by Shaun Baines
"In the meantime," Bronson said. "Why don't I take you home? Settle your nerves with a nice cup of tea?"
"You'll help?" Sophia asked. "You'll find her?"
Bronson's cheek danced in anticipation, but he wasn't waiting for Daniel to answer. They both knew they were taking the job. They couldn't afford to have a kidnapping ring operating out of Newcastle. There were some crimes a criminal didn't commit. Using children, even those who were technically adults, was off limits.
"These stories you've been hearing?" Daniel asked Sophia. "How many of these kids are returned?"
Her face paled as she stared at her ruined tissue.
Daniel took her hand. "Go with my friend. He'll take you home. At least it will be quieter there."
The music stopped abruptly, the two songs ending with the ringing of the bell as Charlie's customers left.
"Are you not coming with us?" Sophia asked.
"I need to make some calls," Daniel said, reaching for his phone.
Sophia left her shredded tissue on the table and scraped back her chair. She walked into the sweet shop without looking back.
"You like her, then?" Daniel asked, tapping keys.
Bronson scratched his moustache. "I wouldn't say 'like,' exactly."
"I would," Daniel said. "You're acting like a puppy with two dicks."
"Since when did you care about my love life?"
"I don't, but this is our chance to do something good," Daniel said. "We can rid Newcastle of some unsavoury characters. I can't do that if your tongue is hanging out."
"Are you saying what I think you're saying?" Bronson asked.
Daniel nodded. "Yeah. Make sure you get the money up front."
Bronson followed Sophia out of the storeroom, rubbing his hands together, but he paused at the doorway. "What the hell happened here?"
Cursing, Daniel abandoned his phone and joined him in the shop. Sophia cowered behind a display of strawberry laces. Her eyes were wide. Her fingers pressed to her lips.
The shop was thick with the smell of sugar and sweat. The walls were lined with shelves bowing under the weight of boiled sweets. In the centre was a spinning carousel filled with pick n mix. Its electric engine stuttered, spilling silver foiled chocolates at Daniel's feet.
Charlie the shop owner was bent over the counter, his double chin swaying like a pendulum. He looked up when Daniel approached.
"I didn't want to interrupt you guys," he said.
His lip bled onto the counter.
"Sorry, boss," Bronson said, returning from the street outside. "They got away."
Coffee creams squelched under Daniel's feet as he surveyed the damage. "What happened?" he asked with a growl.
"They've been coming around," Charlie said. "Making threats. I didn't think they'd do anything. They're just kids."
"What did they want?" Daniel asked.
"Money. Always money." Charlie picked up a stripy paper bag and used it to stem the blood from his mouth. "I say to them, the Daytons are here. They look after Bon Bon Voyage, but they never listen. They are going to take over the whole of the street. They say they are moving in."
Daniel rotated his head around his shoulders. The cracking made Sophia jump.
"Are they offering protection?" he asked.
Charlie pulled down a jar of sherbet lemons and filled his mouth. He nodded, the boiled sweets rattling in his cheeks.
"Are you okay?" Sophia asked.
Charlie's left eye was swelling, colouring purple as his face turned to grey.
"I'll be fine, guys," he said, collapsing behind the counter.
Daniel and Bronson rushed to his aide. They hovered over him. A shank of candy rock protruded from Charlie's abdomen, the sugar dissolving under the warmth of his blood.
"I'll be fine," he said again, his eyes rolling back into his head.
"How dare they do this to me?" Daniel shouted. He swept his arm across the counter, scattering gumballs and liquorice bullets to the floor. "Do they know who I am?"
"We should call an ambulance," Sophia said.
"How many businesses do we collect from around here?" Daniel asked.
Bronson looked at Charlie's unconscious form. "Seven," he said, "and if one of them stops paying, they'll all stop."
"We can't let that happen." Daniel kneeled beside Charlie. "Don't worry, mate. We're going to look after you."
He grabbed the stick of rock and yanked it free, staunching the wound with a nearby wad of tissues. "We need to shut them down," Daniel said to Bronson. "Take Charlie to the hospital and find out who did this."
"I was going to take Sophia home," Bronson said, casting a glance in her direction.
Daniel stood, wiping his bloody hands on his trousers. "I'll do it."
Bronson pulled out his car keys. "I can drop Charlie off on the way there."
Daniel took Sophia by the arm, leading her through the demolished shop. He kicked open the door and ushered her outside.
"Take care of this," Daniel said, "and I'll take care of your girlfriend."
The door slammed shut and Bronson watched them disappear.
Chapter Seven
Tynemouth sat at the opening of the River Tyne as it emptied into the North Sea. Perched on coastal highlands was a ruined castle battered by the elements. Away from the river, the cliffs crumbled into rocks stained by seaweed. No tourists dared traverse the slippery outcrop, content instead with strolling along the promenade, braced against the weather.
Daniel and Sophia had joined the A187 after squeezing through the clogged artery of the Tyne Tunnel. They continued along the Coast Road. Grass verges were crowded with daffodils struggling against the wind, growing horizontal to the ground. Night was descending and lampposts blinked into life.
Turning their backs on the sea, they crossed a stream called Letch's Burn. To Daniel, it sounded like an STD.
"Your friend is a little strange, isn't he?" Sophia asked. She'd been silent on the journey there and Daniel wondered why she'd suddenly thought of Bronson.
"A little," he said.
"How long have you known him?"
Daniel drove into a housing estate filled with trees. Like the daffodils, they grew at an angle, having spent a lifetime under the influence of a sea wind. The houses looked Victorian, straight-backed edifices with heavy lintels over the windows. It lent them a dour expression, as if they'd spent their existence in disapproval.
"For as long as I remember," Daniel said.
"And how long's that?" Sophia asked. "What are you? Mid-twenties?"
Daniel's face was lined with worry, more than age. He carried scars, too. Knives, bullets and on one occasion, barbed wire. Some were inflicted by enemies, some by friends and family. If life was measured by experiences rather than years, he ought to be receiving his telegram from the Queen soon.
"I'm twenty-four," he said.
Sophia rolled her eyes. "God, I must seem ancient to you."
"A little," he said.
The atmosphere in the van changed and Daniel waited for Sophia to speak.
"That's my house there," she said, undoing the seatbelt before the van stopped.
Sophia's house was a detached, narrow building three storeys high. The windows were lead-lined and rectangular. The garden lawn extended around all four sides of the property. It was divided by a tiled garden path leading to the front door.
"I'll get your money," Sophia said, getting out of the van.
Daniel followed, joining her on the pavement. "I'll look around the house," Daniel said. "Make sure you're safe."
"That won't be necessary." Sophia marched up the path, taking her keys from her handbag as she went. "Give me two seconds," she said before disappearing inside.
Daniel hovered on the doorstep, peering into the darkness of the house. Why wasn't Sophia turning on the lights?
Edging through the door, Daniel crept down a hallway toward the rear of the house. The air smelled of pine disinfectant and furniture polish, making his
nose twitch. He found himself in a large kitchen with granite worktops and grey flagstones on the floor. There were no pans waiting to be washed, and every surface glistened.
He squinted through the kitchen window and found the rear garden empty of life. Daniel stole back down the hallway, listening to Sophia upstairs, her footsteps light and swift. He opened a door into a drawing room and saw nothing but sofas and velvet cushions. The fireplace was swept clean of ash.
Daniel didn't know what the next room was for. An upright piano stood against one wall and a harp was against the other. Styrofoam boxes filled with self-help books teetered under a bay window. There were a number of hard backed chairs and Daniel hoped this wasn't some sort of entertainment room. If it was, where was the telly?
No wonder Sophia's daughter acted out. Her home was a mausoleum.
A floorboard creaked above him and he hurried back to the front door, satisfied the house was safe.
"Actually, Daniel," Sophia called from upstairs. "Can you give me a hand?"
He followed her voice up a winding staircase and gravitated toward the scrapes and grunts behind a bedroom door. He paused, questioning what he might find when he opened it.
"Can you help me please?" came Sophia's voice again.
He scanned the landing, suspicious of a trap. There were three other rooms, but he heard nothing. Bracing his hand on the bedroom door, he slowly pushed it open.
The room was huge with a king-sized bed and a quilt cover matching the pastel shades of the walls. There was a two-seater sofa, another fireplace and a writing desk.
Sophia was crushed between an oak wardrobe and a painting she had seemingly pulled from the wall. It was four foot by three with a gilded wooden frame.
"What are you doing?" Daniel asked.
"My money is tied up in the house."
Daniel clasped a hand over his eyes. "Please don't say it."
"This painting is worth over seven thousand pounds," she said as it pressed against her chest. "You could easily get three for it."
"You said you had the money," Daniel said, his teeth grinding together.
Sophia struggled under the painting. "This is the money."
"And where are you going to get the other thousands you owe?" Daniel asked. "Are you going to pay me in harps and a piano?"
"If I have to," Sophia said, gasping.
Daniel lifted the painting with one hand, pulling Sophia free with the other. She perched on the bed while he leaned the painting by the door, studying the whirling shapes on the canvas.
"What is it?" he asked. "I want to say…some sort of horse?"
"It's abstract. Post-modernism," Sophia answered, rubbing her chest.
He turned to face her. "Sell the painting yourself and pay the ransom."
Sophia wrung her hands, her face puckering and her eyes filling with tears. "Do you have a family?"
Daniel nodded.
"I'd do anything to get my daughter back," Sophia said, "but what kind of parent would I be if I left the rest behind?"
"Your daughter would be home," Daniel said. "With you."
"Are you sure?"
On their quiet drive there, Daniel had thought about what Sophia had told him. They were dealing with people who would happily slice off a body part and post it to a worried parent. They had nerves strong enough to draw out a dangerous situation and they had the resources to keep their operation a secret. Releasing Sophia's daughter wouldn't be part of their plan.
"Yes, I'm sure," Daniel said, examining the painting and shaking his head.
"What if your daughter had been stolen?" Sophia asked. "And I was the only one who cared enough to bring her back?"
The bones crunched under the skin of Daniel's hand as he worked his stiff fingers. "No-one would dare assault my family."
But Eisha had been kidnapped once and Daniel's heart had never fully recovered. Neither had the man who had taken her. Bronson was also a member of Daniel's family and his friend had suffered because of it. Bear had lost his husband and child.
To know Daniel was to know death and guilt was his burden.
"The rest of the money has to be real," he said, taking the painting. "Bronson will kill me otherwise."
"Who? Your friend?" Sophia studied the thick carpet under her feet. "I think he likes me."
"I never noticed."
"He's about my age."
Daniel studied the painting, wondering which way up it went. "I guess."
He turned to Sophia and saw a trepidation tightening the skin around her eyes. Her fingers trembled as she undid a button of her blouse. Her cleavage was on view and Daniel saw the quickening heartbeat beneath.
Sophia swallowed. "If it helps, we could…"
Daniel slammed the bedroom door shut, intent on getting her full attention. He stood over her quivering form, shoving a finger into Sophia's face.
"Don't push your luck," he said with a snarl.
Sophia's hand dropped from her blouse. "I'm sorry. I thought…"
"I'll tell you once and once only," Daniel said. "Stay away from my friend."
Chapter Eight
Bronson reclined in the front seat of a Ford Focus, fighting sleep. After dropping Charlie off at the RVI Hospital and inventing a reason as to why the shop owner had been stabbed with a stick of rock, Bronson had returned to Pelaw.
The high street was a string of independent retailers, including Charlie's sweet shop, a key cutter's and a hairdressing salon called Shearer's. The buildings sported sagging roofs and gutters filled with weeds. The pavement was spotted with chewing gum. Cars packed with families trundled by on their way to the bigger outlets in Newcastle.
Bronson was parked in a side street under a broken lamppost. The area was quiet, the shops already closed. He didn't know why he was there, except that Daniel had ordered it. Sitting motionless didn't agree with him and Bronson shifted in his seat, massaging his aching knees.
His eyes fell on the shutters barricading Charlie's shop. They were locked, preventing anyone from getting inside. Sophia had been in there. She was locked away from him, too. Not that it mattered. Guys like Bronson never got the girl. It was always men like Daniel.
A pack of teenagers stalked along the street. There were five of them, their long legs poured into skin tight jeans. Hoodies curled over their faces.
Bronson sat up and watched.
Out front was a willowy girl around fifteen years old. She had a shock of ginger hair and porcelain skin that seemed to glow.
With nowhere to go, the teenagers stopped by a bus stop caked in graffiti. Vaping pens were produced. Green and red spheres danced in the darkness, casting disco lights over clouds of smoke. Someone produced a mobile phone. Selecting from a playlist, they swayed to music sounding like a cat thrown from a roof. They kept their heads low, occasionally glancing along the road.
A single decker bus pulled up at the stop, exhaust fumes matching the smoke of the vaping pens.
A man in his thirties walked to the exit. His hair was gelled into spikes and he wore dungarees over a yellow T-shirt. He hesitated when he saw the teenagers, but puffed out his chest and stepped onto the pavement.
The taunting started immediately.
Like Bronson, the bus driver guessed what would happen next. Without closing the bus doors, the driver sharply pulled into the road. The car behind slammed on its brakes and sounded an angry horn. For the man in dungarees, it was like ringing a bell at the start of a boxing match.
The pack of teenagers circled him as he searched for a means of escape. They hurled abuse. They pushed him. Their hoodies fell back to their shoulders and their pale faces twisted in cruelty and delight.
Attempting to break free, the man stumbled and the teenagers rained down fists, stomping on him with big-tongued trainers.
A couple on the other side of the street yelled at the teenagers in disgust, shaking their heads. The teenagers laughed, promising the couple they were next in line. Believing every word, the couple hurried
on, passing Bronson's car as he climbed from his seat.
As if sensing the presence of a bigger predator, the pack stopped and sniffed the air.
Their victim used the diversion to run. Dragging an injured leg, he lolloped into the traffic, waving his arms for help. The cars slowed, but only to avoid hitting him. They passed by like a stream might do a rock.
Bronson waited until the injured man staggered into the distance. Their sport gone, the teenagers shuffled toward an empty bakery. The red haired girl wrapped her knuckles on the shutters. A light came on and they rattled open.
Bronson checked his pockets. He wasn't carrying a weapon, but didn't care. These were kids, after all. Any skirmish wasn't going to take long, he thought and wondered what time Sophia went to bed. Would it be too late to invite her out for a drink? Something casual, he'd say. Just a follow up on their earlier discussions.
He looked at his watch with a grin and followed the teenagers inside the bakery.
Chapter Nine
Icing Easy was one shop in a chain of bakeries covering the whole of the North East. Bread, whole or sliced, pasties, pies, sausage rolls and pre-packed sandwiches; they were all piled on shelves or drying under hot lamps.
The light in the shop was harsh and Bronson held a hand over his eyes.
"We're closed, pet," he heard a voice say.
He looked up and saw a middle aged woman in a checked apron standing at the counter. Round glasses covered most of her face and her mouth was open where she ground chewing gum through her teeth. Her name tag read 'Polly.'
"Do you sell salad?" Bronson asked.
Polly's eyes narrowed. Their lines were magnified through her large glasses. She glanced over her shoulder at the baker's ovens behind her. "Not unless it's wrapped in pastry," she said.
Bronson walked to the counter, eyeing the selection of pies sweating under a red bulb. "If you're closed, why did you let those kids inside?"
She stiffened under his gaze. "Don't know what you're talking about."
At Polly's shoulder, ribbons of heavy plastic sheeting marked the boundary between the shop and the ovens. Although it was see-through, Bronson only saw the vaguest of shapes.