Trial by Blood

by John Macken

  The fourth day began as the third had. An early spring chill, his body damp, his mouth parched, his teeth on edge. Reuben dragged his coin back and forth along the wall for as long as he could, sensing the futility but refusing to give up on Joshua. I have to survive, he told himself. I have to get out of here and save my son. But the concrete remained sharp and impenetrable. He was suddenly overcome by the need to defecate. Just over three full days and his body was switching modes, from passive to active, from being controlled to taking control. Survival mode. Reuben knew that fat reserves had been burned, and that protein was turning to carbohydrate. He wasn’t starving yet, but after about eighty hours and extended bouts of activity his metabolism was beginning to change. Decisions were being made on his behalf. Again, Reuben wondered who had been in this windowless cell before him, and how long they had been kept, and what had become of them.

  The day was interminable. Long stretches of nothingness. Haunted by Abner’s words. We’ll be back for you. You will die in the knowledge that you failed to save your only flesh and blood. Seeing Abner checking on Joshua’s progress. Using his police access. Sitting in Reuben’s old office and dialling the numbers, explaining that it was relevant to the case of an escaped prisoner. Joshua silently fighting, but all the time being attacked deep in his bones, his immune system being eaten away, his tiny eighteen-month life ending before it really began. Reuben wiping streams of tears from his face, angry, upset, frustrated, helpless tears, the type only a parent can cry when a child is dying. Standing up and running headlong at the door. Gratefully taking the pain, running at it repeatedly, slamming into the surface.

  Reuben awoke, stiff and aching, his shoulders throbbing. He paced back and forth, muttering and whispering, shaking the dawn from his bones. He didn’t believe in Satan, but he knew that this was hell. Here, now, entombed, unable to save his child, with no food or water for four days, waiting to die. This was Reuben’s Hades. Forget the clichéd scenarios of flames and torture, this very moment was what hell felt like.

  Reuben stopped pacing. He placed his sleeve across his nose and mouth. The stench was unbearable. The caustic nip of sulphuric acid had been replaced by something far more immediate and overwhelming. Reuben had been forced to shit in the corner of the tiny concrete building the previous day. But something worried him. There were no flies. He was deep in a wooded area, and there were no flies. He listened intently. The buzz of curious insects was just audible. No rain had permeated, and now no bluebottles. If flies and water couldn’t breach a building, then it was effectively sealed. The toughened concrete was standing its ground. Reuben was trapped, and he knew it. This was a fortress. No one got in, and no one got out. He realized with an even clearer certainty that he was fucked. He slumped against the wall, which scratched at his jacket as he slid down it and on to the floor.

  A noise. The crunch of gravel, the rumble of an approaching engine. He screwed up his face and screamed. ‘No, no, no! Joshua, no!’ With his head buried deep in his hands, he whispered, ‘What the hell have I done to you?’ The tears came properly. Joshua was dead.

  What he had to do now was make sure that the men who let this happen were punished. The rules had suddenly changed. This was no longer about survival. It was about revenge. He pulled himself together. A plan was needed. A strategy of attack.

  Three car doors slammed in quick succession. Abner and his colleagues would be ready for him. But he would be more ready. Reuben stood up. He felt the coin in his hand, which he had spent half the night sharpening. It was like a razor. He paced over to the door and stood to the side. There was a series of scraping noises at the lock. Reuben summoned the energy he would need. He saw his fight classes with Stevo, recalled what he had learned from Michael Brawn.

  There was a banging, echoing thud. The door flew open. A shotgun appeared through the opening. Then an arm, and then a shoulder. And Reuben leapt at it with every ounce of strength he possessed.

  17

  ‘Fuck off me! Fuck off!’

  The large arm swung back and forth, the shotgun flashing through the gloom. Reuben dug the coin in, ripping flesh, blood seeping over his hand. He swung a punch with all his might, his fist connecting with jaw, the man reeling. Reuben brought his other arm round, a glancing blow which ricocheted off ribs.

  ‘Reuben, Jesus!’ A voice from outside. ‘It’s OK!’

  Gruff and East End, something familiar in its grittiness. Reuben paused. The man with the shotgun righted himself. ‘Easy, doc.’ He came into full view. Nathan, Kieran Hobbs’ minder. And behind, the man himself, grinning in the light.

  ‘Shit. I thought—’

  ‘Gotcha! My old mate Reuben. Gawd, you don’t smell too good. You coming out, are you, or do you like it in there?’

  Reuben stood still, blinking in the light for a second, before stumbling out. He glanced at Nathan, who was running a hand over his right cheek.

  ‘Nathan, sorry. I didn’t realize it was you.’

  ‘Quite a punch,’ Nathan said with a grimace. ‘You work out?’

  ‘Not exactly. And sorry about the cut.’

  Nathan followed the direction of Reuben’s eyes, noticing the slash in his tracksuit sleeve, presumably for the first time. He dabbed at it with his fingers and said, ‘No damage done.’

  ‘All the same.’

  ‘Just glad the boss stopped it when he did. I’ll have to pass the good news on to Stevo.’

  Nathan grinned, and Reuben tried to calm down, the adrenalin taking its time to subside.

  ‘Look,’ he said, turning to Kieran, ‘I’ve got to get back to London. Now.’

  Kieran turned and pointed to the silver Range Rover Valdek was leaning heavily against. ‘Your carriage awaits.’

  Wordlessly, Valdek climbed into the front passenger seat. Reuben followed Kieran into the back, and Nathan backed the large four by four out of the clearing.

  On the motorway, Reuben turned to Kieran and said, ‘So you wrote the notes to me about Brawn?’

  Kieran frowned, taking a thoughtful time over his words. ‘Let me explain a few things to you. Back where I grew up in the East End, a lot of people knew Ian Cowley. He’s come from up north somewhere, Moss-side maybe. Starts getting a bit of a reputation. Hard bastard, but not in the normal way. Not like my boys in the front there. Although after what you did to Nathan . . . Anyway, Cowley just had something about him that told you not to mess, something that said this guy would fuck you over if it killed him doing it.’

  ‘But why not just ask me to do it?’

  ‘I’m coming to that, my friend.’ Kieran span the bevelled dial on his Swiss divers watch, each click sounding slick and oiled. ‘So this cunt Cowley is in and out of prison. Serious stuff. A lot of people in the know reckon he’s bumped a few geezers for cash. And not just for the cash. For the love of killing. For the thrill it gives him. He’s never banged up for any of this – just ABH here, attempted murder there. But as I say, word gets round.’

  ‘So why would Commander Abner want to kill him?’

  ‘Here’s the thing with Abner. Before he joined Forensics, he was a tough bastard. Serious Crime Squad. Had a few run-ins with him over the years. Decade ago, mid-nineties, Abner’s on Firearms. Always had a fascination for weaponry.’

  Reuben took another swig from the bottle of mineral water Kieran had pulled from a chilled compartment in an armrest and pictured the plaques in the commander’s office, the practised way he had checked Michael Brawn’s pistol over before firing it at point blank.

  ‘His squad track gun shipments, seize them, accept their commendations. Only their actual and declared seizures are very different beasts, if you get my drift. Bit by bit they start to get a stranglehold on the UK gun market.’

  ‘They were selling them on?’

  ‘Not directly. They’re coppers. They’ve got to be careful. So what do they do? They approach one of my outfits, get them to do the distribution. And it’s win fucking win. Abner’s cronies seize the guns and take
the glory. Then they pass the rest on to my outfit, pocket a hefty slice, and come down mercilessly on any other fucker trying to sell firearms to the public at large. None of the saps they arrest complains too much, because they only get done for the weapons Abner’s lot don’t cream off.’

  ‘I can’t believe Abner . . .’ Reuben shook his head. ‘Look, can this thing go any faster? I need to get to Joshua.’

  Kieran leaned forward in his seat. ‘Nathan, you heard the man.’ There was no response from the front. Kieran jabbed a thick, stubby finger into Nathan’s shoulder. ‘Step on it,’ he urged. ‘Nathan!’

  The bulky minder, still bleeding slightly from his right arm, sat suddenly up in his seat. ‘Sorry boss, miles away.’

  ‘You see? One bang on the jaw and you’re fucking useless. I don’t know what I pay you boys for. Now put your foot down.’

  ‘I’m nudging the ton already, boss.’

  Kieran flushed, his pink cheeks reddening. ‘Well fucking nudge it harder.’

  The Range Rover accelerated gracefully, its bonnet rising, and Reuben returned his attention to Kieran.

  ‘So, what changed?’

  ‘What always happens. Politics. A new Home Secretary, gun crime out of control, a severe crackdown on the cards. Abner’s gang are looking exposed, and need someone to take the fall for them. So they set my outfit up as the major supplier of weapons in the capital. A lot of accusations at the trial, but Abner’s been clever. Saw what was coming and began supplying my boys with marked firearms. Passed off former dealings with them as entrapment. And who’s a jury gonna believe? Decorated officers or . . . well, you’ve seen the state of some of my punters.’

  ‘So this all happened ten years ago. What now?’

  ‘It’s obvious. My syndicate have served their time. They’re on the verge of being released back into the community. Abner and colleagues start to panic. Their reputations, careers and lives are under threat. They’ve done well for themselves in the intervening decade. Hence they call on the services of Ian Cowley.’

  Reuben glanced out of the window, willing the vehicle to go faster but lapping up the information, and desperate to know more. ‘Because he was already serving time?’

  ‘Look, Cowley’s presence in Pentonville was no accident. He was placed there to do a job.’

  The penny was beginning to drop. ‘The false genetic evidence . . .’

  ‘He was given a clean identity, Michael Brawn, and set up for the sort of crime that could get him close to my boys. He was inserted there to kill them, how would you say, in utero – an abortion, ending them before they’re spewed back into the real world.’

  ‘Nice image.’

  ‘You know what I’m saying. Brawn had been put into Pentonville to get a job done, slowly and without suspicion, and now he’s done it. The strings are pulled and he’s magically released. And who’s going to lose sleep over two or three suicides during the course of a year in a suicide hot-spot?’

  ‘Damian knew it was going to happen,’ Reuben said, almost to himself. He slugged back the rest of the water, draining the bottle, seeing again the headline pentonville inmate found hanged.

  ‘I’d twigged all this months ago, I just didn’t have the proof. I needed to know without ruffling any feathers. Abner had to be in the dark. And with your links to the Met, and to Abner, I couldn’t risk it. But now with your help, it’s all stitched together.’

  Reuben span round, suddenly angry, implications catching up, his brain beginning to fire again. ‘And now my life is a fucking mess.’

  ‘Which is why I bunged you twenty-five large.’ Kieran smiled appeasingly. Reuben pictured this smile sorting out arguments, papering over rivalries, placating policemen. It was practised and ruthless, eyes twinkling and teeth shining, and difficult to dislike. ‘Not bad for a week’s work. And as for your son, we’re gonna get you to him fast as we can. Don’t forget who’s just saved your life.’

  Reuben sighed. Kidnapped by coppers and rescued by villains.

  ‘How did you find me?’

  ‘Heard along the line that you were missing. Your fat Jock friend put the word out. Since then we’ve been combing known haunts and lock-ups of Abner and his colleagues.’

  ‘You knew about that place?’

  Kieran stared out of the side window. ‘See, cops always think it’s one-way traffic. They’re monitoring us, and that’s that. But they forget we spend just as much time watching them. Be professional suicide not to know what the fuzz are up to and how they do it.’

  The Range Rover was now picking through the outskirts of London, houses becoming thicker, traffic heavier. Reuben felt a tight knot of apprehension in his stomach, his fists clenching and unclenching, his palms wet.

  ‘And when I’ve dropped you at the hospital it’s time to deal with Abner once and for all.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Reuben asked.

  ‘The cunt who has faked the suicides of my friends is going to get sorted himself. No minders. Just me and him. Man to man.’ Kieran fingered the shotgun lying upright between his legs. ‘And that’s all you should know.’

  18

  Reuben slammed the Range Rover door and sprinted into the hospital. The last time, Sarah had been inside. His neck had been stiff from the prison van impact, his heartbeat furious, a fugitive desperate to see his son. This time, things were different. He might be too late. As he pushed through the revolving doors, he asked himself, what if he is dead? How will I live with myself? How will I cope?

  He ran to the large round reception desk. An auxiliary worker in a light blue uniform looked him up and down. Reuben ran a self-conscious hand through a week’s stubble as she checked a list. Then she pointed towards the lifts. Reuben took the stairs. On the second floor he sprinted along an off-white corridor which reeked of antiseptic. A sign marked ‘Acute Theatre 4’. Lungs cold and empty. A set of double doors. Heartbeat frantic. A gowned surgeon, his sleeves rolled up, his eyebrows raised. A blue door, with the words ‘Hospital Personnel Only’. Throat aching in anticipation. Pushing it partially open, peering through the slit, seeing them in there, lying side by side, motionless. His eyes welling, understanding coming almost instantly, his tired, traumatized brain making the connection. Closing the entrance again, ignoring the surgeon, walking slowly away, his head and stomach and heart and emotions seemingly all connected, his skin tingling, his lungs now breathing fast. Joshua unconscious, a tiny form on a special operating table. Deathly pale, tubes seemingly sucking the life out of him. And next to him, on a full-sized bed, a man, also unconscious. Reuben rubbed his eyes.

  By the time he found the canteen, which was on the lower ground floor, Reuben had calmed down slightly. He was still amazed, but it was a composed amazement, restful and still, the aftermath of dissipated panic. Reuben took a tray and picked out a range of food and drink: chocolate and fruit, a bottle of Lucozade, a portion of hospital stew and chips. He had several days’ nutrition to replace. He sat at an empty table, barely noticing his surroundings, making up for lost time.

  His brother and his son side by side. Aaron. He could kiss him.

  Reuben took a break, knowing he shouldn’t bolt his food. He scanned the canteen, with its buzzing staff and its silent parents: doctors, nurses and support workers glad of the break, mothers and fathers knowing there was no break, eating only through necessity. Children’s hospitals were truly harrowing places, regardless of the bright colours and cheerful personnel.

  And then Reuben spotted someone who made him stop, mid-chew. She was carrying a chocolate bar and a can of drink, zig-zagging between close-spaced chairs, seemingly oblivious to everything and everyone. Reuben guessed she was making for a vacant table near the corner. He stood up and waved at her. It took her a few seconds before recognition dawned. And it wasn’t, Reuben noted, a happy recognition.

  ‘Where the hell have you been?’ Lucy Maitland asked, pulling out a chair opposite. ‘I’ve been trying your phone for days.’

  Reuben
pictured his mobile sitting in a laboratory drawer, switched off, Abner’s fingerprints all over it. ‘Away,’ he answered.

  ‘For Christ’s sake. Where do you go, Reuben? Where is it that you disappear to?’

  ‘Just away.’

  ‘Well it doesn’t seem to do you much good. I mean, I know you don’t exactly thrive on being smart, but God, you look like shit.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Reuben was well aware that four and a bit days of captivity would have done little to improve his personal grooming, and he suddenly craved a shower and a change of clothes. He scrutinized his ex-wife for a moment. She looked tired and vague, like she was running on empty. Her eyes were bloodshot, her normally rouged cheeks pale and flat. Only her hair maintained any vigour. Reuben suspected this was more down to whatever product she applied to it than its inherent condition.

  ‘Well, while you’ve been enjoying yourself, I’ve been stuck here.’

  Reuben picked at a couple of soggy chips.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘I guess this changes things.’

  ‘This changes nothing.’

  ‘My twin brother is a donor match.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘You now know that Joshua is my biological son.’

  Lucy nodded her head slowly, and Reuben anticipated trouble. ‘And I also know that you abused your position within the Forensics Service, placed Shaun’s name on a sex offenders database—’

  ‘That wasn’t directly my fault.’

  ‘So I don’t see how this changes anything.’

  Reuben rubbed his face. It was impossible to win an argument with his former wife. Even when you were right.

  ‘Look, Lucy, I want more access. That’s all.’

  Reuben glanced at her and she quickly looked away. He wondered whether she had been secretly disappointed at the news. Maybe she had hoped all along that Shaun was Joshua’s father. Things would have been simpler that way. But he could now afford a broad smile in the knowledge that the single question that had haunted him since the birth of his son, since he had discovered that Lucy had been having a long-term affair, had been answered. It was official. He was the biological father of a beautiful young boy. It had taken severe illness and a donor match with his brother, but he knew the odds against it were phenomenal.