by Shaun Baines
"Listen to your monkey. I was prepared to let everything go. Even Bronson." Angel looked close to tears. Her chin quivered and she stamped her foot. "You do this and there's no going back. Everyone you know dies."
Daniel shoved his arm into the van, waving the lighter in the petrol fumes. "If I don't, they're dead already."
Perhaps Angel was right, thought Bronson. Perhaps Daniel had been out of the game too long. His face was twisted into madness, his exhaustion soiling a rational mind.
"Put down the lighter," Bronson said, forcing a calmness to his voice. "We're going to be okay."
As he spoke, two masked men ran from the old smallpox site, sliding out from between the trees. Their arms pumped by their sides. Their legs drove them forward in graceless leaps, holding metal baseball bats in their hands as they charged.
Spitting out her gum, Angel wiped her jabbering lips. She lifted the gun and fired, missing Daniel as its target, striking a shrub near a startled cow. She adjusted her aim, but Daniel stood firm, the flame in his hand ready to flare.
Daniel didn't seem to care about the gun. He was frozen, his eyes trained into the distance.
The masked men galloped onward. There was no retreat, thought Bronson. This was the bloodbath he'd hoped to avoid. Their footsteps thundered closer and he crouched, nails at the ready, his damaged body tensed for one last fight.
And the masked men kept running. Bronson, Daniel and Angel watched them sprint by, following their lolloping gait with open mouths. The men split down two different paths, rushing by the van toward the scrubland.
"Bollocks," Angel said, throwing herself behind the brambles of the climbing frame.
Bronson backed into the van, striking his head on the panels. "Oh, no."
But Daniel was like a statue, his skin paling to alabaster.
"What on earth is going on?" Angel asked no-one.
"It can't be." Daniel held onto the van for support.
Bronson looked to the trees and saw another figure running toward them. It was a man, large and thin, his arms waving in the air. The masked Maguire men weren't on the attack. They were trying to escape the man chasing after them. He gained ground quickly, vaulting over grassy mounds, motioning at Daniel.
"There's no way," Daniel said. The lighter slipped from his hand. It bounced once, twice before the flame kissed a pool of petrol. The inside of the van spasmed into orange, followed by a whooshing noise.
"No," shouted the man, clasping his hands to his ears and diving behind the cheese grater slide.
"Get on the ground." Bronson dove at Daniel, pulling him down, covering him with his body. The van exploded, spewing plumes of black smoke from the open doors. The white metal charred, buckling with the heat as the windows shattered.
Bronson dragged Daniel aside, coughing and spluttering. The flames reached the petrol in the van's engine. A second explosion went up, blowing the bonnet off its hinges. It whirled in the air, falling three feet from Angel, cleaving the turf in two. She scrambled to safety and dashed down a slope with a scream.
"Get off me," Daniel shouted, depositing Bronson in a heap with a single shove.
Dragging himself up to his elbows, Daniel didn't look at the fireball he'd created. His eyes were on the man standing before him.
Bronson tracked his gaze and his heart froze. His skin prickled. He couldn't get up. He couldn't defend himself. He lay in the mud and waited.
His deadly secret stalked toward them, a blue suit hanging off a shrunken body, icy eyes reflected in the fire of the burning cocaine.
Scott Dayton stopped in front of them and stared at his brother, his pale face misshapen with scorn. "You stupid, dumb fucker," he said and collapsed to the ground.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Pausing under the glow of a street lamp, Bear watched the house where he used to live. Haven Grove was a sedate, curling road of semi-detached houses. Most were in good repair, their occupants taking pride in their upkeep. The doorstep gardens were small and laid to lawn. Bear opened a gate, cringing at the squeak of the hinge. They'd been rusty when they bought the house and rusty when he was bought out. Oiling them was a five minute job, but the Daytons had kept him busy, or that's what he told himself.
The lights to number thirty were on and a muffled television sounded from inside. He rang the bell, his heart flipping in his chest. The door was answered by a man in his late thirties. He wore tracksuit bottoms and no shoes. The sleeves of his hoodie were rolled to the elbows, revealing a tattoo on each of his forearms. On his left was the name 'Helen' and on his right, a drawing of Winnie the Pooh.
The man's hands clenched at the sight of Bear, making his tattoos perform an angry dance. "You're not supposed to be here."
"I've got good news, Dillon."
"Do you have our money?"
"No, I…not yet, but I brought this." Bear pulled out a present wrapped in gold paper with a bow he'd stolen on his way there.
Dillon made no move to take it. "What is it?"
"It's for you," Bear said, his smile uncertain.
Glancing into the house, Dillon returned his gaze to Bear. "You didn't steal it, did you?"
The night air caused Bear to shiver. He pushed the present forward and Dillon shook his head, taking it from Bear's hand.
Dillon discarded the gold wrapping and held the DVD high. "It is stolen," he said. "This is mine. You stole it from me."
"We bought it together, remember? The first film we ever saw. Harry Potter and - "
"The Order of the Phoenix. Yeah, I was there. It disappeared when you moved out."
A car glided down the street, its headlights illuminating the distance between them. It didn't stop and Bear was relieved to see it drive away, but it was almost eleven o'clock. Bear remembered Haven Grove as being quiet. Traffic used to stop when the street lights came on.
"It's a good memory for me. Where it all began," Bear said to his feet, "but I wanted you to have it."
"You wanted an excuse to come around, you mean." Dillon held out the DVD. "You can keep it. It's not a present if it belongs to me."
He began closing the door and Bear shouted through the shrinking gap. "Wait. You haven't heard my news."
Sighing, Dillon opened the door again. "You have to stop doing this, Winnie. It's not fair. I get my hopes up. I think, this time we'll be able to pay our bills. This time we'll be okay, but we never are. All you ever do is bring trouble to our door."
"Not this time. I got my job back," Bear said. "I can pay my way. I can fix that gate. I can be part of our family again."
Bear looked at Dillon's handsome face and saw the creases in his brow that had not been there when he'd left. There was an unshaven jaw and the beginnings of a double chin. He'd caused that, together with the sleepless nights and the day they sold the telly. But he was back with the Daytons now. Things were going to change.
He reached out, but Dillon retreated into the house.
"Can I see her?" Bear asked. "Just for a minute."
"She's in her room. She doesn't like to be disturbed."
"For five minutes?"
Dillon clucked his tongue, his eyes searching Bear's face. "Don't mention your job or how everything is going to be good again. She's been through enough already. You're the reason she's in trouble."
The barb was designed to hurt and it worked. Bear bit his knuckle, unwilling to defend himself and he flinched from the anger in his husband's eyes.
Pursing his lips, Dillon walked away. "Jesus Christ," he said to himself before shouting up the stairs. "Helen, come down and see your father."
A door crashed open and Helen's footsteps thundered down the stairs. She wore an Iron Maiden t-shirt and jeans with more holes in them than actual jean. At fifteen, she was a head taller than Bear with a willowy grace he would never possess.
He rushed forward, unable to contain himself. Bear grabbed her in a hug and twirled her over the doorstep.
Helen went limp in his arms. "Dad. No, stop it. Put me
down."
He let go and she jumped back into the house.
Helen pointed at the monitor around her ankle. "I'm not allowed."
Bear cursed under his breath, his temperature rising. "Oh, yeah, sorry, I forgot. Dillon did tell me. How much longer?"
"Another six weeks."
"And will it stop you shoplifting?" Bear asked.
"Did it ever stop you?"
An engine rumbled in the darkness. Bear couldn't make out the shape of the car, but it was coming closer.
He ignored it, preferring to stare at his daughter. She was more beautiful than ever and growing up too fast. He had spent Helen's childhood with the Daytons. When they no longer needed him, he'd been cast aside.
But this time would be different. Bronson was a good man.
"Why are you here?" Helen asked.
"Me and your Dad have stuff to sort out," he said. "I'm not supposed to say, but I promise things are going to get better."
"Are you moving back in?"
"No, he's bloody well not," came Dillon's voice from the sitting room.
Bear leaned in with a grin. "Everything is going to be okay. I'll see you soon, love. Go back inside."
The same car he'd seen previously parked outside the squeaky garden gate. Bear winced against the glare of the headlights. "Go in the house, Helen."
"But I miss you."
Angel climbed out onto the pavement, raising a handgun as she moved.
"Get in the house," Bear shouted, pushing his daughter backwards, shielding her with his bulk.
"What the hell is going on?" Dillon asked, racing to the doorstep. His eyes widened at the figure running up his path.
Bear growled and bared his teeth. "How did you know I was here, Angel?"
"Your name is on the mortgage and the electoral roll. Your bank accounts are registered here. It's what's known as a digital footprint. You led us here."
"Leave my family out of this," Bear said.
Angel spat onto the lawn. "I can't. That's what this is all about."
Bear turned to Dillon and his daughter. "Get back inside. Now."
"No-one works for the Daytons," Angel shouted, pulling the trigger.
Dillon dove forward, his arms outstretched, knocking Bear to the ground. They rolled into the garden fence, banging to a stop.
Bear blinked. The flash of the muzzle was a star in his eyes. It danced in front of him, slowly fading to reveal blood running over his body.
"Dillon? Dillon?" he asked, hugging the red mess in his arms.
Dillon's mouth was open, but his eyes were shut. The bullet had torn through his neck. Blood pulsed from the wound, streaming down his arm, pooling on his Winnie the Pooh tattoo. His torso twitched and Bear held tightly, trying to make it stop.
"No, please. Don't," he whispered, crushing Dillon to his chest until his husband's last breath.
Screaming, Helen bolted from the doorway, covering her fathers in protective arms. Together, Bear and his daughter cowered under the glare of Angel's gun.
"Daddy?" Helen asked, her eyes brimming.
"Everything is going to be okay," Angel said, emptying her gun into their bodies.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
"This is where we always came to solve our problems," Daniel said from behind his father's desk in the office. He was hunched over a kitchen knife with a purple handle and purple blade. He had used it once before.
Daniel shifted. "It's where I thought I'd disposed of my last issue."
The sun was fading. The room was bathed in a sunset glow. It cloaked Daniel's face, mixing with his grey skin. His body was sluggish, but his eyes darted about the room like flies, landing on the other occupants, narrowing to a hateful glower.
Scott lounged on the sofa, a sickly skeleton in a fashionable suit, brushing down his lapels with thin hands. There was sweat on his brow and tremors rattling through his body. Scratching at his forearms, Scott sighed, exaggerating for effect.
Bronson stood behind him, as if he was Scott's shadow; an entity who was separate to him, but tied to his fate. His head was bowed, his wavy hair lank in the dim light. He moved when Scott moved, reacting to every tremble.
The leather of the sofa cracked as Scott shimmied to its edge, stretching out his legs. "You look tired, Daniel."
Bronson made to speak, but Daniel silenced him with a hand.
"Having your brother killed will keep a man awake at night," Scott said, straightening the pleats in his trousers, his shaking fingers grappling with the material.
"Where have you been?" Daniel asked.
"Can't you tell by my tan?" Scott asked, presenting his pale face.
"I can explain everything," Bronson said, tripping over his words.
Daniel slammed his hand on the desk and the knife jumped with the impact. So did Bronson.
"We'll get to you later. You have no right…" Daniel picked up the knife. "After what you've done, you have no right to explain yourself."
Pushing off the sofa, Scott stood, swaying until he got his balance. He tugged his jacket against an invisible chill and walked to one of the oil paintings depicting the Tyne Bridge.
"Keep your mouth shut," Scott said to Bronson. "Let the grown-ups talk."
Bronson shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at the knife. It was pointed at him like a gun.
"Why don't you tell me where you've been, Scott?" Daniel asked.
His brother smiled, or his approximation of one and then his face went blank. He returned to the sofa and perched on the arm. "On a journey of self-discovery."
"And what did you find?"
"That trust is a tradeable commodity." Scott looked at Bronson and covered his face with his hand. "I've been living on the streets."
The twitch in Bronson's cheek paused and Daniel cracked his knuckles.
"What did you say?" they asked in unison.
"I've been living rough," Scott said again, raising his voice. "I'm not proud of it, but my options were limited."
The sallow skin, the sweats, the weight loss. It pointed toward homelessness. Life on the streets was hard. It explained the way his brother looked, Daniel reasoned, but it didn't explain everything.
"Why?" he asked.
Scott exhaled and a rattle hit his chest. He coughed, spraying spittle on the carpet. Reclining on the sofa, he drew a lungful of air.
"You wanted me dead," he answered, wiping his chin of saliva. "As dumb as you are, you're a tenacious son of a bitch. If you thought for a second I was still alive, you'd have spent every waking moment hunting me down."
"You were living rough?" Bronson asked. "You weren't…captured or anything?"
"That's not hard to accept, is it?" Scott scraped a dirty fingernail along the leather sofa. "Our lawyer froze our money so I had nothing to start a new life with. Had I gone to another gang for protection, they probably would have sold me back to Daniel."
"What about friends?" Daniel asked. "Didn't you have anyone to go to?"
Scott gave a dry laugh and left it at that.
Bronson looked to Daniel, a nervous smile on his face. "It kind of makes sense."
"I have no reason to lie," Scott said, hiding his face again. "Don't forget, as far as I know, I may still be wanted for murder. Best to keep a low profile, I thought."
Scott's jacket swung from his thin shoulders like a cowl. "You may have hated Dad, but I loved him. His death…"
Daniel loosened his shirt collar. "With Dad gone, you started visiting Ma Dayton, didn't you?"
"She was the only family I had left." Scott picked at his finger and a fingernail came loose. He tore it free, discarding it on the floor. "It's the first time death ever affected me. I took it bad. There's plenty of tramps with stories like that one, but family is important to me. Dad taught us that."
"You're not exactly inconspicuous, though," Daniel said. "Newcastle is too small to hide someone like you. Where exactly have you been?"
"In Spennymoor. Under hedges. Abandoned buildings. Did
you know some people rent their sheds out to the homeless?"
"Why come back now and risk me killing you all over again?"
Bronson tugged at his earlobe and looked away, his frozen cheek jerking back into action.
"Two reasons," Scott answered. He held up his middle finger to Daniel. It shook uncontrollably. "As you can see, I'm not well and I'm not going to get any better sleeping next to a pensioner's bloody lawnmower." He raised a second finger, giving Daniel the V-sign. "The second reason was you. I always said you couldn't lead the Daytons. I never understood why Dad chose you."
His father's chair made Daniel uncomfortable and he gripped the knife for support.
Scott's eyes compressed to slits. "The homeless community is close-knit. Even out in the sticks, I heard how much you were fucking everything up. Never coming out of your house. Letting the Maguires spread like an STD. I even heard this twitchy motherfucker was running the show."
Bronson's face went red, but he clamped his lips together.
Approaching the desk, Scott ran his nail free finger over its old scars, leaving a trail of blood behind. "I heard about the cocaine. It's new. More addictive than ever and I heard how you were going to hand it back like the pansy you really are."
"I said to give it back. Not Daniel," Bronson said.
"Speak when you're spoken to," Scott shouted over his shoulder. Retrieving a handkerchief, he dabbed his sweating forehead while staring into Daniel's eyes. "I wanted to stop you before you did something stupid, but I couldn't get to you fast enough. I was blocked out by those idiots in the trees. I saw the lighter in your hand and guessed what you were about to do. You and your scorched earth policy. It's your answer to everything, isn't it?"
"You're back for the cocaine," Daniel said, caressing the knife handle, its coolness turning to heat. "It was too risky to return while the Daytons were in tatters. There'd be no protection from either me or the Maguires. Like Bronson, you saw the cocaine as the key to rebuilding the firm."
"But I was wrong," Bronson said.
Coming out from behind the desk, Daniel dwarfed the emaciated form of his brother. "Blizzard is a killer. It will turn Newcastle into a den of zombies."