Resurrection (The Underwood and Flinch Chronicles Book 1)

by Mike Bennett

  ‘Oh yes there is. It’s called ta-ta, adios – I’m off.’

  John’s expression darkened. ‘You must stay. You must serve him. It is your destiny.’

  ‘No, John, it’s not. I say, fuck him. Do you really think he gives a rat’s arse who polishes his coffin while he’s out and about slaying innocent people? Of course he doesn’t! This is just a domestic position with a bit of body-guarding and murder chucked in. It doesn’t even have to be a Flinch. Let him put an ad in the paper, I’m sure someone suitable will turn up. But remember, he can’t say, “women need not apply”, not these days.’

  ‘No! You must, you – ’ John’s voice was cut off by a gasp of pain and he fell back against his pillows.

  ‘John?’

  John reached out for David’s hand. He gripped it hard. ‘Listen to me. You must educate yourself. I’ve prepared a guide for you; it’s on a disc – a computer disc.’

  ‘John, for God’s sake, calm down, try and relax.’

  ‘It’s too late, David. My time has come. The disc ... it’s in the safe ... in the study. The codes, I changed it to your birthday so you won’t forget.’

  ‘Please, John – ’

  John let go of David’s hand and began fumbling behind some of the wires and tubes that flowed over the nightstand.

  ‘Please, John, stop,’ David turned in the direction of the door and shouted. ‘Conchi!’ When he looked back, John was lifting something metallic from behind the nightstand. It was the sword from the lounge. ‘John! Jesus, be careful!’

  ‘Take it,’ said John, holding the sword out to him with both hands. ‘Take up the sword.’

  ‘What? Do you mean?’

  ‘This is the sword of Matthias Flinch, handed down from him to his son, and so on and on through the ages. Our father gave it to me, now I pass it on to you.’ He winced as if the weight of the sword was suddenly unbearable.

  ‘Conchita!’ David shouted.

  ‘Take it!’

  ‘Okay! For Christ’s sake, John, don’t excite yourself,’ David took the sword.

  John relaxed back against the pillows. He smiled. ‘You’ll be wonderful, David. I know now that it was always meant to be you. It is your destiny.’

  The door opened and Conchita, cursing in Spanish, ran to John’s side. She gestured impatiently at David to get out of the way. David got up, his chair falling over behind him. ‘He needs morphine.’

  John reached out to David. ‘Remember ... the disc ... in the study ... he needs you. Promise me.’

  ‘Fuck!’

  ‘Promise me, David. Promise you will serve him.’

  David knelt, taking John’s hand in his. ‘All right. I will. I promise.’

  At his words, John smiled. ‘Good boy, Davey. Good boy.’ His grip relaxed.

  ‘John?’

  Conchita took John’s wrist and felt for a pulse. She looked at David. ‘He is gone.’ David sank back on his haunches. She gently closed John’s eyes. ‘He was a brave man.’

  David nodded. ‘Yes. He was.’

  ‘But now it is your turn to be brave, no?’

  David settled his brother’s hand on the bed and looked at Conchita. ‘Sorry?’

  She indicated the sword. ‘You are now the guardian of Lord Underwood.’

  ‘You know about that?’

  Conchita smiled. ‘Of course.’

  ‘So you’re ... you’re part of the Sect?’

  ‘We are all part of the Sect, David.’

  ‘Yes. I suppose you would be.’

  ‘It is an honoured place you fill,’ said Conchita, her eyes wide with passion. ‘When the sun goes down tomorrow night a new age of evil shall be born unto the world, and you shall be at the very heart of it.’

  ‘Yeah,’ David picked up the sword and got slowly to his feet. ‘And don’t I know it?’

  8

  JOSÉ ALMONTE LEFT HIS MALAGA OFFICE and decided he would treat himself to a celebratory drink. That afternoon, he’d gone to the clinic to learn the results of a HIV test that he’d taken following a drunken indiscretion with a prostitute a month earlier. He’d gone to the clinic in a state of darkest anxiety, as he’d managed to convince himself that he had contracted AIDS and was surely going to die. So the news that he was all clear came as an almost overwhelming relief. He’d gone through the afternoon like a man reborn, with joy bubbling in his heart like champagne, and now he decided that if you had champagne in your heart, the best thing to do was to have another glass in your hand to keep it company – or even better, a gin and tonic.

  As he rode the elevator down, he thought back to the night of madness that had started it all. He’d gone out for a drink with some of the other guys from the office to celebrate his fifty-third birthday. By ten o’ clock, most of the older men had started to drift away, pointing to their watches and explaining that their wives would be expecting them. But José had felt no such obligation because he and Luisa had had a furious row that morning, and he was in no mood for a re-match. His conscience had been nagging him to get her some flowers and make it up, but after the second drink, another part of him – the part that wanted a third drink and possibly a fourth or even a fifth – won; and when the younger lads had decided that they were going to go on to a strip club, José had gone along too.

  It was after midnight when he’d left the club, and no sooner had he done so than she had approached him. He hadn’t understood her at first; she was an immigrant and her Spanish wasn’t very good; but her intention was clear, and that was all he needed to understand. He had accompanied her back to a nearby apartment. When the sex was over, he’d wanted to stay and sleep off the booze, but a man with a much less amiable disposition than the prostitute had entered the apartment to tell him that an overnight stay wasn’t an option.

  He’d managed to find a taxi and had woken up the next morning in the guest room of his own house. Luisa had already left for work. He called in sick before rushing off to the bathroom to vomit. Afterwards, as he lay hanging onto the toilet like it was a life belt in a stormy sea, he thought about his encounter with the prostitute. What had possessed him? He’d never done anything like that before in his life. Had he used a condom? He must have done – she would have made him, surely.

  Wouldn’t she?

  He’d tried to remember putting one on – stopping sex to sheath his penis was usually quite a memorable event, if only because it was an awkward halt to the proceedings – but no fiddly condom fumblings bobbed among his memories of the night before. Cold sweat had broken out all over his body, and a fresh vomit reflex sent his face back into the toilet.

  Now, José clicked his tongue at the shameful memory. Thank God it was all going to be okay now. The nightmare of not knowing was ended. He could finally stop cringing away from Luisa’s touch in the bedroom, lying to her about feeling tired or having a headache. She had been patient and understanding, and on more than one occasion he had wept with shame. But tonight, he would return home, guilt free and hard as a fine chorizo sausage.

  He left the elevator and walked across the lobby to the exit. Yes, he thought, just a couple of drinks and then home – and no strip clubs. He chuckled as he went through the front doors of the building and out into a beautiful late spring evening.

  A man touched him lightly on the arm. ‘señor Almonte?’

  José frowned, startled. ‘Yes?’

  ‘You don’t recognise me perhaps. I am Doctor Morales, from the clinic?’

  José hadn’t recognised the doctor without his white coat. ‘Oh yes, doctor. Er, how are you?’

  ‘Fine, thank you, señor Almonte, but I’m afraid I need to talk to you. It’s about ... well, perhaps we should speak in my car?’

  José suddenly felt weak. ‘What? Why? I’m fine, you told me yourself not four hours ago!’

  ‘Please, señor Almonte. Could we step into my car?’ He indicated a white Mercedes parked beside him. A man got out from the driver’s seat and opened the back door for him.

  �
�But I’m fine,’ said José.

  ‘Please, señor Almonte, if you would just get into the car. There’s something I need to show you.’

  José’s legs felt numb. He walked slowly to the car. He hesitated, then got inside. The doctor got in after him and pulled the door closed. The driver got back into his seat and started the car. ‘Where are we going?’ José asked.

  ‘To the clinic, señor,’ Dr Morales nodded to the driver and the car moved off.

  ‘But my test ... my test was clear.’

  ‘I’m sorry señor, but there’s been a little confusion.’

  ‘What do you mean, “confusion”? Oh my God! Are you telling me there’s something wrong?’

  Dr Morales smiled. ‘Oh, no, your test results are exactly what were hoping for: you’re all clear.’

  José covered his face with his hands and sighed with relief, ‘Oh, thank you.’

  ‘But, unfortunately,’ Dr Morales continued. ‘You are going to die.’

  José lowered his hands, his expression confused. ‘Sorry?’ He suddenly became aware of a strange smell in the car. He hadn’t registered it earlier as he had been consumed by dread and anxiety, but now it tingled in his nose, a chemical smell redolent of hospitals. He was about to ask what it was just as Doctor Morales provided the answer by pressing the chloroform-soaked handkerchief over José’s nose and mouth. José lashed out, but there was no room for leverage – the doctor was upon him, pushing him down with all his body weight. José tried to call for help, but already he was falling away, as if Doctor Morales were pushing him through the upholstery and down into a soft black oblivion beyond.

  David sat on a patio chair on the balcony of John’s bedroom, smoking a cigarette and watching a tiny grey lizard. The lizard lay absolutely still in the shadow of one of a group of pot plants. David leaned closer; it looked dead. He reached out tentatively and touched it lightly with his finger. It was smooth and dry and cool to the touch. Then quite suddenly, it woke up and scurried off, disappearing into the shadows between the other pots.

  David dropped the butt of his cigarette and ground it out underfoot. He felt exhausted. He closed his eyes and rubbed his face.

  John’s words came back to him, saying that Lydia had an agenda of her own. What had he meant by that? He’d said she was evil, a bad seed. But that didn’t make sense either: evil was the family business. It was like the head of a family of jockeys complaining that a kid was a bad seed because they were great on horseback. Surely a Flinch that lacked evil would be a bad seed.

  Conchita stepped out onto the balcony behind him. She laid a hand lightly on his shoulder. ‘You don’t have to worry about anything now, David. It will all be taken care of.’

  He looked up, confused. ‘What? What do you mean?’

  ‘The funeral: arrangements were made weeks ago. John will be taken away and cremated. Afterwards, his ashes will be stored with your father’s and Martin’s alongside the Master.’

  David sat back and frowned. ‘You mean in the cellar? In Underwood’s crypt?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. There is a special alcove for the Flinches.’

  David thought for a moment, then looked away to the mountains. ‘Oh well, if that’s what he wanted.’

  ‘It is. It’s what they all wanted – to be near their Master in death, as they were in life.’

  ‘Fine. But for the record, if I die, don’t go putting my remains down there, will you? That’s the last place I want to be ... or rather it isn’t, if you see what I mean.’

  Conchita raised her eyebrows. ‘You don’t want to be with your family and Master?’

  David turned to her. ‘No. I want to be free in death, as I haven’t been in life.’

  ‘Whatever do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, I – ’ he shook his head slowly. ‘I’m not ready for this, Conchi. It’s come very suddenly and – well, I just don’t know if I can handle it.’

  ‘But of course, it’s a lot to have to absorb.’

  He laughed. ‘Oh yeah, you’re not kidding. Twenty-four hours ago I was opening a jar of chicken korma sauce, getting ready for a nice romantic dinner with my girlfriend, and now look at me: my brother’s dying wish was for me to swear on the sword of our ancestors that I’d raise a vampire from the grave and guard him for the rest of my life. I’ve got to play Jeeves to Underwood’s Wooster. Only instead of just being an upper-class twit, my Master’s a serial murderer of gargantuan proportions. Oh, yeah – it’s a lot to absorb all right.’

  ‘You sound like you don’t want the job, David.’

  ‘Would you?’

  ‘Of course, I would be honoured.’

  He laughed bitterly. ‘Now you’re starting to sound like Lydia.’ He took out his cigarettes and lit one. He offered her the pack. She shook her head. He took a long drag then said, ‘I dunno. Maybe it’s because it’s just so much more normal for you here. You guys are all involved in the Sect, you’re near this – near him,’ he pointed to the floor and to Underwood’s crypt below. ‘This is what you are, but it’s not what I am. I’ve got a life far away from all this and it’s one I don’t want to leave, you know?’

  Conchita sat down beside him. ‘You are scared?’

  ‘Yes. You bet I’m scared.’

  ‘I understand. It is for you to decide David, for you are guardian now. Lydia will do it if you don’t want to. But you know ... that is not what John wanted.’

  He nodded. ‘Yeah, he said that before he died.’

  ‘And I think he was right. It is good that you have fear of Underwood; fear is what keeps us alive in dangerous situations; it tells us to protect ourselves and the things we care for.’

  ‘Yeah, but Underwood is the thing I fear – not the thing I care for, not the thing I want to protect.’

  ‘But you will protect him. It is in your nature. John knew this. He told me so.’

  ‘Oh? Did he tell you why he didn’t want Lydia to the job, by any chance?’

  ‘No,’ she looked away. ‘He only told me that it must be you. You are a man, after all.’

  David felt she was holding something back, but he didn’t push the issue. Instead he said ‘Oh yeah, the old man’s work business. He gave me that speech as well.’

  The sword John had given him now lay across the small patio table in its scabbard. Conchita made to pick it up. ‘May I?’

  ‘Sure. Mind your fingers.’

  She picked it up and raised it before her. ‘Can you imagine the battles – the fights to the death – this sword has seen?’ She gazed at the sword in wonder.

  ‘You want it?’ said David. ‘Only a hundred or so previous owners.’

  She smiled. ‘It was the sword of Matthias Flinch.’

  ‘Yeah. John told me. I didn’t know that.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. I haven’t been here for twenty years, Conchita. Last time I was here, Rick Astley was number one. I wasn’t interested in swords and ancestors, I was interested in ...’ He shrugged. ‘Well, things that sixteen-year-old boys are interested in.’

  ‘Like this Rick Astley? Who is he?’

  David smiled. ‘Never mind.’ For a moment they were silent then David said, ‘So, if this is the sword of Matthias Flinch, then whose is the other sword downstairs, the one that crosses this one over the fireplace?’

  She looked at him and raised an eyebrow.

  David frowned. ‘Is that – ?’

  ‘The sword of Lord Underwood?’ She nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Jesus Christ. All this time and I never knew!’

  ‘I think there are many things that you do not know, David. And much you need to learn if you are going to take this sword as your own.’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’

  ‘So, are you going to take it?’ She inclined the handle towards him.

  He reached out for it and she passed it to him. He took it, curling his fingers around the worn handgrip. With his other hand he gripped the scabbard
and slowly drew the oiled blade out.

  ‘It’s magnificent, isn’t it?’

  David nodded, an unconscious gesture as he looked along the length of the blade. The aged steel, nicked and scratched and scored with battle, gleamed in the late afternoon sunlight.

  ‘You know I don’t want to influence your decision,’ said Conchita, ‘but I have to say, it suits you.’

  David swung the sword lazily from left to right. ‘Really? You know it does feel weirdly ... comfortable.’

  Conchita smiled. ‘I think perhaps you were made for each other.’

  David lowered the blade. ‘Yeah, and that’s what scares me most of all.’

  José Almonte returned to consciousness like a man rising slowly through cold black water, his dreams of pain dissolving into a reality of the same: a hangover? His head pounded, which was to be expected after a night out drinking, but more than that, he ached in other places too – unusual places. Jesus, he must have really gone to town last night. But why? What had been the occasion?

  Not having HIV of course.

  Suddenly, the memory of his last waking moments returned to him: the doctor from the clinic, the car, the handkerchief, sodden with chemicals. He opened his eyes to darkness – but not complete darkness, there was light moving on the surface in front of him, the surface he hung over. Hung over? José’s eyes came fully open. He was tied to something, but his weight wasn’t on the thing he was tied to. He was suspended from it, his body hung horizontally, as if the thing he had been lying on had been flipped over in space and he had remained attached to it. Panic seized him. He tried to move and found he couldn’t. He turned his head to the right and saw his arm lashed by duct tape, beyond that his wrist was manacled by handcuffs. He snapped his head left to see his other arm fastened the same way. He raised his head suddenly and it struck whatever it was he hung from. He cried out and discovered that his mouth had been sealed shut with tape. He struggled, writhing against his restraints which he could now feel at various points the length of his whole body, chafing against his bare skin, tearing at the hair of his naked body.

  Oh God! What was going on? As he struggled, José felt himself swaying slightly. Above him, he heard the sound of chains clinking gently against each other.