by Wes Markin
But before he found out what his next job was, Borya wanted to be as smooth as he could possibly be.
6
YORKE DIDN’T KNOW where to start. He opted to be confrontational. ‘I always knew those skiing scars were lies. Are they from your father?’
Patricia looked up at him. ‘You know I won’t talk with you like this. There are reasons. Good reasons. And if you want to talk, we can, like adults.’ She then continued to eat.
‘Are you bloody serious? How’ve you got an appetite?’
‘I don’t, but it’s either that or a conversation with you. I’ve given you my terms for that, and you’re still not meeting them.’
‘There is a woman dead, Pat. An innocent woman shot in the back of the head!’
Patricia put her Ryvita down. ‘Now, I’ve definitely lost my appetite. Has my father anything to do with this murder?’
‘How am I supposed to bloody know that without the truth? The truth you were concealing when we took our flipping vows! Herbert Wheelhouse, Janice Edward’s uncle, is in the same jail as your father, Douglas Firth. I’ve just interviewed Wheelhouse and discovered that his niece’s murder was a hit. A revenge killing for him turning his back on the Youngs and taking their money.’
‘So, this probably has nothing to do with my father?’
‘Bloody hell, Pat, you are being incorrigible! I don’t know … yet!’
‘Precisely, so I’m going back to my eggs, until you calm down and agree to discuss this like adults—’
Ewan came into the kitchen. ‘Someone stressed out?’ He walked past the table and over to the fridge. He pulled out a bottle of milk. There wasn’t much left, so he drank it straight from the bottle.
‘It’s been one of those days,’ Yorke said. ‘As you know.’
Patricia nodded. ‘How are you, honey?’
Ewan placed the bottle in the sink. ‘Lexi helped me come to terms with it. I was actually starting to feel better until I heard the raised voices. Takes me back to Mum and Dad … you know … before their divorce.’
Yorke stood up. ‘Yes. Sorry Ewan. We should know better.’ He looked at Patricia. ‘I should know better.’
‘Yes, well,’ Ewan said as he walked past Yorke and out of the kitchen, ‘like you said, it has been one of those days.’
Yorke sat back down.
Patricia put down her spoon and offered him a smile. ‘Calm and ready now?’
Yorke sighed. ‘Calm, and most definitely ready.’
After making every inch of his lean, muscular body smooth, Borya replaced the razor in the bathroom cupboard and took a very long shower.
He liked to feel every part of his body as he washed. He traced every defining line; massaged every swollen muscle; explored every orifice.
After the shower, he stood naked on his landing, and adjusted several canvases. To most eyes, they would appear straight. To his, they were anything but.
This was the way of the world, he knew. Everything subtly trying to exert power.
Borya saw it all. He took the power back. That was his greatest strength.
In his office, he sat before his computer screen and clicked the email from the company ‘Power Protein.’ He opened a pad in front of him, picked up a pen, and starting with the words, ‘Exclusive offer.’ He counted twenty letters. R. Then, another fifteen. I. Another ten. V. Five. E. Back to the start of the sequence to count twenty. R.
Eventually, he’d written: RIVERSIDEPARKCAFE.
He then counted the testimonials from rabid consumers of Power Protein. There were thirteen, so he wrote down 13:00. Thirteen was also an odd number, so it meant tomorrow. An even number would have indicated the subsequent day.
He smiled. He never touched protein shakes. Vile stuff.
Protein Power may have been a fake company, but there were many real ones out there. Attempting to influence – attempting to make you consume. He deleted the email.
He felt the beginnings of an erection and looked at the clock on the computer screen.
The same time every day.
Like clockwork.
‘And when I was seven, while I held my father’s hand, I watched my younger brother die.’
Yorke expected a tear, but Patricia remained stony-faced.
‘The hit and run?’
She shook her head. ‘Geoff Stirling didn’t run. He got out of the car to plead his innocence because Ian had run out into the road for his football. It seemed speeding was a foreign concept for Stirling. It was for the courts as well – he never went to jail.’
Yorke reached over the table to hold her hand. She thanked him with a smile.
‘Before I met you, Mike, I’d spent most of my life in turmoil over this. It took a lot of help, professionally and medically, to get to where I am today. I wanted to share it with you, I really did, but I was desperate for it not to interfere with what I’d found with you.’
‘It will never interfere with what we’ve found.’
The first tear came. It rolled down her cheek. ‘After the accident, my father smashed the living room window and marched out to Stirling with a shard of glass. Fortunately, some neighbours held him back before he could use it. I say fortunately, but it only really delayed the inevitable. He murdered Stirling two years later.’
‘Collette gave me the details,’ Yorke said. ‘You don’t have to go through them again.’
‘The bayonet was my grandfather’s.’
‘So, they used that to get him for the murder?’
‘No. The bayonet wasn’t registered. I just remember my grandfather showing it to me when I was a little girl. He died before I was six. A small mercy for him perhaps? Never having to see what his son became.’
‘Collette said he became mixed up in organised crime.’
Patricia nodded. ‘My father was a good man, Mike … before … you must believe me on that. Even Mum will agree. But what we saw that day, with Ian, snapped something inside him.’
‘As it would anyone, I’m sure.’ Yorke squeezed her hand.
‘Geoff Stirling was part of a British firm in Southampton connected to some of the crime families operating in London. Even though the police couldn’t prove that my father murdered Stirling, this firm didn’t need evidence. Normally, the murder of one of their own would have incited them, and on any other occasion my father would’ve been staring down the barrel of a shotgun. However, this firm had had a gutful of Stirling already. He was cocky and a liability. Driving around in a flash car that killed an innocent child was just one of the many incidents that irritated the firm and the connected bigwigs in London.’ She paused to take a mouthful of water.
‘So, they offered your father a job instead?’ Yorke said.
Patricia sighed. ‘He loved us dearly, and we were his everything. He got in with the wrong people because he thought he could better support us, protect us, and take us all into a life where nothing this tragic could possibly happen again. Be the top of the food chain, rather than the bottom. That kind of thinking. You’ve come across it before.’
Yorke nodded. ‘What did they ask him to do?’
‘They never asked. They made him do it. They said he owed them for taking out one of their men. Later, after he adjusted to this new life, he must have figured out he was better off. And as for what he did for them? I don’t know absolutely everything, but it did involve murder. He went to jail in 1986.’
‘The year DNA profiling was introduced,’ Yorke said. ‘Did they link him to a killing?’
‘Yes. The Stirling crime eight years previous. He left DNA on the bayonet. So, he was given a life sentence and, while he was inside, they found DNA linking him to a firm-related murder too. So, he’s now serving two back-to-back.’
‘When was the last time you saw him, Pat?’
‘Thirty years ago. The day he was arrested from our house. I was seventeen.’
‘You must have been in contact since then?’
‘Never contacted him, but I’ve heard fro
m him. A lot. He writes to my mother’s house every week. Two letters. One each.’
‘And do you read them?’
‘Every now and again. There are a lot, and once you’ve read one, you’ve read them all. They’re all about how he regrets everything; how much he cares about us; Ian’s death and what it did to him, and his desperate claim that he will never stop loving us. The same themes run through every letter. He’s also become a big reader inside, so he liked to provide little book reviews to pad out his letters. I don’t think he has a great deal more to write about. My mother keeps every letter. Mine and hers. Opened and unopened.’
‘Does he ever try phoning?’
‘He did. He’s given up over the last couple of years. I can’t have anything to do with a man who made those choices. I won’t lie. There are times I have been tempted, and I remembered the times when he’d cuddle me all night because I’d relive Ian’s death in my dreams over and over. He could be so tender, so adoring of me. I miss my father. I miss him so much. But, he made those choices, and by going back to him, I’d have to confront, again and again, what he’s become. In some of the letters I have read, he seemed to understand this. Mike, my father is gone. I told you he was dead and, in a way, I didn’t lie to you.’
‘I’m so sorry, Patricia.’
‘I know you are, and part of me feels so ashamed that I haven’t told you. But I wanted to spare you, and as I said before, myself.’
‘For better or worse, remember? Please never keep things from me again.’
She leaned forward and kissed his hand, which still lay on hers. ‘I won’t.’
‘So the skiing accident?’
Patricia sighed and nodded. ‘Yes, that’s a lie.’
‘What really happened then?’
‘The worst thing you can imagine … I died.’
Naked, and fully erect, Borya checked the curtains in the living room. Satisfied that there were no spaces for intrusive eyes, he pulled the leather sofa out so he could access the small safe he concealed behind it.
He punched in the code, opened the safe door and took out the glass jar. After depositing it on the coffee table, he pushed the sofa back, and then sat on a wooden chair he’d brought in from the kitchen. Without clothes on, he felt every inch of the spindles. He ran his hands over the towel he’d draped over the arm of the chair.
He leaned forward in the chair and picked up the lighting control and pumped every bulb in the room up to 100%. Then, he reached for the second control and fired up the stereo.
Death Metal. The room was soundproofed, and the windows as high as 95%, so he knew he could risk the volume. He jacked it up as loud as he could.
In such discomfort, how could anyone maintain sexual arousal? The spindles digging into his spine, the contents of the jar before him, the intense lighting that caused him to squint, and the band Cannibal Corpse eating up the quiet. He moved his thick tongue over his lips, dampening them as he stimulated himself.
The distractions should beat him. His erection should wane.
He stared at the jar, saw the body parts move in the formaldehyde, as if they were watching him, jarring with him. Up and down. Up and down.
He sensed the climax had moved closer, but it was evading him. His heart was thrashing too hard in his chest, and he felt rivulets of sweat racing down his body. He couldn’t maintain this much longer. He would have to stop soon … accept he was beaten … or collapse with exhaustion, or worse still, with a heart attack.
He took a deep breath and felt the moment.
Everything was quiet. Still.
Peace.
He roared and found the height of pleasure.
Then, as he stared into his parents’ eyes, he climaxed.
7
YORKE WAS NEVER going to sleep after the day he’d had. Neither was Patricia, but at least she was good at pretending. He just rolled around, fluffed a few pillows, and worked himself up into such a sweaty state that he was more geared up for a gym session than a rest.
When Patricia had defied the odds, and finally nodded off, Yorke lifted her vest and looked at the criss-crossing scars that she’d spent so many years passing off as the result of a skiing accident.
Then his mind wandered back to her revelations earlier about what had really caused them.
‘He was doing all of this for us, remember? Good old Douglas Firth … family man. At least that is what he had us all thinking. And he was probably right, to a certain extent, until he started drinking and taking cocaine, and then it became all about him.
‘My father picked me up every day from school. He was very protective, and overly cautious, as a result of what’d happened to Ian. Sometimes, he may have had a beer or two, but he was never late, and was always sober.
‘On the seventh anniversary of my brother’s death, he broke this trend by being fifteen minutes late. Discovering that my father wasn’t even driving, and that he was blind drunk and asleep in the passenger side made me panic. I was only fourteen at the time. After getting into the car, I started to cry. A young Irishman called Ryan, early twenties at the most, told me not to worry. My father had asked him to drive because he’d had too much to drink.
‘Ryan started to tell me about where he was from in Northern Ireland. He told me about the troubles, and some of the things he’d seen and experienced. I remember thinking that my current situation was nothing in comparison, and I remember feeling quite guilty. No doubt this was his intention. A few times, he reached behind and patted my knee. I had a skirt on, and no tights, but tried not to read into him touching me at this point – my father was in the front, after all, and he just seemed very friendly. In fact, he’d started to make me feel better. But then … sorry … can I have some of your water?’
Yorke passed her his glass, and she took a large mouthful. ‘Thanks. Jesus, Mike, why are the things that happened so long ago always the most overwhelming?’
Yorke kissed her on the forehead. ‘Would you like to stop for a bit?’
‘No … I’ll be okay.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Anyway … Ryan’s questions started to get really personal … he asked me if I liked to drink. I told him I was only fourteen, and he claimed he was stunned by this. He’d thought I was sixteen. He said he’d started drinking when he was fourteen. He also pointed out that my father liked to drink. After I told him I didn’t like the taste, he took the hint and moved on to talk about his ex-girlfriend in Ireland, who had been sixteen, and had looked quite like me … I think you can see where this is going. I remember smiling but feeling very awkward. I also remember leaning over to shake my father but that did no good. He just slumped further down in his chair and started to snore.
‘It got worse … Ryan asked if I’d ever had a boyfriend, and again, I told him that I was only fourteen. And the weasel’s response to this was to go for my knee again. Except this time, he left his hand there. I froze over. I desperately wanted to brush his hand away, but I was so young, embarrassed, and so, so scared. He was leering at me in his rear-view mirror and he must have been able to see how terrified and red-faced I was. Shit, I’m shaking even now, Mike, just give me a second …’
Yorke squeezed her hand.
‘Sorry … I know it was so long ago … but even now, over thirty years later, I see that face. I see his large smile and those yellowed, crooked teeth and sometimes, when the memories get particularly bad, I feel that hand on my leg again.
‘I tried hard to keep myself calm. What could he do? He was driving me home … I would be with my mother soon. And my father? Surely, the pervert must have known what my father would do to him if he kept his hand there for too much longer?
‘But then he started to stroke my leg. All the time, watching me in the mirror. Telling me to calm down and that everything would be fine. Leering at me.’
She was crying now. Mike kissed her hand. ‘Take a moment, Pat.’
‘No … no … don’t stop me now, Mike, I need to finish this. I want to finish this. Sometim
es when I think back, I worry that I allowed him to do that. Ridiculous, I know. I was a fourteen-year-old girl.
‘My memory gets a little hazy at this point, maybe because it was so close to the actual accident, or maybe because I was so emotional, but I’m sure I asked him to stop. He then moved his hand onto the inside of my thigh. I’m positive I told him enough was enough and that he should concentrate on the road. He only had one hand on the wheel. I’m sure I told him that my father would be unhappy with the way he was driving. I hope I did say all these things, but Mike, I’m not so sure I did …’
‘I’m positive you would have done.’
‘Yes … you say that Mike, but I genuinely can’t remember. It all blurs. And sometimes I worry that I led him on to begin with. However, I’m absolutely certain the next thing happened. I mean, could anyone really imagine this level of fear? The bastard missed the turn off to our home.’
She pulled her hand away from Yorke’s and looked him dead in the eyes. ‘It snapped me into life – I remember that vividly too. I pushed Ryan’s hand away and shouted at him to stop. I saw him glancing at my father. He was playing a dangerous game, and he knew it. I undid my seatbelt and told him to stop the car. I told him that I would walk home.
‘He started to accelerate. He had both of his hands back on the wheel now which was something, but I had no idea what he planned to do and where he was taking me. I shouted as loudly as I could for him to stop, hoping it would wake my father up.
‘When Ryan realised that this wasn’t going to happen, he laughed. He started to take the piss by imitating me. He said he was going to take us somewhere quiet. He couldn’t have meant it. If he did, he must have had a death wish. Unless he planned to kill us both perhaps? Was I really worth that amount of bother?
‘He reached round again and grabbed my leg. Harder this time. I pounded his hand, but he kept a firm grip. I dug my nails in and drew blood. He was also looking around fully now and wasn’t watching the road.
