by Shaun Baines
"I hate to say it, but Dad was wrong," Scott said. "You aren't a leader. I can see it in your eyes. You're tired and weak. Something was always eating at you, stopping you from being the son he needed."
Daniel lifted the kitchen knife, his eyes running the length of the blade. The last time he'd used it was to prepare a meal for Eisha. She was hungry and Daniel had no money for a takeaway. Foraging through kitchen cupboards, they settled on sausages and mash. He'd inexpertly chopped the potatoes and boiled them to mush. It was the one and only time he'd cooked. After the meal, they'd fallen asleep together in the TV room, nestled on a bean bag.
The sun had dropped and the room grew darker. Daniel barely saw the other men in the room, but he didn't need to. He sensed them. He smelled Bronson's fear and the sweet stench of illness on his brother. Scott had escaped his death sentence for crimes against the family, but judging from his desiccated body, he was paying a heavy price.
He weighed the knife, gripping it as he pressed a finger to the tip, testing for sharpness. A jewel of blood appeared. Daniel crushed it in his hand and turned to Bronson.
He was glad it was dark. Daniel didn't want his friend to know how much his betrayal had hurt. He dismissed the knotted pain in his stomach and the memory of their friendship. Daniel trusted Scott to be Scott, but he'd trusted Bronson to be much more.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Bronson backed away, his hands raised. "Don't do this. I can explain."
"I trusted you," Daniel said, slashing the air with the purple knife. "Treated you like the brother I never had."
Flailing into the wall, Bronson knocked a painting loose and threw it, striking Daniel in the chest. It shattered into glassy fragments. The bones of the frame broke, but Daniel kept moving.
"I thought if I did as you asked," Daniel said, "you'd come to me, as a friend and tell me your secret."
"You knew all along?" Bronson asked.
"My instincts were built for this. Every time you asked me to trust you, an alarm went off in my head." Daniel wiped his upper lip. "But how could I know how little I meant to you?" He jabbed the knife and the blade seared through Bronson's jacket lining. "I never used my gift on you. Never read your thoughts. I didn't think I needed to."
The office wasn't big enough to escape the onslaught and Bronson edged around the room. "It ate me up every day," he said. "I made a mistake. I let him live when you wanted him dead. I'm sorry."
The pleading in Bronson's voice sickened him and Daniel lunged, stabbing at a thigh. Bronson deflected the attack with an open hand and moved in close, driving a knee into Daniel's stomach.
The air was expelled from his body and Daniel collapsed. He expected a hook to the chin and rolled to one side, bringing a protective arm to his face.
But Bronson retreated. "I did what I thought was best. Just like you. Torching our last fucking chance at salvation."
Staggering to his feet, Daniel bit a sliver of skin from his thumb and swallowed. "Why did you do it? Why did you let him go?"
"You know why."
The darkness of the office was almost complete. Scott stood by the door, his arms folded, a sparkle in his blue eyes.
"Bronson showed mercy," Scott said. "Why don't you do the same?"
"Mercy is what you show to animals when you put them down," Daniel said, raising the knife.
Scott yanked an oil painting off the wall. Stepping in front of Bronson, he swung it at Daniel, catching his jaw with the corner.
There was a flash of light followed by pain. The knife spun from his grasp. Daniel dropped, his head connecting with the floor.
Bronson stood over him, the knife quaking in his hand. "Don't get up. Don't make me do this."
Daniel braced himself, holding onto the floor as it swirled like a tornado. He stood, staggering into the wall, smearing it in crimson.
"We're going now," Scott said, buttoning up his jacket. "Someone has to dig us out the grave you put us in."
Bronson dropped the knife at Daniel's feet. "I want to make this right between us. I'm not walking away from it."
Turning, Bronson slipped through the door, leaving Daniel with his dead brother.
"Are you going to try and kill me?" Scott asked, his teeth chattering from an unseen draught.
The knife was so close. Daniel reached for it, his heavy arm swinging like a vine from a branch. Every time he got near, the knife shifted, eluding his grasp. He gave up with a grunt and straightened, his bones scraping together.
"I think you've suffered already," he said, "but I change my mind all the time. Don't get too comfortable."
Scott snorted and kicked the knife into the centre of the office. "Thanks to you, we'll all be dead soon anyway. The Maguires will hunt us down like the jackals they are."
As Scott made to leave, Daniel grabbed him by the jacket. "Don't be so sure. The cocaine in the van was a decoy. I have the real stuff hidden away."
He shoved his brother through the door, slamming it behind him. His rubbery fingers found the lock, securing it against Scott's hammering fists.
The darkness folded over him, bringing with it a warm sensation. Daniel's throbbing jaw eased to a dull ache. There were no more secrets. They had been scattered to the wind and while he was surrounded by danger, it was no longer hidden.
Daniel closed his eyes and for a second, he thought he might sleep.
Chapter Thirty
Bronson sat behind the wheel of a Ford Fiesta outside of Five Oaks, rubbing his tired eyes. He didn't possess Sprout's talent when it came to stealing cars, forcing him to concentrate on the lower end of the market. With its worn seats and missing hubcaps, the Fiesta was old enough to break down every hundred yards, but not old enough to be considered a classic. He fiddled with the broken heater as his call went to voicemail. Disconnecting, Bronson pressed the phone to his throbbing head.
"Where the hell is Bear?" he whispered.
Scott stepped out of Five Oaks, throwing an admiring glance at the doors as he closed them. He rustled his jacket collar and paused to scan the darkness, finding Bronson blowing on his hands.
"Waiting for me?" Scott asked, peering into the car.
"Daniel thinks he knows the truth. He thinks I just let you free-range, but he'll kill me all the same."
"After what you did, do you blame him?" Scott asked, coughing into his sleeve.
Bronson opened the passenger door and checked his own door was unlocked. If he was doing this, he wanted an escape route.
Scott climbed inside, folding his thin legs into the limited space. "Take me to Seaburn."
The engine kicked in on the second attempt. They drove along the Great North Road, cutting through the Town Moor. The van fire had long since been extinguished, but the smell of incineration stayed with Bronson until they crossed the Tyne where the traffic increased. Bronson wasn't confident in the Fiesta's ability to overtake and they settled behind a truck, its rear lights painting their faces with red.
"Where in Seaburn?" he asked.
Scott stared at his bony hands.
They passed through West and then East Boldon. Bronson hummed tunelessly, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. He glanced at his passenger after every mile of road. Each time, his chest tightened. Scott was as inert as a glacier. If it wasn't for his slow, methodical breathing, Bronson would have thought him dead.
"Keep going," Scott said, reminding Bronson he wasn't.
Blasting through a red light at Black's Corner, the buildings thinned to nothing as the villages gave way to farmland. The car was plunged into darkness, filled with the relentless drumming of tarmac.
"Are you going to tell me where we're going?" Bronson asked
Scott leaned his head on the window. The car was cold, but his breath failed to mist the glass. "You'll see," he said.
They drove through a ghost town of car dealerships, the vehicles locked away from people like Bronson. The glass-fronted buildings stared blankly at him as they passed. He imagined his own pal
e face skimming across their surface, heading God knows where.
"Next left," Scott said, making Bronson jump. He took the roundabout at speed, the Fiesta's brakes doing little to slow them down.
Scott's head clanged off the window and he stared at Bronson accusingly. "Are you trying to be funny?"
"You're not saying anything. It's making me nervous."
They arrived at Seaburn and the streets were empty.
Scott stirred in his seat. "I thought about you, you know? Every fucking day while I was chained to that bed. Every time a needle hit a vein, I imagined killing you."
Bronson placed a ready hand on the door handle, preparing to leap to safety if he had to.
"But when I escaped," Scott continued, "I realised you weren't that important."
The engine screamed as Bronson missed a gear. He fumbled with the stick. "What?"
"You might not believe me, but I've changed." Scott coughed again, hunching over as his chest spasmed. Regaining his strength, he dabbed his mouth with his jacket sleeve. "I'm going through withdrawal. Not just from the smack, but from who I was before you locked me up."
"Is that why you covered for me with all that hobo bullshit?"
Scott nodded. "Lucky for you, Daniel is an idiot."
"What about Clive?" Bronson asked. "You weren't so generous with him."
"Right at the next junction please."
They entered a thirty mile an hour zone and Bronson adjusted his speed, though his heart was racing faster than ever. The sea loomed ahead, a vast inkiness topped with the white foam of crashing waves. It was a residential area and everyone was asleep.
Bronson watched Scott from the corner of his eye. "Are you seriously telling me I'm off the hook? No repercussions? No anything?"
On the high street was an undertakers called Seaburn Cremation and Funerals. There was a picture of a grieving widow with a tearful child. Next to them was a vase of plastic flowers and a discount sign. Scott glanced at it and looked away. "My biggest problem is Daniel. I didn't come back from the dead to see him run our business into the ground."
"You were dead to Daniel once," Bronson said. "He might try again and then it's not much of a problem anymore."
"There's a reason he left you to dispatch his brother." Scott undid his seatbelt and stretched in the seat. "And you know it."
That fateful night was replayed in Bronson's nightmares every time he closed his eyes. Daniel was going to do it. He looked like he might, but Bronson saw beyond the murderous tide in Daniel's face. He saw that tide sweeping his friend out to sea where Daniel would never be found again.
"Pull up here," Scott said. "This is my street."
The road was narrow, made more so from vehicles parked on both sides. Bronson scanned the terraced houses. They looked small. Too small for a man as large as Scott.
"You live here now?"
"Hurry up. I need to rest," Scott said.
Finding the only space available, Bronson stopped the car, but kept the engine running, fearful he wouldn't get it going again. He twisted his hands around the steering wheel and swallowed. "I need to know if you're going to kill me."
"So, you can decide on whether you need to kill me first?" Scott asked. "We've already established that you can't. Isn't that why you chained me up in the first place?"
Winding down the window, Bronson cooled his face on the sea air. "I need proof," he said. "Prove to me you're telling the truth."
Scott nodded and punched him in the mouth. Bronson's lips cut against his teeth. His head rocked backwards. When the car stopped spinning, he saw Scott was smiling.
"I've changed, but not that much," he said. "I still think you're a dick."
Bronson spat blood into the glove compartment and slammed it shut. It was proof of a kind, he supposed.
"Did you think I was going to swear on a Bible?" Scott asked. "My priorities have changed. There are more important things to do than chase you all over Newcastle."
Bronson checked his teeth with tentative fingers. "Like what?"
Scott's eyes glittered like ice. "Daniel still has the cocaine. He didn't burn it. He must have hidden it before he got to the meet."
Daniel was late getting there, remembered Bronson. And he'd been incredibly calm for a man about to torch millions of pounds.
"The Maguires don't know we still have it, "Bronson said. "We can offload it and continue with our expansion."
"Exactly, but we need to know where Daniel is keeping it. I've changed, but he's changed, too. He doesn't seem stable."
"Wait a minute. What's in this for you?"
Opening the door, Scott pulled himself outside. He looked down the street to where a door was opening. Light spilled onto the pavement. Bronson gasped. Monica stood on the street, giving him a shy wave. Her hair had changed, but it was definitely her. She wore a black dressing gown over the bump of Scott's baby.
"That's all I want," Scott said. "I want to be back. I want a family."
Bronson shook his head. Monica had been missing since the Fairbanks affair, but she clearly hadn't gone far. She'd skirted the edge of the map until it was time to return.
"How did you escape from The Playground?" Bronson asked.
"By a miracle," Scott said.
"This is too much horseshit for one night," Bronson said.
"That's why I need you here in the morning." Scott peered into the car. "I have more proof for you. More reasons to trust me. Listen, why do the Maguires' goons wear masks?"
Bronson shrugged. "So they stay anonymous in their everyday life."
"I sneaked up on those two at the Town Moor. I heard them talking." Scott raked broken fingernails over his scalp. "Apparently, their masks were itchy. They didn't put them on until the last minute."
"You know who they are?"
"And where they'll be tomorrow. They couldn't shut up about it. Why don't we go for a little drive tomorrow and do some murdering?"
Scott tapped the roof of the car as a goodbye and left in the direction of home. Monica greeted him with a kiss and they went inside, closing the door behind them. The last light of the street blinked out, leaving Bronson cupping his injured mouth, his head spinning from more than Scott's punch.
Too much had happened to think straight, but they had the cocaine. That was the first thing. Scott wasn't going to kill him. That was the second. Daniel might, but if Bronson brought him the heads of two of his enemies, he might get a pass.
Bronson grinned into the night. The weight he'd been carrying for the last few months slipped from his shoulders. He put the Fiesta into gear and the engine rumbled to a stop.
The car was dead and Bronson was going nowhere.
Chapter Thirty-One
The ABC cinema was on the corner of Ocean Road in South Shields. It was a majestic building with a wide, stone stepped entrance. Marble pillars stood either side of an open door. The smell of popcorn wafted onto the street, tempting customers into the spacious foyer. Posters of upcoming films were mounted on the walls. The carpet was a deep purple, ridged with the track marks of a recent vacuuming. Early in the morning, the single screen cinema was empty. Just the way Lee Hicklewood liked it.
He stood transfixed under a small screen showing trailers. Lee wore baggy jeans and a 'Born To Be Bad' t-shirt, similar to the one Arnold Schwarzenegger wore in the film Twins. He'd bought it online as part of a fan club deal. Over the top of it was a green jacket with secretive pockets.
An LED display showed their film was about to start. Lee didn't want to miss the beginning and turned to the snack stall. The Dude was handing over his money, a stripy bucket of popcorn under his arm. He bought the same thing every week because Lee hated salt and The Dude never shared.
"Anything good coming out?" The Dude asked, joining him under the screen.
The Dude's ginger beard covered the collar of his Aran jumper. His head was shaved to disguise his premature balding. He'd named himself after the character in The Big Lebowski, a favourite film of his,
though Lee didn't see the appeal.
"A new Aliens film," Lee answered.
"Another one? Talk about flogging a dead xenomorph."
"And an Amy Schumer film. Christ, when will she get the message?" Lee nodded toward the screen entrance. "Come on. It'll be starting in a minute."
The Dude stuffed a fistful of popcorn in his mouth. "Aren't you getting something to eat?"
Lee unzipped his jacket, revealing a furtive packet of Haribo. "I'm not paying their prices. Come on."
What Lee loved most about the ABC was its old-fashioned glamour. It had been modernised to keep up with public taste, but its heart remained unchanged. The seats were velvet cushioned. The drink holders were brass. The ceiling was high with three dimmed crystalline chandeliers. But best of all was the staging. The screen was small in comparison to the modern multiplexes. It was concealed behind long, flowing drapes, revealing itself like a grand dame when the time was right.
"This place is a gem," Lee said, finding his usual seat.
The Dude sat beside him. "An empty gem. I'm surprised they can keep it going."
"That's why we take time off and come in the morning. So, we can have the place to ourselves."
As he spoke, two couples walked in, whispering and sniggering together. The men were dressed in expensive clothes. Their two female companions were blonde. They giggled and dropped popcorn like breadcrumbs as they wandered the aisles deciding on where to sit.
Lee watched open-mouthed.
"What are they doing here?" The Dude asked.
The couples sat two rows ahead, uncomfortably close.
"Try and ignore them," Lee whispered to The Dude.
One of the men faced him, shrugging off his calfskin jacket. "I hope you're not intending to talk through the whole movie," he said.
The Dude flicked popcorn at him. "Turn your arse around," he said. "And it's film. Not movie. This is Europe, mate."
The man held his gaze. His date, the slimmer of the blondes, placed a calming hand on his arm and he took his seat. The other man twisted in his, looking directly at Lee and The Dude, pressing a finger to his lips.