Resurrection (The Underwood and Flinch Chronicles Book 1)

by Mike Bennett

  ‘Oh, I’d love to. I’d love to talk all fuggin’ night about it. But,’ he shrugged, ‘it wouldn’t do any good.’

  She smoothed back a lock of hair that was stuck to his forehead. ‘Of course it would do good. People need to talk about their problems, David. Maybe if I had been here when you got the letter, you wouldn’t have got drunk.’

  ‘Hmm. Yeah, maybe.’

  ‘Why didn’t you call your sponsor friend, Steve?’

  ‘Because he would’ve have stopped me, and I didn’t want to be stopped.’

  ‘David, what was in this letter? Please, talk to me.’

  He set the glass on the coffee table and looked down at his hands. Then he met her eyes. ‘My brother has cancer, and he’s going to die.’

  ‘Oh no, David. That’s terrible. Are you – are you sure there’s no chance?’

  ‘Yeah. Apparently he’s had it for a while now. It’s too far gone, you know?’

  ‘How come you only just learned about this?’

  He looked back down to his hands, they trembled slightly, and he clasped them together. ‘I don’t … I don’t really talk to my family. As a matter of fact, I hide from them. They didn’t know where I was.’

  Lisa said nothing for a moment. She stroked his hand, trying to read his expression in profile. ‘You hide from them?’

  He nodded and a tear spilled from his eye.

  ‘And so, how did they find you?’

  He smiled. ‘Oh, they have eyes everywhere. The letter came from their – I mean my – family’s solicitor.’

  She waited but he said nothing. She asked, ‘And, so what are you going to do now?’

  He shrugged. ‘I’m going to go to them. I have to, I haven’t got a choice.’

  ‘Of course you should go, if that’s what you want. Is that what all this is?’ She indicated the general chaos of bag packing and disordered paperwork that lay around them.

  ‘Yeah. I fly out tomorrow.’

  ‘Fly? You’re flying? Where does your brother live?’

  ‘Spain.’

  She seemed surprised. ‘You told me your family left Spain when you were a child.’ It had been one of his few biographical disclosures to her.

  He shook his head. ‘Yeah, my mum and me, we left, but my dad stayed.’

  ‘And your brother stayed with your father?’

  ‘No, he left with his mum an’ all. We grew up in England.’

  ‘With different mothers?’

  He nodded. ‘Yeah. Cool, huh?’

  ‘But then he went back to Spain? Your brother?’

  ‘He did, yeah.’

  ‘I see. And so you fly tomorrow. At what time?’

  ‘Nine.’

  ‘In the evening?’

  ‘Nah, in the morning.’

  ‘In the morning? Jesus, David, you’ll never be able to get up and catch a plane that early. You’re too drunk!’

  He laughed. ‘Drunk? This? Baby, this is nothing. Five a.m. start? Piece of cake.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid. It’s not funny.’

  ‘No,’ he shook his head. ‘It’s not fuckin’ funny.’

  ‘I can’t believe you can joke about your drinking. What if you had choked on your own vomit or something? What good would you be to your brother then? He needs you.’

  David turned on her, and there was a sudden look of contempt in his eyes. ‘He doesn’t need me!’ Lisa drew back, startled. ‘He doesn’t want me in some kind of Waltons death-bed-drama-type way. See, he has to summon me, and I have to answer that summons. It’s nothing personal.’

  ‘But, I don’t understand. Don’t you like your brother?’

  ‘Like him? I hardly fucking know him, Lisa. He’s someone I’ve met from time to time, just like all of my family,’ he laughed. ‘We’re not what you might call close. We’re more like associates rather than brothers and sister.’

  ‘You have a sister?’

  ‘Oh yeah. She’s great, she is. A real fuckin’ pearl. I bet she’s the bastard that found out where I was.’ David picked up his cigarettes and fumbled one out of the packet. ‘The fucking bitch.’

  Lisa watched as he searched among the litter on the coffee table for his lighter. She had never seen him like this; not just drunk, but angry, spiteful. The things he’d kept hidden inside were now spilling from him like some time-fermented acid. ‘David, perhaps you shouldn’t go; at least not tomorrow. Give yourself some time to think this over. You know you don’t have to go at all if you feel this badly about them.’

  He lit his cigarette and shook his head. ‘You don’t get it, darlin’; of course you don’t. I mean, why would you? You think I come from a normal family, and all this, this is just normal family shit. Like I say – you know – some Waltons episode, or maybe Dallas – which is closer, but still way off. See, this isn’t like those things; this is more like something out of Hammer House of Horror. You see we’re not a family, my family, we’re a disease.’ He took a drag on his cigarette. ‘See, when I say I got no choice, Lisa, I mean I really have no choice. My destiny was carved out for me long before I was even conceived.’ He laughed. ‘Fuck, I wasn’t even conceived, me. I was bred, like a horse or a pedigree fucking dog.’

  Lisa frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

  David’s lips drew back from his teeth in a smile that bordered on a snarl. ‘Of course you don’t, Lisa. How could you possibly understand?’ He got to his feet and walked into the centre of the room where he turned back to her with a certain theatrical flair. ‘You see, I am the fruit of a poisonous vine. A family line, that’s old, and pure, and cruel in heart. And as much as I wish, I dearly, dearly, wish that I was plain old David Smith, I can’t be. For Smith, you see, was my mother’s name. I took it as part of my brilliant disguise.’

  ‘What are you talking about? You are David Smith. Who else do you think you are?’

  He inclined his head forward and his eyes seemed to darken. ‘My name is David Christopher Flinch. And I am damned.’

  3

  IN A REMOTE, RATHER SHABBY, COUNTRY VILLA on the Spanish island of Ibiza, Anton Marashov was trying to relax and keep cool in the heat of the afternoon. There was no air conditioning in the villa so a free-standing fan was all Anton and his colleague, Ivan Trushko, had to circulate the air between them. Both men had packed inadequately for their brief stay. As a result, they both now sat in their underwear. Anton rolled the cold can of Cruzcampo beer over his forehead. ‘Shit, it’s hot. Give me Moscow winter any day.’

  Ivan took a large toke on the joint they were smoking and handed it to Anton. ‘You hate climate wherever you go; it’s always too hot or too cold. If we were in Moscow winter now you’d be saying exact opposite.’

  ‘I would not,’ Anton reached for the joint. As he did so, he noticed Ivan’s big hand pressing down on the armrest of the white sofa. ‘Ivan, you idiot! You’ve got blood on the sofa.’

  Ivan’s heavy brows knitted. ‘Where?’

  ‘There,’ Anton pointed to the armrest.

  Ivan saw the red stain. Then he looked at his hands; there was still blood all over his knuckles. He showed it to Anton. ‘Oops. It is the English. I forgot to wash hands.’

  Anton groaned. He dropped the joint in the ashtray and stood up. ‘That’s because the sight of blood on your hands is so fucking normal you don’t see it anymore. You have to get into habit of washing in-between beatings.’ He dragged the coffee table aside, wincing as it screeched on the tiled floor. Ivan rubbed his bloody knuckles on his thighs and Anton slapped his shoulder. ‘Come on, don’t just sit there, we have to get it cleaned up before it stains.’

  Ivan waved Anton back to his chair. ‘Relax, you act like woman. Sergei doesn’t care about this place.’

  ‘Of course he cares about it. He owns it; it’s part of his investment. You don’t believe me, you can ask him yourself later. When he gets here, he’s going to want answers. If there are bloodstains on your answers, that’s okay. But bloodstains on his sofa? That’s bad.’
<
br />   Ivan grunted dismissively. ‘He didn’t even pay for it. That fat little German gave it to him.’

  ‘No. Sergei took it as debt payment because the German couldn’t pay what he owed.’

  ‘He was lucky Sergei didn’t kill him.’

  ‘Yeah, well maybe you won’t be so lucky if you get blood all over his sofa. Now get up.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘So I can take the cover off, you fucking blockhead.’

  Ivan’s smile faded. ‘Don’t call me blockhead, Anton. It’s not nice to call people names. Names like Rat Boy, huh? You remember how regiment used to call you that in Chechnya?’ Ivan was a big man and a natural baritone, but Anton knew well the deeper note of menace in his voice; he had heard it often enough.

  ‘Okay, I’m sorry. I’m just worried – for you, that’s all.’

  Ivan’s expression softened. ‘You are like my brother, Anton. You look out for me, no?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right. Now, will you get up and go and wash your hands? I need to get this cover off. Hopefully the blood hasn’t soaked through to sofa underneath.’

  Ivan got up. At six-foot-four he towered over Anton like a tree. He laughed and sauntered off in the direction of the kitchen. Anton pulled off the sofa cover and checked the arm rest. Thank God, the blood hadn’t penetrated. He gathered up the cover and looked at the stain. It wasn’t too bad. If he got some soap onto it and ran it under a cold tap, he should be able to get it out. If not, fuck it, they’d just have to go to Ikea and get a new cover. The German had liked Ikea; it was everywhere. The villa was like an Ikea show home. Anton took the joint from the ashtray and took a toke. He looked out into the kitchen to where Ivan now shook his wet hands into the sink.

  ‘Hey, Anton. Where is towel?’

  Holding a lungful of smoke, Anton pointed to where the towel lay on the kitchen table. He let the smoke go in a long sigh. ‘Behind you. On the kitchen table there.’

  Ivan saw it and grinned. ‘Thanks. How is sofa, okay?’

  ‘It will live,’ Anton walked into the kitchen and held up the sofa cover. ‘But this is going to need to be scrubbed with soap or detergent.’

  ‘Seriously, you want me to do it? It’s my mess.’

  ‘No. I can manage. Why don’t you go out and see how the English is doing?’

  Ivan made a face like a disgruntled teenager. ‘What? I just washed my hands.’

  ‘I didn’t say get your hands dirty, did I? Just go out and see how he’s doing. Maybe he’s had enough of being in the pool.’ Anton went to the washing machine and picked up the box of detergent beside it.

  Ivan smiled. ‘I think for sure he’s had enough of being in pool.’

  ‘Well maybe then he is finally prepared to do what it takes to get out, eh? Go and check on him.’ He reached into the detergent box for the small plastic scoop and scooped a measure of the soap powder onto the stain.

  Ivan watched, interested. ‘You think that will do any good?’

  ‘How the fuck do I know? I figure it’s what my mother would do if she were here.’

  ‘My mother would have made me lick it clean.’

  ‘She sounds like a smart woman. But I don’t think Sergei would appreciate you sucking on his furniture.’

  The sound of dogs barking erupted from outside. Ivan turned to the sound and grinned. ‘It sounds like English isn’t making any new friends out there.’

  ‘Yeah, so go, will you. Make sure they aren’t eating his fucking face off.’

  ‘Okay. I leave you to woman’s work while I go out and do man’s.’

  Anton smiled thinly and began rubbing the powder into the stain. ‘Yeah, you do that. And remember, Sergei wants him alive. Try and keep your hands clean.’ Ivan waved and stepped outside and into the brilliant sunshine. Anton looked down to where his hands were now grinding a gooey pink paste. ‘Big idiot,’ he murmured. ‘Next time we do it your mother’s way.’

  In the centre of the drained swimming pool, Mark Coleman, the man to whom Anton and Ivan referred as the English, sat naked and bound to a wooden chair. On his head was a dusty cowboy hat fronted with the phrase, ‘I love Ibiza’ (the word love being represented by a once-shiny heart motif). The hat was red, though not as red as Mark’s body, which – after over a day in the pool – had burned to the colour of raw steak. His mouth worked against the strip of cloth that gagged him, sucking at it for moisture, even though it tasted of blood and vomit.

  Sweat stung his eyes; it trickled into them almost constantly. He blinked and shifted on his seat. The chair scraped on the broken tiled floor, and the three Rottweilers that had been dozing in the shadow of the deep end, looked up at him. One of them growled; a low, ominous reminder of the impossibility of his getting anywhere near the shade they occupied. The dog’s fellows joined in and Mark lowered his gaze – a deferential gesture that he had learned which could sometimes keep the dogs from becoming aggressive. The growling simmered a moment longer, before dying down to be replaced by disinterested panting.

  Mark listened as paws padded off to the right, the swaying chink of the dog’s chain dragging across the tiles behind it. Then the sound of water as the dog lapped in the steel water pail that had been left for them. The sound was maddening. He looked at the hateful, vicious animal as it drank, water splattering around the pail to where it would slowly evaporate on the tiles. A fresh trickle of sweat ran into Mark’s eyes and he blinked, angry now despite his fear of the dogs. His blinking only increased the flow and sting of sweat and, momentarily lost to exhausted rage, Mark shook his head. His hat flew away and landed about a metre to his left. He cried out; a muffled howl of sudden panic as he felt the sun on his head and neck. The dogs began to growl again, getting to their feet and baring their teeth. Mark looked down, but this time it didn’t placate the animals. They began to bark. He looked up to see the dogs moving out of the shade, ropes of saliva splattering from their jaws. He instinctively tried to move away from them; twisting and shifting his weight on the chair, when suddenly, he felt himself toppling over backwards. He screamed as the world spun head over heels and he crashed down. The dogs charged, running to the length of their chains, snapping and snarling, almost choking themselves in their frenzied efforts to be free and to be able to tear him to pieces.

  Then a voice roared something in Russian from over the rim of the deep end. Mark raised his face as best he could, terrified that he would see the owner of the voice and yet at the same time hopeful, knowing that the man was the only way he was ever going to get out of the pool. Slowly, the shape of Ivan rose into view as he sauntered to the edge of the deep end and looked down at the dogs. Again he shouted in Russian and the dogs fell silent, padding back to the shade. Ivan looked up from the dogs and smiled at Mark. ‘You see, they are Spanish dogs, but they speak Russian.’ He laughed. ‘Perhaps because their dinner gets served in Russian, no?’ Then his expression changed to one of mock compassion. ‘Oh, look at you, stupid man. You’ve fallen over and lost your hat.’ He dropped down into the deep end and walked over to Mark. He reached down, took the back of the chair in one of his hands and dragged both it and Mark back to a sitting position. ‘There. That is better, no?’ He patted Mark’s cheek. ‘You want your hat?’ He walked over and picked up the hat, dusting it down before setting it firmly back on Mark’s head. ‘You don’t want to lose that, my friend. You lose hat and your brain will roast like the English beef, and we don’t want that, do we? You’re no good to us dead.’

  Mark moaned through his gag.

  ‘What,’ said Ivan. ‘You want to tell me something now?’

  Mark nodded.

  ‘So now I have to take that pukey gag out of your mouth after I just washed my hands?’ He frowned. ‘This’d better be worth it, English.’ He put his fingers into Mark’s mouth and pulled the gag out. ‘There. Now, talk to me.’

  ‘Water,’ Mark croaked, ‘please, water. I’m dying.’

  ‘Oh, you’re thirsty are you?’

  Mark nodded.<
br />
  Ivan smiled and patted the non-existent pockets of his boxer shorts. ‘Unfortunately I didn’t bring beer with me, but if you don’t mind dog water?’

  ‘Please,’ Mark’s voice was little more than a rasp.

  Ivan smiled. ‘Okay.’ He reached out and grabbed the top of the chair’s backrest, then began dragging Mark and it backwards towards the dogs. Immediately, the animals began to growl.

  ‘No,’ Mark cried. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Taking you for drink. You think I’m going to take dog’s bucket?’ He laughed. ‘Oh no, that would be rude to dogs. But if I bring you over and introduce you, I’m sure they will be happy to share.’ The dogs began to bark and pace uncertainly as Ivan brought Mark within the reach of their chains.

  ‘No, please, don’t! They’ll kill me.’

  ‘What, you don’t want drink now?’ Ivan set Mark and the chair upright next to the bucket. ‘After I dragged you all the way over here?’

  Mark’s eyes darted back and forth between the dogs and the water in the bucket. ‘Please.’

  ‘Oh, now you want drink again?’ He sighed. ‘Make up your mind, English.’ Ivan took the back rest of the chair and leaned Mark forwards so his face was just above the rim of the bucket. The front legs of the chair scraped the ground as the rear legs rose up. The cowboy hat fell off and rolled away.

  ‘Please!’ Mark begged as the rim of the metal bucket struck his forehead.

  ‘Oh,’ said Ivan, ‘you can’t reach water.’ He gripped the ropes that bound Mark’s waist to the chair and hoisted him from the ground. He suspended him in mid-air for a moment before taking the back of his head and tipping it forwards so the top of his head entered the bucket. ‘Here we go, better now?’

  Mark screamed as his head was pushed as far into the bucket as it could go before the sides stopped its progress, he could feel the warm water touching his scalp.

  ‘Oh, your big head is too big for bucket, uh?’ Ivan pulled the chair back and Mark came up again, the bucket still on his head. Water poured over him before the bucket fell and clattered onto the tiles. The dogs continued to bark and snap. Mark gasped, his tongue groping at his lips for water.