Savage Games

by Peter Boland

  “Where’s your dad’s room?” he asked Luke.

  “Top floor, in the roof,” Luke replied.

  As they negotiated their way around the puddle of pee, one of the bedroom doors opened. A gargantuan figure of a man ducked under the door lintel and placed his considerable frame between them and the stairs. With a long pointy black beard and long black straggly hair, he looked like a cross between a wizard and a WWE wrestler. He was dressed in a faded black tracksuit, the hem of the top failing to contain his massive girth, revealing a sliver of white, goose-like stomach flesh. On his feet he wore strappy Velcro-fastening sandals, easily a size fourteen. He may have been overweight, but Savage could tell there was solid muscle and power beneath his doughy appearance. He approached Tannaz first, looming over her.

  “Got any food?” he asked.

  Adrenalin from the confrontation outside still coursed through Tannaz’s veins, she was in no mood to be intimidated. “Hey, fat Gandalf,” she said, fixing him with two black venomous eyes. “Back off.” He stood there, impassive, like a trainee corpse, then sidestepped Tannaz to face Savage.

  “Got any food?” he asked again.

  Savage shook his head and smiled. “None of us have any food, my friend. Next time we’re here I’ll bring you a picnic hamper with some smoked salmon.”

  “Really?” the big guy said, eyes brightening, the sarcasm lost on him.

  “Scout’s honour,” Savage replied. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, we need to get up there.”

  The big guy switched his attention to Luke. “Got any food?”

  Savage raised his tone, still trying to maintain a modicum of civility. “Look no one’s got any food, okay my friend. Now, if you want your smoked-salmon picnic next time we come you have to move out of the way.”

  The big guy thought for a second then moved aside. As they climbed the stairs, Savage glanced back down. Fat Gandalf watched them every step of the way.

  “How would you fight someone like that?” asked Tannaz, as they reached the first landing.

  “Very carefully indeed,” replied Savage.

  Climbing a second flight of stairs, they reached the two rooms in the roof, separated by a small square landing covered in tattered carpet, worn through to the seams. Luke used his keys to open the door on the right.

  They stepped into a strange, musty little attic room, the slanted roof and exposed rafters creating an awkwardly shaped ceiling above their heads. A single dormer window looked out over the street below where Savage’s van was parked. With barely any room for furniture, a compact bed with a scruffy duvet sat at one end, while a small chest of drawers and a misshapen wardrobe, leaning over like the tower of Pisa, sat at the other. Odd clothes lay scattered here and there. An empty mug with dried-up tea in the bottom had been left beside the bed together with an old copy of Record Collector magazine. Savage spotted a poster on the floor face down, which had probably been stuck to the wall had it not been for the damp having other plans. Savage walked over to it and lifted it up. A young Iggy Pop stared back at him. This was definitely Dave Mosely’s room.

  Breathing heavily, Luke began frantically searching the space. There wasn’t much to search. Panicking, he opened the flimsy drawers, which took several yanks, rifling through what few clothes his father had owned. Then he strode over to the wardrobe, flung open the door. A single item hung from a wire coat hanger, a black Harrington jacket. An assortment of scruffy shoes lay in the bottom. He slammed the door shut, got down on his knees and looked under the bed.

  “They’re gone!” said Luke.

  “What?” said Savage.

  “His records are gone.”

  Chapter 6

  Luke kicked the bed, turned and collapsed on the end, sitting with his head in his hands.

  “They’re gone,” Luke repeated.

  “Are you sure?” asked Savage.

  “Positive. Last time I was here they were stacked on the floor against the wall. Next to his record player. That’s gone too. I thought he might have stashed them away in the wardrobe or in his drawers.”

  Savage glanced in every corner of the room. An estate agent would have generously called it compact. Shoe box would have been more accurate. Not a place for playing hide and seek, or for concealing records, there just wasn’t the space. Savage put a hand on Luke’s shoulder and sat down next to him.

  “Does anyone else have a key?” Savage asked.

  “No, Dad wouldn’t have trusted anyone,” Luke replied.

  “And there were no signs of forced entry, so that only leaves the landlord. What’s his name?”

  Luke raised his head, looked at Savage. “Simon Wellington. He’s well dodgy; owns all the HMOs around here. Got a bad reputation.”

  “What’s an HMO?” Tannaz asked.

  “House of multiple occupancy, that’s what this is,” Savage answered. “Big house, lots of grotty single rooms, shared bathroom and kitchen. Cheapest, nastiest accommodation you can get—you can imagine the state of the bathroom and kitchen.”

  “Sounds delightful,” said Tannaz.

  Savage took his smart phone out. “Okay, I’m going to give this Wellington guy a call.”

  “No,” said Luke. “What if things get nasty?”

  “I’ll get nasty back.” Savage did a quick search and got the number for Simon Wellington Properties. After a couple of rings, a woman answered.

  “Simon Wellington Properties, Vicky speaking. How can I help you?” she said, rattling the words off so quickly that they merged into one another.

  “Hi,” said Savage. “I’m calling on behalf of Luke Mosely, his father David Mosely used to live at one of your properties, Tivoli Gardens in Southampton. We’re trying to track down some of his possessions…”

  “What was the name again?” she said, cutting Savage off. He repeated the details while rapid typing came from the other end of the phone. Eventually she said, “Ah yes, David Mosely left that property quite some time ago without warning, giving us no prior notice or forwarding address. Under the Interference with Goods Act 1997 we’re entitled to dispose of ‘slash’ sell any goods left by a tenant if we are unable to locate them. We did employ a tracing agent to locate Mr Mosely to inform him of this, but according to what’s on screen we were unable to secure a positive outcome.”

  Savage took a deep breath. “Well, I severely doubt you did employ a tracing agent because if you did, they would have quickly discovered that David Mosely passed away recently, that’s why he hasn’t been living at the property. So if you don’t mind, we’d like his possessions returned.”

  “As I said before, under the Interference with Goods Act 1997 we can dispose of ‘slash’ sell any goods left behind by a tenant.” She didn’t offer any condolences or adopt a more sympathetic tone.

  “Well,” Savage replied. “I think that’s bull ‘slash’ shit. We’re in David Mosely’s room right now, and all his stuff is still here, apart from his record collection. So you haven’t disposed of or sold his possessions, you’ve just come in here and taken his record collection and record player, because you knew they were worth something.”

  “As I said before, under the…”

  “Yes, you’ve told me. I don’t care about the Interference with Goods Act 1997. You’ve clearly stolen possessions from a dead man, which should rightfully go to his son. How does that make you feel?”

  Silence.

  “Are you still there?” asked Savage.

  “As I said, under the…”

  “Listen, Vicky. Is there anyone else I can talk to? Can I speak to your boss, Simon Wellington?”

  “I’m afraid Mr Wellington no longer runs the company, he’s retired. His son Ben Wellington is in charge now.”

  “Okay, can I speak to him?”

  “Uh, no.”

  Savage waited for the rest of her answer. It
never came.

  “Why not?” he eventually asked.

  Vicky forced a chuckle. “Ben Wellington is far too busy to get involved in a small matter like this.”

  “A small matter?” Savage said. “You think this is a small matter? One of your tenants has died and you’ve gone steaming into his room and taken everything of value. Is this how you treat all your tenants? I’m sure the local paper would be interested to hear about this.”

  Luke shook his head, clearly not wanting the attention of the press.

  “I’m afraid we don’t respond to threatening language,” Vicky said, her voice suddenly serious. “If you have an issue, I suggest that you seek legal advice.” And with that she hung up.

  Savage looked at his phone in disgust, then put it in his back pocket. “I’m sorry, Luke. The chances of getting those records back are between none and none. The law’s on their side.”

  “They’re in the wrong,” Luke said.

  “Of course they are,” Savage replied. “But they’ll tie us up in so much red tape, we won’t be able to make a move against them. These companies know what they’re doing. Probably been in this situation before, dozens of times. Seizing tenants’ property is a nice little sideline for them, a perk of the job. Have to face facts, those records are long gone. Probably been sold off.”

  “Can’t you go there and bang some heads?” asked Luke.

  “Believe me I’d like nothing better. It’d be my pleasure. But it wouldn’t get the records back. I’d just get arrested and that wouldn’t help our cause. We’d be worse off than when we started.”

  “What about a lawyer?” Luke asked.

  “Waste of time,” said Tannaz. “You’d be throwing good money after bad. End up spending more money than the records are worth.”

  Luke sighed heavily, swore under his breath. “I know it sounds cold, but I was going to sell the records—I could really do with the money right now. I figured Dad wouldn’t have minded if I turned them into cash.”

  “Course he wouldn’t have,” said Savage. “They’re rightfully yours to do whatever you want with, except that bastard Simon Wellington has taken them, or more likely one of the seedy little gits who work for him.”

  “Is there nothing we can do?”

  “They’re absolute wankers, heartless wankers,” said Tannaz, standing next to Luke and resting a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. “They have the law on their side.”

  “She’s right,” Savage added. “I know it’s eating you up. The best thing you can do is forget about it. Put it behind you, chalk it up to experience. Come on, let’s go into Southampton and I’ll buy you a posh coffee, one with all the cream and syrupy stuff.”

  “I prefer tea.”

  Savage smiled. “Now we’re talking.”

  They drove into the city centre, left the VW in one of the many labyrinthine multi-storey car parks and strolled across a grassy area near the main library, past the monument to the engineers who lost their lives on the Titanic. Then they turned ninety degrees onto Above Bar Street, a long poker-straight medieval road. Like a corridor lined with shops and offices, it neatly divided Southampton city centre into two halves.

  They stopped at a retro tearoom, made to look as if it had been frozen in time, at the point when everyone was celebrating the end of World War Two. Colourful bunting hung everywhere and waitresses in vintage frocks and 1940s’ hairdos carrying big pots of tea and large slabs of comfort cake bustled between polka-dot covered tables. Big-band swing music drifted out over the sound system.

  Savage told Tannaz and Luke to order him a tea, while he nipped off to the bank. When he returned, Tannaz and Luke were seated at a table by the window. Luke looked glumly into his teacup, while Tannaz sat beside him, eyes sympathetic, clearly trying to give him much-needed moral support.

  Savage dumped himself down in an empty chair, then helped himself to tea from a large blue pot, pouring it into a cup sitting on a saucer. The milk was in a tiny bottle, like the ones that used to be delivered to the doorstep, back when Britain had milkmen.

  “Now, that’s how tea should be served,” Savage said, taking a long draft. “Nothing like a cup of tea to make things better, eh?”

  “Dunno,” said Tannaz. “I had black coffee.”

  Luke managed a half-hearted smile. “Just like to thank you again for coming all this way for me. I really appreciate it.”

  “No need to thank me,” Savage replied. “Like I said, it was the least I could do. Now, how much did you say those records were worth?”

  “Not sure,” Luke replied. “About three hundred.”

  “Let’s round it up to five hundred,” said Savage. He pulled a fat white envelope from his back pocket and slid it across the table to Luke.

  “What’s this?” asked Luke.

  “Five hundred quid,” Savage replied. “It’s for you, to replace the records you lost, plus a bit extra.”

  Luke slowly prised open the top of the envelope, eyeing the contents cautiously as if they might suddenly jump out and bite him. “Oh, no,” he said. “I can’t accept this.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I can’t.”

  Savage repeated the question. “Why not?”

  Luke pushed the envelope over to Savage. “This is your money.”

  “And now it’s yours.” Savage pushed it back again. “Listen, like I said, my wife was good with money, I’ve got plenty, so don’t worry about me. It’s no skin off my nose, honestly.”

  “Please,” said Luke. “I feel bad enough dragging you and Tannaz all this way for nothing.”

  “I’m the one who should feel bad,” said Savage. “I was your dad’s best mate at school. And I feel terrible about what happened to him. I should have kept in touch. Maybe things would have been different.”

  “It wasn’t your fault. I don’t think anyone could’ve done anything.”

  “That’s no excuse. I knew your dad was a fragile guy, and I wasn’t there when he needed a friend, even if he didn’t want one. So giving his son five hundred quid to help him out is nothing.”

  Luke looked worried. The same expression his dad always had on him, like he’d eaten something that didn’t agree with him. “I don’t know what to say.”

  Savage smiled warmly. “Luke. It makes me happy to help you out. I wasn’t there for your dad, but if I can go some way to making amends by being there for you, then it makes me feel a little better. So if there’s anything else I can do, you call me, understand.”

  “Yes, thank you. I will.”

  “I mean it. That’s not one of those empty promises people say just to sound nice.”

  A small tear escaped from the corner of Luke’s eye. He turned his head away, ashamed, grabbed a napkin and blotted the tear. Tannaz took his hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

  He held up the envelope of cash. “This means a lot to me. I’m going to use it for something good.”

  “I could build you an awesome laptop for five hundred quid,” said Tannaz.

  “No, but thank you,” said Luke. “I’m going to use it for driving lessons. I’ve always wanted to drive, never been able to afford to learn. Going to get a job as a delivery driver. I love being on the move, and there’s tons of work in that, nowadays. Get my life started.” The sadness vanished from Luke’s face as he thought about having a future, and all the possibilities that came with it. Positivity radiated off him. A man with a plan, a man who had purpose. Someone who’d had his hope restored in full.

  One week later, Luke was dead.

  Chapter 7

  Savage turned off the hefty petrol-driven hedge trimmer, climbed down off the step ladder and stood back to survey his efforts. He’d been in the back of his tiny postage-stamp-sized garden, attacking his privet hedge, pruning it back. A glow of pride filled him as he admired the hedge’s sleek recta
ngular shape, flat on top with sharp right-angled corners and neat vertical sides. He’d even got out his extra-long spirit level to check the sides were exactly perpendicular and that the top was as flat as Norfolk.

  His hedge, or the Berlin Wall as he liked to call it, had been grown high, well over head height so he didn’t have to look at his annoying neighbour or his wreck of a garden. The guy was a slob and used his outdoor space as a storage area for anything that didn’t fit in his flat. Piles of bricks, stacks of wood, several car engines, a collapsed, rusting trampoline and half a motorbike that he had started to rebuild, then gave up on. Savage felt sorry for his young son who had nowhere to play and instead had to go to the local park—usually on his own.

  Savage spotted a slight bulge in his otherwise pristine hedge. He picked up the trimmer and got ready to fire it up when he heard banging. It was coming from his front door, drifting along his hallway, out through his open kitchen door. Savage put down the power tool and went to investigate. As he reached the front door the banging got more intense.

  Savage opened the door to see a red-faced Tannaz with one hand raised, balled into a fist for knocking and the other holding a phone. “Why haven’t you been answering your phone?” she demanded. “I’ve been out here banging on your door for the past fifteen minutes.” Without being invited in, she pushed past him.

  “Tannaz, I’m kind of in the middle of something,” Savage said, following her into his kitchen. “I’m doing a spot of gardening, want to help?”

  Tannaz ignored him and fiddled with her phone. She looked at him, eyes brimming over with sadness. “I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news. Luke Mosely is dead.”

  “What?”

  Tannaz swallowed hard and took a deep breath. “He’s dead. Died a few days ago.”

  Savage didn’t say anything. His mind processing the information like a slow computer.

  “What? How?” asked Savage.

  “Suicide.”

  “Suicide?”

  Savage sat down on his little chair and table by the kitchen window. He noticed black mould peppered the skirting board, like a virus attempting to spread. “I don’t believe it, are you sure?” he asked.