurence was well aware that he had to keep a cool head now – he hadn’t drunk half as much as he had pretended to at the club – but he was also sure that it would be a capital mistake to refuse a drink now. Nothing, absolutely nothing must rouse Matt Wilkinson’s curiosity or, indeed, animosity. Laurence knew that there was a savage brute quivering beneath that large, cool and apparently friendly exterior.

  ‘A wee G and T would go down a treat.’

  ‘We don’t do small drinks here, pal. You’ll get a big one and like it.’ His tone was a strange mixture of the aggressive and the jokey. It unnerved Laurence. It reminded him, not that he needed reminding, how very vulnerable he was. If the Fifth Cavalry in the shape of Alex and Russell didn’t arrive at the crucial moment, he was about to be dealt with in a very unpleasant fashion.