The Hunted

by KERRY BARNES

  ‘Fuck me, that was so surreal. Did I dream that just happened?’ said Staffie, still shaking.

  Willie laughed. ‘Well, I got blood on me knife, so, yep, that really ’appened. Staffie, have ya got a baby wipe?’

  Staffie steered the car with one hand, whilst with the other, he opened the glove compartment. Inside were disinfectant wipes and he flipped them over his shoulder for Willie to get cleaned up.

  Lou lit up another cigarette. ‘So, the fuckers killed poor Ricky? What utter bastards. I just wished we hadn’t had to leg it. I really wanted to kill that fat cunt with me bare hands, once I’d ripped his fucking fat arms and legs off.’

  There was silence as the three men pondered what had happened. Staffie slowed down as they approached the pub car park. ‘How the hell are we gonna break it to Mikey?’

  No one answered, still lost in their own thoughts. Eventually, Staffie got out and took a deep breath; tears were ready to cascade down his face. Tough man or not, he didn’t care: he was devastated. Lou wiped his nose and sniffed back his tears. Then, he too got out from the car, put his arm around Staffie, and whispered, ‘I hope Zara ain’t killed Harry, ’cos I wanna torture the cunt.’

  Willie looked at his bag of cocaine and contemplated having another line, but how could he? With little Ricky dead, this was one moment in his life when he needed to stay compos mentis. Placing the small plastic bag of powder back into its pouch, he slowly got out of the car and joined Staffie and Lou. They stared across the field adjoining the pub.

  ‘He loved that boy so much, it’s gonna destroy Mike when he hears the news.’ It was the most sober Willie had ever been.

  ‘I just can’t believe it. There was us thinking that Jackie had buggered off with him. Maybe it was just wishful thinking.’

  ‘Yeah, she’d obviously planned to fuck off, but she would never have taken Ricky. She couldn’t stand that kid. I used to watch her. She was so fake. She only said nice words when she knew we were within earshot.’ The unpleasant recollection made him clench his teeth. ‘Nah, I reckon that Scottie got in with her. He fucking knew who she was, and then, once he coaxed her into leaving, he took the boy,’ said Lou.

  Staffie wiped his eyes. ‘So where is Jackie then? That Zara told us she’s used the best investigators to track her down. It’s like Jackie’s disappeared off the face of the fucking earth.’

  Lou nodded. ‘Maybe she got cold feet and was gonna go back to Mike, and the Harmans wouldn’t have that, so they killed her an’ all …’ His words trailed off at the thought of never seeing the boy again.

  They stood side by side as the sun began to go down behind the lush green hills. It would have been a beautiful sight and should be remembered as such, but their thoughts were elsewhere, oblivious to their surroundings. A chapter of their life was closing. Who knew what the future would hold for any of them.

  After a good few minutes, the men sauntered over to the garden bench. Staffie wandered into the pub to buy a bottle of whisky. They needed a drink.

  When Staffie returned with a bottle and four glasses, a car’s headlights shone in their direction as it slowly crept upon them. Willie was facing the bright glare and couldn’t make out if it was the Filth or just a random passer-by. The car turned into the car park, stopped beside their vehicle, and as the lights were turned off, they clocked it was Zara. She was alone this time.

  She opened the car door, gracefully climbed out, and swanned over to them.

  ‘A drink for me?’ she asked, as she removed her driving gloves.

  Shocked by how matter-of-fact she was, Lou got up from his seat with a quizzical look. ‘What ’appened?’ he asked, as he handed her a glass.

  She knocked it back in one mouthful and gritted her back teeth. ‘Cor, that’s shit.’

  They didn’t laugh or say anything but waited anxiously for the news.

  ‘It appears that among us is a grass. No one, as far as I’m aware, knew that I had the Harmans kept at the hangar, so did you guys mention it to anyone … like Eric, by any chance?’

  Staffie’s jaw clenched tight, and he raised a cynical eyebrow. ‘No way. We, er …’ He looked at her stony face, debating whether or not to air his thoughts.

  But it was Lou who spoke up. ‘Nah, Zara, we don’t deal with Eric anymore. It’s just us motley crew, and, of course, Mike. It must be someone on your side, love.’

  He waited for Zara to spit out a few defending words, but he was pleasantly surprised, as they all were, that, instead she took a seat and sighed. ‘Maybe you’re right, but I have no clue who would be so flaming well brave as to grass me up. Only a handful of people know about that hangar.’

  ‘And Scottie? We didn’t even know you had Scottie at the time. Only you, Mikey, and your cousin Joshua did. So, I hate to say it, but I think the grass could be one of your own.’

  With another sigh, she replied, ‘But it wouldn’t be my minders, Joshua, Lionel, or Chard, that’s for sure. I have far too much on them. Besides, they’re top of the payroll. Joshua is closer to me than my own brother.’

  Willie noticed Zara shivering from the cold night air. He took off his jacket and gently placed it around her shoulders. She smiled gratefully. ‘It’s a fucking nuisance. Lucky for me, there’s a little area that only me and Izzy know about. Well, obviously, my men do now. It’s a small underground acid pit. So, we got rid of the mess before the Old Bill searched the place. See, that’s why I know there’s a grass. That door I opened by remote control was specially built by Izzy. My dad loved to play James Bond. He was like a mole, what with building secret hideaways, some of them underground. He’s a genius at architecture. No one would ever guess there’s a secret room in the hangar unless they pulled out a tape measure. And even then, without the hand-held device, they’d need a bulldozer to break it down. Yet the police knew it was there. That is a real concern.’

  They could tell by her weary expression that the thought of a grass from her side was preying heavily on her mind.

  Staffie watched her expression as her shoulders gradually relaxed. She fascinated him. If he was honest, he was attracted to her. Like a chameleon, she could change her stance at the drop of a hat, from this stone-faced boss to a soft-hearted woman with an enchanting smile. But her vulnerability right now was the cold. She huddled inside Willie’s oversized jacket, hunched up like a child as if she’d just stepped out of the sea with a towel wrapped around her.

  ‘Why do you call your ol’ man Izzy and not Dad?’ he asked.

  She smiled. ‘When I was young, he told me never to call him Dad in public. He didn’t want anyone knowing I was his daughter. Perhaps he was worried an enemy would kidnap me and hold me to ransom. Mad, eh? So whilst he spent a lot of time preparing me to take over his business, he never lost sight of the fact that I might need protecting. He even sent me away some time ago because things were getting too hot.’

  Not one to mince his words, Willie said, ‘Ya father must have a good idea who’s grassed us. Izzy even knows what Satan’s up to. I’m sure he has that cunt on speed dial.’

  Zara wanted to laugh but her face melted into extreme sorrow. Her words came out as a whisper. ‘I can’t ask him now. He’s dying. It’s only a matter of days, unfortunately.’

  ‘Oh shit. Sorry, love.’

  Her smile hid her grieving pain. ‘I would speak to him about it, but I want him to believe I have everything under control. He’s signing all his possessions over to me. Everything. Not that I’m keeping quiet, though, in case he changes his mind and gives it all to Ismail – but I want him to pass away in peace with that crooked smile on his face.’

  She stared off, visualizing her father with his cheeky, wonky grin, and it filled her heart with pain. She would be facing the loss of the second person that she’d ever loved with every ounce of her being.

  Chapter 14

  The heavy burgundy curtains blocked out most of the light. Even in the middle of the summer, the large room was dark – apart from the flickering flame
s from the open fire and the bedside lamp. Zara hated the room; it was so overpowering. The chunky ebony four-poster bed and oversized antique gilt-framed paintings dominated the room. Slowly, she approached the bed and looked down at the withered old man, a shadow of his former self. She wanted to laugh because he appeared so angelic, dressed in his white bedgown, with his snow-white wispy hair and trailing bedraggled beard in full view. Without his false teeth, his concaved mouth aged him by twenty years. Slowly, his eyes blinked and opened as a lukewarm smile crept across his milky face.

  ‘Dad, it’s me, Zara.’

  He closed his eyes, too exhausted even to keep them open. Almost imperceptibly, he nodded, acknowledging her presence.

  She noticed his hands trembling as he tried to point in the direction of the window. His wrist was still covered by an oversized gold Rolex watch that he never removed. Nervously, she turned to see a man in the shadows.

  ‘Oh, fuck me, Ismail. You frightened me.’ She softened her pitch. ‘Have you been here long?’ She went to embrace her brother, but he stepped away from the curtains, dismissing her gesture.

  ‘All day, I find myself listening to the old bugger’s mutterings of guilt.’

  ‘Ismail!’ she snapped. It was as though she was listening to another person. Her brother had never spoken so harshly before. He was always full of fairy farts and coloured pansies. He liked to think of himself as a philosopher and an artist – and a cut above everyone else.

  They bore a resemblance in their physical stature. But from the neck up, he wasn’t so attractive. He had a longer, oversized nose, a thinner-lipped smile, and his eyes were more amber than mahogany and they sat closer together, giving him a boss-eyed appearance.

  Before storming across the room to leave, he spat, ‘This is your job, playing nurse, not mine. You were his number one.’

  She allowed him to close the door without giving him a good going-over, too washed out and worried to concern herself with her little brother’s hissy fits. The only sound in the room now was the grandfather clock and Izzy’s death rattle. It was a sure sign that he was on his final path from this world. She held his hand and felt him gently squeeze hers. Even the weakness in his grip felt like a hammer in her heart.

  She was so proud of her father: his strength, his wisdom, his cunning. Even the villainous stories she’d heard about him, she guessed were watered down for her benefit.

  Allowing the tears to run effortlessly down her already damp cheeks, she held his hand to her mouth and kissed it. The room was silent, the clock stopped ticking – which almost seemed stage-managed – and, as he took his last breath, she was suddenly overcome with emotion, as if he’d just walked from the room. She let out a heavy sigh. Gently laying his hand by his side, she got up to open the curtains.

  * * *

  Downstairs, with a folder in her hand, Zara sat in the study, another grand room with antiques and walnut bookcases. She looked at the phone and braced herself. She had to be strong to say the words ‘Izzy has died.’ She had to say them so many times before what she was actually saying to herself held any real meaning.

  The postman distracted her thoughts and she went to collect the letters. There, on the top of the pile, was one from the prison. Eagerly, she ripped open the envelope and saw the visiting order from Mike. Her heart suddenly felt like a lead brick. She would have to break the news that his son was dead. In despair, she fell to her knees, hugging herself in uncontrollable sobs. Her heart was broken, but now she would have to break someone else’s. How cruel life can be.

  * * *

  Ricky couldn’t stand to be around his mother and especially so if she was drunk or hung over. But his vision of his father was fading and he wanted to know if she had a photo. Try as he might, he couldn’t form the words and instead stood there pleading with his watery eyes.

  Angrily, she glared at him and couldn’t have been more vicious. ‘Don’t you dare fucking look at me like that. You’re too much like ya father, judging me with those evil eyes.’

  She looked away and gulped a large mouthful of neat vodka. Cruelly, through slurred words and a hideous giggle, she spat, ‘He’s dead now, anyway.’

  The words reverberated in his head. His father was dead, but there would be no funeral, no hugs, and no sentiments of compassion – just those four shocking words.

  Every day when he sat on the log at the edge of the woods and looked up at the stars, he would pray that his father would come and rescue him. And every night he tried to remember his face, his voice even, but the memory was fading fast, and he wished he could have just one recollection and hold on to it, to help him to sleep at night. The song ‘You Are My Sunshine’ whirled around in his head. At one time there had been love, he was sure of it, but not now; his life was a cold and lonely existence, being pushed from pillar to post, shoved through windows, and clipped around the head by Tatum and his sons.

  He was pulled from his reverie by Tatum’s arrival at their caravan.

  ‘Come on, boy. I ain’t got all day!’ he demanded, as he tugged Ricky by his faded old T-shirt over to his truck. ‘What are yer waiting for? Get in the back!’ Ricky placed one foot on the bumper and tried to pull himself up, but he slipped. He tried again before Tatum shouted at him and this time he managed it, but the sharp edge of the flatbed truck dug deep into his fingers and made them bleed. He curled them into a fist to stop them hurting and then he sat himself down, hoping that this time the drive wouldn’t be too long. Yesterday’s trip had rattled his bones, and by the time they’d reached their destination, he was aching all over and feeling sick. The sun beat down and burned his face and arms. Yet it was far less harsh than in the winter when it rained; he was often soaked to the skin and had to wait all day until he arrived home to warm up.

  Thoughts of running away often wandered into his mind; however, he had no place to run to, as he couldn’t even remember where he used to live. But then, what did it matter anymore? His father was dead. He never did come for him.

  Tatum started the engine and bellowed for his boys to hurry up. Ricky watched as they hurried from their caravan, holding what looked like iced buns and bottles of cold lemonade. His mouth watered; he loved lemonade, but the only time he ever had any was if Mena brought it over. He noticed how Tatum joked with his sons by pretending to punch them on the arm.

  The last punch he’d received had been a real one – from Jackie. He’d been in her way, as usual.

  * * *

  The hours of sorting out Izzy’s accounts, planning a funeral, and grieving the death of her father had left Zara exhausted. Ismail was as useless as a knitted condom, and she was beginning to resent him. He should have been her rock; instead, he was like a sponge, sucking up her energy by moaning, sulking, and pouting. She always knew he had a mean streak, but never in her wildest dreams did she believe he could be so uncaring. She put it down to grief.

  Staffie, however, had been a great support; as soon as she’d called him to let him know that Izzy was dead, he offered his condolences and his help.

  Today was the day that both she and Staffie would be breaking the devastating news to Mike. Staffie offered to drive; the journey to the prison would be a small respite at this arduous time.

  Deciding to dress down, she wore a loose-fitting plain blue dress and covered her arms with a white cotton cardigan. She didn’t bother with any make-up, just a spray of Chanel No 5. If it had been a normal visit, she would have dolled herself up and probably been flirtatious, but not today.

  The bottle of whisky she and the men had shared two nights ago in the rural pub garden had allowed them to bond. So, when Staffie arrived to pick her up, he hugged her, whispering his apologies regarding her father’s death. It wasn’t an awkward embrace but a heartfelt hug. She felt comfortable in his company. They had two things in common: each other’s trust and their love for Mike.

  The waiting room inside the Scrubs smelled damp and metallic. Each bang and clang of the metal doors being opened and closed wa
s like a hammer tapping her brain.

  As soon as her name was called, they rose to their feet and looked at each other. He gripped her hand. ‘I’ll tell him,’ said Staffie, with sorrowful eyes.

  Her tentative smile hid her real feelings of trepidation.

  As they entered the visiting room, Zara spotted Mike right away, although he was a far cry from the man who had stood in the courtroom just over a year ago. His usual strapping square shoulders were rounded, his face was sullen and drawn, and there was no longer a spark in his pale grey eyes.

  Staffie pulled out a chair for Zara to take a seat and he quickly sat down himself. Mike looked at them both in turn. It was then that Staffie could really see the soul had been sucked right out of the man. Staffie struggled to think of the right words to say. How the hell would there ever be an appropriate way to tell a man that his son was probably dead? He felt his throat constrict as if an invisible rope was strangling him, trapping the words that he tried to express.

  ‘So, Staffie, how are things? Any news?’ asked Mike, in a flat, uninterested tone, expecting the same answer – that there was no news, but his men were doing their best.

  Staffie looked at Zara and then back at Mike. ‘Yes, mate.’

  Mike recognized that edge to Staffie’s words and his heart fluttered. He sensed that what they were about to tell him was momentous. He urged Staffie to go on.

  ‘Zara found the Harmans.’

  Mike’s eyes flicked to Zara, pleading her to tell him, his mouth dry in anticipation. Yet he knew by her expression that she felt uncomfortable being the messenger on this occasion. She couldn’t look him in the eyes, her lips turned down at the edges, and she was blinking back the tears that were already cascading down her face. He began shaking his head. ‘No, please, tell me …’