Resurrection (The Underwood and Flinch Chronicles Book 1)

by Mike Bennett

  ‘Master,’ said Ana. ‘I am your humble servant.’

  ‘No madam. You are my humble breakfast. Kindly remain seated.’

  ‘My Lord,’ said David. ‘Please – ’

  ‘Run along, Flinch. This doesn’t concern you.’

  ‘But – ’

  Underwood turned on him. ‘I said run along! Before I cut your worthless throat.’

  ‘Well, why don’t you!’ David shouted. ‘Let her go! Take me. I’m the one that’s failed you. And God knows, I’ve got nothing to live for now.’

  ‘Oh no, Flinch, not so,’ Underwood’s lips drew back from his bloody teeth in a smile. ‘You’ve got me.’

  Lydia moved to David’s side and took him by the arm. ‘Come on, David. Let’s just go.’

  Reluctantly, David allowed her to lead him away. He looked back to Ana. ‘Ana,’ a tear spilled onto his cheek. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  Ana shook her head. ‘Don’t be sorry, señor David. It’s alright. My life for the Lord Underwood.’

  ‘That’s the spirit, Ana,’ said Underwood as he walked around the coffin to her.

  Lydia pulled David to the stairs. ‘David, let’s go. This is what he does. You were a fool to ever think otherwise.’

  David went up the stairs. At the top he turned back.

  Ana stood with her back to him, her face raised to Underwood’s. Underwood brushed her long hair back from one of her shoulders then looked up at David. He raised his eyebrows, as if to enquire what David were still doing there.

  ‘For God’s sake, David,’ said Lydia. She looked back to Underwood and Ana. ‘Can’t you see? They want to be alone.’ She pushed him through the doorway into the library. Then she stepped in after him before pulling the door quietly closed behind her.

  16

  DAVID AND LYDIA ENTERED the kitchen to find Miguel sitting at the table smoking a cigarette and clutching a large glass of red wine. His hands trembled as he drew on the cigarette. When he saw Lydia he stood up and tried to smile. ‘He is risen. All hail the – ’

  ‘Oh, fuck all that wank, Miguel!’ snapped Lydia, glancing about. ‘Where are all the others?’

  ‘Gone. They left.’

  Lydia took his glass of wine. ‘What, even the Bensons?’ She drained the glass at a swallow and handed it back to him.

  Miguel nodded and refilled the glass. ‘Yes. They said they didn’t want to be in the way.’

  ‘Didn’t want to be on the menu, more like. Give me a cigarette, will you?’

  Miguel handed her the pack and spoke to David. ‘Conchita and señor Hernandez took the old man to hospital, but he didn’t look too good.’

  ‘Well, that’s heart attacks for you, Miguel. They’re so fucking unflattering, aren’t they?’ David went to the back door and walked outside.

  ‘Where are you going?’ called Lydia. She took Miguel’s glass and drank again. Miguel got himself another glass and filled it.

  David returned carrying a bottle of Scotch from one of the party tables. ‘Same place as you by the looks of things, only faster.’

  Lydia put her glass down. ‘You can’t start drinking now, David. For Christ’s sake!’

  ‘Why not? You are.’

  ‘I’m not an alcoholic.’

  ‘So what difference does that make?’ He picked up a coffee mug and filled it with Scotch. ‘Cheers.’ He took a mouthful and swallowed it at a gulp then clenched his teeth at the burning sensation in his throat ‘Oh, yeah! That hits the spot.’

  ‘You can’t go crawling inside a bottle now, you selfish prick,’ said Lydia. ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, Underwood just had my boyfriend for a main course, and now he’s polishing off our housekeeper for dessert!’

  ‘What do you want me to do about it?’ David took another drink. ‘This is what you wanted, isn’t it? What did you think it was going to be like? Woodstock?’

  Lydia slapped the mug out of his hand and it shattered against the wall. ‘How dare you, you fucking shit! This is your mess, David, not mine. You’re the one who had to fuck everything up with your stupid no-one-needs-to-get-hurt crap. If we’d just sacrificed that boy in the cellar, then none of this would have happened. Beltran and Ana would still be alive; the guests would all still be here; and Underwood would be happy as a pig in shit. He’d be mingling and getting to know his new social circle. Instead, he’s down in the cellar tucking into it!’ She turned to Miguel. ‘Speaking of which, you should go, Miguel; God knows how many more necks he’s going to be opening before the night is over.’

  ‘Oh, that’s very convenient isn’t it, Lydia?’ said David, wiping his mouth after taking a slug straight from the bottle. ‘It’s all my fault now, is it? Do you really believe Count fucking Underwood would be swanning about your party like some fanged Prince fucking Charles, going up to people and asking them what they do for a living?’ He laughed contemptuously. ‘He’s a monster, not someone out of Hello magazine.’

  Lydia slapped him. ‘My friends are dead because of you, David. And now you stand there, denying all responsibility and taking the bloody piss.’

  David rubbed his cheek. ‘Look, I’m sorry about Beltran and Ana, all right. But for Christ’s sake Lydia, they’re just the first of hundreds, maybe thousands! And all of the dead-to-be are gonna leave behind family and friends, grieving just as you are now – no, more so – you see, because you know what’s happened and why it’s happened, but for everybody else, there’s just gonna be a corpse; no fucking explanations, just a – ’. He stopped; Lydia was staring at the door behind him. He looked at Miguel and saw his eyes also fixed in the same direction.

  ‘Oh, do go on, Flinch,’ said Underwood. ‘I’m enjoying your insights.’

  David turned around. Underwood stood in the hall doorway, his beard glistening and his shirt saturated with blood. David took a step back. Half an hour ago, this man had been barely more than a mummified corpse – now he stood in the doorway, breathing, smiling, fully restored. His skin was smooth, and his complexion pale with spots of pink high on his cheekbones. He looked like he might be in his mid-thirties, just as he did in the portraits that hung throughout the house; portraits painted hundreds of years ago.

  ‘I,’ David stammered. ‘I was just saying that you’re gonna be ... killing a lot of people.’

  ‘Yes. I daresay I shall,’ Underwood’s voice was no longer hoarse, but smooth; his tone, easy and relaxed. ‘I take it you disapprove?’

  ‘Er ... well, yes, I do ... for what it’s worth.’

  ‘How interesting,’ Underwood entered and walked over to one of the kitchen work surfaces. He pulled out the top drawer and rummaged inside before taking out a large pair of scissors. ‘Are these the only scissors we have?’

  At the sight of the long blades, David instinctively took a step away from Underwood and looked at Lydia.

  ‘What is it you want them for, My Lord?’ asked Lydia.

  ‘Well first of all I want to get rid of this hideous beard. These should suffice for that purpose. But then I want to cut my nails, and, well, I was hoping for something a little more … elegant.’

  ‘I’d say a pair of secateurs is what you need for that job,’ said David. Underwood’s eyes darkened. David, who hadn’t intended to be facetious, attempted to clarify: ‘Seriously, I mean, they’re very thick, aren’t they? No scissors, not even those big ones, could really cut through those.’

  ‘Their thickness isn’t a problem, Flinch,’ said Underwood. He put down the scissors and held up his hands. ‘I can deal with that quite easily.’ He smiled as his talon-like nails began to glow red, their edges blurring and becoming indistinct.

  David squinted, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. ‘Wha – ?’ Underwood grinned and the smouldering talons suddenly vanished into his fingertips as if they had been inhaled. David frowned. ‘H-how did you do that?’

  ‘Let’s just call it mind over matter.’

  ‘You ... absorbed them?’

  ‘Yes, something like that.’

/>   ‘So ... what do you need to cut them for?’

  ‘Because they still exist, dear boy. I’m merely withholding them.’

  Under her breath, Lydia said to Miguel, ‘What wouldn’t I give to be able to do with my thighs after a visit to the pizzeria?’

  Underwood chuckled. ‘Yes. It is rather handy. But as I say, I do need to remove them permanently.’

  ‘I have a manicure set upstairs,’ said Lydia.

  ‘That would be perfect,’ said Underwood. ‘Would you mind getting it for me?’

  Lydia nodded and went out. Underwood pulled out a chair and sat down. He picked up Miguel’s cigarettes. ‘Yours?’ he asked.

  Miguel nodded. ‘Please, take them, My Lord.’

  ‘Thanks. I’m simply gasping.’

  Underwood took one and leaned to accept a light from Miguel. He drew on the cigarette and immediately coughed on the smoke. ‘I say!’

  Miguel tensed. ‘I’m sorry, My Lord.’

  Underwood waved a hand and patted him on the arm. ‘Don’t be. My fault.’ He looked at the pack. ‘Ah. French, eh?’

  ‘Yes, My Lord,’ said Miguel. ‘Gauloises.’

  ‘Êtes-vous français?’

  Miguel shook his head. ‘No My Lord, I am Spanish.’

  ‘Oh, how nice,’ Underwood looked at the cigarette packet. ‘Ah, the French, they’ll be the death of me yet.’ He grinned at Miguel. ‘You know, if I had a penny for every French bullet I’ve taken over the years, I’d be a rich man – or, should I say, richer than I actually am. Oh, of course, I’ve had the lead of practically all nations under my skin at some stage or other, but overall I’d say the French have been the most zealous when it comes to shooting me.’

  ‘So, you don’t like the French, My Lord?’ asked Miguel.

  ‘Au contraire, mon ami, I love the French. Perhaps it’s the quality of the cuisine they enjoy, but something certainly gives their blood that delicious … je ne sais quoi.’

  Miguel laughed.

  Underwood turned to David. ‘So, this must be 2008 then, Flinch? From what you’ve said so far, I presume Arthur is no longer with us?’

  David shook his head. ‘No. He died in 1984.’

  Underwood nodded, his eyes fixed on David, but seeming for a moment to lose focus as he digested the news. ‘Hmm. And you – you’re his youngest son?’

  ‘That’s right,’ David took another swig from the bottle.

  Underwood frowned. ‘I say, do you always drink like that?’

  ‘Lydia broke my cup.’

  ‘Well why don’t you get yourself another one? Really, you have the manners of a baboon.’ Underwood watched with growing distaste as David took a dirty glass from the sink and poured whisky into it. ‘So, tell me, are the fascists still in power in this country?’

  ‘No. Franco died in the 70’s. Spain’s now a democracy within the European Union.’

  ‘European Union?’

  ‘Yeah,’ David took a drink from the glass. ‘It’s a political union of European countries. The fascists are all long gone.’

  ‘What about the communists?’

  They’re dying out, at least in Europe. Though there are still a few communist countries: China, North Korea, Cuba.’

  Underwood seemed surprised. ‘I see. So, was there a war? Did they use the Bomb?’

  ‘Which bomb?’

  ‘The bomb.’

  ‘Oh, no, there wasn’t a war – thanks, perhaps, to the bomb. Gradually communism broke down and global capitalism won the day. Now we’re all friends, more or less.’

  Underwood laughed. ‘Well, fancy that. So now there’s this European Union?’

  Miguel reached into his pocket and pulled out some euro notes. ‘Yes, look, My Lord. There is even European money now!’ He handed the notes to Underwood who took them and held them up to inspect.

  ‘Well, I never. And what about the Space Race? Who’s winning?’

  ‘Oh, that’s over too,’ said David. ‘America got to the Moon first and then Russia just sort of … lost interest.’

  ‘I see, and so are there American colonies on the Moon? Or Mars perhaps?’

  ‘No. The Americans pretty much lost interest as well.’

  Underwood’s face fell slightly. ‘Oh, what a pity. I’d rather hoped we might be able to go to Mars. Never mind, I can wait.’

  Lydia returned with a small patent leather pouch. ‘Here we are,’ she said, taking out a small pair of nail scissors. ‘Would you like me to do them for you?’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Lydia. Would you mind?’

  ‘Not at all, I’d be honoured.’ She knelt down before him.

  Underwood raised his hands so his fingers were pointing at the ceiling. Then, ten tendrils of red smoke rose from his fingertips to solidify once more into his talon-like nails. He lowered his right hand to Lydia and she took it in hers. She closed the scissors on the nail of his index finger but nothing happened. ‘They’re a bit strong, My Lord. David might be right about the secateurs.’

  Underwood smiled. ‘Oh, sorry, I meant to soften them for you.’

  Lydia felt his hand grow warm and watched as his nails glowed at the point closest to his fingertips.

  ‘Try them now.’

  Lydia did as he asked and the scissors cut through the nails as if they were made of warm wax. She laughed and looked at him. ‘Oh, how weird!’

  ‘Yes. Isn’t it? You should see me when I really flex my metamorphic muscles. I’m really quite the contortionist.’

  Lydia suddenly felt herself blushing and she turned her attention back to his nails. David muttered something under his breath and he lowered his face, wary that his expression might betray him.

  ‘Did you say something, Flinch?’

  David looked up, startled that he had been heard. ‘No! I, I’m sorry, Your Lordship, I was just ... thinking aloud.’

  ‘Oh? Sounded like, “wanker” to me. Why were you thinking that?’

  Lydia turned around to look at David. He looked frightened. She smiled.

  ‘Oh, no, no, My Lord,’ David stammered. ‘I was saying ... er, “hanky”, I was looking for my hanky,’ he slapped his sides and clutched at the robe. ‘But there’s no pockets in this thing, you know? I, I was feeling a bit ... sad, you see, and tearful – about Ana and Beltran.’

  ‘Oh,’ Underwood nodded. ‘I see.’ His eyes continued to scrutinise David for a moment, then he said, ‘I do hope you’re not a bold one, Flinch. I mean, bold not in the sense of courageous – for that, I welcome – but rather in that other sense of the word, the boldness one associates with the undisciplined child.’

  ‘Oh, no, sir, I, I’m not bold – not in that sense, anyway.’

  ‘Good. I dislike undisciplined children, Flinch, and I don’t spare them the rod, you understand?’

  David nodded. ‘Er, yes, sir. I understand.’

  ‘Good. Next time you feel the need for ... a “hanky”, best you keep it to yourself.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I will, sir.’

  Underwood continued to hold David’s eyes for a moment longer then he turned back to Lydia’s manicuring of his nails. ‘Oh, they’re coming along very well, aren’t they?’

  Lydia looked up at Underwood and smiled. ‘Thank you, My Lord.’

  Without looking up, Underwood resumed his conversation with David. ‘I suspect you weren’t the first in line for this job, Flinch. Am I right?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Yes. You seem a tad ... ill prepared.’

  ‘Yeah. You could say that.’

  ‘David was the third in line, My Lord,’ said Lydia. ‘Fourth, if you count me – but no-one does, but anyway – we had two older brothers, Martin and John. Martin was killed in a helicopter crash in Germany. He was stationed there with the army.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Lydia, cutting off another nail.

  David noticed his whiskey was trembling and he tightened his grip on the glass.

&n
bsp; ‘When did he die, David? 1980, wasn’t it?’

  ‘’81. Could I have a cigarette, Lydia? I left mine downstairs.’

  ‘Please,’ said Underwood, taking the pack given to him by Miguel. ‘Have one of mine.’

  David walked over and reached for the proffered pack. As he drew a cigarette his trembling fingers caused the pack to rustle. Underwood noticed this and met his eye.

  ‘Don’t worry, Flinch. They’re French, but they won’t kill you.’

  David took the cigarette and stepped back. Miguel sparked a light for him. David accepted it and nodded his thanks before going back to the sink and refilling his glass.

  Lydia, having finished cutting the nails on Underwood’s right hand, now accepted his left, and went to work. ‘So then our other brother, John, died just the other night.’

  ‘Oh, how tragic,’ said Underwood. ‘What was it?’

  ‘Cancer.’

  ‘Oh dear, I am sorry. Such an awful disease. Before I went to sleep, I wondered if maybe that would be a thing of the past by the time I woke up.’

  ‘No, not yet, sadly. John spent the last twenty-odd years here, waiting and preparing for this night. Our father educated him personally in how to be your guardian.’

  ‘Did he?’ Underwood pointed David to a chair. ‘Sit down, Flinch, for God’s sake. All your fidgeting and pacing is starting to get on my nerves.’ David sat down. ‘Did you know Arthur well?’ The question was for Lydia.

  ‘Oh, quite well. I didn’t grow up here though, I grew up in Windsor.’

  ‘Oh, how nice. Near the castle?’

  ‘Yes.’ Lydia went on, ‘So, yes, we lived in Windsor, but my mother and I would always come out here for our holidays. Although saying that, Mum would sort of leave me with Dad and John, and then go off to Malaga with my stepfather until it was time for us all to go home. She and Dad didn’t really get on.’

  ‘Hmm. Yes, that sounds like Arthur; he was a man’s man.’

  Lydia smiled. ‘Yes, I suppose he was. Anyway, I liked him and when I was twenty-one, I came out here to live, and I got to know him – Dad – quite well.’

  Underwood turned to David. ‘And what about you, Flinch? Did you know your father?’

  David shrugged. ‘Not really. He used to scare me.’