Stone Cold

by Taylor, Peter

  ‘One leg in, one leg out — shake it all about,’ Danny Jackson said, smirking at Jet, who was the one standing. ‘That’s just you these days, ain’t it? Halfway to nowhere, about to trip yourself up and take a big, big fall.’

  Frank hauled his trousers back on, regretting he’d ever allowed himself to get into a position where these buffoons could lord it over him as though they were God almighty. He tried to regain his composure. But he knew this was serious. The men were no longer smirking. They were stone faced, like a jury before a pronouncement.

  ‘What are you doing in my home?’

  It was an attempt to assert himself, but a poor one. Even to him, his voice sounded like a high pitched travesty, more of a whine really, the question a superfluous inanity because they all knew the answer. He had no room to play the big man.

  ‘You’ve been out of touch,’ Jet said. ‘We began to wonder if you’d forgotten us.’

  His smile as scornful as his tone, Terry said, ‘And the clock’s been ticking away — tick tock — tick tock.’

  ‘Your brother,’ Danny said, his eyebrows raised. ‘He’s ready, isn’t he?’

  Frank flushed to a deeper shade. He was on the hot spot here. Even if he could invent something to give him more time, if they found out he was prevaricating there’d be a price to pay. Best then to tell the truth, hope it would do for now.

  ‘My brother says he won’t fight, but I’ve been working on him — messing with his life. He’ll come round in the end.’

  The older Jackson stared at him. His eyes seemed to penetrate all the layers of his skin so that there was no artifice which would withstand their scrutiny. He was glad he’d told the truth.

  ‘You got five days,’ Danny growled. ‘Chip can’t hang around waiting for him no matter how bad we want it. There’s plenty queuing to fight him. Five days exactly, then we’ll want our money.’

  Frank felt pain in his stomach, as though a wild creature was feeding on him from the inside. He knew the creature’s name was fear, could feel its claws scratching at his throat as he answered.

  ‘Didn’t think he was going to be so stubborn.’ He tried to force the creature back down. ‘Can’t you make it longer?’

  Danny glowered. ‘We gave you the money to buy drugs from that Jamaican gang you talked up, said you could trust. Wasn’t our fault they took you for a fool. Only an amateur would let himself be robbed of the drugs half an hour after the handover — and by the same gang.’

  Laid out bare like that there was nothing he could say. He’d messed up big time and there was no denying it. No excuse in the world would serve.

  ‘You were at it, weren’t you?’ Jet said. ‘You didn’t know enough about those fellers, pretended you did and chanced your arm.’

  ‘And with our money,’ Terry chipped in with his pennyworth. ‘Probably thinking to make yourself a profit and to move into the big time. A man’s reach should never outstrip his brains and you got extra short arms.’

  Like a teacher manifesting his disappointment in an erring pupil, Danny waggled a finger at Frank.

  ‘You’d be one dead gypsy if you hadn’t offered to fix up this fight. With Chip winning and cleaning up on the side bets, we’d get our money back. Even then, we’d likely come up short. But it would be worth a little loss.’

  Terry examined his fingernails. ‘It was the only chance you had to make it up to us.’

  Frank blanched. He didn’t like Terry’s use of the past tense there. It felt as though he’d already been judged and condemned.

  Danny shrugged. ‘Otherwise . . .’

  He didn’t need to finish. Frank was well aware of the implications. He dragged in a breath, forced out his words.

  ‘Come on, lads. We never set no deadline, did we? He’s not long out of jail. He’ll come around.’

  Jet giggled. Mystified, his father and brother looked at him. He covered his mouth.

  ‘What’s so funny, bro’?’ Terry said.

  Jet managed to control himself. ‘Deadline!’ he said. ‘Dead is how he’s gonna be and line is what he’s dangling on. That’s funny.’

  Po-faced, Terry shook his head. ‘Yeah, sure. It kills me.’

  Jet pointed at Frank, giggled again. ‘It’s gonna kill him too. I think —’

  Danny sliced the air with his hand and his son shut up.

  ‘Take it there’s a . . . deadline . . . set now, Frank. Five days’ time at Bolt farm near Staithes. Keep that quiet. Just you and us to know.’

  Five days, not even a week. It was no time at all. Frank opened his mouth, shut it again. That fear was still crawling around inside him. His brain raced in search of a solution that would extricate him from this nightmare. Snatching the girl, holding her until after Henry fought, might do it. Kidnapping was heavy stuff and he didn’t like it one bit, but when your life was on the line —

  Danny started for the door and his sons followed him. On the threshold, he paused, reached towards a bowl of fruit, plucked out an apple and pocketed it.

  ‘Ring me,’ he said. ‘We’ll finalize timings. There’ll be a big crowd and we don’t want things messing up.’

  ‘Yeah!’ Terry said with a wicked grin. ‘’Cos messing up is your thing, Frank, ain’t it?’

  Not to be outdone by his brother, Jet feigned seriousness and said, ‘Get a good sleep, Frank. Sometimes dreams are better than real life.’

  When they were gone Frank turned the light off, didn’t bother undressing, just flopped down on the bed as though his limbs had lost all volition. For a long time he stared into the dark, seeing nothing but blackness, wondered if that was all he had to look forward to if he couldn’t bring Henry round to his way of thinking.

  *

  Fred Torrance, chest wheezing as he struggled for breath, peeked through the curtains, watched three shadowy figures traverse the ground that only moments ago he’d fled across as fast as his weak limbs had allowed. One arm trailing along the wall for support, he edged towards his chair, sank into it as though he wished the cushions could absorb him entirely and he’d never have to rise out of it to face the world again. But his need for a drink overcame his inertia, motivated him enough to stretch for the whisky bottle on the table. Only when he’d taken two long slugs did he allow himself to ponder what he’d heard, to contemplate the shame of it.

  When he’d heard Frank return, he’d gone across to try to persuade him to lay off Henry, accept his refusal. He’d been prepared to hand £40,000 to the Jacksons, as honour demanded, to put an end to the matter his own foolishness had set in motion. He’d heard familiar voices coming from inside the caravan, paused by the open window to listen. The confrontation, if such a one-sided affair could be called that, shocked him to the core of his being. He’d felt old, weak and defeated, as though all his past sins had formed an alliance to attack him, take revenge when he was at his weakest.

  His eldest son was using him, playing him for a fool. Equally shaming, he was involved in drug dealing. Fred hadn’t been above breaking the law himself in what he considered petty ways, but those who made money from drugs he considered the lowest scum on earth, devoid of humanity. How could he have spawned a son like that? Why hadn’t he seen this coming when he already had all the evidence he needed that Frank had a cold heart incapable of feeling?

  Anger driving him, he rose, intending to confront his son. But he felt exhausted, sank down, defeated by his own body. How long was he for this earth, he wondered? Two years ago a doctor had told him his heart was weakening, but he hadn’t taken much notice. Did he want to go on in his current condition, at the mercy of all and sundry?

  He saw now, when it was too late, that all he’d really ever had in the world of true importance were his sons. They would be his only legacy, all that would be left of him. One of them, he’d alienated, while the other had turned rotten, broken ancient bonds a long time ago. Blood turning against blood was unnatural. He should have spoken out, brought the truth into the light.

  He didn’t w
ant to hear it but the voice of his own conscience persisted, asking how much was down to his failure as a father. When his wife died he’d gone off the rails, thought too much about himself, not enough about the boys. His worst mistake? The secret he’d guarded so long thinking it was for the best.

  Wearied by morose thoughts, he started to reach for the bottle but stayed his hand. He’d need to keep a clear head, because he was resolved to see Henry tomorrow, tell him everything he’d heard tonight. It wouldn’t make up for the wrong he’d done him, wouldn’t lift the albatross from his shoulders. But it was the least he could do to try to make amends.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Henry rose bright and early, looked in on John in the spare bedroom before he came downstairs. The kid was fast asleep, exhausted after his recent trials. He decided he’d take him with him today when he went to see Micky Lane. The prospect wasn’t something Henry relished. Micky had taken a chance on him. Now he had to tell him his good deed had turned sour. Peter Fairbrother, who’d been generous and trusting, hadn’t deserved what had happened either. What kind of a world was it where bad things happened to good people, where the winds of fate could change direction at a whim. He gave himself a shake. This wasn’t a time for philosophizing. You had to be practical. Micky, in his wise way, might come up with something.

  Henry looked out. The street was quiet, curtains still drawn. Over the rooftops, the horizon blushed pale red, like the flush on a young girl’s cheeks. He was about to turn away when he noticed a taxi coming up the street. Brakes squealed as it pulled to a halt outside his window. At first Henry didn’t recognize the hunched figure leaning on a stick for support. It took two takes before he realized it was his father climbing out of the taxi. He was shocked at his decline even in the short time since he’d last seen him. Knowing the way he was, the fact he’d succumbed to a stick was like a last surrender.

  The bell rang. Poker-faced, Henry opened up. There was no spark in his father’s eyes, just a dull, melancholy appeal, the eyes of a beggar hungry in spirit. He’d lost so much weight his anorak swamped him so that he seemed to have no neck. Henry was thrown. He wanted to hate him but he looked so broken and old he found it hard. Confused, he settled for just staring at him, as though he had no business to come to his door.

  ‘I know how you feel about me,’ his father said. ‘The taxi’s coming back in twenty minutes. But I’ve something important to say, something you have to hear for your own good — not mine.’

  Henry nodded. He could stand twenty minutes. His father waved his stick at the taxi and it drove off. He followed his son inside to the lounge. Henry pointed to a chair. His father sat upright in it, leaning on his stick.

  ‘I’m going out soon,’ Henry said, frowning to let his father know he was there under sufferance.

  Fred took the hint, came straight to the point. ‘I understand that I’m not welcome. But you need to know about your brother. That’s the only reason I’m here.’

  Henry grinned cynically. ‘Don’t think you can expand my knowledge much. I told you what he was up to and whatever you said to him, if you bothered at all, hasn’t stopped him.’

  Fred gripped the stick tighter. ‘I know why he’s forcing it,’ he said. His bottom lip trembled and he shook his head in exasperation. ‘It’s disgusting — .’

  Henry glanced ostentatiously at his watch. Whatever his father was going to reveal couldn’t add much to the sins Frank had already committed against him.

  ‘Like I told you, I’m going out.’

  Fred nodded, began talking, poured out everything he heard outside Frank’s caravan. His voice shook with emotion as he spoke and his hands trembled. Henry listened, even greater disgust for his brother welling up inside him.

  ‘He’s a drug dealer in trouble, using us to help him get off the hook,’ Fred concluded, momentarily resting his head on the gnarled fists grasping the stick. When he raised his head again, he looked straight at Henry. ‘I wanted you to fight for the right reasons, honourable ones, not to satisfy a bunch of dirty drug dealers. Now I wouldn’t want you to fight.’

  Henry’s eyes locked on his father’s. He could see there was no artifice in the old man, that he was genuine.

  Henry shook his head. ‘They obviously want this fight badly.’

  ‘Don’t give them it!’ his father said vehemently. He pushed himself up, stood with a blank look. The storm that had raged inside him as he’d told his tale had subsided but left him with a mystified expression.

  Henry rose, faced him. ‘Are you going to give him your money?’

  Fred thrust out his jaw. ‘Frank’s a dead man walking. I’ll give him the money because he’s still my son and it was me who shook on it. That’s binding even with scum. I won’t tell him what I know. He can go his own way.’

  Henry couldn’t help feeling a pang of sympathy for his father. No way he’d been a good parent and not visiting him in prison had been the last straw, but he had to admit he did seem different.

  Henry walked behind him to the door. He was tongue tied, couldn’t think of a word to say, those old hurts a barrier. The taxi looming into view rescued him. Fred turned to him, fighting back tears.

  ‘There’s something I wish I could tell you,’ he muttered, lowering his head like a guilty child.

  ‘Wasn’t that enough for one day?’

  Fred raised his head as the taxi drew up. The driver opened the door. For a moment the old man stood there not moving. The driver looked bemused by his hesitation and the void of silence exaggerated the noise of the taxi’s engine ticking over. Finally Fred emerged from wherever his thoughts had taken him, shuffled towards the vehicle, calling over his shoulder.

  ‘Just can’t tell you, Henry. Just can’t!’

  He bundled himself into the seat, didn’t look back as the taxi took off, just stared fixedly ahead. It was as though out there in the ether he could see his future being played out, didn’t like it.

  Henry retreated inside more than a little confused. His father’s revelations hadn’t exactly shaken his world, given what his brother had already done to him. The fact that, in his poor physical state, he’d bothered to come to tell him and was set against him fighting, had surprised him though. He’d never seen his old man so emotional and, if he wasn’t mistaken, apparently concerned for his welfare. To top it all, there were those last words, spoken with so much regret. What was it, he wondered, that his father found it so difficult to tell him?

  Henry wasn’t given time to dwell on those matters. As soon as he closed the door the phone rang. It was Father Andrew apologizing for not being in touch sooner, asking how he was coping. He toyed with the idea of telling him he was in trouble but thought better of it. Being the man he was, the priest would want to help him and it was way out of his league. Knowing his fearless streak, he might blunder into a situation where his dog collar would mean nothing to those who’d made a pact with the Devil.

  Trying to sound cheerful, he said, ‘I’m doing OK, thanks.’

  ‘Good lad.’

  The priest hesitated and Henry wondered what was coming next.

  ‘There’s a favour you could do for me, son.’

  ‘Of course. You’ve done me plenty.’ Henry forced a laugh. ‘Just so long as you don’t want me to be a volunteer prison visitor.’

  ‘Close. This is a different kind of visit. Nobody else will do. You see I’ve been to visit Tom Daly’s widow. She’s in distress, wants to talk to you, says it might help her. You were with him . . . at the end.’

  Henry closed his eyes. Hadn’t he enough on his plate? But he respected the priest and Tom had been his friend. In all conscience, if the widow wanted to speak to him and it might give her some kind of closure, he’d have to oblige. Apart from the fact it was Father Andrew requesting it, Tom would have expected it of him.

  ‘Well, if you think it will help,’ he answered, hoping his lack of enthusiasm didn’t show in his voice.

  ‘I think it will.’ Henry could hear paper
rustling on the other end.’ I’ve got her address here. She’s in North Ormesby, in a house now. It’s no distance from you.’

  Henry wrote the address down, promised to visit as soon as he could. After that, the conversation drifted in a desultory fashion, ending with Father Andrew thanking him and promising to call him again soon.

  John had come downstairs during their conversation. Henry found him in the kitchen making tea and toast for both of them.

  ‘You feeling better today?’ Henry asked as they sat down.

  John put down his mug, perched his elbows on the table, cupped his chin in his hands and gave him a sideways glance.

  ‘Feel a big fool. Wish I could turn back the clock, wipe yesterday out.’

  Henry chewed thoughtfully on a piece of toast. ‘There’s not a man alive who hasn’t felt like that. A priest once told me to learn from my mistakes and then move on, not look back. Learn to forgive yourself, he said — it wasn’t bad advice either.’

  ‘Easy to say,’ John said, squinting at him. He sighed, ‘Do we have to tell Micky?’

  Henry drained his mug, placed a hand on the youth’s shoulder.

  ‘Don’t worry, Micky’s got the years in. He understands more than you think. He barks worse than he bites.’

  *

  An hour after their breakfast Henry and John were approaching the community hall. Before they entered Henry glanced across at his companion. The lad’s trepidation was written all over his face. Henry wasn’t over the moon himself but he knew they were doing the right thing coming here.

  ‘It’ll work out,’ he said, opening the door, but John still looked burdened with the weight of the world.

  A few early birds were already at work on the exercise machines. They walked straight past them to the kitchen. Micky was sitting there staring into space, like a holy man in contemplation. He seemed to snap back into himself when he saw his visitors. Henry thought he detected disappointment in his eyes, guessed he’d already had the bad news, had been chewing it over before they arrived. He decided to broach matters straight off.