by T. J. Lebbon
‘There’s something about revenge that’s life-giving,’ Holt had said. ‘The need for vengeance, the lust, keeps you grounded and level and straight. It feeds you. I’ve done what I do for a long time – so long that I can hardly recall when it all began – but it’s not what’s kept me alive. I’m older than you think I am. I’ve seen and done more than I’ll ever tell you. But it’s a hunger for retribution that drives me forward now.’
‘Retribution for what?’ It was the most Holt had said about himself since the first time they’d met in that Italian bar, and Rose was nervous, terrified that he’d clam up and smoke and stare once more into the flames.
‘I’ll tell you,’ he said, and then he did stare for a long while. The flames danced in his eyes and flickered in the plastic water bottle in his lap. She did not prompt him. After a few minutes he started again.
‘Her name was Adele.’ He looked away from the flames, as if they showed him too much. He stared out over the ocean instead, at the palette of blood-colours on the dusky horizon. ‘She was my sister. A good person, not like me. She had a husband, Alain, and a young daughter. I’ve never met my niece. I only met Alain twice, and he’s the only man who’s ever hit me and not had worse back. Adele loved me, I think, but she was aware of the sort of man I’d become. She didn’t know details. You know more about me than anyone else alive, Rose. But Adele … she was sensitive, and fragile, and too beautiful to have me in her life.
‘I did my best to remove myself. We lost contact eventually, and I never tried to get in touch. She’d never have been able to find me, of course, though I don’t know whether she tried. Part of me likes to think she did, but another part of me hopes she lived the last few years of her life not thinking about me at all. She’d never have been at peace with who and what I am, so I hoped she’d manage to cast me from her life. But for Adele, family was sacrosanct. I fear that our estrangement probably upset her more than the knowledge of who I’d become.’
He went to drink and found that his bottle was empty. He glanced back at the small beach hut they were sharing, where there was a small fridge with more water. But he made no move to fetch it, and Rose would not help. This was the most he’d ever said in one go, and she didn’t want to do anything to break his flow. She remained motionless, staring at the sand, trying not to be there at all.
‘One day, a man looking for me found out where Adele lived. It was a small village in Switzerland, close to the French border. Alain’s work had taken them there. You know me, Rose. I knew all about where they lived and what Alain and Adele did for a living. I didn’t intrude, but I kept track of their lives. It was my way of being close, perhaps. Even now I’m not sure why I kept tabs on them, having no intention of ever intruding again. My life had its own ruinous terrain; I had no intention of damaging what they had made for themselves. It turned out to be my greatest mistake.
‘He called himself Monk. I was hired by a crime family in New York to kill him, because he’d killed three of their number over the previous few years. I suppose he was a hitman of sorts, but in truth he was simply a man who loved killing. He’d have continued doing so even if he wasn’t paid for it. Rival families were using him, and this family had been unable to track him down.
‘But the politics of violence don’t matter here. The sordid story behind why I went after him … that doesn’t matter. What matters is that from the very first moment Monk knew that I was on his trail, he was planning his escape. I don’t think I scared him. I think the opposite is true, and he saw my involvement as something that might provide him with excitement for years to come. But before he went, he wanted to give me a real reason to follow.
‘He traced my own investigations into my sister’s life and location. I haven’t seen my wife and daughter in almost thirty years, and I’ve let them go. I suspect they have new lives, a new husband. Perhaps I’m even a grandfather now. But I couldn’t let my sister go, and my persistence doomed her. Following trails I had uncovered, Monk found out where she lived, and by the time I discovered that he had a day’s head start.’
Holt sighed and picked up a big stick to poke the fire. Logs turned and spat, flinging sparks at the sky. The fire flared, expanding the circle of light around them and catching the white foam of breaking waves. It was dark now, the time of day Rose hated least. The dark held possibilities, and sometimes she imagined how her life might have been different.
‘You didn’t get there in time,’ she said. She knew it was the truth, but Holt looked suddenly startled, as if he was living ten years ago and he’d discovered the scene all over again.
‘He’d taken her to an old house on the outskirts of the village. One of those places left behind after the owner dies, no next of kin, just frozen in time under a layer of dust. She was cold by the time I got there, even though I went as quickly as I could. She was the only new thing there. He’d beaten her, tied her to a chair, superglued her mouth closed and then her nostrils. She’d suffocated. And …’ He looked away from Rose and the fire, seeking darkness that would not reflect his moist eyes. ‘I think she was probably cursing me as she died.’
‘I’m sure that’s not true.’
‘What do you know?’ His voice was harsh, and he was right, she couldn’t know. It was a platitude, and she more than anyone should know the brutal truth.
‘She’d have known that Monk was there because of me. He probably told her. And she knew she was going to die, horribly, and that Alain and her daughter would grow older without her. Because of me. We hadn’t spoken for years, but still the choices I made in life ended up killing her.’
They sat in silence for a while. The fire crackled, the sea shushed onto the beach. The tides of life pulsed around them, indifferent to their fleeting existence.
‘I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘If I finally track down and kill Monk for what he did, perhaps my life will be over. Revenge has become the sustenance for my anger, and that keeps me alive. What comes after? What life do I really have?’
If he was questioning her, Rose still did not answer, because she knew exactly what he meant. Revenge against the people who had murdered her own family had been a hollow victory, leaving her feeling empty and sad. It was as if they’d died all over again.
Now, on the deck of a ferry crossing a dark sea towards a place that had once been home, Rose remembered that conversation, and wondered just how lost she had become.
But she was not Holt. Revenge might have left her aimless and adrift, but she still had her family to cling on to. Dead though they were, she had a history that defined her, and which was the one solid rock around which the rest of her sad life could ebb and flow.
And she had found a way to carry on. She helped people in difficult situations. Not bad people, like Holt sometimes chose to work for. But good people who had become embroiled in bad events. Sometimes she offered advice; more often she used her continually developing IT skills to guide them towards a new life, a fresh identity, and freedom from who- or whatever it was that ailed them. She was Jane Smith, the do-over woman. She could never pretend that she was a good person, but she had found a route on from the hollowness of revenge. Most of the time, she didn’t wallow in hopelessness.
‘If it’s a decision of the heart, you have to follow it,’ she said. The ferry’s engines had powered up and they were starting to move. The sea breeze was already bracing, and she liked the fact that it had driven some of the people inside.
‘You sound like a self-help book.’
‘Maybe I’ll write one.’
‘With your spelling?’
She smiled. ‘I’ll get an editor.’
‘Jane Smith’s Guide to False Identity and Bloody Vengeance.’
‘There’s a market. I’ll dedicate it to you.’
They sat in silence for a while longer. He rolled another cigarette, she raised her hood and snuggled down in the seat. She browsed her phone, jumping onto the ship’s WiFi to check various email accounts, news sites, and then clicking t
hrough to Twitter. She followed hundreds, but there were only a few accounts she checked semi-regularly. One of them was owned by a man she had helped three years ago. He’d found a new home quite close to where the post office murders had happened, and that troubled her so much that she’d checked six times already that day.
‘Really, Rose,’ Holt said, using her name in public without thinking, a clumsy mistake that displayed his distracted state of mind. ‘This is all my business.’
‘Ah, shit.’ Rose sat up in her seat and held the phone out towards him. ‘Not any more,’ she said.
The account name was AndyMan.
The latest post read, Jane Smith was born in Sorrento.
It was a call for help.
Chapter Eighteen
Rocks
As soon as Dom parked the car, Emma and Daisy emerged from beneath the trees, pushing through ferns and brambles to reach the small car park. He turned off the ignition, pocketed the keys and jumped from the car, running to meet his family.
They embraced. Emma felt good in his arms, warm and damp with perspiration. Daisy joined in and hugged them both. He pulled back and looked into his wife’s eyes, and though he knew there was so much anger and resentment there for the danger they were in, for a while they were simply glad to be together again.
He said nothing, hoping that the moment might go on, and on.
‘What happened to your arm?’ Daisy asked.
Emma pulled away and looked past Dom at Andy.
‘What’s happened?’ she asked.
‘You first,’ Dom said. ‘You’re both okay?’
‘We lost him in the town. He was coming towards the house, Dom. What would he have done?’
‘I don’t—’
‘Same as he did to those people at the post office?’ she asked.
Dom saw Daisy’s eyes go wide, and he wanted to say, Not in front of her. But he had no right to say anything of the sort. He couldn’t keep anything from Emma any more. Not if they were going to remain a team, a family unit, and pull through this.
He already had an idea about how this might all end.
‘They’re Andy’s family,’ he said. ‘Andy and I took money from the post office. They turned up right afterwards and carried out the murders.’
Emma put one protective arm around her daughter.
‘You’re bank robbers?’ Daisy asked. The fear he saw in her expression, the shock in her voice, made him more ashamed than he ever had been of anything before in his life. To see her scared of him drove a knife into his heart.
‘I don’t understand,’ Emma said. The light was fading, but out in the open of the car park the setting sun reflected in her eyes.
‘How close behind you is he?’ Andy asked.
‘We lost him.’
‘He’s not stupid.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Emma said again. ‘Your family, Andy? Why are they threatening us? Why did they kill Jazz? Did you plan all this?’
‘No time now,’ Andy said. ‘And not in front of Daisy.’
‘This concerns her too!’ Emma said. They’d always been honest and open with their daughter, never condescending to her. That lamb on your plate was running around a field yesterday … Some people believe in God but I don’t … I know you know “bastard” and “fuck”, but I never want to hear you using them. But Dom hated the look in her face right then. She was a child again.
‘Please, Em,’ he said.
‘Why couldn’t you have just stayed boring,’ his wife said. He wasn’t sure she could have come up with anything more cutting. But he deserved it.
‘Dom, we need to stay quiet and get away,’ Andy said. ‘I’ve already asked for help.’
‘And who is this mysterious Jane Smith?’ Dom asked, spinning and putting himself between Andy and his family. He saw that Andy had left the shotgun in the car, and he was grateful for that.
‘Someone who’s helped me before,’ Andy said. ‘I can explain everything. But now’s not the time or place.’
‘What happened?’ Emma asked. ‘Your arm’s bleeding. You both look scared.’
‘Please,’ Andy said. He was backing towards the car. ‘Come on!’ Talking quieter, more urgently.
Emma’s phone rang.
‘Don’t answer it,’ Dom said.
But she already had. The light from the phone’s screen lit her face, her wide eyes, the sheen of sweat across her nose and upper lip. Daisy pressed close to her mother, still staring in fear at the father she’d thought she knew. Dom smiled in an attempt to reassure her.
‘Don’t,’ Daisy said, looking away. Dom felt bereft.
Emma threw the phone to Dom. He caught it automatically and held it down by his side.
‘It’s her,’ Emma said.
Dom wanted to hang up, throw the phone away, discard and deny everything that had happened. But he also knew that he had to take responsibility. More than that, he had to take control. Andy had coerced him up to now, steered his actions and anticipated his reactions. But the man who’d been his friend had let control slip away. That had resulted in murder.
I can make all this end, he thought. A call to the police would put himself and his family under their protection. He would tell his story and submit himself to whatever punishment that would entail. His wife’s and daughter’s safety were paramount, and he could no longer avoid responsibility for what he had done.
He put the phone to his ear and said, ‘I’m calling the police.’
‘Hello, Dom,’ the voice said. ‘I’m Sonja. It’s nice to talk to you at last. Let’s discuss how we can end all this nastiness without resorting to that, shall we?’ This was Sonja Scott, Andy’s mother and leader of the family gang. If what Andy had told him was true – if even a small amount of what he said could be taken as genuine – she was a violent, evil woman. But she sounded calm and intelligent, completely in control. She reminded him of the headmistress at Daisy’s school, whose gentle voice was also assured.
‘If there’s a way, I’m ready to hear it,’ he said. He was looking at Emma and Daisy, but also aware of Andy shaking his head in his peripheral vision.
‘Of course,’ Sonja said. ‘I’ve already taken steps to ensure this is over quickly and quietly. Much against my family’s recommendations, I’ve already called in help. And with that help we’re going to find you, your wife and daughter, and that murdering bastard of a son of mine, and we’re going to kill you all.’
Dom’s next breath was a soft gasp. He could not speak. Shock winded him.
‘You killed Frank,’ she said, her voice now rough with grief.
‘Not our fault,’ Dom said. But it sounded hopeless. It sounded like begging.
‘You won’t die as quickly as him,’ the woman continued. ‘It’ll be slow. Lip likes it slow, and the people I’ve called love killing. Luckily for me, the job is their reward, and that’s reflected in their nominal fee.’ It sounded like she was relaying a favourite recipe rather than a death sentence.
‘You don’t need to do this,’ Dom said. He felt sick and removed from the world. He wished everything would go away, leaving him in safe, insulated blackness, an isolation in which there was only him and his mistakes forever. No repercussions. No pain inflicted on others.
‘You can beg if you want,’ she said. ‘But that’s unseemly. Not very manly. And I’ll bet you feel very manly right now, Dom?’
‘Please,’ he whispered.
‘Andy’s forced me into this, and you’re his partner.’
‘No, really, I didn’t know what he was doing, I had no idea.’ Andy was walking towards him, hand held out for the phone. ‘I’ll get you the money. Then it’s done.’
Sonja did not reply. Dom thought he heard whispers, but perhaps it was a breeze in the trees, or Andy’s shoes brushing across the rough gravel surface.
‘Are you there?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I’m still listening. Just keep begging. It’s funny. Let’s see where it gets you.’
Dom
lowered the phone slowly, looking around at their surroundings. The car park was small and rutted, surrounded by ferns and banks of brambles. Thirty feet away the trees began. Just keep begging …
He disconnected and whispered, ‘He’s here!’ He waved Emma and Daisy towards the car. ‘She wanted me to keep talking,’ he said to Andy. He’d reveal what else she’d said later, but first they had to leave. Danger stalked the shadows beneath the trees.
‘Dad?’ Daisy said. ‘We’re going to call the police, right?’
‘I will,’ he said. ‘Jump into the car with your mum.’
He followed, wincing when Emma opened the door and the internal light came on. Andy was around the other side, snatching the shotgun from the passenger footwell and slinking away again.
‘Andy!’ Dom whispered.
‘Drive,’ Andy said. He was already lost to the shadows, down amongst the undergrowth.
Dom had no time to argue. And besides, maybe this was how he would escape Andy’s deadly influence. It was not a selfish thought. It was all about protecting his family as best as he could. He dropped into the driver’s seat.
‘Stay down,’ he said, and glancing in the rear-view mirror he locked eyes with Emma as the internal light faded away. Then her shadow disappeared down behind the seats to shield Daisy from harm.
Dom reached for the keys. They weren’t there. He’d pocketed them. Digging into his jeans pocket, trying not to panic, he snagged the key ring Daisy had made for him in school three years before. Tugging, keys catching on threads in his jeans pocket, every moment stretched out in painful slow motion.
‘Dom!’ Emma said.
He didn’t reply. The keys sprang free and he slipped the ignition key home. Pressing on the clutch, slipping into first gear, he turned the ignition.
The engine grumbled to life and the automatic headlamps splashed on. He held his breath, expecting to see Lip standing before them, a monster caught in the beams. But there was only the car park’s churned gravel and a bank of ferns and brambles, stark in the sudden light, solid shadows behind them.
