Lasting Scars

by Lenny Brando

  They hugged and walked to the front door, which opened as they reached it. Mark Flanagan beamed at them, “Oh hello, Alice.”

  “Wasn’t expecting you. This isn't your branch.”

  “I’m working locally for the day. The boss likes us to be familiar with the wider market. Anyway, I like to look after my clients.” He extended a hand to Alice. “You know, with personal attention.”

  Alice took his hand and flinched at his limp and clammy grip. “Yeah?”

  “You look great. And your friend?”

  “This is Kristin.”

  Kristin shook hands with Flanagan. “I live nearby. In Southfields.”

  “Lovely area. Lovely. Come on in, I’ll show around.” Flanagan turned his back and walked ahead into the kitchen.

  Kristin looked at her hand, turned to Alice and grimaced. Alice shrugged and wiped her hands on her jeans. For the next 20 minutes, Flanagan gave them a sales pitch as he talked up the features of every room. The house was pristine, as if someone had attended to every detail. The only exception was the main bedroom, where the duvet looked crumbled, and Flanagan took the time to smooth it out, flashing a cheesy grin at Kristin as he did.

  When they had seen everything, Flanagan brought them down to the kitchen. “Well, what do you think?” he asked. “Sort of thing you’re looking for?”

  Alice nodded. “It’s very nice, but I’ll have to talk to Ian. It’s the fourth place we’ve seen so far.”

  Flanagan looked disappointed. “Oh. I’ve only shown you this one.”

  “I want to look around the area. See what it’s like.”

  Kristin butted in. “It’s a great area.”

  “Yeah.” Alice let out a sigh. “But it’s not Portobello.”

  “I could get you something in Portobello, but with your budget, it won't be like this.” Flanagan waved his hand around. “You know, these owners might take an offer?”

  “Thanks, Mark,” Alice said. “I’ll get Ian to call you when he gets back.”

  “Away, again is he?”

  “Your dad keeps him busy. He’s in Birmingham until the end of the week.”

  “Oh right.” Flanagan looked down at his shoes and brushed something off with his hand. “I wouldn’t know.”

  Alice cocked her head. “Huh?”

  Flanagan waved a hand in the air. “My, uh, dad. Don't worry about it.”

  *

  On the street outside, Alice took a photo of the house. “It’s actually nice. Nicest I’ve seen. And it’s within our budget.”

  Kristin bumped shoulders with her. “It would be so awesome if you were to buy this. We’d be within walking distance of each other.”

  “It would be nice, yeah. But as I said, it’s not Portobello.”

  Kristin tsked. “I should have washed my hands in there. His hands were sticky. And, like, did you see the way he looked at me in the bedroom? That smile? Made me shiver. The guy’s creepy.”

  “You think?”

  Kristin took a tissue from her bag and wiped her hands with it. “Yes. I do.”

  “Nothing to do with guys in general?”

  Kristin scoffed. “I stick to my side. Unlike others.”

  “You referring to me?”

  “What? No.” Kristin looked down the street and avoided Alice’s gaze. “I, uh, meant Olivia.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  “Come on. Let’s get a coffee.”

  *

  They sat by the window with a latte each. Kristin rested her chin on her hand and looked out the window. “You know what? I’m going to follow her.”

  Alice laughed. “What are you talking about Kris?”

  “Olivia. I’m going to take time off work and follow her. Find out who she’s seeing. What she’s doing.”

  “Jeez. Spy? You can't do that. It’s, like, even more creepy than, you know, Flanagan.”

  “I don't care. I’ll start when she gets back from her business trip. If I didn't have to go to the Astrid Andersen show in Copenhagen, I’d have gone to the conference too.”

  “Oh yeah?” Alice set down her mug. “What conference?”

  “I helped organise Astrid’s thing. Buyers from all over the world will be there, and I have to butter them up and take enormous orders from them.”

  “I meant the one Olivia is going to.”

  “Oh.” Kristin frowned. “It’s some big financial thing in Glasgow.”

  “Glasgow?”

  “Uh-huh. Why?”

  Alice took her mug in both hands and stared down at the tabletop. “Nothing.”

  Kristin let out a long sigh. “We haven’t had sex in weeks.”

  Alice said nothing for a moment, then she brushed crumbs to the ground. “Neither have Ian and I. It may become a problem.”

  “Yeah? All guys or just Ian?”

  “Give it a rest Kris. It’s not that. I can take it or leave it. At the moment I’m leaving it.”

  “And what does he think?” Kristin raised her eyebrows. “He happy with that?”

  Alice shrugged. “Doubt it.”

  Kristin shook her head. “I wish I could do that. Just leave it. A girl has needs too. Well, this one has anyway.”

  Alice stared out the window. “Good for you Kris. Good for you.”

  “Sorry. I don't mean to… I forget sometimes.” She took a sip of coffee. “Sorry. I’ll shut up now. But one last thing…”

  Alice glanced to her. “What?”

  “If you ever want to cross back over to the other side…”

  Alice shook her head, said nothing and returned to staring out the window.

  57

  Daz wasn’t getting any better from what Cole could see. The nurse told him to be patient, but she’d been telling him that for nearly two weeks and there was no change. While the machines still beeped and the numbers still flashed in much the same way, Daz just lay there as if he was asleep.

  When would he wake up? Cole kept asking the question, but nobody could give him a definitive answer. A comatose period of up to five weeks was possible depending on severity, but Cole’s web research also told him most people should have recovered by now. He also noticed the hospital staff had taken away the radio that played at a low volume, and he didn't like the implication.

  As his confidence in Daz’s recovery waned, the attention he gave to Alice grew. By now, he had amassed a reasonable collection of video clips, plenty of Alice naked, but none yet of Alice shagging her boyfriend. The fact the boyfriend didn't always sleep in the main bedroom gave Cole reason to wonder if Alice preferred girls, and he fantasied about watching Alice and another girl on the bed.

  Then his fantasy evolved into Cole himself doing a Flanagan on her and curing her of her of lust for women. He could tie her to the bed for real, not pretend like he’d done with Trixie, and hump her senseless with his hands around her throat, and he’d keep going until she screamed with the pleasure wrought by Cole’s sexual prowess.

  The notion helped take his mind off Daz, and he wondered whether he could get his hands on Alice. How could he turn the dream into reality? Or should he forget it and call Trixie again? Once Trixie got used to him, she’d let Cole tie her up for real, even if it cost another £30 or £40, after all, she was only a prostitute. But it wouldn’t be the same. Trixie just wasn’t Alice.

  When he left the hospital that evening, Cole wandered the streets in the vague direction of Alice’s house, knowing he would end up in a pub. He checked out local pubs on his phone to avoid going back to the Slug and Lettuce in case the barman remembered him along with the beer mats. Unlikely, but best to be careful.

  Soon, Cole drank lager in the Duke of Sandringham pub near Portobello Road. It had a regular closing of 11pm, which suited Cole’s purposes. He sat alone in a corner, with the camera app on his phone set to motion alert.

  A few days ago, the boyfriend had packed a suitcase in the bedroom. From what Cole could tell, the boyfriend hadn't returned yet as Alice was the only person who had entered the
bedroom over the last two days.

  After two more pints, Cole fingered the keys in his pocket, running his finger along the edge of the one to Alice’s house. Several scenarios played out in his head. He questioned his motivation and the risk versus the reward. Would it be worth it? How would Cole measure up? Did he have the bottle?

  He picked up his phone, took a quick look around the pub to make sure no-one watched, then played a clip of Alice peeling off her clothes in her bedroom. Yes. She owed him for Daz. A deep ache drove him on, and he replayed the clip several times.

  He ordered another lager and while he drank, a flicker from the phone caught his eye. Alice had entered the bedroom. Once more he watched with eager anticipation as she slipped out of her top, jeans and bra, but he pursed his lips as he saw she kept her underwear on. Then she turned out the light reducing the view to a grainy darkness, and Cole struggled to make out Alice climb into the bed.

  An hour later, Cole lurked in the shadows near Alice’s house and tapped open the camera app on his phone. No house lights were visible from the street and given the poor quality of the low light recording, Cole had to squint at the grainy image for several minutes before he concluded Alice still slept.

  There were no pedestrians on the darkened street. No cars either. Cole knew Alice slept alone in the house. He had a key and he knew the alarm code. All he had to do was walk to the door and let himself in.

  His pulse quickened as he reached into his pocket for the key. He took a tentative step from the shadows. Then another. And another. He stood at the gate to Alice’s house and pushed it open. His legs shook, yet his careful footsteps made no sound. The door loomed before him. The key trembled in his tight grip. His hand rose to the latch in slow motion, almost as if someone else controlled it.

  He looked left and right. Still no-one. The trembling in his fingers increased. He tried to insert the key into the lock, but the shaking wouldn't stop. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. It made no difference. The keys slipped from his grasp and fell to the ground with a clatter that echoed on the silent street.

  58

  Alice tossed and turned in the warm night air. Sleep came and went. She threw off the sheet and lay on the bed. Her pillow was damp. The house creaked and ticked. She listened. The little hairs on her neck stood up. A chill ran through her. A strange noise sounded from outside. Her breathing increased. The more she listened the more she heard. The loneliness fed her imagination.

  She told herself the alarm was on. People often walked by on the street outside, so sounds were normal. The house creaked as it cooled down from the heat stored during the day. She reached over to the bedside table and opened the drawer. Her hand groped around until it closed on the can of mace. Its cold presence in her grip reassured her and when she put it under the pillow, her breathing eased a little.

  59

  Cole stooped and grabbed the keys. He legged across the road and retreated into the shadows where he bent over and puked the bilious contents of his stomach onto the concrete.

  Two hours later, Cole shut the door to his flat with a loud disregard for the time. He stripped down to his shorts and stumbled into the bathroom to brush his teeth.

  His reflection in the mirror scorned him. “Loser,” he said to the mirror. “You wimped out. Lost your bottle.” He grabbed the wash basin with both hands and pulled at it. It didn't budge, so he pushed and pulled with all his strength. Still it defied him.

  With no clear thoughts in his mind, he got into his bed. He tossed and turned in the darkness. He kicked off the duvet and then pulled it back over himself when he grew cold. Shortly after, he was too hot. Sleep evaded him. Images of Alice in her room, naked and vulnerable filled his head. He fed the need to see her by watching video clips of her on his phone. The full frontal where she stretched at the camera was his favourite, and he wished he had a way to satisfy his impulse besides his own hand.

  Nobody knew he had attempted to enter her house, which meant he would have another opportunity to use the key. But he would only get one shot at it, and he’d have to make it count.

  He’d need to get a weapon, maybe a knife. A big, intimidating one with a jagged edge. He’d take something to help him see it through. There were drugs that helped. News reports claimed the terrorist had used Captagon to fire him up before the attack, and Cole figured that would do him too. There would be ironic justice in it. And he knew a man who could supply it.

  Cole reckoned that bottling it earlier was a blessing in disguise. He had undertaken no preparation, had no clue of what he wanted. It had been instinct. Opportunistic. If he wanted to succeed, he’d need careful thought and precise planning. Best to be careful, he reminded himself.

  He absolved himself of any shame over his earlier failure, lay back on the bed and drifted off to sleep.

  60

  In the morning, Alice stooped to pick up the post and wondered at the stain on the hall carpet. It appeared recent. She forgot about the stain as she leafed through the letters. One caught her eye, and she held it for a moment before ripping the envelope open. She didn’t get to the end. One phrase told her all she needed to know. ...and I regret to inform you... She read no further, and the letter fell from her trembling hand.

  61

  The door from the street to Scully’s was open, and Cole went straight up. He swung the letter ‘C’ on the door to Scully’s flat with his finger, then rapped on the door. Heavy footsteps sounded from within, followed by a scraping noise as a bolt slid back. The door opened and Mince’s head poked through. “Huh?” Two bloodshot eyes and one tattoo stared at Cole.

  “Scully here?” Cole asked.

  “Huh?”

  “Christ.” Cole pointed inside. “Scully? He in there?”

  “Uh-huh. Whad’ya want?”

  “Look, mate. It’s Mince, right?”

  Mince nodded.

  “Tell you what, Mince. I need to talk to Scully. I need to buy something from him. The keys were great. No problems. I’m not here to moan. I’m here to buy. Money, Mince. Money for Scully.”

  “Fuck you,” Mince said. “Ain't no dummy. Stoned is all. Wait.” He shut the door and Cole shook his head. Cole stepped back from the door, clenching and unclenching his fists. He considered banging on the door, but before he did, Scully opened it. “Coley, mate. What can I do you for?” Scully held onto the door with both hands as if he was ready to slam it shut again.

  “Need to discuss business.” Cole gestured with his hand. “Inside.”

  “You sure? Not in the mood for grief. Bit stoned. If I wasn't, I’d take you down no problem.”

  Cole spread his palms. “Honest, mate. No grief.”

  Scully held the door open, and they walked into his lounge. Mince now sat on the sofa, busy skinning up a joint. The TV was on, the sound down low and every so often, Mince glanced up at it.

  “Still on the quality stuff, eh?” Cole asked.

  “The fella got more.” Scully waved his arms in the air. “But hey. It keeps him tame. Here. Step into my office.”

  They entered the kitchen and Cole looked around. “Christ Scully. This place needs a health warning. You got rats in here or what?”

  “Dunno,” Scully said. “Ain't never seen one. Maybe Mince has. He sees a lot of weird stuff.”

  “No shit Sherlock?”

  “Huh?”

  “It don't matter.” Cole shifted from one foot to the other. “I need something else...”

  Scully stroked his chin. “Sounds difficult, fella.”

  “What?” Cole shifted his gaze from the damp patch on the ceiling back to Scully. “But I ain't told you what it is yet.”

  “The way you’re acting. Like you're saying this is difficult or awkward. Hey wait. I bet you need Viagra. That it? No sweat fella. Mum’s the word.”

  “Fuck you Scully. I can shag for England. No. I need Captagon.”

  “Oh yeah? What do you want that stuff for?”

  “Never you mind,” Cole said. “
Look, I can get it online, but it takes too long. Can you get it for me today?”

  “Dunno. Dunno.” Scully stroked his chin again and shook his head. “See, them Muslim terrorists use it. It was on the TV.”

  Cole shrugged. “Dunno anything about that, mate.”

  “They’re barbarian cunts, Coley. You hear me?” A vein on Scully’s neck bulged, and he went red in the face. “Don't belong here neither. This is the East fucking End of London, fella, and it's crawling with them. Send the lot of them back to fucking Mecca. That’s what I say.”

  Scully produced a knife from his back pocket and hurled it over Cole’s shoulder at the wall. Cole ducked. The knife hit the wall with a clunk and clattered to the floor. A chip of plaster fell off, leaving powder motes floating in the sunlight.

  “Christ Scully. Take it easy, will you?”

  Scully grunted. He pushed past Cole and picked up the knife.

  Cole stepped back and raised his hands. “Scully, do you think you could stop waving that thing in my face?”

  “Sorry, fella. Get carried away sometimes.” Scully slipped the knife back into his pocket. “Get angry at them lot.”

  “I know, Scully. I know. They done my brother Daz. You know that, don’t you? South Kensington. I was there, mate.”

  “Shit fella. Didn’t know. Sorry.” The bulges on Scully’s neck and forehead eased and his face lost the vivid hue.

  “Whatever. Tell me this. Can you get the stuff?”

  “Usually I can get anything. But this might be different. Need to go way under the radar.” Scully shook his head. “Could be a problem. On the TV and all, innit?”

  “But you can get it, right?”

  Scully scratched the top of his head and looked askance at Cole. Then he grinned and nodded. “Now I get you. Yeah. It’s payback, innit?”

  “Don't ask. Best you know nothing.”

  “Tell you what, fella. You do that mosque and the stuff’s free. Do it on a Friday. More of them then.”