Drink With The Devil

by David Woods

“Yes.” He looked sternly at Garry. “I was instructed to wait exactly this amount of time before giving you this document.”

  “When was this instruction given, and who gave it?”

  “Your father instructed me many years ago, at the time the document was prepared.”

  “What is this document?” Garry became impatient.

  “It’s your adoption details.”

  Garry was silent for a second and then said in a shrill tone. “What do you mean, adoption?”

  The solicitor leaned against his desk, still clutching the envelope and looking Garry straight in the eye. He spoke in a clear, even tone. “Your parents tried for years to have children, but without success. When they thought all hope was lost, they adopted you.”

  “B-But what about Angela?”

  “Your mother became pregnant later, despite the doctors saying it was impossible.”

  “So she is their natural daughter?”

  “Yes.”

  Garry was stunned into silence. George saw his anguished expression and sat down whilst he digested the news fully. After a minute of staring at his feet Garry said, “Who else knows about this?”

  “No one. There are records of course, but they are unlikely to be found unless someone is specifically looking for them.”

  Garry thought about the situation. “Who are my natural parents?”

  “They died years ago, so I wouldn’t dwell on that if I were you.”

  “But I must find out about them.”

  “I would advise you to forget about them. Just remember Sir William and Lady Osborne brought you up as their son. It would be an insult to their memory to dig up the past.”

  “I don’t agree. Besides they should have told me before.”

  “They wanted you to settle down in the family business, so that everybody would accept you as their son before you found out.”

  “Why?”

  “So it would be easier for you to accept.”

  Garry thought about it again and said calmly. “No one must ever find out about this. Not even Angela.”

  “No one will find out. So forget about digging up the past and get on with the future as Garry Osborne.”

  “I’ll certainly carry on as Garry Osborne, but I do need to know about my real parents.”

  “Please leave the past alone.”

  Garry stood up, leaned across the desk and pointed at George Vine. “You will tell me the truth, or I’ll find out myself.”

  “Very well. If you’re determined to find out, sit down and I’ll tell you all I know. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.

  Garry sat down, but did not relax.

  George Vine proceeded. “Your natural parents were farm workers’ children. Your mother became pregnant at the age of eighteen and your father was nineteen. They had no money and couldn’t afford to marry, so it was decided to have you adopted.”

  “So I’m a bastard?”

  “No, you are not. May I continue?”

  “Yes. Go on then.”

  Your natural parents married two years later and had a son. When he was one year old, your parents went out to celebrate in a borrowed car, but your father was drunk and a head on collision occurred. Both were killed.”

  “What happened to the boy?”

  “He was at his grandparents at the time. They tried to bring him up, but were unable to take care of him permanently.”

  Garry showed no emotion. “What happened to him after that?”

  “He was less fortunate than you, and taken in by an orphanage.” Garry stroked his chin. “What’s so terrible about all that?”

  “Oh nothing really.”

  “What was my parents name?”

  George Vine fidgeted and then took a deep breath. “Grainger. Tom and Molly Grainger.”

  Garry spluttered. “Grainger.” His face went white and he slumped forward, staring at the floor.

  George thought he had better say something. “Your mother was Molly Smith at the time of your birth.”

  Garry lifted his head slowly and spoke in an unusually deep voice. “What’s the boy’s Christian name?”

  “James.”

  “You mean he’s the same Jim Grainger who killed my parents?”

  He didn’t kill your parents, but he was there on that terrible night.”

  Garry stood up, placed his hands on the desk and leaned forward. He spoke in a shrill loud voice. “Christ Almighty. So I’m a bastard and my brothels a murderer.”

  “That’s not true. Now calm down and learn to accept the situation.”

  Garry straightened up. “So that’s why you didn’t want me to sue for libel?”

  “You had a weak case and wouldn’t have achieved much.”

  “And the very distasteful past would have come out.”

  “Unlikely, I would say.”

  “Perhaps you were right to advise against litigation.”

  “I was right and no doubt about it.”

  Garry slumped back into the chair, cupped his head in his hands and remained silent. All that could be heard in the room was the loud tick of a wall-mounted clock. After a couple of minutes during which both men sat motionless, Garry slowly got to his feet, reached forward, grabbed the envelope and growled. “The evil bastard should have told me before.”

  “And what difference would it have made?”

  “It would have proved he trusted me.”

  George Vine just shrugged. “He thought he was doing his best for you.”

  “He didn’t bloody well trust me.”

  “I’m sorry you see it like that. This news will not alter your life or anyone’s view of you. So just get on with running your companies and forget about it.”

  “It’s all right for you to say that.” Garry turned on his heels and walked out, slamming the door behind him.

  George slumped back into his chair, thinking how badly he had handled the interview. I should have broken the news gradually, he thought. I hope he’ll be all right.

  Garry did not return to work but took a taxi to his flat where the curtains were still pulled. He sat in the twilight of the stale-smelling room thinking, and all the feeling of hatred for Jim Grainger returned, but was more intense. He suddenly sat upright. What if he finds out he’s my brother? he thought. If he finds out others will, including business contacts, associates, friends and relations. Little William is really a Grainger! He almost wept with anger, cursing his mother and father — both natural and adoptive. After a while his stomach twisted up and his thoughts of hatred intensified, his knees felt weak and his hands shook. His stomach and head throbbed as he staggered towards the drinks cabinet, where a new bottle of brandy had rested unopened for a couple of weeks — a record for Garry.

  He filled a glass, gulped it down, went back to his seat and closed his eyes, the liquid feeling warm as it slid down inside him, but it did little to untwist his stomach. He tried to imagine both sets of parents being tortured and hung, but the vision would not stay in his mind, always returning to Jim Grainger and ways of killing him. He reasoned that if Grainger had not killed his parents, he would still be living in blissful ignorance of his true parentage. Further large gulps of brandy caused the visions of torture and killing to become real in his mind. He stood up, lifted the bottle to his lips and drank the remaining liquid before crashing to the floor unconscious.

  Jane went to bed that night not knowing or really caring where Garry was, but the next morning she found he had not come home. At first she was angry, but then she became concerned, as he always came home eventually. She rang both Blakesbuild and Osbornes to be told that he had not been seen despite an appointment with a client, who was apparently very upset at being let down. She also rang the flat, but there was no reply. Peter French had not seen him and there was no reply at the farmhouse. She thought he would be home for lunch, but by three he had neither returned nor gone to work. She drove to his flat, and recoiled at the stench as she entered.

  A mixture of brandy and
vomit made the stale air difficult to breathe without making herself feel sick. Garry was laying on the floor, his face surrounded by vomit which had soaked into his hair, and he was groaning. Jane pulled back the curtains and opened a window and then pulled him away from the mess, propping him up against a chair. The empty brandy bottle made her feel angry and, storming off into the kitchen, she filled a saucepan full of cold water, returned and emptied it over Garry’s face and head. The shock revived him a little and he shouted out. “That bastard, Grainger. I’ll kill him.”

  “Good God! You’re not still on about him, are you?” Jane stood back and looked at her husband to see his white face with his eyes sunk so deep in their sockets that it was difficult to see them. “You pathetic, miserable, inadequate little man,” she said in a loud voice. “You think you’re so special, but look at yourself now. You’re not fit to be called a man.”

  A squeaky little voice replied, “Oh Jane, my love, I’m so sorry to have let you down so badly.”

  “Sorry! You’re a bloody disgrace to yourself and your family, and not fit for anything but the gutter.”

  “You’re right of course, my love.”

  “Love! The only person you love is yourself. You disgust me.” She walked out, slamming the door, and stood outside to hear him crying and asking for forgiveness. She nearly went back to help him, but resisted the temptation.

  Garry eventually rose and staggered to the shower to wash his fully clothed body, before throwing his clothes into a bin. He walked unsteadily to the bedroom, feeling very ill, and collapsed on to the bed. Jane returned home, feeling better having at last told him what she thought of him, but still worried about his health.

  When Garry returned home late that night, he drank a glass of milk and went to bed. Jane looked at him lying there, still looking pale and, as she tucked him, in she thought how harmless he looked. She tried to feel compassion, realising how degrading it must be to have to drink until one is ill in order to satisfy some strange need or drown depression.

  Although he tried to catch up with work, Garry’s mind kept wandering and by mid morning he gave up, and got out the Grainger file from his desk and read it to refresh his memory. He threw it down and cursed. My murdering brother is in the same business as me. I’ll have to do something about that, he thought. Grabbing the receiver he rang Gordon Simpson, who answered in a sleepy voice, but Garry soon woke him up.

  “Simpson, I want you to find Grainger again and give me an up-to-date report on all aspects of his life.”

  “Yes Sir, Mr. Osborne.” Simpson was at his usual low level of activity, finding customers hard to come by, and he got on with the job straightaway. Going back to find the terraced house in Kingston, he knocked at the door.

  Rosie directed him to the new site in Sussex, at the same time giving him a strange look. “What d’you want to see ’im for?”

  “I’d like to sell him some insurance.”

  “You won’t sell ’im anything.”

  “Why not?”

  “ ’cause he won’t have time to see you.”

  Simpson walked away smiling cheerfully and drove to Sussex, easily finding the large building site with its wooden site building, and he sat and watched for a while, noticing the activity on different parts of the site with houses at varying stages of completion. Nearer to the site building there was a finished house with a notice over the front door indicating the ‘show house.’ The garden was laid out neatly and curtains hung at the windows. The row of detached houses nearest to the road was finished, and some were occupied.

  Simpson drove in and parked outside the show house, walking in to be accosted by a keen young sales lady, who set about showing him the features of the house, and then led him to a plan of the site showing what houses were still for sale. Simpson listened to her smooth talk and then said. “Tell me about Grainger Construction.”

  “Oh, it’s a go ahead company run by a young man who believes in using the best quality materials and workmanship.”

  “Have they built many houses?”

  “Yes. Two previous sites in Surrey. The houses there sold immediately.”

  “Will they be building on other sites?”

  “Yes, as soon as these are finished.”

  “D’you know the boss man?”

  “Unfortunately not. Jim Grainger works sixteen hours a day and doesn’t have time to chat.”

  “Thank you for showing me around. I’ll think about it. Oh, by the way where were the previous houses built?”

  She gave him the address and he walked out, glancing around before driving off.

  Billy Bradford walked out of the site office with an arm full of plans. He watched the man with a beer gut get into a battered old car and stopped, racking his brains trying to think where he had seen him before. The old car started up and sped off, and suddenly Billy remembered the man wanting to buy rubble, thinking that somehow he did not look like a builder. Billy dropped the plans and scribbled the car’s registration number on a scrap of paper, and then picking up the plans walked across to the show house. Once inside he questioned the sales lady. “What did that fat bloke want?”

  “He was just being nosy, like a lot of other people.”

  “What questions did he ask?”

  “He wanted to know all about Grainger Construction.”

  “I see. Thanks dear.” He stuffed the scrap of paper into his back pocket and left, wondering if he was being too suspicious or, was this the man who tried to stop the company getting its supplies? He decided to discuss his suspicions with Jim.

  Simpson found the new houses near Kingston and counted how many were on the estate. They were all occupied, some with new cars parked outside and all well decorated, and he guessed they would have been bought by middle class families. He drove home, typed his report and that evening Garry rang.

  “How are you getting on?”

  “Fine. He’s still living with the old dear.”

  “Oh yes. But what about his business?”

  “I’m still looking into that.”

  “Well, hurry up. I want your report by the end of the week.”

  “Right, Sir.” He smiled to himself. It was only Tuesday, and he could stretch the job out for the rest of the week.

  Garry had a bad week. Every time he tried to get down to work his mind wandered, and he sat for hours just thinking about Jim and how to get rid of him. All this destructive mental activity took its toll on his health, both physical and mental — his stomach was always twisted up and he could not eat. The only time he forgot about his problems was when he was at a business meeting which demanded his full attention.

  Friday morning came and Simpson sauntered into Garry’s office, noticing at once Garry’s drawn features and tempered glare. “Here’s your report, Guv.”

  Garry reached out and snatched it rudely. “About time too!” Simpson waited whilst he read it, before throwing it down and snorting,

  “Huh. So the evil bastard is doing well?”

  “So it would appear.”

  “Yes. We’ll have to do something about that.”

  “What have you got in mind?”

  “I don’t know yet. I’ll call you shortly.”

  “Okay, but can I have a cheque first?”

  Garry agreed and Simpson left to cash it before going home to his flat. That evening he went out for his usual pint, and was stopped on the way home by a pair of big dark-haired men, waiting outside the block of flats. The first one grabbed his lapels and growled, “You’re two months behind with yer rent. Now pay up within two days or I’ll alter the shape of yer face.”

  Simpson recognised the man as the leader of a local and particularly violent gang, who normally specialised in burglary and protection rackets. “I promise to pay the landlord this week.”

  “Well, now you pay me. I’ve taken over debt collection.”

  “Okay. I’ll pay.”

  “Yeah. You’re bloody right you will.”

  Simpso
n staggered up to his flat, his knees feeling weak and he trembled with fear, knowing he could not pay. The weekend passed slowly and miserably, as he tried to think of ways of overcoming his problems. By Sunday morning he had convinced himself the situation was hopeless, and he would have to move out that afternoon, leaving the few items of furniture he possessed in the flat. He had lived alone all his adult life and had drifted from one job to another, never doing very well at anything.

  Having been a private investigator some time now, he enjoyed the freedom and this was the job he had decided to stick at, hoping to find a rich client to work for. At first things went well and he was busy most of the time, but the last year had been dreadful with only a few odd jobs to tackle, mostly for bad-tempered people like Osborne. Lack of activity led him to drink regularly, which made his money problems worse.

  He walked home and started packing clothes into two battered old suitcases. Suddenly the door rattled as someone hit it, and his heart sank as he stood still and waited, but the door was bludgeoned again so he ran and opened it before it was broken down. The two big men burst in, knocking Simpson to one side as he asked, “What d’you want?”

  The bigger of the two pushed him against the wall. “Yer wouldn’t be running out on us, would yer?”

  “No, of course not,” he lied.

  The other man disappeared into the bedroom, returning with the two suitcases. “Look at this. The bastard was goin’ to do a bunk.”

  Simpson started trembling as the nearest man came closer. “You were running out on me, weren’t yer?”

  Simpson closed his eyes, trying to think of a reply and suddenly he blurted out, “I can pay, and if you leave me alone I’ll give you a job that’ll pay thousands.”

  Both men laughed and then sneered. “You miserable little bastard. You’re just trying to save yer skin.”

  “No, it’s true. I’ll have all the details for you tomorrow.”

  “What kind of job is it?”

  “I’ve a rich client who wants a man put out of action.”

  “Okay. We’ll give you twenty-four hours to come up with a deal. In the meantime just make sure you don’t go anywhere.”

  Simpson heaved a sigh of relief, and then collapsed on the floor as the big man delivered a hard punch to his stomach. The other man kicked him in the side, and then tore the suitcases to shreds with a long knife, scattering torn clothes around the flat. He did not hear them leave as he felt too ill, the pie and pint he had for lunch reaching his mouth and spurting out over the bare floorboards with some of it disappearing through the cracks. He lay still groaning for a while, and then staggered into the bedroom to spend the rest of the day nursing his stomach and feeling very depressed.