by KERRY BARNES
Sweat again trickled down Harry’s nose and he was breathing quite deeply. ‘Nah … I dunno. Look, Vinnie, check Muvver’s okay, will ya? Do whatever it takes to get her outta that house and then try and find Scottie. Call me and let me know what’s going on … Oh, and watch yaself. The Regans may have someone plotted up.’
The phone went dead, and Harry took another deep breath. The vision of Travis popped back into his head, and he shuddered. He just hoped to God they hadn’t captured his youngest brother. He would never forgive Vinnie if they had.
* * *
It wasn’t until Vinnie pulled up outside his mother’s home that he began to have sinister thoughts and dread filled his veins. What he’d done to Staffie’s dog was wrong, and Harry had nearly throttled him when he’d heard. However, Vinnie had believed at the time that it was a smart move. Spotting the dog in the garden, an idea had popped into his head; he would show the Regans what the Harmans were capable of. Reality then kicked him in the teeth when Harry pointed out that if any of the Regans found him, they would no doubt do the same to him as he’d done to the dog.
He stared at his parents’ home and bit down on his bottom lip, drawing blood. Up until now, all he knew about the Regans was what his family had told him. Every member of the Regan firm had a price on their heads – a hefty sum payable to any member of the Harmans who brought a Regan – or anyone else from their firm – to their knees. At the secret family gathering, it was rammed home to them that the Regans and their firm were the enemy.
Vinnie had wanted to impress his uncle and to be the number one son in his father’s eyes. So, high on cocaine, he’d seized the opportunity to make his mark. Now he wished he hadn’t. After all, he couldn’t put the genie back in the bottle. He bit his lip again. This time he winced and shook his head. Every nerve in his body seemed to be on edge. He decided to drive up and down the street to see if there were any unusual cars in the area. Confident there were none, he parked down the road away from the house and hurried back.
As he entered the front garden, his hand gripped the Stanley knife inside his bomber jacket – his old faithful tool and one that he’d used many times to leave a mark on the offending opponent. On high alert, he snuck around to the rear garden and noticed the back door was open.
Without going inside, he scanned the kitchen and clocked the tray of cakes on the side, the smell of baking still lingering. He assumed his mother was still at home, and so he relaxed his shoulders and stepped inside. There was an eerie silence. Entering the kitchen, he suddenly stopped. His nerves spiked his senses, and he heard the faint tick-tock of a clock. Then, as he listened, he realized it wasn’t a clock but a dripping tap from upstairs.
‘Muvver!’ he called out. There was no answer. He called her again and waited. In nervous frustration, he screamed, ‘Doris.’ He often called her Doris – or more cruelly ‘Boris’. Assuming she was ignoring him, as she often did, he marched along the hallway and sharply poked his head into the living room, before he stomped up the stairs. ‘For fuck’s sake, Muvver, are you bleedin’ deaf or what? Answer me, will ya!’
There was silence except for the sound of the dripping tap; it was now really grating on his pricked nerves. In a flash of anger, instead of politely knocking at the bathroom door, he aggressively pushed it open.
Shit! A sudden gasp left his mouth, and he quickly stumbled back as if an invisible hand had pushed him.
‘Oh my God!’ he shouted.
His head was spinning, his stomach automatically heaved, and vomit shot through his mouth and nose. He choked and tried to take deep breaths, but it was impossible. The puke rose again, without giving him a chance to breathe. As he fell to his knees, his hands caked in yellow sick, he heaved again. His mind became so overloaded with images of what he’d just seen that he couldn’t stay in this house of horrors any longer. Yet still, he couldn’t breathe; his legs were now unable to move and his whole body felt an intense tingling sensation like an electric shock. He blinked furiously and shook his head, trying to pull himself together.
There, lying in the bath, with the tap still dripping, lay the mutilated remains of his father. His eyes still wide open, his mouth gaping in a twisted shape. It was an abomination. Large chunks of flesh had been hideously removed. His ears and his nose were missing, and strips of skin lay floating in the shallow pool of water that was not quite red, but obviously filled with blood. His eyes couldn’t take it all in at first. He wondered if he was dreaming or whether this must be a sick joke. For, there, lying neatly on the white cistern was not just the offending weapon – the family’s carving knife – but his father’s finger with the wedding ring still attached, the blood from which was trickling down the side of the cistern, forming a tiny pool on the toilet seat.
The walls around him darkened. Knowing he was going to faint, he tried desperately to hold it together. He kneeled on the floor, away from the grim scene behind him, as he sucked in an enormous lungful of air. He tried to steady himself, but before he’d even reached the top of the stairs, the light-headed feeling got the better of him. Down he tumbled, crashing his forehead against the wall, and there he lay on the bottom tread of the staircase.
Stunned and dazed, he remained motionless; for a split second, he thought all of this had been a bad dream. That was until he heard the tap dripping again and he knew it was for real. Still in a blind panic, and with a lump on his forehead now swelling to the size of a golf ball, he managed to get to his feet and run.
He left the house, knowing that he would never return. Eventually, he reached his car and almost ripped the door handle off trying to get inside. As he drove away like a man possessed, he tried to process the events he’d just witnessed and plan what to do next. His first thought was to phone Harry.
As soon as Harry took the call, he heard the terror in Vinnie’s voice.
‘Jesus, Harry, I’ve just left Muvver’s … Oh my God, Harry.’
‘Slow down, Vinnie. What’s happened?’ Harry heard his brother’s harsh breathing and held his own breath.
‘It’s Farver! Fuck me, he’s dead. He’s fucking dead. They’ve killed him. Jesus, Harry, they’ve fucking cut him up. In the bath, for Christ’s sake. Blood’s everywhere … It’s disgusting …’
Paris stirred, snorted, and fell back to sleep.
‘Are you there, Harry?’ He sounded desperate to keep his older brother on the line.
‘Yes, Vinnie. Christ … they fucking killed our ol’ man? I swear to God, I’ll have every single one of ’em.’
‘Harry, what shall I do?’
Harry was in shock, but then sudden anger surged inside him, working its way up to his head. He felt as though he was ready to explode.
‘You, Vinnie, you can do what the fuck you like. This is all your fault! I knew they wouldn’t let killing the fucking mutt go, and now look what’s happened. You are one useless prick!’
Ignoring Harry’s accusation, Vinnie begged for help. ‘Please, Harry, tell me what to do. They’re gonna come for me. I just know it.’
It was the final straw. This shit-for-brains brother of his had acted recklessly without his say-so, and now Harry hated the pathetic sound of his brother’s voice. ‘Where’s Scottie?’ he growled through clenched teeth.
‘I dunno. I came straight over to Muvver’s, like you said, and I ain’t heard from Scottie. Harry—’
Harry had had enough of his brother. ‘Just find fucking Scottie. Then, once you’ve got him, call me. Don’t fucking call me unless you have anything useful to tell me.’
Harry wiped the gathered beads of sweat before they ran into his eyes and stung him.
He was so focused on what had happened to his father, he hadn’t even contemplated his mother’s safety. He looked in his rear-view mirror and wondered how he was going to break the news to his sister. She loved her father more than anyone. He just hoped she would stay asleep until they reached Broadstairs.
* * *
Doris felt content soaking u
p the country views. Mike reminded her so much of Arthur that she felt at ease in his company. If he was only half the man Arthur was, then he was all right in her books. There were so many ‘if onlys’ in her life. The biggest regret was not waiting for Arthur when he went to prison. She’d received a message from Teddy Stafford senior that Arthur didn’t want any visitors or letters. She should have known, back then, that Arthur didn’t want her traipsing up to a grotty prison. Unaware that Frank had set him up, and was worming his way into her life, she succumbed to his affections. He got her drunk, had his way, and she was left walking up the aisle with her first-born due in six months.
She remembered seeing Mike as a baby. Arthur had met a woman, married her within the year, and they’d had their first child within eighteen months. There was no need for a newspaper in Bermondsey – the news travelled even faster than the new Eurostar service into London.
She recalled seeing Gloria proudly pushing her son around in a beautiful pram. Doris had been dragging her two sons to the shops, both with wilful minds of their own. Gloria looked like she’d stepped out of a magazine. She was wearing a red swing coat, with her hair immaculately bobbed and she’d even put on false eyelashes. With a spring in her step and her head held high, she strolled by, much to the admiration of Doris. Despite the small age gap, she knew Gloria actually looked ten years younger.
Gripped by sadness, Doris knew that if it hadn’t been for the lie Frank told her, she would have waited for Arthur. She loved him so much, and still did, even though he was married to Gloria. There were no hateful feelings towards her though; after all, she had done nothing wrong. They knew each other from the estate, but they weren’t on such friendly terms that they would stand and have a chat. So, they would find themselves nodding politely when they encountered each other – which Gloria did as she passed Doris.
Doris remembered that day like it was yesterday because more shocking was what she noticed after the woman had walked by. Doris was admiring Gloria’s new coat and the expensive shoes, and just imagining herself wearing them and parading her son around. Just as Gloria passed the pub, Frank, who was idling in the doorway, pint in hand, stepped out and blatantly flirted with her. Doris watched in horror as Gloria began to walk away but Frank grabbed her arm. Doris saw how difficult it was for the woman to shrug him off. She knew what Frank was like when he’d had a few pints inside him. He was a forceful, won’t-take-no-for-an-answer man. She contemplated walking in the opposite direction to do the shopping, but she couldn’t leave the woman like that.
‘Frank!’ she called out. He responded by letting the woman go and then strolled towards her, veering from side to side. She held her breath; she knew he was pissed and he wasn’t nice when he was drunk. But then, he wasn’t nice anyway.
‘What d’ya fucking think you’re doing, woman? You ain’t no fucking fishwife, so don’t act like one. No wife of mine shouts their ugly mouth off in the street.’
She hurried away before he got really nasty. She didn’t want the boys to witness it – not that it would have made any difference to them. Each of them, like their father, didn’t have a generous soul. All three were like peas in a pod: obnoxious, rude, and unruly. After she’d been to the Co-op and collected her Green Shield stamp-book along with a loaf of bread and a bag of flour, she wandered back along the street towards the pub. But as she approached the building, she could see a couple of the locals gathered outside. A car was parked across the road. There he was: Arthur Regan. He almost towered over Frank. All she could hear was Frank hollering through stupid slurred speech. He was pathetic. Arthur, however, dressed impeccably in a black suit and with his hair neatly cut around his ears, said very little. With ease, he grabbed Frank around the throat with one hand and with the other he punched him square in the face, knocking him across the pavement and into the road. Two of the locals tried to pull Arthur back, but he flipped them aside like he was swatting flies.
‘You ever even look at my wife, and I’ll find you and put you through a mincer.’
Towering over Frank, red-faced and irate, he snatched a pint of beer from one of the onlookers and poured it over Frank’s face. ‘Now, you little creep: keep well away from me and mine.’
As he stepped over the man, Arthur suddenly looked over at Doris. Holding his hands up and with a resigned shrug, he mouthed ‘Sorry.’
She could still picture him mouthing that word. She never did know if he was saying sorry for bashing her husband or apologizing for the life she was now living.
* * *
As they finally drove into the pretty, cobbled street, Doris gazed in wonder. The surroundings were as Mike had described – breathtaking. The row of cottages that nestled in among the stunning twelfth-century church gave the town its character, and the old-fashioned flowers – climbing roses and wisteria – which adorned the brick facades, enhanced the classic English feel of the place.
This would be her first real holiday ever. Her heart was beating fast like an excited child’s. She could just relax and enjoy the fresh air and wander around and do whatever she wanted, instead of having to jump to her husband’s demands or listen to her grown-up children with their foul mouths and brash ways.
Mike opened the boot and retrieved her suitcase. She watched him as he pushed the key in the lock and opened the door to allow her to go ahead. She gave him a smile that made her face come alive. It was then that he saw how pretty she’d once been, before being dragged down by her brood.
The inside of the cottage was much larger than she’d imagined. She stepped from the hallway entrance into a rustic lounge. As she looked around in fascination, she admired the huge open fireplace built in traditional brick, noting with approval the beams on the ceiling and the walls. A sumptuous three-piece suite laden with thick cream fleeces looked inviting. Doris could see herself sitting there in the evening with a cup of tea and her feet up.
Doris followed him to her bedroom, Mike carrying her suitcase. She went over to the window and had to stoop a little to properly view the cobbled street. She didn’t see Mike watching her from the doorway. He noticed how the sunlight was resting on her soft, rosy face. She seemed so much at peace. Sighing silently, he left her and headed downstairs.
He grabbed a pen and paper from the kitchen worktop and quickly wrote down instructions for the cooker and the boiler. He pulled the keys from the drawer and placed them along with a wad of banknotes on the table. The last part of the note read: Enjoy your holiday, treat yourself, and I will see you in two weeks.
Quietly, he left before she had time to thank him.
* * *
Before he reached the M20, he dialled Jackie’s number, expecting a different dial tone. He was surprised to hear the usual English one. The phone rang until it went over to voicemail. He tried again with the same result. His anger heightened.
‘Jackie, call me right away when you get this message!’
He was annoyed she hadn’t picked up the phone, and even angrier that it left him with a worrying thought. He remembered Jackie having the hump, but, surely, she would have followed his instructions? He cursed aloud. ‘Fuck you, Jackie!’
He should never have married Jackie, and if it weren’t for little Ricky, he would never have done so. Her cocky sneers and smart remarks riled him up, and now, by ignoring his calls, she was leaving him raging. He assumed she’d ignored him and gone to the hairdressers, or perhaps the tanning salon. At this very minute, she was probably rinsing the credit card on new clothes for Spain. He bit his lip.
He could still see his little boy’s face before Jackie shoved him into the car; his eyes were almost begging Mike. He hated that look; it made him feel so guilty. He detested his wife’s lack of compassion. She was one of those women who was obsessed with the material trappings of life – the complete opposite to Zara. A sense of guilt momentarily clouded him. In his heart, he knew his relationship with Jackie had been on the rebound.
Gripped by not knowing where his wife and son were, he wo
ndered if the Harmans had followed them. His heart began to race, and he redialled the number. This time, it went straight over to voicemail. He figured she’d turned the damn phone off.
By the time he reached home, it was almost dark. The men were still gathered in his lounge, all except for Eric, who had left shortly after Mike’s departure.
Looking flustered, Mike asked Lou to call the airlines to check if all the planes to Alicante that day were full, because if they weren’t then his wife should definitely have been on one of them.
Staffie noticed Mike was looking anxious. This was a rarity; the only time he’d seen him with vulnerability strapped to his shoulders was when Ricky once had the measles and had been taken to the hospital.
‘What’s going on, Mikey?’
‘Jackie’s phone has a British dial tone – she ain’t in Spain. What’s worrying me is the poxy Harmans. If they followed her and have taken my son …’ His face reddened as he clenched his hands behind his head.
‘Fuck me, mate, that’s a long shot. Think logically. Jackie may have missed the plane or fallen asleep in the hotel. But I don’t think the Harmans are clever enough to kidnap your wife and Ricky.’
Mike took a deep breath. ‘But if they have … I swear to God, I will mutilate each and every one of them. Where’s Eric?’
Staffie looked at Willie. ‘I dunno, mate. Eric said he’d things to do and left.’
‘Things to fucking do? Like what?’ shouted Mike, now almost apoplectic with rage.
Willie shook his head. ‘He didn’t say, but I think he had the hump.’
Mike was about to explode again when his phone rang. He looked at the number. It was Izzy. ‘Hello.’ He sounded abrupt.
‘Mike, I’m just letting you know you now have twenty-four hours to have the Harmans’ heads on sticks, or I will deal with them myself. The Irish firm aren’t happy that their goods didn’t arrive. I’ve had to pacify that situation on your behalf. So, twenty-four hours, and then you, my boy, will be working for me. Just a reminder.’
