The Family Man

by T. J. Lebbon

Head caved in with a full bottle of wine that I’ll open and drink afterwards.

  He stepped in a hole and went sprawling, hands held out to break his fall. Brambles bit into his palms, seeding pain. He felt them beneath his skin. He’d have to pick them out. Or perhaps Mary would do it, if she could dry her eyes.

  Frank was dead. Mary was upset, so was Sonja. But he’d been a big, overweight prick, with little going for him beyond the family, and the intelligence of a squirrel. No great loss.

  Lying in the undergrowth with something soft and sly creeping across his hand, Lip attempted to see Frank’s demise from Mary’s point of view. It was difficult. Just another random death amongst many, but Mary would be sad that Frank had gone. He had to allow for that when he saw her again soon. Maybe he’d spend some time alone first, give the others time to grieve. It was easier than being with them and pretending.

  He stood and breathed in the warm night air, relishing the darkness beneath the trees. He liked these peaceful places away from other people. It was where he felt most comfortable, honest, and less alone. In places like this he could concentrate on himself.

  Every sensation became a potential focal point, and it was the prickling pain in his hands that drew him. The pain should not be there. The likelihood of that pain ever existing, signalling a brain, featuring in a conscious thought, was so remote that he revelled in it. The chance of him existing was so ridiculously remote that he sometimes got lost in trying to consider it.

  He was born and grew and learned, and was still learning. How to use things. How to wield different objects as tools. The wonder of connecting with his surroundings never ceased to amaze him.

  Once, he had killed a woman with a pint of gravel.

  He started walking back through the woods towards the town, and the points of pain in his hands were like stars blooming and dying across the galaxies of his skin.

  His phone vibrated in his pocket. He sighed, thought of ignoring it, then decided it would be best to answer. The pursuit was on, and he wanted to be at the forefront. Sonja had suggested she might call in help. Although he’d objected, she had sounded quite insistent. If that was the case, he’d have to ensure whoever she used did not intrude on his enjoyment.

  He answered the phone and held it to his ear.

  ‘Lip?’ Sonja asked when he said nothing.

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Gone.’

  ‘Gone where? You’re telling me they slipped away?’

  He said nothing. Creatures rustled in the trees and undergrowth, startled by the phone’s light and his gentle, low voice.

  ‘They won’t get far,’ Sonja said. ‘They’re not going to run, not yet. Not with the woman and girl still with them. We’ll have time to find them, and we’ll have help.’

  Lip closed his eyes and sighed.

  ‘Lip? You’re there?’

  ‘I don’t need help.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound like it. ‘ The old woman’s voice lowered. In its softness, its gentleness, he could hear every shred of the inimical bitch she was. She hated him as much as she hated everyone else who wasn’t family. ‘Lip, Mary’s really cut up about Frank. She needs you here.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Now, Lip.’

  ‘I’ll be there. Give me … an hour. I have to steal a vehicle.’

  ‘No. Wait in the village square. I’ll have you picked up.’

  ‘By who?’

  ‘It’s up to them to tell you their names.’

  ‘They’re here already?’

  ‘They’re from Cardiff. It’s a small world, Lip.’ She disconnected.

  Lip locked his phone and pocketed it, enjoying the absence of light once again. But the woods around him were aware of his presence, and he walked back to the ruined castle in a bubble of silence.

  The village was busy with the evening crowd. Couples strolled hand in hand, families hurried to or from takeaways or restaurants. A pub on the square’s corner spilled laughter and light across the pavement.

  Three small dogs on leads started yapping at him, and he looked down at them as he walked by. Their owner glanced away from the cashpoint machine she was using and saw a tall man with a wild halo of unkempt greying hair, casually dressed, athletically built. She saw him pause and kneel, holding out his hand to the dogs. She might have seen the speckles of blood and the dark spines of thorns across his palm, but probably not. She would have seen the man tickling the dogs’ necks, and then she would notice nothing more. Just a nice stranger who stroked her pets.

  In the square, a car was already waiting. It was one of many, but Lip knew this one was for him. A man sat in the driver’s seat with both hands on the wheel, and when he rounded the corner the man spoke to the car’s interior. He was alone. But across the square outside the closed butcher’s shop, another figure lifted a phone to its ear.

  Lip raised a hand and waved. The two men looked at each other, surprised.

  Fucking amateurs.

  He sighed and walked around the square, keeping to the pavement until he reached the car. He climbed into the passenger seat and sat there, silent until the driver started speaking.

  ‘Shut up and drive,’ Lip said.

  He leaned back and closed his eyes. His expression did not change, but everything felt a little lighter this evening, a little more alive. He could still smell the final breath of the last person he had killed, and he knew there was more to come.

  Chapter Twenty

  The Team

  Isaac runs into their bedroom wearing the Buzz Lightyear outfit they bought for his birthday. He glances at his parents, sees that they’re awake, grins, and runs back out. He wants to be an astronaut. What kid doesn’t?

  Rose breathed against the car window and drew in the condensation. A rocket, with flames blasting from its back end. It soon faded away.

  She watched through the windscreen as Holt waited by the harbour. He could have been an old fisherman, short and thin, denuded by time and the sea. His straggly hair flickered in the breeze, and she saw him shrug the coat higher around his shoulders. Even at midnight the air was still warm, but the sea breathed cold.

  The marina was filled with hundreds of yachts, ranging from small hire craft for cruising back and forth along the coast to a few big, multi-million pound vessels owned by businessmen or celebrities. Lights bobbed on some of the boats, dancing like fireflies in the night. Many more were dark. It would be a good place to hide, and Rose filed it away.

  They’d taken his car, an old Renault that he’d bought with cash from a French farmer a few months before. It was rusted in places and scarred with dents and scratches. But he’d spent days installing a new engine, along with new suspension, brakes, exhaust system and electronics. It might look old and decrepit, but underneath it was almost as good as new. She’d left her own car in long-term parking at the Portsmouth ferry port. Holt had leaned casually against the bonnet as she reached underneath to retrieve her Glock, knife and grenade, which she’d hidden in the vehicle’s chassis.

  She wound down the window. His car stank of stale cigarette smoke. She’d rather have the cold than the smell. Once back inside he’d insist on the windows being raised before lighting up again.

  Rose used her phone to check various online resources. All was quiet, even AndyMan’s Twitter account. She’d told him to wait for her to suggest a place to meet, and she’d decide on that the closer she got to South Wales. The email address she’d passed on to him had no new mails. That was strange. By now she would have hoped for some clearer indication of what his problem entailed.

  But she felt reasonably safe putting two and two together. AndyMan asked for her help three years ago in escaping the clutches of his criminal family. Close to where she had established him with a new life, a post office had been robbed and two people horribly murdered. Now he wanted her help once again. His family were back, and one of them committed murder in the same way as Monk, the killer of Holt’s sister.
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  Her money was on the man calling himself Philip Beck. He’d been Andy’s main reason for leaving his criminal family. Rose had tried to pry into his past but found only a blank. That was unusual, and it troubled her, because only certain people could appear and disappear again like that.

  She wasn’t one for regrets, not any more. But perhaps if she’d persisted in her background research on Lip, she might have found something more.

  Light played across the car and she glanced up. Holt was silhouetted in the beam of a boat’s light as it drifted in towards the harbour wall. He raised one hand and the searchlight powered off.

  Rose straightened in her seat. The weight of the Glock was a warm comfort in her belt. But Holt seemed unconcerned. One pull on his rollie and his face briefly flared a pale orange.

  The boat nudged the harbour wall and Holt caught a thrown mooring line, dropping it around a metal pin. Shapes moved on the motor boat’s deck. A bag was passed up, an envelope handed down. Then Holt strolled back to the Renault, dropping the bag into the back before relaxing into the driver’s seat.

  ‘Risky,’ Rose said.

  ‘I’ve used Billy before, few years ago. He’s trustworthy.’

  ‘With guns?’

  ‘People.’ Holt started the engine and they pulled off.

  Rose looked back at the bag. It was wound tight, straps tied around the contents. It was not as big as she’d expected.

  ‘Where’d you dump the rest?’

  ‘Local river.’

  ‘What have you got?’

  ‘Glock, shotgun, ammo and my box of tricks.’

  ‘Do you think that’s enough?’ There had been no more discussion about whether or not she was going with him. If he really hadn’t wanted her along he would have insisted.

  ‘If it’s not, we’re not doing things right,’ he said. He glanced across at her, one eyebrow raised. ‘You really smuggled a grenade next to your exhaust?’

  ‘No one would think of looking there.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘You’re worried I might have blown myself up?’

  ‘Worried you might have sunk a ferry while I was on it.’

  Rose put the seat back down a little and adjusted position, trying to get comfortable. ‘Bloody French cars,’ she muttered.

  Holt hit a pothole. The whole car juddered and pain ghosted through her hip. He’d probably aimed for it.

  ‘Wine gum?’ She offered a bag across to Holt.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah. Picked them up on the ferry. There are some things I miss from my homeland, you know.’

  ‘Sweets that taste of wine?’

  ‘They don’t taste of wine. They taste of sugar.’

  ‘So why are they called Wine Gums?’

  ‘Because …’ She held up the bag, tried to read it in the flash of passing street lamps. ‘Because they taste nice and are addictive.’

  ‘Should I consider weaning you off them?’

  ‘You’re worried because I’m eating sweets with “wine” in the name?’

  ‘Slippery slope. Next thing you’ll be cuddling a vodka bottle, soiling yourself and sleeping in random car parks.’

  ‘Ah, the good old days.’ She popped three sweets into her mouth and chewed. The rush of sugar almost lit up her vision.

  ‘What else do you miss?’ Holt asked. This was positively chatty for him, and Rose wanted to take advantage of his rare loquaciousness.

  ‘Fish and chips. Pasties. Chocolate.’

  ‘We have good chocolate in France.’

  ‘Not Mars Bars. Not in many places, anyway. Mars Bars are the best. Although they were much bigger when I was a kid.’

  ‘Roast beef?’ Holt’s English was almost perfect, but he exaggerated his French accent.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ She sounded mock-offended.

  ‘You miss it?’

  ‘Always preferred pork.’

  ‘Uh. Pigs.’

  Holt had taught her to shoot in Italy a few years before. Once, he’d used a pig’s corpse for her to practise on.

  ‘You can use every part of them, you know,’ she said. ‘Adam always said …’

  She drifted off. She never talked about her dead family in front of Holt. Ever. Maybe coming back to Britain had jarred some of the defences that she’d built, the moat of denial that separated her from the awful landscape of her past.

  ‘Said what?’ Holt prompted, gently.

  ‘That a pig was the definitive proof of the existence of God.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘That’s coffee. Talking of which?’

  Rose reached down between her feet for the big flask still half-filled with coffee.

  Adam fries bacon, slabs of bread laid out ready for Sunday morning sandwiches, the kettle boiling and cafetière ready for their first coffee of the day.

  Rose poured and handed Holt the mug. She’d make do with the plastic cup. He insisted that coffee should never be drunk from any plastic or cardboard container.

  In truth, she missed nothing of home. Nostalgia hurt. Memories of the past were always sheened with the smell of her husband’s breath, the sound of her children’s laughter or tears, the feel of his hand on her hip, their small hands in hers. The false memories she had built and subsequently tried to shed of their murders when she wasn’t there to help.

  No, she missed nothing.

  ‘Maybe two hours to Wales,’ Holt said.

  ‘Land of my fathers.’

  ‘Your father’s what?’

  She laughed softly. ‘Doesn’t matter.’ Her last time in Wales had ended with a trail of blood and bodies. With Holt coming for his own reasons, she feared the same thing was about to happen.

  At least this time she was properly prepared.

  She closed her eyes, and headlights danced shadow and light across her eyelids.

  With the windscreen gone the breeze was cold, even though the night air was still warm. Dom sat awkwardly in the back seat, Daisy huddled into him, his head held forward to try and avoid shuddering impacts from the headrest. Emma was worried that his injury really was worse than it looked.

  Andy had promised that the mysterious Jane Smith would help them, but this concerned Emma as much as those bastards already chasing them. You didn’t fight fire with fire, you fought it with water. Trouble was, she had no idea where the water might come from.

  She had been driving in circles, keeping to the country lanes and avoiding any main roads, with no real aim in sight. It was close to midnight when she realised that they were nearing her place of work. The narrow lane twisted over a low hill, and from the brow she could see the college campus laid out down the slope.

  ‘Somewhere safe,’ she said.

  ‘Security staff?’ Andy asked.

  ‘Only one old guy,’ she said. ‘Brian’s usually asleep in the entrance lobby. My card will get us inside.’

  She parked out of sight of the buildings and the main road, backing in between two big-wheeled bins beside the brick-walled bin store. Turning the engine off woke up Daisy, and she yawned and stretched her arms. Emma heard her daughter’s sad sigh as sleep melted away, and awareness of what had happened closed in.

  ‘Where are we, Mum?’

  ‘The college. We’ll go to my office, wait there for a bit.’

  ‘Talk things through,’ Andy said.

  ‘I’m not sure you’ll have any say in what we decide,’ Emma said. ‘Come on. Dom, you okay?’

  ‘I’m good.’

  ‘Daisy, help your dad.’

  They crossed the car park, taking almost five minutes to reach the main building. Dom walked slowly, holding Daisy’s hand. Andy walked slightly apart from them, the dark shape of the shotgun swinging from one hand. He’d told Emma that it was now empty, but she still hated the sight of it.

  She’d been into work during the night several times before, usually when there was a student emergency on campus. She had always been expected, but though she wracked her brains she could not remember whethe
r the parking areas, or paved areas around the buildings, had automatic lighting. It niggled her until they drew close. The lights remained off. She breathed a sigh of relief.

  Her card worked for every door, and once inside her small office she drew the blinds before switching on the table lamp. The lighting was low but sufficient, and she didn’t want anything brighter. They were already taking a big risk.

  ‘Toilets are three doors along on the left,’ she said.

  ‘Anything to eat or drink?’ Andy asked.

  ‘Vending machines, just down the corridor. But let’s just do one trip.’

  ‘Right.’ Andy stood by the door, looking embarrassed.

  Emma pulled a drawer open on her desk and scooped up a handful of pound coins. She wanted to throw them at him. ‘Water, chocolate, crisps,’ she said. He nodded, and she was glad when he left.

  Dom had settled into one of the comfortable chairs, easing himself down slowly, closing his eyes. Daisy sat on the seat beside him. They still held hands.

  Emma sat on the coffee table and leaned close. ‘How are you?’ she asked.

  ‘Feeling like a real idiot.’

  ‘That goes without saying. I mean that.’ She pointed at his bloodied face.

  ‘Honestly, it feels like the worst hangover ever.’

  ‘Daisy, top right drawer of my desk there should be some painkillers.’ While Daisy went to search, Emma leaned in close to examine Dom’s face. She moved slightly to the side so that her shadow did not dull her view.

  It wasn’t nice. The rock had hit the right side of his face, cutting his nose, puffing his eye, bruising and grazing his cheek. His eye wasn’t completely shut, and the eyeball appeared undamaged. Most of the blood had come from a gash in his lower eyelid and his mashed nose. Its flow had ceased, but his face was a mask of dried blood.

  ‘Here, Dad,’ Daisy said. She dropped two tablets into his hand and he nodded his thanks, dry-swallowing.

  ‘You need stitches,’ Emma said.

  ‘I need kicking.’

  She sat back and sighed. She didn’t realise how tired she was. Every instinct was to be raging at Dom now that they’d reached somewhere relatively safe. But letting rip her anger wouldn’t help their predicament at all, and making a noise would be foolish. Besides, he was hurt. He knew what he’d done was stupid, and now he was paying the price.