Resurrection (The Underwood and Flinch Chronicles Book 1)

by Mike Bennett

  ‘He’s in his bedroom. He has nurses who attend him around the clock. Conchi is with him during the daytime.’

  ‘Conchi, right.’

  ‘Now, he’s pretty far gone. I mean, he looks different, you know?’

  David nodded.

  ‘He’s heavily sedated against the pain and he’s – ’ Lydia broke off. She looked as if she were about to cry.

  ‘Hey, come on.’ David put his arm around her shoulders and held her. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she sniffed. ‘I’m all right.’ She moved away from him and he withdrew his arm. ‘Here I am worrying about you, and I’m the one getting all upset.’

  ‘Well, that’s okay.’

  She smiled. ‘Yeah,’ she turned and led the way into the kitchen. It was just as he remembered it: a large farmhouse kitchen with a big wooden table at its centre. A thought occurred to him and he looked over to a work surface along one wall. He smiled. Just as there had always been, a leg of cured ham was set upon a slicing rack and covered with a tea towel. He went over and lifted the cloth, picked up a tiny sliver of meat, and popped it into his mouth. Lydia had moved on into the hallway and he followed her.

  In the hall he could hear quiet Spanish guitar music coming from somewhere ahead. He stopped as he was passing the lounge and looked in. The old phonograph record player still sat in the corner; an antique now, like so many other things in the house. Behind it, he saw a modern hi-fi system set into the wall, all black glass and tiny glowing lights.

  ‘Ana likes to have the radio on while she’s working,’ said Lydia.

  David nodded and walked into the room. It hadn’t changed in size, only in decor. Large sofas were arranged around an open fireplace and a big plasma screen TV. Above the fireplace, an antique cutlass was mounted against the white wall. David frowned. Didn’t there use to be another one crossing it? He stepped closer and saw the empty mounting fixtures for the other sword. He turned back to Lydia. ‘Wasn’t there was another sword here?’

  ‘Yes, but don’t worry about that now.’ Lydia gestured for him to follow.

  She led the way further down to where the hall opened out into the reception area and staircase. Opposite the front door was a large, full length portrait of Lord Underwood. He had a voluminous moustache and heavy sideburns and was wearing gentleman’s Victorian evening dress, replete with a top hat and black evening cape. One of his white gloved hands rested easily on a cane, and a serene smile played upon his lips as he looked out into the room. David felt a cold sensation in his bowels.

  ‘It was painted over a hundred years ago,’ said Lydia from the stairs. ‘Impressive, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose. I always tried not to look at it when I was a kid. I was afraid of the eyes following me around the room.’

  Lydia smiled. ‘Yes. They do have that effect, don’t they?’

  David looked up into the eyes. They seemed to look straight back at him: cheerful, cool, confident to the point of arrogance. David looked away. ‘Let’s go.’ He followed her up the staircase to the upper floor.

  She stopped outside the room that had been his during summer holidays when he was a boy. ‘Your room.’ She opened the door. ‘John added an en-suite bathroom to this and all the other bedrooms, but otherwise I think you’ll find it’s just as you left it.’

  It was. The room was exactly as he remembered it, right down to the picture of the 1978 Arsenal squad pinned to the wall above the single bed. He walked over to the window and looked out at the hills to the east. Then, he noticed the swimming pool outside. ‘There’s a new pool?’

  ‘Yes. Nice, isn’t it?’

  ‘When did he put that in?’

  ‘Oh, ages ago. About ten years now.’

  David was impressed. ‘Well, he’s certainly made the most of it out here, hasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, he has. Shall we continue?’

  He nodded and they returned to the hall. ‘Why did he leave my room the same as it was?’

  ‘Because it’s your room.’

  ‘Yeah but ...’ he found he couldn’t finish the sentence.

  Lydia smiled. ‘This house has been waiting for you, David. Just as it’s been waiting for our Master. Come.’ She led the way down the hall and David followed, becoming aware of a chemical smell that grew heavier the closer they got to John’s room. When she got to the door, Lydia stopped.

  ‘Okay. Are you ready?’

  David nodded. ‘Yeah.’

  She opened the door for him and he stepped inside. David’s breath caught in his chest as he saw his brother for the first time in twenty years. When last he had seen John, he had been a young man – younger than David was now; he had been fit, strong, and almost annoyingly energetic. The man sleeping in the bed before him now was barely recognisable as the same person. Under the white cotton sheets, his body was wasted and brittle-looking; all of the thick blonde hair had gone from his head, and his face was gaunt, his eyes were dark and sunken, and his cheeks concave.

  Lydia took David’s hand and he was grateful for it. He looked at the photo frames around the room: Martin and John with their father, Arthur; himself at about age eight with Lydia and Arthur; Lydia in a graduation gown; John in his army uniform; a woman he knew to be John’s mother, and another picture of a young man he had never seen before. He was relieved to see that there wasn’t a picture of Underwood. The balcony windows were open and a light breeze stirred the smell of disinfectant.

  Next to the bed a nurse put aside the book she was reading. ‘Señorita Flinch.’ She stood up.

  ‘Conchita, this is my brother, David.’

  Conchita smiled and shook David’s hand. ‘John has been asking for you for so long, señor Flinch. He will be so happy to see when he wakes up.’

  ‘Please, call me David.’

  ‘How is he today, Conchi?’ asked Lydia.

  ‘He is comfortable, señorita Flinch. He has been asleep for a few hours now.’

  David moved John’s bedside. ‘Oh John, dear God.’

  John’s eyes flickered open. For a moment he stared at David as if he were dreaming him, then he smiled. ‘David?’

  ‘Hello mate.’

  John reached out and David took his hand gently. ‘Oh, David, I’m so glad, so very glad to see you. I, I was beginning to think you weren’t going to make it.’

  David frowned. ‘Make it?’

  ‘Yes, for the resurrection.’ John chuckled weakly. ‘What else has there been on the Flinch calendar these last fifty years?’

  ‘But, that’s not for a while yet, surely?’ He turned to Lydia for confirmation but her expression told him nothing.

  John looked concerned. ‘Lydia? You haven’t told him?’

  ‘Not yet, no. I thought you’d want to give him the good news yourself.’

  ‘I see.’ John turned to David. ‘Well, it’s tomorrow night, David. At long last: after fifty years of deathly slumber, Lord Underwood, our family’s sole reason and purpose, shall rise again. And you, David, you will be there to welcome him; his loyal guardian and trusted servant.’

  David grew pale and sat down on the bed. ‘Tomorrow?’ He turned to Lydia as if to say, you knew this?

  Lydia shrugged.

  John squeezed David’s hand. ‘Your return to us on this eve of resurrection is a blessing from Hell, David. For while I may soon be dead, in you, the Flinch line shall survive.’ He laughed and his voice was dry and raspy. ‘Rejoice! Underwood and Flinch are born again!’

  7

  KEITH REMOVED HIS WEST HAM BASEBALL cap and wiped a dew of sweat from his brow. He stopped a moment to adjust the tightness of the hat so it wasn’t quite so snug, then slipped it back on and continued towards Hodge’s apartment. As he walked beneath the orange trees that lined the road, his mind continued to gnaw at the news of the discovery of Mark Coleman’s head. It had to have been the Russians – Coleman had been a dickhead, but he wouldn’t have been on anyone’s hit list. Anyone, that is, other than Sergei Alexandrov’s.
And his presence on that list had been entirely Keith’s fault.

  He stopped to step aside for a young woman and her elderly mother. He smiled and both women greeted him with a “hola”.

  Keith touched the brim of his cap. ‘Hola.’ He liked the way people here said hello to you even when they didn’t know who you were. He knew from old movies that it had once been like that in England, but that would have been before his time.

  He and Michelle had come out to Spain in 2003. Before the move, they had owned a pub in Slough, but they’d sold up and moved out to Benidorm looking for a better life in the sun. They’d bought an already established British pub near the seafront called John Bull’s Tavern. It was a popular spot and they were soon making a good living, mainly from the tourist trade but also from regulars in the ex-pat community, some of whom did little other than hang around in the bar from opening through to closing time every day.

  Among the younger ex-pats the demand for the dodgy little extras soon became apparent, and Keith quickly learned to spot the purveyors of those dodgy little extras: the dealers who used to hang around the bar with the same lazy persistence as vinegar flies.

  It had been Damo who’d suggested that instead of simply putting these dealers out of the pub, he should be putting them out of business – and then making their business his own. Damo, Hodge and Pete Sweeney had been initially hired as bar staff. Keith hired them because he liked them; he saw something in each of them that mirrored aspects of his own personality. For that reason perhaps, all four had quickly became firm friends.

  Keith had warmed to the drug dealing idea and sat down with the Damo and the lads to talk it over. They were all men of the world and each of them had, at some stage, dabbled in narcotic distractions. Damo and Pete had especially enjoyed being distracted – though, of course, never when they were on duty – and their source of drugs had been Mark Coleman.

  Once Coleman was established as pub’s supplier, they had begun dealing – nothing serious, and never beyond the door of John Bull’s, but that wasn’t necessary: their regulars were the only custom that Keith was interested in. He’d thought of it as an extra service to give him the one-up on the competition; all the seafront pubs had Sky Sports and a full English breakfast advertised on the placard outside, but Keith had two unique selling points his competitors didn’t have: a jar of pickled eggs on the counter and, for regulars, easy access to marijuana, ecstasy and cocaine.

  The police may or may not have known about it, either way they had never hassled them. It was just a bit of guiri business – “guiri” being a Spanish word used to identify obvious North European tourists of the fair-skinned, socks-and-sandals variety.

  For a few years things had ticked over very nicely, but then the Russian problem began. Sergei had bars and clubs in Malaga and Alicante but then he had started moving into Benidorm, buying up British and Irish pubs. Keith didn’t know why, though he had read somewhere that one of the mob’s key activities was money laundering. He assumed it was that, rather than a love of Sky Sports and pickled eggs, that had been on Sergei’s mind when he approached Keith to make an offer for the John Bull Tavern. The offer had been a generous one and despite Keith’s conviction not to sell, he’d been tempted, though ultimately he declined. The visit had ended amicably, with Sergei handing him his business card and telling him that if ever he changed his mind, to give him a call.

  A few days later, the problems began. His staff started to report being hassled on their way to work by burly East European guys. These big skinheads would approach in twos and offer the staff member better rates of pay to work at one of Sergei’s bars – the recently acquired King’s Head and O’ Driscoll’s Irish Pub. One lad had unwisely told them to fuck off and had wound up in hospital.

  Sergei came in again to make another offer. Keith had declined. After that, groups of big Russian skinheads had started coming in to drink in John Bull’s. They’d start trouble with the punters, kicking off fights in which they’d do as much damage as possible before Damo, Hodge and Pete managed to get them out.

  Keith had had to call the police on more than one occasion, but the Russians had always seemed to run off by the time the cops arrived. The same thugs never came in twice, so short of barring anyone with an East European accent, there was little Keith could do. Then one night, things came to a head when a brawl kicked off and Pete waded in to sort it out. Keith could still see the face of the Russian skinhead as Pete fell away from him, dropping to his knees. The Russian had looked Keith straight in the eye and smiled as he held up his blood-stained knife for Keith to see. The people the guy had been fighting with backed away and panic had moved through the bar like an electric current. As punters ran for the exits, Damo and Hodge rushed to Pete and the Russians fled out through the fire escape. A moment later, Hodge had ran after them only to see a car driving away at speed. By the time he got back, Pete was dead.

  Descriptions were given to the police, but no-one was ever caught. Keith had always suspected that Sergei had certain key police officers in his pocket; bribery and corruption weren’t exactly unknown in this part of the world and Sergei had no shortage of cash.

  Pete’s death had been the end of it for Keith; afraid for his family, he’d given in and sold out to Sergei. He’d told him he was going to move to Portugal, that he was getting out of the pub trade for good, retiring early and putting in some work on his golf swing. They’d shaken hands, and that had been that. Michelle had been relieved to be getting away from it all, though Melanie, being too young to have really understood what was going on, had been predictably pissed off.

  They’d moved not to Portugal, but here, to Almacena, some one hundred and fifty kilometres inland, north of the Costa del Sol. Melanie soon settled in and made new friends, the best of whom was Teresa. The two of them would often wander in to La Reina, nattering away in Spanish and come up to the bar where Melanie would switch to English long enough to get a couple of cokes, then they’d drift off into the shadows to continue their mysterious conversations. It never ceased to amaze Keith how quickly Mel had picked up Spanish, but her teachers had told him it was natural; that children were able to absorb language far more readily than adults.

  Mark Coleman’s head bobbed to the surface of his thoughts again, breaking through images of Melanie and Teresa, and rolling round to face him with its dead eyes as if to pose the question: What if Sergei finds you, Keith? Will he be content with taking it out on you and the lads, or would he hurt Melanie and Michelle as well?

  Keith suddenly felt a queasiness in his stomach. Jesus, why hadn’t he just done like Chelle wanted when they moved away from the coast? Just move on and put it all behind them? He shook his head. No, neither he nor Damo and Hodge had ever been able to forgive and forget Pete’s murder. It had poisoned their peace of mind, coming up in conversation any time they got drunk or stoned together. They’d always vowed to take some kind of revenge. They’d agreed to wait, to bide their time until there was enough water under the bridge, wait till Sergei had made even more enemies down on the coast so there’d be a well-populated list of suspects – the last of which would be them – then they’d go back down and get the bastard. And so, just over a year after they’d all moved out to Almacena, they’d begun to make their plans.

  Sergei had become the principal player in the Benidorm drug trade, and Damo and Hodge got in contact with Mark Coleman again. The plan was to use him to arrange a meeting with Sergei, ostensibly in order to buy fifty grand’s worth of ecstasy, but in fact, to blow his head off. They’d told Mark they were going to go into business in Portugal and wanted him to be their connection, just like old times. They told him they wanted Sergei’s drugs as they were reputedly the best. They’d also told him to keep their names out of the arrangement, as their relationship with Sergei after Pete’s murder was sour, to say the least. Mark had agreed and had set up the meeting. He’d been assured that Sergei would be present in person at the meeting, which was arranged to take place
in an underground car park not far from the Benidorm sea front.

  Before the meeting, Damo and Hodge had given Mark a sports bag containing what they claimed to be fifty grand in used bills. In fact, it was about five thousand euros carefully arranged so high denomination bills were piled on top of blank pieces of paper. The wads on top had been authentic in order to pass Mark’s cursory examination. The bag wasn’t expected to get any further than Mark’s possession, so a more thorough, Russian examination of the bag’s contents was not a consideration. When it was all over, the money in the bag would be given to Mark as payment.

  They’d then followed Mark to the underground car park, where they parked the van so they had a clear, all-round view, and direct sightlines on the meeting place. They’d watched through the front window as the Russians arrived in a black four-wheel drive with tinted windows. When the three men inside got out, Sergei wasn’t among them. Keith and the lads had had a panicked conversation about what to do, but there was no choice; Sergei or no Sergei, Coleman had a bagful of nothing, and when that became apparent, he’d point to the van, and they were fucked. Keith and Hodge had picked up their guns and Damo had floored the accelerator.

  When it was over, the Russians were dead and Mark was freaking out. Keith gave him a slap and pushed the sports bag into his hands. He’d told him to keep the money and to keep his mouth shut or he’d get the same as the Ruskies. There hadn’t been time for debate and they fled the scene after telling Coleman to do the same. Afterwards, he’d heard that Coleman had gone back to England.

  The shooting had made the national papers. Police had no leads but it was believed to be a gangland hit. It was also through the papers that they learned they’d killed Nicolai Alexandrov, nephew of “Russian bar and club entrepreneur”, Sergei Alexandrov. The papers mentioned that Sergei had alleged connections with the Russian mob, but stopped short of saying that he was a gangster. Keith had followed the story every day, watching as it occupied increasingly smaller space until it finally fizzled out.