The Journal

by John R McKay

  He preferred to wear black. Black everything. It made him feel good. Powerful and uncompromising. He felt like he could take on the world when he wore the black clothes, particularly when he had a Glock 17 semi-automatic pistol in his overcoat pocket too. No-one messed with Sean Lange when he was in costume, no-one. Just let them try.

  He collected his wallet from the sideboard drawer and put it in his pocket. He checked the magazine in the handgun. He knew it to be fully loaded but it was part of his ritual before going out. This he pocketed also. Next he took out the mobile phone given to him by his mysterious controller and checked that it was fully charged. Good, he was all set. A few whiskeys at the local to put everything into perspective, that’s what was needed.

  He walked up the stairs and into his mother’s bedroom. She was sitting up watching a soap opera on the television. Irene was sitting on a chair beside her.

  ‘What do you want?’ she said once she noticed his presence.

  ‘I’m going out for a couple of drinks, mother. I may be back late.’

  ‘Well don’t go disturbing me when you come in. And don’t be drunk.’

  ‘Yes mother.’

  ‘And don’t go bringing the police to my door again. You’re a disgrace. Just like your father. You haven’t explained what they wanted yet have you.’

  ‘I’ve told you already,’ said Lange, ‘It was nothing to worry about. They thought I might have witnessed an accident. But I hadn’t. It was nothing.’

  Ignoring him, she turned to Irene, who was doing her best to avoid any involvement in the conversation. ‘What do you think, Irene? Bloody disgrace he is.’

  ‘I don’t know about it, Helen. I don’t concern myself with such things.’

  She looked at Irene for a few moments and then turned back to Lange. ‘Off you go then. Go on. Sod off.’

  Lange turned around and headed out of the door. ‘Goodnight mother…. Irene.’

  As he was walking down the stairs she shouted after him: ‘And what are you dressed like that for? You look like you’re up to no good.’

  He sighed and shouted back. ‘Goodnight mother.’

  As he opened the front door the phone in his pocket began to vibrate. The phone given to him by ‘Roger Moore’. Quickly he took it out and pressed the answer key. ‘Hello,’ he said.

  ‘Can you talk?’ came back the reply. The voice was very refined, with no accent Lange could distinguish, articulated and precise.

  ‘Give me a minute, I’m just leaving the house. I’ll get in the car.’

  Lange closed the front door behind him and opened the car door. Once he was settled and knew there could be no-one to overhear the conversation he said: ‘OK. Go ahead.’

  ‘I believe you had a visit from the police today. Do you want to tell me about it? And don’t lie to me.’

  ‘It was nothing. They wanted to know about me being a witness to something, that’s all.’

  ‘Witness to what?’

  ‘I think you know, don’t you? Why are you playing games with me?’

  ‘Because you are an idiot. I’m shocked if I’m honest. You have been an asset to me for the past few years and now for some reason you seem to have become a bloody liability.’

  ‘I apologise for that. It was a one-off cock up that I will put right, if you can give me the go-ahead.’

  ‘It may be too late for that, Lange. There is something happening tomorrow morning that kind of ruins the whole thing. If something were to happen now then it would look too suspicious, particularly now that I have two police forces interested in the subject, and incidentally, interested in you too.’

  ‘How do you suggest I play it?’

  ‘Whatever you’ve told the police you will have to stick with. Nothing can be done about that now. However, if something were to happen to the gentleman in question tomorrow, then that’s another thing. From information I have, he will be given a package of sorts in the morning. My guess is that he will want to take it away to read it and see what’s in it. Somewhere private. He will be very curious as to what it is. I have absolutely no idea what’s in it and to be honest I don’t particularly care what it is only that it needs removing from circulation. My guess is that he will take it back to his hotel room and look at it there.’

  ‘Where’s he staying?’ asked Lange. ‘This is simple for me. Do you want him eliminating as well?’

  ‘That wouldn’t be a bad thing but impractical now,’ replied ‘Roger’. ‘An opportunist mugging, or a theft of the item would probably be more appropriate at this stage. Just get that package off him.’

  ‘What do you want me to do with it once I have it?’

  ‘I’ll ring you with instructions tomorrow afternoon. Ultimately I want it destroyed.’

  ‘OK. Where’s he staying?’

  ‘He’s staying two nights at the Royal Garden Hotel on Kensington High Street.’

  ‘OK boss. I’ll take care of it.’

  ‘Make sure you do. And for God’s sake don’t involve anyone else this time.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ve learned my lesson there. That will never happen again, believe me. And what about payment? Are we doing the usual method?’

  ‘Absolutely not. This one you are doing gratis, my friend. Pro bono. A freebie. After the mess you made last time you won’t be getting paid for this one. Any arguments, don’t forget what the consequences could be.’

  ‘Point taken,’ replied Lange. ‘How is it you can know so much? About the police coming round and what they know and all that.’

  There was a pause. ‘I strongly advise you, Lange, not to get too curious about who I am. Just know what I can do to you should you make such amateurish mistakes again.’

  The line went dead.

  OK, thought Lange, OK. This is a way of getting back into ‘Roger’s’ good books. A simple enough job. However, despite what ‘Roger Moore’ had just said, this Cooke bloke could possibly blow everything for him. He could potentially prove to the police that he had been lying and had been involved in the hit and run and Lange could not let that happen. This ‘Roger Moore’ character could protect him to a certain degree, but he could just as easily cut the connection they had instantaneously. And then Lange would be left on his own, cut adrift with only a very flimsy tale of mysterious bosses and safety deposit boxes. The police would probably laugh at him if he told them his story. Plus there were all the other interests Lange had. The drugs, the guns, the investments with Ivan. He had set himself up with a very lucrative business and had so far managed to keep free from suspicion and, up until today, had never had so much as a conversation about directions with a policeman.

  However, Lange had already decided that he was going to ignore ‘Roger Moore’. He would sort out this package for him, no problem. He wouldn’t even look at what it contained because he was not particularly interested. There was one thing for certain though, one thing of which he was sure. Cooke had to go. Of that he was determined. And now he knew where he was staying and that he was likely to be alone in his hotel room tomorrow afternoon. It could not be more perfect.

  He could feel the gun in his pocket pressing against his side, and drew some comfort that he would once again be able to use it for the greater good. The greater good of Sean Lange.

  I was walking forwards, my head bowed, watching the man’s boots in front treading the path for me, his feet rising and falling in time with everyone else’s, forcing mud and water from the sides with every step.

  I was in a line of men. Many men. There were columns of soldiers on both sides, all walking forwards, all with our heads bowed, our helmets hanging loosely, allowing the rain to fall down like a sheet in front of us and like a torrent down the backs of our necks. I shivered as the cold water drenched my back.

  Onwards we marched, past villages and fields. The closer we got to our destination, the more desolate the landscape became. Villages that once stood proud in the spring sunshine now lay wasted and wretched in the April rain. The villagers an
d children who once worked and played in this area were now long gone, either away to the rear as refugees or buried in the very ground that they used to live upon.

  We continued past copses and lakes, rivers and canals, always walking forwards, uncomplaining. I turned to look at the man beside me. He turned and made an attempt to speak, but the sound that came from his gap toothed mouth was the sound of bleating. The sound of sheep. Then the others took up the same sound until it got so loud in my ears that I could barely stand it.

  I tried to prevent myself from recoiling but was unable to. He laughed at me then, a horrible, evil laugh. A laugh that told me he knew where we were going and that we would do nothing to prevent what would happen when we got there.

  Eventually we came to a cliff top. Those at the front did not turn from it. They continued to plod forwards, stepping into the abyss, the bleating sounds following them as they went down.

  The edge was getting closer. I turned to look back but all I could see were the same faces, heads bowed, trudging onward to their doom.

  I looked ahead once more, the edge ever nearer, my feet endlessly placed one in front of the other.

  Now the edge was imminent. I suddenly stopped worrying, resigned to my fate.

  Onwards I marched.

  Onwards and over until I too was falling with the rest of them.

  Down.

  Forever down.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The house stood on its own in the square, set back from all the others. The properties around it were mainly terraced but this one was different. It was one of only two detached houses that faced a private park in the centre. The park was surrounded by iron railing with a metal gate providing entry for the residents. A young couple sat in the shade of the trees on a wooden bench near to the gated entrance, a pram at their side. Despite the sun shining they wore coats and hats against the chill that was in the air.

  Danny looked at the house from the rear of the taxi. Along with all the others in the square it was made of white brick. Five steep steps led to a large front door and he could see that the building was four storeys high. To the right hand side of these steps he could see more steps leading to down to a basement level. There were three bay windows on each side of the front door, giving it a look of symmetry and he could make out people in one of the rooms to the right. He sensed that the house had a lot of depth to it, that it stretched back further than he could see, giving the property ultimate privacy.

  He stepped out of the car and paid the driver. When the taxi pulled it away it left him standing alone on the pavement looking up at the property with a sense of awe. This really was how the other half lived, he thought.

  He looked around the square. Each and every house was beautiful, the park at the centre well maintained with what looked like fresh flowers in baskets and pots and the trees and plants were well manicured. He could see that this was a wonderful spot in the centre of the capital.

  He walked up the steps and knocked on the door. He waited for a minute and on getting no reply, he knocked again. This time it was answered by a man dressed in what looked to Danny like old fashioned butler’s attire. He was holding a clipboard in his left hand that had a pen attached to it by a small chain.

  ‘Can I help you sir,’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Danny. ‘My name is Daniel Cooke. I’m here for the will reading at the request of Mister Clive Brown.’

  The butler looked at the list on the clipboard and used the pen to tick off Danny’s name. ‘Very good sir,’ he said. ‘If you would like to follow me.’

  He led Danny into a large outer hall. Danny looked around and saw that it was sparsely furnished, just a couple of plants on stone columns, the odd picture on the walls and a solitary high backed chair against the wall to the left. A large mirror on the opposite wall enhanced the sense of scale and upon seeing himself reflected in it, he suddenly felt extremely out of place. As though this was somewhere that the likes of a working class man from the north did not belong.

  ‘This way if you please sir,’ urged the butler, noticing Danny’s unhurried movements as he took in his surroundings. ‘Almost everyone is here already. We are just awaiting the arrival of Mister Holbrook. He is usually fashionably late so I don't expect him to be here for at least another half hour.’

  Danny looked at him puzzled. ‘Mr Holbrook?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes sir,’ replied the butler. ‘Simon Holbrook. Sir Peter’s younger brother.’

  ‘Oh yes, of course,’ said Danny. ‘I remember now. Mister Brown did mention him.’

  The butler continued through a large oak door into what looked like a sizeable study. A large desk, set facing the doorway on the opposite side of the room was bathed in the natural light that shone through from a large window behind it, illuminating the whole far side. A large, rolled up, window blind could be used to prevent this light from shining onto the computer screen that sat in the middle of the desk.

  Rows of chairs had been placed before the desk in preparation for the reading, some of them already occupied. Along the wall to the left were numerous bookshelves which were filled with leather bound volumes. Danny squinted his eyes but could not make out any titles from where he was standing. On the opposite wall hung a number of portraits, painted in oils. A couple were in photographic form. Danny surmised that these were probably the Baronets throughout the ages. There were pictures of men with hunting dogs in fields and some with men on horseback. A few of them had the same manor house in the background. There was a large photograph of a more recent Baronet in First World War officer uniform and also a large photograph of a young man in the uniform of an RAF officer in what looked like Second World War attire.

  Finally there were a number of pictures of the same gentleman, with an obvious family resemblance to the others, with prime ministers, presidents and also with the Dalai Lama and Nelson Mandela. Daniel presumed that this was Sir Peter Holbrook himself.

  ‘Impressed hey?’

  Danny turned to see Clive Brown standing behind him. ‘Oh hello,’ said Danny turning to greet him. ‘Yes, very much so. These people must have a bob or two.’

  Brown smiled. ‘You could say that,’ he said. ‘I’m really glad you could make it Mister Cooke.’

  ‘Please. Call me Danny.’

  ‘Danny. We are just waiting for Simon to arrive and then we can get started.’

  Danny became aware of people in the room looking at him. He looked around the room at the occupants. There were at least thirty people dotted around the room, mainly men. He recognised none of them. For some reason they seemed to have an interest in him. He could hear their muted whispers, no doubt wondering and gossiping about who he was. He hoped the suit that he was wearing was befitting such an occasion and once again felt extremely self conscious about him not belonging here.

  ‘Don’t worry about them,’ said Brown when he noticed Danny’s discomfort. ‘Most o these people are hangers on who are hoping to hear their names mentioned. From the boards of some of the companies he was involved with and some are from the charities Sir Peter donated to.’

  ‘Are any of his family here?’ asked Danny.

  ‘Not many I’m afraid. As you know he had no children. The group over there,’ he discreetly indicated a group of six people in the far corner, three men and three women, ‘are Simon’s children and their spouses. Between you and I, I’ve a feeling they may be a little disappointed today. Sir Peter really didn't have much time for any of them.’

  ‘Right,’ said Danny, turning to Brown. ‘I see. I still have no idea what I’m doing here, if I’m honest. And I have absolutely no idea what interest Sir Peter would have in the likes of me. I’m just an average bloke from Manchester.’

  ‘There was obviously some reason why. And hopefully it will all become clear to us once the will has been read.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Danny. ‘Hopefully.’

  Two maids entered the room, wheeling trollies containing tea, co
ffee and biscuits before them. Some of the attendees approached the trollies and accepted beverages from them. Danny decided that he would have a copy, in an attempt to appear relaxed, although he was far from it. He excused himself from Brown’s company.

  He approached the nearest trolley and asked one of the maids for a white coffee. She was quite pretty and seemed to hold Danny’s eye contact for a little too long in his opinion, adding to his general feeling of awkwardness. He really did not feel comfortable at all. Even the maids knew he had no right to be there.

  He turned away, cup in hand, and noticed another woman staring at him. She was dressed elegantly in a smart business suit and was around thirty years old. Danny smiled at her. She did not smile back.

  ‘May I ask who might you be?’ she said to him condescendingly.

  ‘Yes you may,’ replied Danny. He did not like her attitude one bit. Her superior demeanour and the way she seemed to sneer at him was enough to create an instant dislike towards her.

  ‘Well,’ she said. ‘You are obviously not from around her are you? Your accent I mean.’

  ‘That’s correct,’ said Danny. ‘My name is Danny Cooke. I’ve been asked to attend on the request of Mister Brown.’ He held out his hand. She did not take it.

  Embarrassed, he lowered his hand and said: ‘Now you know who I am, do I get to know who you are?’

  She smiled a patronising smile and turned away, taker her cup of tea back to the small group of relative that Brown had pointed out earlier.

  Danny decided that he would sit down and found a chair near to the back of the room. He sat down next to an old gentleman waring glasses and with a goatee beard. ‘Hi,’ said Danny when the man caught his eye.

  ‘Hello young man,’ replied the elderly gentleman pleasantly. He held out his hand. ‘I’m Stephen Wilson. I work for UNICEF. Sir Peter was a big supporter of our charity. He was very generous with his time and money.’