‘What’s this?’ he stammered, almost overbalancing.
Frank snapped, ‘Keep still, damn you!’
‘Let him go,’ Henry said. ‘He’s done nothing to you!’
Franks eyes blazed like hot coals. ‘He’ll set the filth on my trail. Might as well make it two for the high road.’
John moved a fraction, bringing him closer to Henry. Henry felt acid bite into his gullet, bile rising up into his mouth. He knew Frank had made up his mind and nothing would divert him from killing them. He had to make his move, now or never.
Before he had a chance, John sprang forward, launched the books straight at Frank. They descended on him like a flock of angry birds and he tried to knock them away, flapping at them with both hands.
Henry seized his chance, rushed him. He made a grab for the gun barrel, twisting and pulling until it came free and the weapon fell to the floor. Then he struck Frank on the jaw. Stunned, his brother rocked backwards and was still.
Henry bent down, picked up the gun, stepped back until he was beside John who was gawping at Frank slouched in the chair.
‘Never could take a punch,’ Henry said.
‘I heard voices,’ John told him. ‘I came downstairs, went out the back, peeped in the window, saw the gun, had to do something.’
Henry put an arm around his shoulder. ‘Good job you did. He was getting ready to kill me.’
A groan came from the chair. Frank was starting to come round. His head was swaying like a drunk’s, eyes blinking in an attempt to focus.
John said, ‘Are you going to call the police?’
Henry hesitated. If the positions were reversed, he knew Frank wouldn’t have any mercy. But he wasn’t Frank. Stepping forward, he picked up the bag.
His brother was back in the world again now, was watching him as he stooped.
‘Everything ready to go, John?’
John didn’t answer, looked puzzled.
‘You’re not going to kill him, are you?’
Henry smiled. ‘Like I told you before, his kind dig their own graves.’ His gaze shifted to his brother. ‘Go on, get out of here. Start running. Find a life — if you can.’
Frank stared at him, disbelieving. With his movements as stiff as an old man’s, he levered himself out of the chair. Henry moved aside to let him pass. When he was at the door, he turned around. His eyes moved from Henry’s face to the bag in his hand.
‘Gonna keep all that money for yourself?’ he asked hoarsely, a weary resignation in his voice.
‘My business!’
Frank nodded.
‘I was wrong before. You were always the lucky one!’
With that, he turned and walked through the door. Henry followed, watched him walk down the street. For a moment, he thought he could see his father when he was young, that same walk, that same shape to the shoulders. Then, before he turned the corner Frank stopped, looked back. This time Henry caught a glimpse of himself, like a reflection in a far off mirror. It sent a shiver down his spine. Then his brother was gone, leaving him sad for what might have been. They were driving away from the house, each lost in his own thoughts. Henry glanced at John, was pleased to see that the colour had returned to his face. He could feel his own spirits lifting, a glimmer of optimism burgeoning.
‘One last visit to make,’ he told John. ‘Then we’ll collect Mary and start heading south before my brother can find any new tricks. You can never be sure with him.’
He parked outside the Community Hall, reached onto the back seat for the bag. Telling John to wait in the car because he needed to do this alone, he stepped out and entered the building. He couldn’t spot Micky in the main hall so, walking past the lads who were hard at it on the exercise machines, he headed for the kitchen.
Micky was at the sink, his back to him. He had his sleeves rolled up and he was up to his elbows in soapy water. Henry smiled at the image; it wasn’t one he associated with his old trainer. He felt a sudden surge of affection, mingled with respect. After a bad start, Mick had conquered his demons, given the lie to those who said a leopard couldn’t change its spots, his work here a testament to that.
‘Is it you, or your ghost come to haunt me?’ Micky’s gravelly voice cut into the silence.
Henry laughed. Age hadn’t diminished Micky’s awareness.
‘The Devil wasn’t ready for me. Told me to come and tap you on the shoulder.’
Mick faced him, soap suds dripping from his arms onto the floor. Henry had made him aware of all his plans, had been anxious for his approval.
‘So you survived.’
Henry nodded. ‘It wasn’t as straightforward as that.’
He told Micky everything. The trainer’s facial expressions reflected a range of emotions, settled on anger at the injustice of Henry’s prison sentence. When the anger passed from his face, there was something akin to admiration in his eyes.
‘So you didn’t strain the quality of mercy, letting your brother go like that?’
‘It certainly didn’t drop like gentle rain from heaven — more like a deluge after thunder. Anyway Frank won’t last long the way he is, so it doesn’t matter.’
Mick nodded. His expression grew suddenly grave, as though he’d just remembered something that worried him.
‘Shouldn’t you get going, son? The plan was to get out of Teesside, wasn’t it?’
Henry looked through the hatch into the hall. All the lads were occupied so he lifted the bag, unzipped it and scooped half the bundles of money onto the table.
Mick’s frown emphasized the furrows on his forehead. He rubbed his chin speculatively, eyes flitting between Henry and the money.
‘You ain’t robbed a bank, have you?’
‘It’s the prize money. I took it from Frank. That’s my share. I want you to use it for this place.’
Micky rubbed the back of his neck, stared at the money as though he didn’t know what to say, couldn’t quite believe it.
Finally, he said, ‘It’s your money. I can’t take your money.’
‘It’s what I want, Micky.’
The old trainer picked up a towel, dried his arms.
‘You’ll need it, son. Wherever you’re going — you’ll need it.’
Henry held up the bag. ‘There’s more than enough left here to see me through. Besides, there could be compensation for serving time.’ He fixed his eyes on Micky’s. ‘Let me do this!’
Micky rolled down his sleeves absent-mindedly. Sounds drifted in from the hall, lads hard at work on the machines, fists rapping out a rhythm on the punch bags.
‘We need money,’ he said, ‘can’t deny it.’
Henry waited, hoping. When Mick spoke again, there was a throb in his throat, barely contained emotion in his voice.
‘Every penny will be spent wisely — to keep the place going.’
Henry let out a sigh, laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘Don’t justify anything to me, Micky. I know what you’ll do with it.’
Henry started for the door. ‘You can come for a holiday when things settle. Plenty of rich widows where we’re going, looking for a toy boy like you.’
Micky grimaced. ‘Get out of here, kidda, or I’ll give you one last lesson in that ring.’
Henry laughed, with a last wave retreated through the door. He hoped he’d see Micky again. If fate decreed otherwise, he knew he’d always remember him, the way he’d tried to help him, his loyalty. Giving him half that money had been the least he could do. You should never forget.
On their way back to Mary, he stopped at a lonely spot beside the River Tees. Leaving John in the car, he walked a short distance along the bank, then took Frank’s gun from his pocket and cast it a short distance into the water, with a sense of relief watched the ripples it made die away.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Frank Torrance checked to see the lugubrious landlord wasn’t looking, popped another amphetamine pill into his mouth and slurped it down with a swig of beer from his pint glass. Hopefully the combi
nation would lift him out of the depression that he could feel coming, as it had so often these last three months since he’d fled Middlesbrough.
He caught his reflection in the mirror behind the bar, quickly looked away, but had already seen enough to disturb him. His eyes looked dark and sunken, his cheekbones hollowed like one of those junkies he’d lived off in Middlesbrough in what seemed another lifetime now. He knew it was the way he’d been living; a bed-sit in the worst part of Sunderland, cheap food, constantly looking over his shoulder. None of it did anything for his health. The little money he’d scraped together before he’d left town in a hurry was almost gone.
He’d chosen this pub down near the river because it was out of the mainstream. There was only a handful of drinkers in, mostly old men who looked like they’d been part of the furniture for years and a man and a woman absorbed in a game of darts. Not much danger any of them could be connected with the gypsy community, not like last night when he’d risked a city centre pub and thought he saw a familiar face staring at him in recognition through the crowd of drinkers. With hindsight, he figured it was probably his own paranoia, the constant awareness that the Jacksons would have the word out, promising money to whoever saw him and reported back. Even in prison they could reach out.
He took a tiny mouthful of beer, intending to make it last. One way out would be to pull off a big job, country mansion or something. That would give him the wherewithal to leave the country, settle somewhere in the sun where there’d be far less chance of being recognized. Maybe a touch of cosmetic surgery would help. Trouble was he’d have to do the job alone, couldn’t afford to contact any of his erstwhile partners because they were all gypsies and he couldn’t be sure they wouldn’t betray him.
His glass was well down when he heard the door open, felt a wind caress the hair on the back of his neck. He turned around, watched a woman walk in and settle at the other end of the bar. She was a smart piece of work, this one, coal black hair, alabaster skin offset by full red lips, well dressed too, a bit too classily for this place. After the barman served her a whisky and soda, she turned her head briefly in his direction and he thought he saw a ghost of a smile that was meant for him. Then she made her way to a corner table and sat down.
Her smile lingered with him, though, intriguing, like the smile of an old, long lost lover you think has faded from memory with the passage of the years; he was nearly certain it was a come on. After all, she was a woman alone and not many of her sex would have had the bottle to enter a bar alone with all that poise and assurance she’d carried with her. He tried to figure it but gave up, dismissing the idea that he could have seen her before; a woman like that he would have remembered.
It took him another pint and another amphetamine to find his courage. Then he crossed the room to her table, looked down at her and took the direct approach.
‘Need company?’
She gave him that smile again. ‘Took you long enough. Thought I was going to have to come to the bar, chat you up.’
Visibly preening, he lowered himself into the chair facing her. Perhaps his luck was on the turn at last. It had been a long time since he’d been in a woman’s company and this one was prime stock.
The conversation started to flow and, as the night wore on, he forgot his troubles, felt more and more like his old self. The best of it was, unlike most of the women he’d picked up, she didn’t enquire into his past and let him do the best part of the talking. He felt in control and that was how he liked it.
At closing time she did another thing he liked. Tilting her head coquettishly, she took the initiative.
‘Have you got a car?’
He patted his belly. ‘Walked! Better for the figure.’
‘We’ll need a taxi, then.’ She ran her fingers down her sides. ‘My figure’s good enough.’
He laughed out loud, not missing the fact she’d said ‘we’ll’ need, not ‘I’ll’, and he wasn’t going to disagree with that. It seemed an age since he’d enjoyed himself like this. It was as though she’d known him all her life, was attuned to his thoughts. But now he had a problem. He couldn’t ask her back to that stinking bed sit, could he? Once again, as though this was the night his fortune was about to change, she solved his problem for him.
‘It’ll have to be my place for — coffee. My sister rings every night around midnight, worries if I’m not in and haven’t told her.’
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Ready when you are.’
She used her mobile to ring for the taxi. As soon as they stepped outside, it loomed out of the darkness. The driver was out and had the doors open in no time. Frank fell into the back, so close to her now he could smell her perfume. It added to her allure and he wished he could bathe in it forever. He draped an arm around her as she gave the driver an address which he knew was in the best part of the town.
‘Bet you’ve got a nice place,’ he said,’ a woman like you.’ He was thinking maybe if he played his cards right he could get his feet under the table, hide out with her in comfort for a while.
She gave him that smile he found so enigmatic. ‘You’ll be surprised.’
He grinned. ‘Good! I like to be surprised.’
*
Frank could see lights reflecting off the dark ribbon of the River Wear. So close it seemed almost directly overhead, one of the bridges reached across the water, a giant bicep silhouetted against the skyline. The taxi was bouncing over pothole riddled roads, past disused warehouses, going towards the water. Even in his half intoxicated state, he was aware there were no houses, no major roads in that direction.
He was on the point of saying something when they entered a tunnel and the taxi jerked to a halt. Its headlights extinguished and the interior lights came on. Frank sat forward, confused.
‘What’s happening?’
The driver turned around. His upper lip curled into a sneer as he looked directly at him with a knowing look. Warning bells sounded in Frank’s head but, before he could speak or move, the door on his side opened, strong arms reached in, hauled him out of the taxi as though he weighed no more than a bag of shopping. He landed on his back in the road. Looking up, he saw the woman was leaning out of the car, looking down on him, not moving to help. Half of her face was in shadow and he could only see the part that was lit by the interior light, yet he could have sworn she was smiling. Then someone put a sack over his head. In total darkness, he was hauled to his feet.
He tried to resist, but it was only a token effort and his arms were soon pinioned against his sides, rope wound around his torso until he was trussed up like a chicken ready for the oven. His attackers bundled him back into the car. He started to wriggle but this time a fist struck the side of his head and he knew there’d be more of the same if he persisted. Bodies with muscles that felt like iron sat either side of him, wedged him in like a thin piece of meat between two hunks of bread.
He tried to calm himself but his brain was a scattergun, firing questions he didn’t want to hear because he was afraid of the answers. The big question, the one that was screaming at him above the others, was whether this had to do with the Jacksons. Logic answered that it must. Why else would this be happening?
He heard the taxi draw to a halt. The men got out, hauled him after them. Though he knew it was futile with that sack over his head, his fear got the better of him and he tried to break away, make a run for it. All he received for his trouble was another blow on his jaw and this time he went out like a light.
*
They’d caught a good day to visit the New Forest and Henry wasn’t disappointed. He felt carefree, like those times as a gypsy boy he’d travelled the old country roads. Patches of blue sky showed through the canopy of trees overhead and the sun was shimmering in the branches. He’d come here because he remembered Tom Daly talking about the New Forest, his eyes lighting up that sombre prison cell when he’d spoken about the ponies roaming free there. That seemed an age ago, but when he caught the briefest glimpse of four ponies gall
oping through the trees like ghosts, manes streaming behind them, he said a silent prayer for Tom, hoped his spirit was as free as those ponies.
Glancing at Mary beside him, he considered himself a lucky man to have a woman who’d given up everything to be with him. They’d been in Bournemouth three months now and were happy. John had settled well, was attending college. He was with them today in the back seat, staring out the window. Apart from his trips to the horse sanctuary, the lad had rarely left South Bank. Henry could imagine the forest would be like another world to him. He was glad the lad had taken his advice, written to his father telling him he was going away, wishing him luck. You had to leave doors open. Things and people changed — sometimes.
The headache came on that night just before he went to bed, a bad end to what had been a perfect day. He hadn’t had a drink, couldn’t think of anything he’d eaten that could have caused it. Perhaps he’d driven a little further than usual but driving didn’t usually affect him. He mentioned it to Mary who told him to take two aspirins and go to bed, have a lie in next day.
*
Frank felt the cold seeping into his bones, thought he was in his damp bed-sit. As his eyes fluttered open, he was expecting to see the light of a new day peeping through the holes in the curtains, was surprised when there was nothing but blackness. He was puzzled because it had a different quality from the black that comes with the night, was all consuming, not a shadow or a glimmer of light sneaking through, more like the blackness of the grave. He became aware of something rough like the coarse hair of an animal rubbing against his face. Then his fear uncoiled and struck, feeding his imagination. He tried frantically to wriggle away, found he couldn’t move a muscle, thought he was paralysed. Finally, he remembered, but it didn’t help.
‘He’s awake,’ an Irish voice called from a distance. ‘Twitching like a chicken without a head, so he is.’
Footsteps echoed on concrete. They halted close to him.
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