Rival Sons

by Aidan Thorn

  The barman backed away again.

  “What’s with all the fucking questions, my man?” he asked, in a tone that felt insulted, “Are you with the police or something?”

  Kyle held up a hand in an ‘I come in peace’ gesture.

  “Not at all, son. I’m just curious, is all. It was always a bit of a shitehole around here, but fuck it’s gone downhill. But if you don’t want to say anymore that’s no skin off my nose, fella.”

  Kyle lifted his pint to his mouth and spotted a faint lip-shaped mark on the other side of the glass. He was sure of two things, it wasn’t his, and it had probably been there a while judging by the lack of custom. He drank it down quick, slid from his stool and hoisted his luggage onto his shoulder.

  “Where you planning on staying? You won’t find a hotel around here,” the barman called out as Kyle nodded an acknowledgement of goodbye to him.

  “What’s with the questions?” Kyle responded mockingly.

  “Look, I’m sorry about that, alright. It’s just not every day we get a stranger in here asking about the place. In fact, you’re the first new face I’ve seen in here in about a year. It’s usually a couple of local alkies or Graham Gordon’s dealers and their customers that I get to see,” the barman said. “And that’s how this place stays open, OK.”

  “Drugs?”

  “The landlord turns a blind eye and Graham has dropped the protection payments to a minimum.”

  This news was surprising. Yes, Frank had been an arsehole, he’d run things, bad things for many years, but drugs had always been a no-go area for his crews. Graham was clearly operating under a different set of rules, letting everyone know that he was in charge now. Judging by the state of the old town it was a case of the king is dead, let’s piss on his remains.

  “Fucking hell, this place really has gone to the dogs, hasn’t it?”

  “It was starting from a pretty low base to begin with, but yeah,” the barman said. “Listen, not that you need to worry too much, you look like you can handle yourself, but be careful out there, alright. There are some right nasty fuckers and they’ll notice a new face walking around. Especially one that looks half handy, they’ll want to do their alpha dog thing, try showing you who’s boss. Someone’s bound to have a pop. If you’re not here for trouble, you probably don’t want to be walking about the streets too much on your own, well not after dark anyhow. You got somewhere to stay sorted because this place does B&B—it’s shite, but it’s available, always—if you want it?”

  “Thanks for the tip off, I’ll be sure to watch my back.” Kyle flexed the arm that held his bag and his t-shirt stretched over his bicep and the muscles in his forearm rippled beneath army tats. It was a cocky move that said, don’t worry about me, kid. “And thanks for the offer of a place to stay, but I’m good. I’ll be staying with family until I get myself a place to live.”

  “You’re moving in around here? Are you fucking mad?”

  “Not for long. My mother’s ill, not got long to live. I’m back to help her out, spend some time with her before the end.”

  The barman’s face flushed white. This was a small town and the realisation hit fast that he was talking to Violet Gordon’s son. Frank’s son. Graham’s brother. Kyle saw each of those things hit the barman’s brain like darts. If he’d been closer, he’d have probably smelt the fear too.

  “Listen, don’t worry. I doubt I’ll say as many as two words to my little brother the whole time I’m here and, if I do, it’ll be two more than I’ve said to him in the past 20 years. Fuck, I’ve got more reasons to hate the little prick than anyone.”

  The barman eyed Kyle with a mix of suspicion and fear. He didn’t speak again and, when Kyle said goodbye, he just nodded and looked like he’d be running for the highlands the minute Kyle left.

  Chapter Two

  Violet Gordon was frail. Kyle had expected that and he’d been right. All thoughts that his mother was a tough old bird and that she’d pull through despite what the doctors said disappeared as soon as he laid eyes on her. This woman was dying. There was no hope here. But still, with the inevitable painfully apparent, the face was brave.

  “Kyle Gordon, wipe that bloody moribund look off your face and give your ol’ ma a hug.” Her voice was strong, proud, but forced.

  Kyle moved towards his mother’s slight frame and hugged her loosely for fear of snapping her. She wore heavy layers to protect from the cold and yet still her ribs felt exposed and fragile. A year to live seemed optimistic at this point.

  “Come on, let’s get you sat back down and away from the cold,” Kyle said as he ushered his mother into the house.

  “Don’t you come back here and start fussing over me, lad. I’ve taken care of myself for years. I can cope.” His mother’s comment felt like a dig at his abandonment of the family, and probably was. She didn’t mean to hurt him, but she had a bluntness to her that the cancer wasn’t going to strip from her. And, as was her way, in her next breath she was being the caring mother figure again. “Right, you’ve travelled a long way, let me get you a cuppa.”

  “No way, go and sit down and I’ll make us both one.”

  He didn’t want to ask the question, because he really didn’t care, but Kyle had already started to wonder where his father was. What sort of man leaves a frail wife at home alone?

  Despite the time apart, Violet Gordon knew her son’s mind like only a mother could.

  “Before you ask, I don’t know where your father is. Let’s just say he hasn’t coped too well with the news. To be honest, he hasn’t coped too well with anything for a while.”

  This sounded about as in character for his father as Kyle remembered. It was his mother who was sick and yet his father was making it all about him: as if it was a personal affront to him that she’d had the gall to go and get herself ill—and terminally too. He probably felt she’d gone and done it on purpose, just to piss him off. He’d reacted the same way to bad news his whole life, he’d reacted that way when Kyle had joined the army—that had been one of the few times he’d been right. Kyle had wanted to piss him off.

  “Well fuck the old bastard, I’m here now,” Kyle said. He wasn’t interested in a discussion about the man.

  “Kyle Gordon, no matter what you think of your father, he is still your father. I won’t have you speak of him that way.”

  Even with so few breaths left in her body, Violet Gordon would continue to use them to defend her husband. Kyle wasn’t even convinced she meant to. It was just instinct, something she’d done her whole life—she couldn’t stop now even if in her heart of hearts she wanted to. Kyle wasn’t prepared to spend what little time he had left with his mother getting into this stuff with her so he said no more on it.

  He sipped at his tea and watched his mother grimace as she did the same. Clearly even swallowing liquids was becoming difficult for her.

  Kyle decided to change the subject. “Emma and Zoe will be up here next week, Ma. They’re looking forward to seeing you.”

  “I told you not to drag them up here. Disrupting their lives for some old has-been.” Violet’s face betrayed her words. Although gaunt and tired, there was a new shine to it at the thought of seeing her granddaughter. A granddaughter she’d never actually met in person. They’d talked on Skype and she’d seen photos that Kyle had sent with his letters and email but she’d never actually met Zoe, or Emma, Kyle’s wife of 17 years.

  “Well, they’re coming and they’re looking forward to it.” It was sort of true. Yes, they were both keen to meet the woman that Kyle always spoke so highly of, but they’d have preferred it to have been under better circumstances.

  “Well I’m looking forward to meeting them too,” Violet said with warm resignation.

  They both smiled with sad eyes. Kyle didn’t really want to acknowledge his mother’s illness but, as it stared him in the face, he couldn’t avoid it. The concerned son took over.

  “How are you feeling, Ma?�
�

  “I’ve been better, Son,” she said in her typical blasé tone.

  Kyle asked again with his eyes. A look that said, tell me, honestly.

  “Kyle, I’m in pain and I’m terrified.”

  Kyle watched his mother break. The sight was foreign to him. She’d always been so strong—on the surface at least. Kyle moved closer to comfort her. He felt impotent. A hug and a “There, there” wasn’t going to do it. He’d been to warzones, watched as whole villages had been destroyed. Walked through the wreckage as children bled into the dust tracks that led from where their humble homes once stood. He’d been sent in with water bottles and food parcels. It had felt like the worst kind of tokenism—until this moment, sat with an arm wrapped gently around his mother as she sobbed.

  “I don’t know what to say,” he admitted, weakly.

  “There’s really nothing to say,” his mother said, regaining some of her resolve. “Just your being here is enough. I know I said not to come, but I’m so glad you did.”

  “So am I, Ma. And, I’m sorry for staying away for so long.”

  “Oh shut up, you had your reasons. I understand that. Let’s change the subject.” Violet rubbed tears from her eyes and tried to sit herself up proud, despite the pain it clearly caused her.

  After so many years apart Kyle thought it should be easier. They had so much to catch up on despite the constant letters and phone calls. But he couldn’t shake two things from his mind, the sight of his mother decaying in front of him and the decay that had spread through his hometown. His mother wanted a change of subject and he knew it would take them to conversations about his father and sibling, but Kyle couldn’t think what else to say.

  “What happened to this place, ma? It was always a bit of a shithole around here, but bloody hell, ma, it’s not even hanging on by a thread anymore.”

  Violet looked embarrassed.

  “Your brother happened,” she said in a tone that matched her look.

  “How? I mean don’t get me wrong, you know how I feel about my father, but how has he let Graham bring it to this?”

  “Even if he did care, he couldn’t do anything about it.”

  “How do people afford the drugs if they’re jobless and desperate?” Kyle asked.

  “Your brother doesn’t care if they can pay with cash. As long as they have something he can take from them.” Violet spat the words.

  Kyle looked down and shook his head. He had nothing to do with his brother, hadn’t even when they were kids, but he was ashamed of his link to him. He could see that his mother was too.

  “Anyway,” she said, “It won’t be any of my concern for much longer, will it.”

  Kyle didn’t know how to respond. He patted awkwardly at her bony thigh and thought, don’t say that, even though he knew she spoke the truth.

  Chapter Three

  Blood splattered the worn carpet. Resigned tired groans filled the air where moments before had been screams of agony. They were heard on the street outside and through the paper-thin walls, but nobody would be coming to the rescue. The man stood sentry at the door to this ground floor flat was Ian Davis, a known member of Graham Gordon’s crew. Yes, people had heard the screams, they’d even looked in the direction of them, but they’d seen Davis stood there and quickly gone on their way.

  “What should I do to him, Jim? Should I cut off his fingers one by one, or maybe take his tongue? Maybe I’ll take his toes, I haven’t had anyone’s toes for a while.”

  Graham Gordon’s questions to the other member of his crew, Jim Young, were rhetorical. He was just ratcheting up the terror for his victim. Explaining what was about to happen without saying it directly. Jim knew the chat was all part of Graham’s game and just laughed with a disinterested grin on his face. Jim didn’t really care what happened to the bruised and bleeding man slumped on a cheap dining chair—when it got to this stage, the victim didn’t have anything left to give. Jim was just pissed off that he wouldn’t be getting paid for being here. Whatever happened to this fucker, he deserved it as far as Jim was concerned. He didn’t really think it was necessary for Graham to play with his prey the way he did, he’d have rather they’d just stuck a knife in the bastard and got on with the day, but Graham got off on this stuff. He was weird like that.

  “Fuck it, pass me those secateurs,” Graham said, pointing at a table where Jim had dropped and rolled out a tool bag they’d used when they’d forced their way in to their victim’s home. In most people’s hands the assembled tools would have been perfectly innocent. Alongside the secateurs sat a crowbar, hammer, a couple of screwdrivers and a hacksaw. Jim obliged, and the victim’s eyes grew wide as it dawned on him how the final minutes of his life would be spent.

  The victim was thirty-two-year-old Darren Richardson. He’d been one of Graham’s most frequent customers, but he certainly wasn’t his best. He hadn’t paid for his gear in two months. Graham ran credit, as long as he knew the customer had something they could pay with. He’d already had all of Darren’s electrical goods. Today he’d come for his car. Darren was about to die, painfully, because his addictive personality didn’t just run to drugs—he was a gambler and he’d lost his car two nights before in a card game.

  Darren tried to mumble for mercy, but the last contact Graham had made with his fist had broken his jaw. Graham enjoyed watching his victim try to speak as he loomed over him, flexing the secateurs in his hand. He grabbed at Darren’s right hand. Darren tried to pull it away but he had no strength left and, even if he had, he’d be no match for Graham’s powerful build. The incoherent mumbling grew more frantic as Graham taunted Darren with the cutter’s blades held paused around his index finger. Darren closed his eyes and turned his head away, braced for the cut. Graham squeezed on the handles and an earsplitting cry ripped through the room as Darren’s finger popped from his hand and bounced on the carpet. Graham wrestled to hold onto the arm as adrenalin pulled at it, he cut quickly four more times and all of the digits on Darren’s right hand joined the first in a pile on the floor. Graham dropped the hand and stepped back to admire his handiwork. Darren’s scream died and tears merged with blood on his swollen face.

  “Screwdriver,” Graham demanded on Jim, his hand outstretched, not looking away from the mess he’d made.

  Jim placed a Philips head screwdriver into the outstretched hand. Graham moved back toward Darren, grabbed a tuft of his hair to pull his head up and thrust it deep into his ear. In the moment before he died Darren’s eyes almost appeared to be welcoming the end.

  “I don’t know about you, but I’m fucking starving,” Graham said turning to Jim.

  “I could eat,” Jim said, rolling up the tool kit.

  “Let’s go get some food before we do anything else today. My treat, I know it’s a bastard when you boys come along on one of these runs and there’s no money in it for you. Least I can do is buy you and Ian a bit of dinner.”

  Graham put an apologetic hand on Jim’s back as they turned and left Darren Richardson’s corpse in the living room. They were in the hallway before Graham realised he’d forgotten something.

  “Oh fuck,” he exclaimed, “I left my fucking screwdriver in that junkie’s head. Do me a favour and go grab it.”

  Chapter Four

  After the first hour or so in each other’s company, Kyle and Violet had managed to get beyond the hard facts of her situation and the embarrassment of how the family made a living. They chatted like mothers and their grown-up sons do. Violet asked about Emma and Zoe, and Kyle’s days in the Middle East. She’d had his letters, but she knew they’d been sugar-coated so as not to cause her to worry more than she already did.

  Kyle told her the truth. The brothers he’d seen fall next to him, the buildings that collapsed as his squadron sought cover inside and the innocents that had looked on their uniforms with hate as they’d walked through cities ripped apart by conflict. Violet shuddered as she heard the words leave her son’s mouth and for
got her own troubles, focusing her thoughts entirely on how grateful she was that her boy had returned to her in one piece. She placed a hand on his knee and squeezed with all the strength her body would allow, letting him know she loved him.

  After a few hours, a key in the front door to the house interrupted their conversation. They heard it swing open. It was out of control and slammed against the hallway wall and bounced. The keys were pulled from the door and they heard them drop to the floor. Kyle heard his father’s voice slur a “fuck” and his heart sank, as he knew it was time to face him. Heavy footsteps thudded along the hallway towards the living room in which Kyle and his mother sat. The stench of both stale and fresh booze hit his nostrils as his father appeared in the doorway. Well, his father was in there somewhere. Age had not been kind to Frank Gordon. He’d always been a big man, huge frame, wrapped in gym-honed muscle. The frame was still huge, but the muscle had turned to fat long ago. His face was bloated with blotchy red and purple patches. Once thick jet-black hair had thinned and greyed. Frank Gordon was 19 years older than when Kyle had seen him last, but he looked to have aged at least a further ten.

  Frank’s eyes fixed momentarily on those of his son and in that moment disappointment, resentment and hatred was exchanged between both men. Frank’s gaze broke first but he made no acknowledgement of his son’s presence in the room.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve made any tea?” Frank’s ridiculous question was directed at his terminally ill wife.

  “Your son’s here, Frank,” Violet said, ignoring her husband’s insensitivity towards her and focusing on his lack of interest in Kyle.

  “Is that who he is? I don’t know him.” Frank spat his slurred words. “I hope he’s got somewhere to stay tonight. I don’t have strangers staying in my home.”

  Kyle was growing angry as the conversation between his mother and father went on. Not because his father refused to acknowledge him—he didn’t care about that. But his mother was dying and Frank hadn’t asked after her at all.