Resurrection (The Underwood and Flinch Chronicles Book 1)

by Mike Bennett

  ‘Not yet. I’ve just got out of the pool. Be a love and put it on, will you?’

  Beltran shook his head, disgusted, and sat down. ‘No fuck, no coffee, what’s not next?’

  ‘Oh, Belly, stop acting like a baby. You know my brother’s arriving today. We can have sex any time.’

  ‘Yes. But my trouser friend, he does not understand that. He only thinks about now; he lives for the moment.’

  ‘Well, you tell your trouser friend I’ll make it up to him later, okay?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Well, hopefully tonight if everything goes according to plan.’

  Beltran grinned. ‘Don’t worry, baby. Everything is going to go according to plan.’

  ‘Well I do worry, Belly,’ Lydia pouted. ‘You know how much it means to me. I hate having to leave such an important ingredient of our big ceremony to chance. It’s not like we can just put an ad in the paper for a human sacrifice, is it?’

  Beltran took her foot and kissed her toes. ‘Don’t worry. I have the perfect candidate.’

  ‘But what if you can’t get him?’

  ‘I can get him, don’t worry. Okay?’

  She smiled. ‘Okay.’

  ‘So, tell me about your brother.’

  Lydia picked up her cigarette from the ashtray and took a drag. ‘I’ve told you everything I know, darling.’

  ‘Those were just the fundamentals you got from some private investigator; what do you know of him personally?’

  ‘Not a lot, I haven’t seen him since we were teenagers. He’s spent most of his life trying to avoid us.’

  ‘Why?’

  She laughed. ‘Why? Because he’s scared of us, that’s why.’

  ‘But surely he is one of you, no? A Flinch.’

  ‘In name only. I blame his mother.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because she was a fucking hippy; a part-time Satanist who stumbled into the family along with her boyfriend. She probably thought it was going to be all one big hedonistic love-in with free booze, marijuana and endless Hawkwind records.’

  Beltran smiled. ‘She sounds like a fun girl.’

  ‘That’s beside the point. There’s a selection criteria for Flinch mothers, Belly: breeding, money, status, and above all a deep commitment to Underwood and the Sect. David’s mother had none of these things.’

  ‘Maybe she had the nice booty, no?’

  Lydia gave him a contemptuous look. ‘My father was above such things as women’s arses, Beltran.’

  He grinned. ‘That is the best place to be!’

  She dismissed the comment with a wave of her hand and sat back. ‘Anyway, the upshot of this ill-advised bonk was David; a nice boy – but that’s not a compliment. Flinch boys shouldn’t be nice. And if they are, the problem should be caught at an early age and nipped in the bud.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means they should be drowned at birth, darling. Like an unwanted kitten, David should have been put in a sack and chucked into the nearest canal.’

  ‘So, I er, I take it you don’t get on with your brother?’

  Lydia shrugged and looked out to sea.

  ‘Lydia?’

  She stubbed out her cigarette. ‘Like I said, I hardly know him.’

  ‘Since you were teenagers you say, huh?’

  ‘Yes. We used to spend summers with Dad at the house in Cadiz. Then one year ...’ She resumed brushing her long dark hair. ‘Well, he just left. We never saw him again.’

  Beltran sensed she was keeping something back. ‘Did he hurt you?’

  ‘What?’ She sounded genuinely surprised.

  ‘You look like he hurt you, like maybe you had a big fight or something?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ She got up suddenly and put on her towelling robe. ‘Time’s getting on, I have to get dressed.’

  ‘Lydia,’ he reached out to her. ‘You can tell me.’

  She looked at him. ‘Okay, yes, we argued. We had a fight. But we were young, stupid; I can’t remember how old I was – seventeen, eighteen?’

  ‘That’s a long time to have bad feelings in your heart for someone.’

  ‘Yes,’ she tied the robe at the waist. ‘I know.’

  ‘But you are both different now, no? You are adults.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And now he is coming home to fulfil his duty to his family.’

  A cruel smile played at the corners of Lydia’s mouth. ‘Yes, the un-drowned kitten returns, emerging from its sack as a fully grown – and no doubt soggy – cat.’

  ‘You think he is going to be a problem?’

  ‘No. His weakness is our strength: he lacks the necessary bollocks to be a Flinch.’

  ‘Good,’ He took hold of her belt and drew her gently to him. ‘I think it will be fine. You will become good friends. And assuming you are right and he lacks the – what did you say?’

  ‘The bollocks.’

  ‘Yes,’ he smiled. ‘The bollocks. I must remember that word. If your brother is lacking the necessary bollocks for the job, then everything is just so much easier; he will go home to England like the good boy and leave everything here to us – to the true servants of the Lord Underwood.’ He slid his hands up her thighs and under her gown.

  ‘Mmm,’ Lydia closed her eyes. ‘Yes.’

  ‘But if he turns out to be a problem, and you still hate him ...’ He pulled her gown open and kissed her tummy.

  Lydia giggled. ‘Then killing him will be a pleasure.’

  5

  KEITH MULLINS SAT ON HIS SUN TERRACE reading the online edition of The Sun newspaper. The terrace was situated at the rear of the two-floor apartment above the pub he and his wife, Michelle, had bought last year in the little town of Almacena, Cadiz.

  A fly buzzed around and landed on Keith’s face. He slapped his face, but missed the fly. It flew away. Keith picked up the plastic fly swatter that lay next to his laptop and waited. A few seconds passed and the fly returned. Keith grinned, watching it as it crawled around on his empty breakfast plate. Then he struck – the swatter mashing the fly into bacon grease and egg yolk. ‘Yesss!’ Keith put down the swatter and returned to the newspaper.

  He had wanted to call their new pub, The Queen of Hearts, in memory of the late Princess of Wales; he’d had a vision of Diana’s face on the pub sign, smiling angelically down at the punters as they supped their pints on the front terrace. A beautiful image perhaps, but Michelle had reminded him that if he wanted to keep their presence discreet, perhaps it wasn’t the best choice. She was right of course – though Keith at least got part of his wish after they translated The Queen of Hearts into Spanish and christened the pub La Reina de Corazones. He’d had to give up the pub sign idea too. The sign they finally agreed on wasn’t the saintly visage of the dead princess, but the Queen of Hearts from the playing card pack. Keith hadn’t been happy, but he’d been able to see the logic.

  It was eight-thirty in the morning, and from the kitchen he could hear the voices of Michelle and their daughter Melanie as they went through their usual morning mixture of instructions and rebuttals. Then came the sound of a chair being abruptly pushed back; Michelle shouting; a slammed door, and then Michelle emerging onto the terrace looking flustered. ‘Little madam,’ she said, ‘she gets it from you, you know.’

  ‘Gets what? Good looks, animal magnetism?’ Keith looked up over the screen of his laptop computer and grinned. ‘Balls?’

  ‘Yes, balls. She’s got your balls. I don’t know where they are exactly, but they got into the ingredients somehow.’

  Keith chuckled. ‘That’s a good thing, girl. A woman needs balls in this world.’

  ‘Not when she’s talking to her mother, she doesn’t.’ Michelle pulled out one of the plastic chairs opposite him and sat down.

  ‘Aw, leave it, Chelle. She’s just at that age. It’s a phase. She’ll grow out of it.’

  ‘That’s easy for you to say, you don’t have to feed her. Now she’s saying she doe
sn’t want milk anymore. She wants soy milk. She not eating her bloody corn flakes.’

  ‘What’s that then?’ said Keith, returning his interest to the screen, the back of which was facing Michelle. He clicked to see the day’s Page Three girl.

  ‘She says it’s from a bean or something, a soy bean.’

  Keith’s brow furrowed. He looked up from admiring Amii from Birmingham. ‘A bean that’s got milk in it? What? Like a coconut?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know, do I? She says Teresa drinks it and it’s better for you than what milk is. Apparently you can make shepherd’s pie and everything out of it.’

  ‘What? Bean milk?’

  ‘No, not the milk, the bean; it’s a meat alternative. Vegetarians eat them.’

  ‘Don’t tell me she wants to become a bloody veggie.’

  ‘Well if she does, I’m not cooking for her. Bloody bean pies; she can do it herself. Either that or you can. After all,’ she smiled sarcastically, ‘It’s just a phase, isn’t it? You won’t have to do it for long.’

  Keith laughed and returned to admiring Amii from Birmingham.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Michelle. ‘What’re you looking at? Page three?’

  Keith closed Amii’s window and returned to the newspaper. ‘No,’ he said, feigning offence. ‘Actually, I’m reading about women’s problems. I’m reading about the G-spot in Dear Deirdre.’ He nodded to the screen. ‘It says here that some women feel it’s the greatest turn-on ever while others hate it. Some feel it’s a pleasurable variation, while others find it irritating.’ He looked up. ‘How’s your G-spot then, Chelle?’

  ‘How should I know?’

  ‘Well, who else is gonna know if you don’t?’

  ‘That’s your job, that is. Does it say where it is?’

  Keith read on then looked up with a smile. ‘Yeah.’

  She smiled and opened her dressing gown a little at the chest. ‘Fancy having a look for it then do you?’

  Melanie’s voice came from inside the apartment, ‘I’m going to school.’

  Michelle pulled her gown closed. Keith leaned sideways and called, ‘Not without kissing your old man goodbye you ain’t, young lady.’

  Footsteps approached through the kitchen, and then Melanie, clutching the mobile phone they had bought her for her fourteenth birthday, stepped out into the sunshine. She said nothing, moving quickly to her father and planting a kiss on his cheek before turning and heading back the way she had come.

  ‘Oi!’ said Keith. Melanie stopped in the doorway, her back to him. ‘What was that?’

  Melanie turned. ‘A goodbye kiss. That’s what you asked for isn’t it?’

  ‘A goodbye kiss without saying goodbye is only half the deal, girl. And what about your mother?’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘Don’t she get a kiss?’

  Melanie looked at her mother. ‘She didn’t ask for one.’

  ‘She doesn’t have to,’ said Keith, ‘she’s your mother; she gets one anyway.’

  Melanie sighed and walked back to Keith, kissing him again on the cheek and saying, pointedly, ‘Bye Dad.’

  ‘Much better.’

  Melanie looked at Michelle. Michelle met her eyes and raised her finely-plucked eyebrows. Melanie bent and pecked her on the cheek. ‘Bye Mum.’

  ‘Good girl,’ said Keith to Melanie’s back as she disappeared back into the shadows of the apartment.

  ‘I’ll get your bean milk later, love,’ Michelle called after her.

  ‘Thanks, Mum.’

  A moment later, they heard the front door bang shut.

  ‘There, you see?’ said Keith serenely. ‘All it takes is a bit of fatherly guidance.’

  Michelle smiled and stroked her neck suggestively. ‘Hmm. I think I might need a bit of fatherly guidance an’ all.’

  ‘Oh? How can I help you, then?’

  ‘I can’t seem to find my G-spot.’

  Keith grinned and looked back to the computer screen, quickly reading and memorizing the directions. ‘Fortunately for you girl, I happen to know the way to that particular pleasurable variation.’ He got up, his arousal already conspicuous from the front of his shorts.

  Michelle pulled her gown open. There was no need for modesty; they were not overlooked by any of their neighbours. ‘I hope I’m not one of them women that reckon it’s all just an irritation.’

  ‘Don’t worry, girl,’ said Keith tugging his shorts down. ‘It won’t be.’

  Candlelight flickered on the white stucco ceiling, the black beams with their nails and hooks, the small boy kept his eyes diverted upwards, not wanting to look at the black-robed figures that were focused on him, staring, their faces shadowed by the hoods they wore. His mother’s hand squeezed his and encouraged him to take a step forward. Afraid to do so, but even more fearful of being left behind should she choose to let go, the boy followed. The man he had been told to call “father” stood beside the coffin. At his left hand stood a robed figure holding a silver bowl that contained the blood of the cockerel they had just killed. His father beckoned to him then turned to dip his fingers in the blood.

  The boy faltered at the sight of the blood. His mother pulled at his hand but he refused to budge. He began to cry. Then he felt himself lifted up, he turned and saw the face of Martin, the man he had been told to call “brother”.

  Martin whispered in his ear, ‘Shhh, David, it’s all right. It won’t hurt you; it’ll make you strong.’

  The boy, David, cried and twisted but he felt himself carried forwards to the dripping red fingers of his father. The old man smiled and spoke in a language he didn’t understand, words that made no sense. The other people in the room began to repeat the words. David struggled as the fingers reached for his forehead. He turned his face away. And then he saw the lid of the coffin beginning to tremble, rising slowly as if it were being lifted from within.

  Then Martin was trying to turn his face back to the old man’s fingers that were reaching for him, dripping with blood. David was struggling now, fighting to get away, because he could see other fingers, long-nailed, yellow fingers curling around the edge of the coffin lid.

  David screamed –

  The Ryanair 737 hit the tarmac with a bump that jolted David from his dream. The youth in the aisle seat next to him was already texting someone. He looked at David and smiled. ‘Alright mate?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You alright? Sounded like you were having a bit of a nightmare, there.’

  ‘Yes,’ David rubbed his face. ‘Yes, I was.’

  ‘Still,’ said the youth. ‘We’re here now, eh?’

  ‘Yeah,’ David nodded. He looked out of the window as the aircraft taxied into its resting place. He squinted at the brightness outside; under a sky of brilliant blue, the world was drenched in dazzling sunshine. David sat and waited for the seatbelt light to go out. When it did, the usual chaos ensued: the sound of hundreds of buckles clattering open and being flung aside was followed by the wriggling stampede of passengers into the aisle, all of them struggling to pull bags from overhead lockers and turn mobile phones on at the same time. David looked out of the window at the ground crews in their short-sleeved shirts and sunglasses. Despite everything, in that moment he felt strangely happy to be here. He turned back to where the mass of his fellow passengers had now coagulated in the aisle; cramped and entangled, waiting for the cabin door to open. Then it did open and a warm breeze drifted through the cabin. Then the passengers began to slowly shuffle and nudge their way forwards to freedom.

  David yawned and looked out of the window. The bags were being off-loaded and those passengers that had already disembarked were now being herded towards the bus that had been sent to pick them up to transport them to the terminal building. He turned to see that the aisle was now almost empty. He got to his feet, pulled his bag from the overhead locker and strolled towards the exit. Someone had left a newspaper on a seat; he picked it up and slipped it under his arm, then with a parting smile at the st
ewardess, he stepped out into the heat.

  On the tarmac, the first bus was already pulling away and a second was now filling up. He trotted down the steps and made his way over to join the struggling crowd, glancing as he did to where the first bus now pulled up about a hundred yards away at the terminal building. He resisted the urge to walk the short distance and risk the wrath of the ground crews, and instead stepped onto the bus and turned to the back pages of the newspaper to see how Arsenal had got on the night before.

  Fifteen minutes later, having reclaimed his bags, David pushed a luggage trolley into the arrivals lounge where an array of expectant faces waited for persons other than him. Dozens of pairs of eyes simultaneously noticed and dismissed him, but one pair of eyes remained fixed on him: they belonged to an attractive woman in her late thirties wearing a white blouse and beige skirt. At first glance, her tanned skin and long dark hair gave her a Latin appearance, but he recognised her – just as she evidently recognised him. In her hands she held a sign with one word written in black marker: “Flinch”. A pair of young men just ahead of David obeyed the sign and flinched comically from her. She scowled at them and David read the words ‘fuck off’ on her lips. The young men swaggered away, and David rolled his trolley up and stopped before her.

  ‘Hello Lydia.’

  She smiled. ‘David.’ They embraced and she kissed him, first on one cheek, then the other.

  ‘It’s been a while.’

  ‘Yes, it has,’ she looked him up and down. ‘You’re looking very well.’

  ‘So are you. I wasn’t sure if I’d recognise you. How long have you been here now?’

  ‘Since I was twenty-one, I moved out for good after I finished university.’

  ‘Well it certainly seems to suit you.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She ran her hand through his hair. ‘I see you’ve lost the long hair. I like it.’

  He smiled, slightly embarrassed. ‘It’s been that way since the army.’

  ‘Yes, so you joined in the end then?’ She stepped aside and indicated the corridor behind her. ‘Come, my car’s this way.’

  David pushed his luggage trolley forwards and they began to walk. ‘Yeah. I did it to keep my mum happy. She felt it would be best – for everyone – if I followed the family tradition.’