Fogarty

by J Jackson Bentley

  “That wasn’t terribly hospitable, Dad,” Ben said through gritted teeth. “Your son comes to see you and you try to shoot him. Anyone would think you were an impotent sociopath with mummy issues.” Ben picked up the gun by placing a pen in the barrel and laid it on the windowsill, well out of Den’s reach. Then, not very gently, he wiped the knife handle to obscure his prints as it still stood protruding grotesquely from Den Grierson’s leg.

  The blood was soon flowing freely from Den’s thigh, but not as freely as it would have been flowing had Ben clipped the femoral artery. No, Den would live, would be imprisoned and would die alone in a cell. Ben looked in on Barty, who was sitting upright in the kitchen, his back against the washing machine.

  “Call an ambulance!” he pleaded weakly. Ben said he would send Mikey up on his way out. As Ben took one final look at the old and broken figure that was once the fearsome Dennis Psycho Grierson, the old man spoke to his tormentor.

  “I’ll come after you! I’ll kill you and I’ll kill your sister and anyone else you care about.”

  Ben shook his head slowly.

  “Do you really think I care about some half bred, feral female offspring you might have produced? You probably fathered half the kids in this block with young girls who didn’t know that the great Dennis Grierson was just a sicko who wasn’t man enough for a grown woman, who couldn’t satisfy anyone over thirteen.” Ben knew he needed to leave. He was beginning to lose it now.

  “The girl I’m talking about isn’t any half breed; she’s your sister, good and proper. She’s your twin!” Den laughed a sneering and dirty laugh, which was only silenced by Ben’s fist dislocating his jaw.

  ***

  “You weren’t up there long,” Mikey commented as Ben passed him, wholly unaware of what had happened upstairs in the flat whilst he had been on patrol down here.

  “No. Den isn’t feeling well. He wants you to go up and see him. No hurry, though.” Ben smiled and waved at Mikey as he departed. Mikey raised his hand and waved back. ‘That Aussie bloke is all right’, he thought to himself.

  Chapter 11

  Vastrick Security Offices, Nr 1 Poultry, London.

  Monday 15th August 2011; 11:30am.

  Dee Hammond squirmed around uncomfortably in her office chair. At seven months pregnant, there no longer seemed to be any such thing as a comfortable sitting position. Dee had seen her friends at seven months and they had seemed quaintly rounded, but her own stomach was so extended that she felt as though there might be two or three babies in there. She typed onto her Facebook status page: “Top three things I miss being pregnant; spicy food, lying face down and bladder control.”

  She closed down her computer and began wading through the office expense accounts. Heading up the Vastrick London office was a nightmare of administration and form filling, but fieldwork was out of the question for the time being. As well as being heavily pregnant, she was still recovering from her latest bullet wound; that made three in eighteen months. No wonder Josh wanted her to be desk bound for a while.

  The telephone rang and Angie on reception told her that they had a visitor, a Mr Ben Fogarty. Dee asked Angie to send him along to her office and in the interim she closed the admin files and retrieved the Fogarty file from her desk. Patrick Fogarty had warned her that his son was likely to call in whilst he was in London.

  Despite knowing that Ben Fogarty was tall and a rugby player, Dee was still surprised by his size. He filled her doorframe. Dee rose from her chair, with difficulty, to shake his outstretched hand. He was quite attractive and relatively undamaged for a rugby player. His smile was genuine and disarming, and Dee could imagine women warming to the dark floppy hair and the startlingly bright eyes.

  “You are rather larger than I’d imagined,” Dee blustered, blaming her hormones for the unsettling effect this client was having on her professional demeanour.

  “So are you!” he quipped, looking at her bump. They both laughed.

  “Mrs Hammond, I need to speak to my grandmother as a matter of urgency.”

  “Call me Dee, please. Why, may I ask, do you need to see her so urgently? You haven’t seen her for twenty years, have you?” Dee was a little taken aback by the fear in his voice.

  “No, I haven’t, but I believe that she is the only person who knows about my twin sister and her whereabouts.”

  “Your father never mentioned a sister and, to be honest, we didn’t find any mention of a twin sister in the records. Although, it has to be said, we weren’t looking specifically.” Dee paused. “What makes you think you have a twin sister?”

  “My biological father told me,” he answered simply. Dee was shocked

  “Ben, you went onto The Farm without back up? Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?”

  “I know, I know. I just wanted to beat the crap out of the sociopathic old tyrant, and any of his mates who got in the way.”

  “And did you? You know that assault is a crime in the old country?”

  “I had to defend myself, and it’s possible a couple of thugs will need hospital treatment, but I don’t think they will be calling the police any time soon.”

  Dee shook her head. “Probably not, but next time you want to confront someone who has a record like Dennis Grierson you must promise me you will have us back you up.”

  He nodded. “OK. All’s well that ends well. I do need your help now, and this time it’s to find a little old lady. I think I should be safe confronting my gran, although she could be a dab hand with poisoned knitting needles.” Ben’s attempt at humour did not distract Dee from her promise to Ben’s father to watch out for him. She was worried that perhaps he felt invincible. Despite a career ending injury, he had been blessed with good fortune throughout his life and especially in his rugby playing days, and such good luck can bring with it complacency.

  The two sat down and Ben explained what had happened. Dee tried not to show either surprise or revulsion as he described the violence that had exploded just a couple of hours earlier.

  Within thirty minutes the two were talking like old friends. Dee herself had a reputation for wading into situations that were dangerous and violent.

  “We don’t know with absolute certainty where your grandmother is now, but we are quietly confident that she is a resident at the Northern Cross Care Home in Bootle, on Merseyside. The reason for our belief is that the occupant of her old house remembers being asked to forward any mail to Riverview House, a Northern Cross home for the elderly and infirm. According to the report, May Fogarty left her own home two years ago after her husband, Roy, died. There was a rumour that she remarried, but we couldn’t get confirmation from the care home.”

  “OK, so how do I get to Bootle? What is the fastest route?”

  “What? You don’t mean right now?” Dee asked, faintly alarmed.

  “Yes, today. I want to get to my twin sister before that psychopath father of ours decides to take revenge for my visit.”

  Dee checked the train times for Euston to Liverpool Lime Street and wrote them down for Ben to look at.

  “Can I get there more quickly? By plane, maybe?” Ben asked, expressing an urgency that Dee understood.

  “Ben, a plane would be much slower. The trains run from Euston Station, which is just a few minutes away in a taxi.” Dee pondered and then picked up the phone, pressing a speed dial number.

  “Hi Phil, this is Dee Hammond from Vastrick. I know it’s quite an impossible ask, but can you possibly fly someone to Bootle today?” There was a period of silence as she awaited an answer. “OK, thanks, Phil, you’re a star. My client is called Ben Fogarty and he will be with you inside an hour.”

  She hung up and turned to her client. “OK, Ben, this is going to cost you, but it’s the quickest way to get to where you want to be. If you take a taxi to the heliport, our regular helicopter pilot could take you to Bootle, landing at the docks, which is about a mile or so from the home. But he can’t wait for you, because he has a jockey to transport to
an evening race meeting. You would have to return by train. Is that all right?”

  “That’s marvellous, Dee, thanks.” Ben stood and shook Dee’s hand. “Can I come around in the morning? I might need some help tracking down my sister.”

  “Call any time, Ben. You have my mobile number here on the card.” Dee handed him the card. “Please don’t take unnecessary risks. We have a well trained team here, and they are perfectly capable of handling the worst of what North London has to offer.”

  Ben left the office and Dee unconsciously rubbed her thigh. It was in a factory unit in Tottenham where she had received the first of her three bullet wounds and, although things had turned out well, it still remained vivid in her memory as probably the worst few hours of her life. She hoped her new client would be especially careful. She was about to sit down when she swore under her breath and made haste to the bathroom.

  ***

  Ben had managed to live for thirty years without taking a helicopter flight, and now he appreciated what a sound move that had been. The Bell 206B Jet Ranger was alleged to be spacious enough for five people but, at six feet four, it felt like a glass coffin to Ben. The rotor noise had been brutal to his ears before take off and, even though he now wore a helmet with built in microphone and headset, the background noise meant he still had to shout to be heard.

  Despite the discomfort, Ben loved the journey. Within minutes they were out of the London sprawl and into open countryside. Somehow he always imagined sixty million people living on this small island would mean overcrowding, but from up here there was more open space than he would have expected. Phil, the pilot, asked about Dee Hammond and explained that he often ferried Vastrick staff ‘up north’, especially an operative he referred to as “Geordie”, who lived in Newcastle. Phil apologised for not being able to take Ben back by air, but confirmed that there was an hourly rail service in the early evening rush hour.

  Ben sat back and admired the lush rolling pastureland below. He saw fields of wheat being harvested and flocks of birds were gathering for their migration. Autumn in England was obviously just around the corner. As he allowed his mind to wander, he wondered what his gran would be like. He imagined a plump, white haired old lady, maybe kindly, maybe a little grumpy, maybe she had all of her marbles and maybe not. He hoped that she would be well enough to point him in the direction of his twin sister. He was still pondering these things when the helicopter swung out over the sea and then banked in towards an industrial landscape. A moment later he saw a giant ‘H’ in a circle on a concrete apron. Phil headed straight for it.

  Phil was still speaking to ground control as the rotors slowed and eventually stopped. A man in a yellow visibility vest, a white helmet and ear defenders came out of a small building bearing the words “Merseyside Docks and Harbour Company”, a name represented on the back of his jacket by the acronym MDHC.

  After Ben had waved his goodbyes to Phil he entered the nineteen-fifties-built brick building with a concrete slab for a roof. Another man, this one wearing a polo shirt bearing the MDHC logo, met him with a smile and a handshake.

  “Welcome to the MDHC helipad, Mr Fogarty. We understand you’re in a hurry, and we see very few taxis roaming around here, so we’ve arranged for one of our cars to take you where you want to go.”

  “Thanks,” Ben responded, glad of the efficient use of his time.

  “Is it OK if we add the transport to the landing fee?” his greeter asked. “The whole bill will probably be less than fifty quid.”

  “That will be just fine, and thanks again.”

  It was 2:30pm, only three hours since he’d sat with Dee Hammond, when the uniformed driver told him that they had arrived at Northern Cross Riverview House. Ben tried to tip the Scouse driver, who waved away the offer.

  “Just hope your Gran makes it OK,” the driver said. Ben realised that arriving by helicopter, then being in a hurry to get to an old folks home probably sent all the wrong messages. Nonetheless, now was not the time for explanations and so he simply thanked the driver for his kindness.

  ***

  The light coloured bricks which, along with the red tiled roof, gave the building its support and structure, also adorned the reception area. The building looked like a copy of every other care home he had seen here and in New Zealand. A young receptionist sat behind a high counter. She smiled as he approached her.

  “I would like to see May Fogarty, please,” Ben asked politely, using all of his charm. It worked. The young girl blushed as she typed. After a moment she looked up from the screen, puzzled.

  “We don’t have a May Fogarty on the list,” she said, as much to herself as to Ben, “but I’m new here. Let me check with matron.” The girl picked up the phone and punched three numbers; a phone rang in a smoked glass office off to Ben’s right. The girl conveyed the message, listening for the reply. She looked up at Ben.

  “Matron wants to know who you are and how you are connected to May Fogarty,” the young receptionist conveyed with her perfectly manicured fingers covering the mouthpiece. Ben explained that he was May’s grandson and he had just arrived from New Zealand. The receptionist repeated his words and then replaced the receiver. The door to the smoked glass office opened and a handsome woman in a smart designer suit emerged. She looked at Ben and spoke. Her voice was quiet but her curiosity was obvious.

  “Please come in, Mr Fogarty. I’ll see if we can help you.”

  ***

  The Matron sat behind a utilitarian desk in blonde wood. The room was distinctly feminine in its design and everything was carefully placed, with all flat surfaces utilised. There were ornaments and ceramics of all kinds, from Delft pottery models of Dutch houses to colourful Murano glass vases and bowls. It was homely and comforting, as Ben imagined it was meant to be. The nameplate on the desk read Matron Burchill. The Matron had short spiky fair hair that surprisingly suited her, given that on closer inspection she must have been in her late fifties or early sixties. Her hands gave away her age but they too were perfectly manicured, the nails short and painted in pastel pink, probably by someone else. This was a lady who spent time in the gym and in the spa, he guessed.

  “Mr Fogarty, you will forgive me if I ask for some identification.” Her accent was difficult to pin down; there was a hint of Merseyside and a hint of Irish, but Ben guessed that there were a lot of Irish born people in Liverpool. He opened his wallet and handed over his business card and New Zealand Photo ID Card. The Matron remained cautious.

  “Assuming that May Fogarty is here with us, what would your relationship be to her, given that you are from halfway around the world?” she inquired, her bright opaline green eyes boring into him. This lady may be moving on in years, but her eyes were those of a young girl.

  “I am her grandson, Matron. The reason you may not have heard her mention me is that I was adopted by a New Zealand family twenty years ago, and I have had no contact with her since.”

  “You are, presumably, the same Ambrose Benjamin Fogarty of All Blacks Rugby fame?”

  “I am. Listen, Matron Burchill, I’m in a bit of a hurry, actually. Could I meet May Fogarty, please? I can assure you that my visit is of vital importance.” The Matron smiled. It was an impish smile, with the corners of her mouth turning up and her high cheekbones becoming more noticeable.

  “My dear Benjamin, you have already met May Fogarty.”

  Ben looked puzzled for a moment and then realised the implications of her statement. She noticed his reaction, and nodded.

  “Benjamin, I am May Burchill, formerly May Fogarty. I am your grandmother. I remarried when your granddad died. You look shocked.” She paused; there was now laughter in her eyes, even if it had not reached her vocal cords yet. “Were you expecting some old blue rinsed granny with a moustache, happily knitting away in her housecoat and slippers?”

  “Well, no,” spluttered Ben. “I mean, yes, probably,” he admitted warily, unsure of how to greet one’s grandmother, having not seen her for over twenty years
. May Burchill resolved his dilemma by standing and coming around to his side of the desk. Ben stood to meet her.

  “Come give your grandmother a hug,” she said, her eyes glassy with tears. Ben leaned in and they hugged. He expected it to feel uncomfortable, but it didn’t; it felt right. She smelled of clean hair and a light citrus perfume.

  “I never thought this day would come,” May said. “I thought I had lost you forever.”

  For the next hour May Fogarty repeated the tragic story of their life in Trafalgar House Flats, Siobhan’s subjection to Dennis Grierson and his exploitation of May’s lovely daughter. May spoke openly of her daughter’s drug use, and of her abuse and sexual exploitation at the hands of Psycho Den. She cried when she spoke of her husband’s beating when he stood up to Dennis Grierson and refused him access to a recovering Siobhan. Naturally, Den did not put Roy Fogarty in hospital himself. The beating had been carried out by a number of his lackeys, and even then the police were reluctant to intervene in an internal Trafalgar House Flats dispute. May believed that Den had contacts in the police force, then and now, and that they would tip him off if action was going to be taken against him. Nonetheless, even his contacts could not keep him out of prison when he was caught red handed in the past, as he had been again.

  “What I don’t understand, Gran, is why you kept your distance all of these years.” Ben’s voice was quiet but emotional.