Resurrection (The Underwood and Flinch Chronicles Book 1)

by Mike Bennett

  ‘Didn’t your Mr Feltham tell you?’

  ‘He told us about your girlfriend’s accident.’

  ‘She was more than my girlfriend; we were going to be married.’

  ‘Oh,’ Lydia was surprised. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know that.’

  ‘Yeah, well, now you do. So let’s leave it at that, shall we?’

  They drove in silence for a while. Then, David turned to her. ‘Lydia, about this Guardian business.’

  ‘Yes, what about it?’

  ‘I’m not going to do it.’

  ‘I know, you said that.’

  ‘Yes, but, neither should you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Be Guardian.’

  She laughed. ‘Oh David, don’t be ridiculous. If you don’t do it and I don’t do it, who will?’

  ‘No one does.’

  She frowned. ‘No one?’

  ‘Yes. Listen, I’ve been thinking about it, about the role of Guardian. Not just since yesterday, but for years.’

  She smiled wistfully. ‘Yes, haven’t we all?’

  ‘No Lydia, not in a good way, because it’s not a good thing. It’s diabolical. Though to hear you talking about it now, talking about Dad as if he were just some loveable old eccentric ...’

  ‘He was.’

  ‘He wasn’t! Jesus, Lydia. Arthur Flinch, our father, was a murderer in the service of a vampire.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And? Underwood is vampire. A real one! Not like something off the television but a real creature that rises every night and kills people for food.’

  Lydia flicked her cigarette out of the window. ‘Why don’t you finish your cigarette so we can close the windows and put the air conditioning on?’

  ‘Lydia, when Underwood wakes up, he’s going to start killing people again.’

  ‘Unless of course you prefer the windows open.’

  ‘Fuck the windows! Listen to me! Whoever becomes Guardian will become an accomplice to murder. Not to one, but hundreds, maybe thousands of murders.’

  ‘Oh, so what?’ she shouted. ‘I know that! You know that! We’ve always known that!’

  ‘And you can do that, can you? You can kill innocent people?’

  ‘If necessary.’

  ‘But don’t you see?’ David appealed with open hands. ‘It’s not necessary. We don’t have to resurrect him. We can just kill him; you and me. This whole resurrection thing just doesn’t need to happen.’ He laughed. ‘Underwood’s been rotting in his coffin for fifty bloody years. All we need to do is bang a stake in his heart and then it’s all over. We can both get to go back to our lives and live happily ever after.’

  Lydia was silent, her eyes on the winding road ahead.

  ‘Lydia?’

  ‘Oh, I heard you, David.’

  ‘So? What do you think?’

  ‘You know, I said to John you weren’t up to the role of Guardian, but he said you were. I said you were a wimp, but he said you had guts. I said you’d let him down – and I was right. But even I had no idea just how far away from us you’d gone. And what a complete fucking coward you are.’

  She pulled off to the side of the road and braked in a cloud of dust.

  ‘Lydia, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘Don’t talk to me about Christ, David. There is no Christ! There is only Underwood. He is our God. He is our sole purpose and always has been. That you don’t want to be Guardian comes as no surprise. Fine. Fuck off! Run away and hide under your bed with a bottle of Jack Daniels. But if you think you’re going to stop the resurrection of my Messiah, you’ve got another think coming, because in my heart, I accepted the role of Guardian long ago. And I can, and will, kill anyone who would do him harm. And trust me, David: that includes you.’

  David looked at her and suddenly knew beyond any doubt that she was deadly serious. He smiled, his mouth was dry. He nodded, slowly. ‘Good. That’s good. I was just checking, see, ’cause you’d have to be, you know? Prepared to kill. I wasn’t really serious.’

  Lydia’s face remained grave for a few moments then she began to laugh. ‘Oh, you should see your face. I really had you going there, didn’t I?’

  David blinked. He tried to laugh but a strange sound came out instead. ‘Uh, oh yeah. Yeah. Nice one.’

  ‘Still the same old David.’ She put her hand on his thigh and gave it a squeeze. ‘Still afraid of your own sister.’ She laughed as she eased the car back out onto the road. ‘Oh, that was priceless.’

  6

  ‘OH GOOD, our favourite table’s free,’ said Gerald Benson with a smile as he and his wife, Cynthia, approached La Reina de Corazones. ‘What’ll it be for you this morning, Cyn?’

  ‘Oh, I think I’ll have one of those little coffees to get me started.’

  ‘Ah yes, the same for me I think. Just the ticket. Is it a cortado or cortada? I can never remember.’

  ‘Cortado, Gerald,’ said Cynthia. ‘Coffee is masculine.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’ll try and think of it in masculine terms. I know – I’ll mentally draw on a penis in the milky head of the coffee.’

  ‘Oh, really, Gerald, I do wish you’d keep your technique for remembering masculine and feminine nouns to yourself. Now, I too shall be seeing willies in my coffee.’

  Gerald chuckled. ‘Sorry.’

  The Bensons had come out to Spain six months before to enjoy early retirement. Gerald was fifty-five years old. A yellow cotton shirt flowed over his ample belly and a white Panama hat protected his bald patch from the sun. Cynthia was fifty-two; plump, but not overweight. She wore a white cotton dress and a pair of expensive sunglasses. They stepped onto the front terrace of the pub just as the barman, Luis, was wiping down their usual table in the corner.

  ‘Morning, Luis,’ said Gerald, dropping his edition of yesterday’s Daily Mail onto the table.

  ‘Buenas días, Luis,’ said Cynthia. ‘Que tal?’

  ‘Muy bien, gracias,’ said Luis cheerfully. ‘Your Spanish is very good, Cynthia.’

  ‘Oh, Luis, you’re too kind,’ said Cynthia, pulling out a plastic chair. ‘I can barely say my own name in Spanish.’

  Gerald sat down. ‘It’s still Cynthia, surely?’

  Cynthia ignored him and focused her smile on Luis, who was as handsome as he was charming.

  Luis laughed. ‘Gerald is right, there is no Spanish equivalent of Cynthia.’

  ‘Oh. How unfortunate,’ said Cynthia.

  ‘What’s “Gerald”, Luis?’ asked Gerald.

  ‘Geraldo,’ said Luis. ‘We pronounce the G as a H.’

  ‘Geraldo!’ said Gerald.

  ‘I could have told you that, darling,’ said Cynthia.

  Luis took out his notebook and pencil. ‘What would you like this morning?’

  ‘Dos cortados, por favor,’ said Gerald.

  Luis’s smile was dazzling. ‘Very good, Gerald.’

  Gerald laughed. ‘Who’s Gerald, eh? Call me Geraldo, Luis.’

  ‘Okay, Geraldo,’ Luis gave a nod and went into the shadowy interior of the pub.

  ‘Well done, Geraldo,’ said Cynthia.

  Michelle, who had seen the Bensons arrive, walked out from inside the pub shading her eyes with her hand. ‘Who’s Geraldo?’

  ‘I am,’ said Gerald, delighted with himself.

  Michelle pulled out a chair and joined them. ‘That’s nice, isn’t it? Of course you know who I am, don’t you?’

  ‘You’re Michelle; Keith’s girl,’ said Gerald. ‘You live here.’

  ‘No, I mean in Spanish,’ said Michelle, giving his arm a little pat.

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I’m Miguela.’

  ‘Oh, that’s lovely isn’t it, Cyn?’

  ‘Yes, charming. But I have no Spanish equivalent, apparently,’ said Cynthia. ‘Cynthia is uniquely English.’

  ‘Aw,’ said Michelle with a sympathetic look. ‘Never mind, eh?’

  ‘Ahhh,’ said Luis, returning with the coffees. ‘But in Portuguese of course, t
here is Cintia.’

  ‘There you are,’ said Michelle. ‘We can call you Cintia.’

  Cynthia smiled. ‘Thank you, Michelle, but I prefer Cynthia. Where’s Keith?’

  ‘He’s still upstairs trying to read a Spanish newspaper online,’ Michelle’s rings clicked against each other as she pushed her straightened blonde hair back over her ears. ‘Apparently some bloke got his head chopped off in Ibiza.’

  Cynthia grimaced. ‘Oh dear, how careless of him. Anyone important?’

  ‘No, just some druggie bloke. His head turned up on a bench, apparently.’

  ‘I say,’ said Gerald, ‘I had no idea Ibiza was such a perilous island.’

  ‘It’s probably them East European Mafias, innit?’ said Michelle. ‘They’re everywhere these days.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Cynthia murmured. ‘It was on a bench you say?’

  ‘Yeah, by the seaside.’

  ‘Do you suppose somebody forgot it?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Well, perhaps they were going somewhere and they stopped at the bench for a rest – ’

  Gerald frowned. ‘And what? Left their head behind? I doubt it, Cynthia, chap couldn’t have got too far without his head.’

  Cynthia sighed. ‘No, Geraldo, perhaps the murderer forgot it.’ She turned to Michelle. ‘Was it in a bag or something?’

  ‘I dunno, I’ll ask Keith later. He knows the Spanish word for “bag”, so if that’s in the article at least he’ll be able to read that.’

  ‘Perhaps there’s something about it in the Daily Mail.’ Gerald picked up his newspaper and began to scan the front page.

  ‘I don’t think you’ll find anything in there, Gerald. It’s yesterday’s edition, remember? You’re not in Hayward’s Heath anymore.’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course.’ Gerald abandoned his search. ‘Perhaps tomorrow then.’

  Cynthia spoke to Michelle. ‘Didn’t you used to live on the coast, in Benidorm?’

  Michelle nodded. ‘Yeah, that’s right.’

  ‘I hear there’s a lot of gangland activity down along the Costas. Is that true?’

  Michelle smiled ‘Oh, I wouldn’t know, Cyn. I suppose there’s probably a bit here and there.’

  ‘It’s just that you said it was probably a mafia thing. Are the East European mafias known for cutting off heads?’

  Michelle shrugged. ‘I dunno to be honest. But it wouldn’t surprise me.’

  ‘Very popular with the terrorists in Iraq for a while, wasn’t it,’ said Gerald. ‘And other places too, I believe.’

  Michelle grimaced. ‘It’s bloody disgusting, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, but frightening though,’ said Gerald. ‘Puts the willies up the enemy. That’s what it’s all about, Michelle – fear. Mark my words, whoever did this is trying to put the willies up some enemy.’

  ‘Oh really, Gerald,’ said Cynthia. ‘Do you think we might change the subject? All this talk of heads and willies is making me feel quite ill.’

  ‘Sorry, Cyn,’ said Gerald. He turned to Michelle. ‘Anyway, how’s young Melanie?’

  ‘Oh, fine,’ said Michelle. ‘Her friend’s allergic to milk at the moment so she thinks she is. She wants to drink soy milk now.’

  Cynthia’s lip curled slightly. ‘Oh no, Michelle, that’s like flour and water paste, it’s disgusting. You’ll have to talk her out of it.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Gerald raising a finger. ‘I know what to do here. The best thing is to sit her down and make her drink a couple of pints of the stuff. That’ll turn her off it. When I was a teenager, my father sat me down and made me drink whiskey ’til I puked all over myself.’

  Cynthia smiled. ‘Yes, but your father was mad, Gerald.’

  ‘Didn’t do me any harm,’ said Gerald. ‘Taught me a lesson, I can tell you.’

  ‘And what lesson was that, dear?’

  Gerald’s brows knitted as he tried to remember. ‘Well, er, don’t drink alcohol, I suppose.’

  Michelle slapped his arm affectionately. ‘What are you going on about, Gerald. You drink like a bloody fish, you do. You’re one of my best customers.’

  Gerald chuckled. ‘Oh, I don’t know – Cyn’s probably right. Father was a little odd. Obviously it’s a somewhat flawed strategy. Still, you could try it.’

  Michelle shook her head. ‘I don’t think so, Gerald. Thanks all the same.’

  Cynthia sipped her coffee. She had no interest in the eating fads of Melanie Mullins and so she changed the subject. ‘I hear Lydia Flinch’s brother is arriving from England today.’

  ‘Is it today?’ said Michelle, surprised.

  ‘Yes, flew in this morning. She’s gone to pick him up from the airport and then they’re going back to her brother John’s place.’

  ‘Oh my God, that poor man,’ said Michelle. ‘Still, nice for him to have his family all around him. I think if I was gonna die like that, I’d want my family around me; awful to die alone.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Gerald. ‘Apparently this younger brother chap hasn’t seen John or Lydia for about twenty years.’

  ‘Yeah, Lydia was saying the other day,’ said Michelle. ‘He’s the baby of the family, by all accounts.’

  ‘How old is he?’ asked Gerald.

  ‘Oh, I can’t remember. About two years younger than Lydia. So that’d make him ...’

  ‘Thirty-six,’ said Cynthia.

  ‘Yeah, that sounds about right. Be nice for them to be all together again though, won’t it? Even if one of them is going to die?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Cynthia.

  ‘You two are really good mates with Lydia, aren’t you?’ said Michelle.

  ‘Yes, she helped us move out here.’

  ‘Yeah, I remember. Everyone says she’s a really good estate agent, but we bought through a company in Benidorm.’

  ‘Oh, yes, she’s marvellous. But Lydia’s been so much more to us than just an estate agent, Michelle. Hasn’t she Gerald?’

  Gerald smiled. ‘Oh yes, much more.’

  ‘Without her, life here for us would have been quite impossible. She’s taught us so much and introduced us to so many wonderful people.’

  ‘Yes indeed,’ said Gerald. ‘It’s fair to say that she’s shown us a whole new way of life.’ He chuckled. Cynthia shot him a look, and he fell silent.

  Michelle smiled. ‘Oh, that’s nice. So have you met the brother, John, then?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Cynthia. ‘Lydia’s taken us out to the family home once or twice. ’

  ‘It’s quite a big place isn’t it? A farm?’

  ‘Yes, a cortijo.’

  ‘What’s that, the Spanish word for farm?’

  ‘Farm house, yes.’

  ‘Is it a nice place?’

  ‘Oh yes, it’s lovely,’ said Cynthia. ‘Been in the family for yonks.’

  ‘When did they buy it?’

  ‘They acquired it in the 50’s, I believe.’

  ‘Wow,’ said Michelle. ‘I bet they paid fuck all for it, back then.’

  Cynthia smiled. ‘Yes. As you say, fuck all.’

  ‘I wonder what it’s worth now, eh? Must be millions.’

  ‘Yes, very probably. But they’d never dream of selling it, it’s so much more to them than just a home.’

  ‘Ahh, that’s lovely,’ said Michelle. ‘So what time’s the brother’s flight getting in?’

  Cynthia looked at her watch. ‘Oh it should have landed a while ago. In fact, I’d say they must be arriving home about now.’

  For the remainder of the car journey, David had tried to steer the conversation away from the topic of Underwood. Despite her subsequent joking about the whole guardian business, something in Lydia’s eyes when she had said that she would kill anyone to protect her “messiah” had profoundly unsettled him. Since then, he’d managed to keep the conversation focused on neutral things they might have in common, like TV and movies, and they were mulling over the old chestnut of which band was better – Oasis or Blur – when Lydia suddenly pointed.

 
‘There it is!’ She was pointing to a spot ahead of them in the gently undulating landscape of hills and valleys. For a moment David had to squint. Then he saw it; amid the endless ranks of olive trees, a spot of white on top of a low hill. It was still far away, but even from this distance it was possible for him to see that the house had been extended.

  ‘It looks bigger.’

  ‘Oh yes, it is. John’s done wonders with the place. You’ll hardly recognise it.’

  David nodded thoughtfully and watched as the house grew nearer; the white walls and terracotta-tiled roofs becoming slowly more distinct as the distance closed.

  Lydia turned off the main road and through the open gates of the property. They drove along a long gravel track through the olive tree groves up to the house. ‘Blimey,’ said David as they approached the house. ‘John’s certainly been busy, hasn’t he?’ The main building was as he remembered it – a large, traditional Andalucian farmhouse, but next to it was now a high, white wall with an archway set half-way along it that opened into a paved courtyard.

  ‘Yes,’ said Lydia. She turned off the engine. ‘John’s quite the handyman.’

  David opened the door and got out. After the air-conditioned comfort of the car, the heat was intense. He adjusted his sunglasses and looked out across the sun-baked landscape. ‘Phew, it’s been a while since I’ve seen weather like this.’

  Lydia smiled. ‘You’ve been under grey skies too long, David. This is only Spring, wait until the summer kicks in.’

  David followed her as she walked towards the archway into the courtyard. From the other side of the wall he could hear the sound of splashing water. They entered the courtyard and he laughed with unexpected delight to see the source of the sound: a large fountain was set in the middle of the yard. Water danced and sparkled in the air above it and momentary rainbows flashed in the fine spray. ‘Oh my God! How cool is that?’ He walked over to the fountain and trailed his fingers through the churning water in the pool.

  ‘Very cool actually,’ said Lydia. ‘It helps to keep the air fresh.’ She was waiting for him by the kitchen door. He flicked the excess water from his fingers and walked over to join her.

  Lydia looked at him over the rims of her sunglasses. ‘Now David, about John – you should be prepared.’

  He nodded. ‘Okay.’