Resurrection (The Underwood and Flinch Chronicles Book 1)

by Mike Bennett

  ‘I always knew you were a good boy deep down. I was sorry to hear about your mother.’

  He looked at her. ‘Oh? You know about that?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Of course you do. You found me, didn’t you? It stands to reason you’d have found out about my mother’s suicide. Tell me, how did you find me?’

  ‘John hired a detective.’

  ‘A member of the Sect, I suppose?’

  ‘Naturally. A retired police detective.’

  He nodded, searching his memory for the thousands of faces that blurred in his background for one who he might have noticed again and again looking at him from the shadows. But no suspicious characters arose: he’d never seen nor suspected anyone. ‘Well, he did a good job.’

  ‘Within reason. Of course he couldn’t tell us why you chose to ... distance yourself.’

  David smiled. ‘Oh come on, Lydia. I think you know why.’

  She shook her head. ‘No, I don’t. Tell me.’

  He glanced around the arrivals lounge, looking for a distraction. He fixed on a queue of people at a car rental place. There were signs by the sales window announcing the disappearance of a young man. ‘Let’s just say it was a combination of factors.’

  ‘Like?’

  David saw another sign for the missing young man at the next car rental place. He turned back to Lydia. She was waiting patiently for an answer. ‘You really don’t know?’

  ‘If I knew I wouldn’t be asking.’

  David shook his head in disbelief. ‘Well, there was you for one thing.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, you. Don’t sound so surprised. I felt it best if we didn’t spend so much time around each other.’

  ‘Oh? Why?’

  ‘Oh don’t come the innocent, Lydia. You know why.’

  For a moment they walked on in silence, neither looking at the other. Then Lydia said. ‘I see. I always thought it might have had something to do with Lord Underwood.’

  ‘Well yes, there was him too. But mostly it was you.’

  ‘Oh. Well, I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Yeah, well, anyway, it’s all ancient history now. Let’s just put it behind us and get on with the present, shall we?’

  ‘Yes. I suppose that would be the sensible thing to do.’

  ‘So tell me about John, how bad is he?’

  ‘About as bad as it gets I’m afraid. He’s not expected to last much longer.’

  ‘I see. Was it him or you who decided to contact me?’

  ‘Him.’

  ‘How long did it take to find me?’

  ‘Oh we found you years ago. John hired Feltham – that’s the detective – to track you down about five years ago. He’s been keeping tabs on you ever since, sending John little updates, you know.’

  David stopped. ‘Really?’

  Lydia nodded. ‘Of course. Why? Does that surprise you?’

  He resumed pushing his trolley, ‘No, I suppose not. I suppose now that I think of it I’m surprised he left it so long. Why five years ago?’

  ‘For a long time John was happy to just let you do your thing. He had hoped that you’d make your own way back to us, but I suppose he eventually came to realise that you weren’t going to and so he contracted Feltham. He wanted to know where you were, if you were happy, if you were okay. Just normal family stuff.’

  ‘Yeah, like we’re a normal family.’

  ‘We’re the only family you’ve got, David. Normal or otherwise.’

  ‘Oh I’d say it’s definitely a case of “otherwise”, Lydia.’

  She smiled. ‘So how does it feel, coming home to your “otherwise” family after so long?’

  He gave a short dismissive laugh. ‘Weird. I mean, I’m happy on some levels but obviously very sad – and terrified – on others.’

  She laughed. ‘Terrified?’

  ‘Yes. Why’s that so funny? Although it wasn’t stated in the letter, I presume that now John is going to die the role of Underwood’s Guardian is going to fall to me?’

  ‘Yes, but surely you’re not afraid of Underwood? He’s our family’s great benefactor, you’ve nothing to fear from him.’

  ‘Well, that’s easy for you to say, you’re not the one in line for the job, are you?’

  ‘No, more’s the pity. As soon as the midwife saw I lacked a penis I was out of the running.’

  ‘Count yourself lucky.’

  ‘Lucky? To be prejudiced against because of my gender?’

  ‘In this case, yes, I would say so.’

  ‘Well you’d say wrongly. You’ve been given an amazing opportunity that I can never have, and frankly it makes me sick. I’d give anything to be in your shoes.’

  ‘Well as far as I’m concerned you can have my shoes. I don’t want this bloody job.’

  She smiled. ‘Yes, I suspected as much. But you forget David, what we want is irrelevant. Tradition dictates that this is a boy’s job: only male Flinches need apply for it.’

  ‘Bollocks to tradition, Lydia: if you want the job, you can have it. We’ll work it out between us.’

  She put her hand on his, stopping the trolley. ‘Really?’

  He turned to her. Suddenly her face was very serious. He nodded. ‘Sure. Like I said, I don’t want the job. I’ve got my own life, you know? It’s not much, but I’m happy. This Guardian thing is ...’, he sought for the right word; he didn’t want to offend her.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I dunno ... horrific?’

  She laughed. ‘Yes, it is rather. But surely John – and Underwood himself – they’d never accept me, a woman, in the role.’

  ‘Well, they might, times have changed, haven’t they?’ He felt lighter, relieved that Lydia was willing to take the job off his hands. He chuckled. ‘Hey, maybe we should threaten to report Underwood to the Spanish board of equal opportunities? They’d soon sort him out.’

  Lydia smiled but she wasn’t amused. ‘I’m serious David, and so should you be. This isn’t a subject I see as having a particularly funny side.’

  They approached the glass doors that opened onto the road outside. Warm air, rich with exhaust fumes and the cigarette smoke from a group of taxi drivers in highly animated discussion rolled over them. ‘Yeah,’ said David, reaching into his breast pocket and taking out his sunglasses. ‘I have a feeling you may be right about that.’

  About thirty minutes after embarking on what turned out to be a fruitless but enjoyable quest for Michelle’s G-spot, Keith returned to his daily perusal of the online British press. Michelle was in the shower and he had made himself another mug of coffee. He was just about to take a sip when somewhere in the apartment his mobile phone started ringing.

  ‘Oh bollocks,’ he muttered.

  ‘Your phone’s ringing!’ Michelle shouted from the bathroom.

  ‘I know, I’m not deaf!’ he shouted back as he got up and followed the sound of the ringtone, a tinny version of The Final Countdown by Europe.

  ‘I’m only saying,’ said Michelle defensively, a towel wrapped around her body as she passed him on her way to the kitchen.

  Keith ignored her and picked up the phone from the dining room table. He looked at the caller display: it was Hodge, his best friend and member of his team for five years. Keith answered the call. ‘Hodge! Alright mate?’

  ‘Alright Keith. Are you okay to talk?’

  Keith looked back to the kitchen. Michelle had put the kettle on and was now returning through the apartment. He smiled at her.

  ‘Who is it?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s Hodge.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said brightly. ‘Say hello for me.’ She went off to the bedroom. A moment later, Keith heard the sound of her hairdryer.

  ‘Yeah, it’s okay. Chelle says hello.’

  ‘Oh right, say hello back,’ said Hodge. ‘Listen, have you heard about that pill-head Mark Coleman?’

  ‘No. What about him?’

  ‘It’s in all the papers, mate. And it’s fl
ipping gruesome stuff, an’ all.’

  ‘What is? Whatchoo on about?’

  ‘He’s been decapitated.’

  ‘Decapsitated? What? You mean someone’s cut his head off?’

  ‘Yeah. They found it on a bench on an Ibiza seafront.’

  Keith’s legs felt weak. He sat down. ‘Fucking hell. Who do they think done it?’

  ‘They’re not saying, but I don’t reckon it was bloody Al-Qaeda, do you?’

  ‘Well, you never know. Maybe he was selling pills in the wrong neighbourhood.’

  ‘He was in Ibiza, not Baghdad.’

  ‘Well maybe they were on holiday.’

  ‘I don’t think so, mate.’

  ‘You never know.’

  ‘Yeah. I think we do though, don’t we?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Know.’

  Keith’s jaw tensed. ‘Know what? What are you tryin’ to say, Hodge?’

  There was a moment of hesitation from Hodge’s end, then he said, ‘I reckon it’s Sergei. I reckon it’s like ... some sort of warning.’

  ‘Warning? Who to?’

  ‘Who to? To us, mate. I reckon Sergei caught up with Mark and got all medieval on his arse. And most likely he tried to get him to say where we are an’ all.’

  Keith was silent.

  ‘Keith?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I dunno. I bloody hope not, but it could be, couldn’t it. Did he know anything?’

  ‘Mark? No, he only knew the lies what we told him about us going to Portugal to play golf for the rest of our days.’

  ‘Nothing more?’

  ‘No chance. That’s the story we told him, the same story we told everyone down in Benidorm. You can’t be too careful, can you.’

  ‘Yeah, well tell me about it, H. That’s why I put this pub in Chelle’s name, innit? In case they ever started looking for me in the Yellow Pages.’

  ‘I know, mate. Smart move, that.’

  ‘Yeah, still, cost me a nice pub sign though, giving her all that clout.’

  ‘Well if I’m right about Coleman and Sergei, maybe it’s just as well eh?’

  Keith nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yeah. ‘Ere, but hang on, what about Damo?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He wouldn’t have said nothing to no-one, would he?’

  ‘Course not! He knows the score.’

  ‘Yeah, course he does.’

  ‘Anyway, check it out, it’s front page news on El Pais online.’

  ‘I can’t read that, it’s in Spanish.’

  ‘Well you can look at the pictures can’t you? Either that or get your kid to translate it.’

  ‘Oh yeah, good idea: draw her attention to it – an article which might make daddy shit his pants. Oh, I know, I can get her to read it to me through the bathroom door, that way I can be ready on the bog when it gets to the bit about how the bad men are going to come and cut daddy’s fuckin’ head off.’

  ‘All right Keith, no need to be sarcastic.’

  ‘I’m sorry, mate, but you’ve gone and got me all nervous now,’ Keith heard the hairdryer cut out in the bedroom. ‘Listen, I have to go, I’ll have a butcher’s at it meself in a minute.’ He lowered his voice as he heard Michelle approaching.

  ‘Have a butcher’s at what?’ she asked as she walked past.

  Keith ignored her. ‘I’ll see you later, mate,’ he said to Hodge before disconnecting the call and putting the phone back on the table. With a long sigh he sat down and lowered his face into his hands. His mind went back to the night of the shooting…

  The dark interior of the van as it pulls out and speeds across the car park. Through the partly-open rear door he can see again the ground blurring; he’s holding the shotgun in both hands, ready to fire; his footing unsteady, he staggers against Hodge. Then Damo is shouting in the driver’s seat followed by a massive thump as the van hits one of the Russians. Keith falls to one knee, a shooting pain, forgotten immediately as guns open fire outside, the thin panels of the van afford no protection at all; bullets rip through the walls, whizzing through the air behind him. Then Damo brakes hard and again, Keith staggers against Hodge, swearing, trying to keep the shotgun steady.

  Damo screams from the cab: ‘For fuck’s sake shoot the bastards!’

  Hodge’s boot rises and kicks open the door, his gun goes up: two men outside, bringing their guns to bear on them. Then the flash and boom as Hodge fires. Keith raises the shotgun, feels his fingers tightening on the triggers, then both barrels, one after the other belch fire and smoke. He sees one of the Russians falling backwards, his pistol falling from his hand. Then Hodge’s second barrel booms and the other Russian, the only one still standing, flies back in a red mist.

  Michelle stepped into the kitchen doorway. ‘Have a butcher’s at what?’

  Keith blinked and the dining room returned. ‘What?’

  ‘What is it you’re going to have a look at?’

  ‘Oh, something in El Pais online. Hodge said he saw something interesting.’

  ‘What was that then?’

  ‘Some ... druggie geezer’s been murdered.’

  ‘Oh. No great loss there then,’ said Michelle as the toaster popped behind her. ‘I’ll tell you what that is. It’s them bloody East European mafias that’s what that is, same as in Benidorm.’

  ‘It wasn’t in Benidorm, Chelle. It was in Ibiza.’

  ‘Oh right?’ said Michelle, surprised. ‘I thought that was supposed to be Love Island.’

  ‘Yeah. Well, not any more it ain’t.’

  ‘No, not by the sound of it.’ She went back into the kitchen to butter the toast. ‘Thank God we moved away from the coast, eh?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Keith quietly. ‘Thank God.’

  David sat in the passenger seat of Lydia’s white Land Rover Discovery and looked out of the windows at the scenery as they drove up into the high country. He listened with interest as Lydia told him about how, after finishing studying Spanish and German at University, she’d returned to Spain in the early 90’s. Initially she’d stayed with John at Casa Underwood – which is what they’d called the family’s house since they were teenagers – but she soon moved out and got a job and an apartment down in Malaga.

  Her job had been with a firm of estate agents that specialised in selling property to foreigners, mostly British, Irish, German and Dutch. She learned fast. Four years later, with a loan from John, she went into business for herself. By the end of the 90’s, she was rich. She had two offices on the Costa del Sol and in recent years had begun to move into the inland property market. She’d opened an office in Almacena, four kilometres from Casa Underwood, and business had been booming.

  ‘Inland is the new coast, David. Lots of cheap property and lots of Brits keen to buy it all up.’

  ‘Why?’ He asked, turning back to her. ‘I mean, what do they see in it?’

  She smiled. ‘Oh, pretty much the opposite to England, I suppose: good weather, safe streets, happy children.’ She looked at him over her the rims of her sunglasses. ‘England’s not a happy country any more David, or hadn’t you noticed?’

  ‘I like it,’ he said without enthusiasm.

  ‘Oh come on! You can’t tell me you don’t miss it here. We always had so much fun.’

  ‘Did we?’

  ‘Of course we did. I hated having to leave when our school holidays were over. Leaving Dad and all my brothers and going back to rainy old England. Yeuch. I couldn’t wait until I was old enough to get back here permanently.’

  ‘Well, that’s good for you then. You got what you wanted.’

  ‘Yes,’ she turned to him. ‘Mostly. Still, it’s not for you, eh?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So, why are you back here if you don’t want the job?’

  ‘Because I have to be.’

  ‘For John?’

  ‘Yeah. He’s my brother. He’s always been good to me.’

  ‘Yet you turned yo
ur back on him all these years?’

  David took out his cigarettes. ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘No, actually can I have one?’

  He lit two and handed her one. ‘Look, I didn’t turn my back on John personally.’

  ‘No, you turned your back on all of us, the whole family.’

  ‘Yes, because, frankly Lydia, the family is evil.’

  ‘Oh rubbish! John’s not evil. Martin wasn’t evil.’

  ‘Dad was evil.’

  ‘Dad was eccentric.’

  David turned to her, his face unbelieving. ‘Black mass rituals aren’t eccentricities, Lydia. Daubing inverted crucifixes on your own kids’ foreheads with chicken’s blood, getting them to kneel before coffins with fucking vampires in them, these aren’t fucking eccentricities.’

  ‘Oh, it was all just part of the normalisation process, to prepare us for what we had to do in later life.’

  ‘Namely?’

  She shrugged. ‘To serve the Lord Underwood.’

  ‘By serve you mean what? Ring the bell at four o’clock to say tea is ready?’

  She chuckled. ‘I don’t think His Lordship drinks tea.’

  ‘You know that whoever “serves the Lord Underwood” as you put it, is going to have to kill people, don’t you Lydia? Are you capable, seriously capable, of murder?’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘No.’

  She laughed. ‘So what did they teach you in the army? Flower arranging?’

  ‘I trained as a medic. I saved lives, Lydia, I didn’t take them.’

  ‘Ah, but I read Feltham’s files on you, David. You didn’t start as a medic, you were in Bosnia. Surely you killed a few people there?’

  ‘Obviously you didn’t read very closely. If you had you’d know I was there as part of a United Nations peacekeeping force. Our job was to protect people.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ she nodded with mock gravity. ‘And then you went on to more life-saving larks when you became an ambulance man; a paramedic, isn’t that what they call it these days?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you then you left that and became a drunkard. Interesting career choice.’

  David said nothing.

  ‘So why did you leave the ambulance service?’