by KERRY BARNES
Staffie shook his head. ‘I’m so sorry, mate. I really don’t know what to say.’
There was silence and they waited for a reaction, both feeling the mix of emotions that would tear at Mike’s heart and bring him to his knees.
His eyes were awash with fear. ‘No, please, no. Tell me Ricky’s alive. Please!’
Staffie reached across and grabbed his hand. ‘Paris Harman said that they killed him, but … she may have been lying, Mikey. I’m not so sure she was telling the truth.’
‘What exactly did she fucking say?’
Staffie lowered his eyes. ‘I forget exactly, but the gist of it was that we can all rot inside and we’ll never know where they buried Ricky—’
Before he could finish, Mike let out a howling sound.
The sudden gut-wrenching scream could be heard in each prison cell within Wormwood Scrubs. Every inmate, officer, and visitor was haunted by the heartbreaking scream bellowing from Mike’s mouth. The two officers overseeing the visiting room were startled, and, at first, they didn’t know what to do. The newest member of the Scrubs was a young officer, Drew, who had trained in the Army. He radioed over to Garrison, Mike’s personal officer. Then he went over to the table and put his hand on Mike’s shoulder. But, before he could say a word, Mike shrugged him away. ‘Fuck off!’
The young officer was taken aback by the hateful glare and thought it best to remove his hand. Staffie waved the officer off, gesturing that he would deal with Mike.
Drew didn’t argue; he decided it was safer to return to his post. Judging by the size of Mike, it would need four officers to restrain him if he kicked off.
Placing his hands over his face, Mike sobbed. His whole body writhed around, the pain so immense it was physically wounding him. The inmates and visitors were stunned. An old lady visiting her son began to cry; she had never in her life seen a grown man so distraught. Another woman jumped up and headed to the small tuck shop and ordered three sweet teas and hurried over, carefully balancing the tray. Zara smiled and took the teas, mouthing the words ‘thank you’.
Mike was so inconsolable that Zara got up and put her arms around his shoulders and hugged him tight. He shook as the pain claimed every muscle in his body and tortured the very thread of his being.
‘Why, why, why would they do that? He was a baby, a fucking baby. Oh my God!’ he screamed in agonizing grief.
Staffie had tears streaming down his face, too choked up to speak. He knew it would crush Mike more than anything, but he just couldn’t imagine how the big man would react. Staffie didn’t know what was worse – hearing that Ricky was dead or seeing the torment on Mike’s face.
Trying to calm Mike down, Staffie said, ‘Mikey, come on, mate. She may have lied. Please!’
Abruptly, Mike stopped rocking and uncovered his face. There were no more tears. Instead, they were replaced with a deep-seated anger. His eyes were cold as he gave Staffie a hard stare. Through gritted teeth, he hissed, ‘And did ya fucking brutalize ’em? Did ya fucking make ’em pay?’
Staffie was startled by the incensed expression and the tone in which those harsh words were delivered.
‘Yes, we did, we, er …’
Returning to her seat, Zara stepped in. ‘Mikey, we cut them up, rearranged their faces, and then set them alight.’
He looked back at Staffie, who slowly nodded in agreement.
Officer Garrison had an air about him, much like the taste of Marmite. You either loved or hated him. He was one of the longest-serving officers and had known Mike as a kid when he visited his own father in prison. Garrison was impatient, arrogant, and fierce. Even at fifty-eight years of age, the inmates wouldn’t provoke him. He didn’t have time for the scallywags and two-bit druggies, but he did have time for Mike and men like him. He marched over to Mike’s table and placed a heavy hand on the man’s shoulder, gripping it tight.
‘The legal visiting room’s free. D’ya want a private visit, Mike?’
Too dazed to think straight, Mike shook his head. Garrison then kneeled down beside him. ‘What’s happened, son?’
All the modern rules and training didn’t apply to the mature officer. He was of the old-school generation, and accordingly given respect.
Mike wiped the bubbling snot with the back of his hand and brushed his soaked cheeks. ‘My son’s dead.’
As if Garrison had been hit in the face, his head physically shot back. ‘Jesus, I’m sorry. Look, why don’t you come with me? Let’s get you to the wing. Your visitors can come back tomorrow. I’ll see to it that they have a VO on the door. Or, if you wish, you can use that private room. Whatever you want, Mike.’
Mike was so gripped by grief, he just nodded. ‘I need to be alone.’
Zara and Staffie were on their feet as Garrison winked. ‘I’ll take care of him.’
Zara grabbed Mike’s hand before he was led away. Slowly, he turned to face her and shook his head; he didn’t want to embrace her or anyone. He had to be alone to grieve.
Staffie slid his arm around Zara’s waist and guided her to the exit door. ‘Let’s leave him be. There’s nothing we can say or do that’ll help him now. But he’s a strong man. He’ll get over it.’
As she fingered the chain around her neck, Zara whispered, ‘He’ll never get over it. He’ll simply learn to live with it because he has no choice. But get over it? No. Never.’
Those words crystallized in Staffie’s mind. He then realized from her sad expression that she was speaking from bitter experience.
Garrison walked slowly by Mike’s side, silently allowing the man to get to grips with the tragic news. He wasn’t sure how he should handle it; having a man the size of Mike losing the plot would be like trying to pin down an angry bear. His best course of action was to take him back to his cell, so he could be alone with his heartache.
Gregg the Smoke, a long-term friend of Arthur Regan’s, was in the cell opposite. He was nicknamed The Smoke because he was a bomb expert – but one of the explosives he’d used to blow up a safe went wrong and blew up half of Streatham High Road. It was lucky it was in the middle of the night, when, back then, no one was around.
Mike often had a natter with Gregg and found the old man a good laugh with his tales of the past.
Today, though, there would be no jokes or banter. Mike sat heavily on his bed and looked up at the one photo he had of his son, his first school photo, with his tie skewwhiff and his thick mop of hair sticking up. Mike’s eyes continued to stream as he looked at the little boy’s huge smile, with deep dimples and round pools of innocence edged in thick black lashes.
In the doorway, rolling a cigarette, Gregg looked over at his friend. ‘Beautiful, eh?’
Mike blinked away the tears and nodded.
‘You looked like him, ya know. You were a bruiser of a boy, with big eyes that could charm a nun out of her knickers …’ He edged his way in. ‘Mikey, boy, it’s gonna be hard, mate, no denying it, and me, well, I can’t pretend I know how ya feel, ’cos I don’t. I can’t say anything that’s gonna make it better, but I’ve seen what grief can do to a man in this fucking shit-hole.’
Mike leaned back and bashed his head against the wall. ‘I ain’t gonna top meself, Gregg, if that’s what you’re thinking. That’s too easy. I’m gonna live, and it’s gonna torture me, but it’s what I want. If I hadn’t been in my line of business, me boy would still be ’ere.’
Gregg lit up his cigarette and sat on the bed next to Mike. ‘I didn’t mean that, Mikey. I mean, it can make you so angry that you turn into someone you’re not.’
‘No disrespect, Gregg, but I don’t give a fuck.’
Gregg patted his knee and left. He knew then that Mike would be that very angry man – and God help anyone who upset him because he was like a festering volcano ready to erupt. In fact, Gregg mused, he was very like Arthur in that respect. Mike was a controlled man, aware of his own size and strength. He wasn’t one to throw his weight around. But, regrettably, that control had all gone
now.
Chapter 15
As Zara waited in the mourners’ room at the side of the synagogue, dressed in a black shift dress and an accompanying black hat and veil, she glared at her brother. ‘When you washed Father down did you remove the band from his wrist?’ she asked coldly, and with no expression on her face.
He was casually leaning against the wall. ‘Of course I did. It’s the custom to be buried in just a modest gown.’
‘You know he wanted that band left on though, didn’t you?’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘He was dead, so he couldn’t speak.’
‘You are cruel and stupid, Ismail.’
‘Don’t you dare call me stupid, Zara. You’ll soon realize that I’m far from that.’
Zara rolled her eyes but didn’t want the day spoiled by a needless argument. She stepped forward and tidied his collar and smoothed down his tie. ‘There, that’s better.’ As she looked up and smiled, he returned a cheeky grin, just as he used to when she straightened him out.
Once the ceremony and the burial were over, she threw dirt onto the grave and allowed a tear to fall. According to custom, she remained with her head down, so she was unaware of who surrounded the graveyard.
As soon as the last handful of dirt was thrown, she lifted her head and was instantly alarmed. There stood Guy Segal. He was just a few feet away, tall and upright, with his long white beard and face swathed in sheer arrogance. Her heart rate shot up like a firework rocket and she felt the vibration from her teeth chattering.
His expression of hate turned to a sympathetic smile, with his head dipped to the side as if to say, ‘You poor, poor, little girl.’
Yet she wasn’t a little girl anymore. His evil glare and sarcastic tones wouldn’t bother her again. She turned on her heel and walked towards her car. She needed to think. Why the hell was Guy Segal at her father’s funeral? Her father had hated him. She got as far as three strides when a tight, bony-fingered grip stopped her in her tracks. She paused before spinning around. She knew it was him – she knew that grip.
‘Wait, Zara … we have things to discuss!’ His insistent voice would have had an effect on some people, but not her, not now.
She shrugged him off and stood squarely in defiance. ‘No! Guy, we have nothing to discuss. You have some nerve to come here. My father would turn in his grave if he knew you were even in the country.’
Guy was in his early sixties although he looked much older. Glancing down at his shiny patent shoes, he shook his head and then looked back up. ‘Zara, I have been back in the UK for a few years now. Your father and I may have had our little differences but he was still my brother.’
His slow and condescending tone raised her anger enough for her to lose her cool. ‘Brother? He was no more your brother than the Pope is mine.’
His face turned bitter. ‘He may not have been my brother through blood. But he was more than that. It is something perhaps you wouldn’t understand.’ He held up both hands. ‘Anyway, Zara, your father wanted me to help you once he had left this world, so we need to sit down and discuss the future.’
The bare-faced audacity of the man was beyond her. With a deep frown and a curled lip, she coldly replied, ‘My father would never have wanted you anywhere near me or my fucking business. He would rather a monkey’s uncle be in charge than you!’
As she went to walk away, he grabbed her again. This time, he leaned into her ear and whispered, ‘Yes, Zara, and now that’s exactly who he has running his firm. He lost his mind. Perhaps his illness pushed him to make silly mistakes. But I know he wanted me by your side, to merge our firms and work as one. Regrettably, he was too mentally ill to realize it.’
Looking away, she clocked the confident smirk on her brother’s face, and then she noticed a few other mourners smiling Guy’s way. Men she’d never met. Unease gripped her by the throat.
‘You’re like a bunch of vultures! Look at you.’ His supercilious smile wound her up even more, but she would have the last say. She was in charge now. ‘You and your family firm ain’t welcome here, so go back and crawl under the rock you came from. My business will be run by me. Keep away and …’ She gave an exaggerated huff. ‘Concern yourself with your own future because mine has absolutely fuck all to do with you.’
‘You have a lot to learn, Zara. Two forces are better than one. Together—’
Suddenly, Zara let out an exaggerated laugh. ‘Yeah, you’re right there, Guy. So, when you have enough clout, money, and respect, come and find me.’
She’d had quite enough of listening to Guy, so she stalked across to her brother.
‘What the fuck’s going on, Ismail?’
A slow smile crept its way across his face. ‘What do you think, Zara?’
She didn’t take too kindly to his sarcastic reply; with one swift movement, she angrily grabbed his arm and marched him out of earshot. He tried to brush her off, but she hissed in his ear. ‘Fucking struggle, Ismail, and your arse-lickers will see you for the pussy you are.’
Not wanting to cause a scene, he relaxed his arm and followed her to the car.
‘Now, I will fucking ask you again. What the hell’s going on?’
‘Dear Sister, you may have the money and the business, but in our community – no, I mean mine – you simply don’t have the respect.’
Her anger and frustration made her bite her lip and clench her fists. She wanted nothing more than to land a punch right on his long pointed nose.
‘And why would that be, Ismail? Have you been spreading rumours?’
He grinned again, this time with a dry scoff. ‘No, I don’t need to. They are laughing at you. Izzy should have given the business to me, not to a woman. What you don’t understand is that without respect, Zara, you have nothing, and I will stand over Father’s grave and say “I told you so” when you lose it all.’
Just as she was about to lay into him, his expression changed.
‘Look, Zara, you’re my sister. I love you dearly, and I want you to succeed. I’m not interested in the business. Izzy left me enough to get on with my own work, my legitimate affairs. I have the support of the community, and the truth is, you don’t, but so what? It doesn’t matter in your line of work.’ He chuckled. ‘The truth is, I was jealous, but look at the turnout we had. They all respect me, so what the fuck does it matter? I’ll be there for you, but, really, we live two very different lives.’ His words seemed to hold some compassion, and Zara fell for them.
* * *
Willie, Staffie, and Lou were all nursing serious hangovers. Willie was particularly wrecked since he’d been greedy with the cocaine and was suffering a major comedown to boot. They’d all crashed at Staffie’s pad. Lou’s wife told him not to grace the doorstep until he was sober, and Willie’s wife was so used to his antics she didn’t even bother to call him. Flashing the bacon into the hot frying pan, Staffie decided to wake them up with a hearty breakfast.
But before he’d even had a chance to sip his first cup of coffee, the phone rang. A glance at the number made him put his brain into gear quickly. It was Zara.
‘Hello, Zara. How did the funeral go? All good?’
‘Yes, er … sort of. Look, Staffie, can we meet up?’
‘Yes, of course. When and where? Shall I bring the others?’
‘Yes. Somewhere private, if ya don’t mind.’
The sizzling sound was too loud for Staffie to hear Zara properly, so he walked into the living room, only to find Lou and Willie both half-naked, scratching and yawning. He rolled his eyes and wandered into the games room, his pride and joy. ‘Yeah, is everything all right?’
‘I’m not sure, Staffie. Where can we meet?’
‘D’ya wanna come to mine? I’ll have the garage open, so you can drive right in, and I’ll shut it behind you. No one will see your car then.’
‘Text me your address and I’ll come straight over.’
Once Staffie had sent her the details, he hurried back to the living room. ‘Listen up, you two
smelly bastards. Zara’s on her way. She wants to talk. Something’s bothering her.’
Willie stopped blowing his nose and sat up straight. ‘Are you sure about this, Staffie? I mean, she’s a bit of a fucking target. Izzy’s dead. All those firms that owe him will fuck her off. The Italians will take the drug money for themselves. And, let’s be honest, who has she really got behind her?’
Staffie took a deep breath. ‘She honoured her fucking word when she gave us the Harmans, so we can’t refuse to help her. So, Willie, she has us backing her. And, besides, Mike will go ape-shit, if we ignore her. Ya know what he’s like.’
Lou was about to light the end of his joint when Staffie snapped at him. ‘For fuck’s sake, she’s gonna be ’ere any minute. Get yaselves cleaned up and open the fucking window. It stinks in ’ere, like a sodding brewery. I’ve got spare toothbrushes upstairs, so sort out ya sour railings.’
‘All right, Mrs fucking Doubtfire. Keep ya hair on.’ Willie laughed.
Staffie plumped up a few cushions and hurried back to the bacon. Once he’d switched the gas off and placed the frying pan in the oven, he sprayed the room with air freshener and waited for Zara to arrive. Ten minutes later, Willie and Lou appeared, looking fresh and ready for the meeting.
Zara’s Audi spun into the drive and straight into the garage. Staffie pressed the button to close the garage shutter, hurried into the kitchen, and opened the side door. Zara stepped out of her car looking fresh in her blue slacks, a white blouse, and a designer bag to match.
He held the door open for her to come in and offered her a coffee.
She smiled and said, ‘Any bacon sarnies on the go? I’m starving.’
Staffie raised his eyebrow. ‘I thought you didn’t eat pork?’
Zara laughed. ‘Bacon ain’t pork, is it?’
As he retrieved the frying pan from the oven, he looked at the bacon burned to a crisp and laughed. ‘Well, I don’t think there’s much pork left in these rashers.’
Staffie got to work making a pile of sandwiches while Zara made the coffee. They all gathered around the dining-room table and tucked in like old school buddies.
