by KERRY BARNES
After a long and heartfelt hug, they said their goodbyes. Mike returned to the wing, with his cuffs rolled back so as not to smudge the barely discernible symbols. The officer assigned to the visits glanced down at Mike’s arm. He had clocked Mike rubbing the wet tissue on his wrist. ‘What’s all that about then, Regan?’ He nodded to Mike’s new transferred symbols.
Mike grinned. ‘It’s an old family coat of arms. Looks good, don’t it?’
The officer screwed up his nose as he peered at it.
‘Uh, yeah, but that ain’t your coat of arms though, is it?’
‘What are ya on about?’
‘Look at it. It’s written in Hebrew.’
Stopping dead, Mike turned to the officer, lifting his wrist for the man to look closer. ‘Ya what? Do you actually know what this means, then?’
The officer peered more closely and smiled. ‘Yeah, I do, because, you see, I’m Jewish myself.’
Mike’s eyes widened. ‘Well, go on, then, mate. What does it say?’
The pale-faced young officer gravely replied, ‘Hunter.’
Mike screwed his face up. ‘Are you sure?’
He slowly nodded. ‘Yes, I’m fluent in Hebrew.’
The inmate behind Mike tutted; he was itching to get back to his cell. The officer quickly moved them on.
* * *
Gloria was busy cleaning out the fridge when Eric came up behind her and made her jump. ‘Aw, Gawd, Eric, I could’ve had a heart attack.’
He smiled at his mother’s attempted look of annoyance, but she could never hold that look for very long.
‘Put the kettle on, Eric. I’ll call ya father in. He’s just mowing the lawn. Why he won’t get a gardener is beyond me.’
Eric knew why his father liked the peace and quiet. Gloria could talk the hind legs off a donkey.
Arthur turned off the mower and then stamped his feet to remove the grass before entering the kitchen. ‘Hello, Son, how did the visit go?’
Eric placed a mug of tea under his father’s nose. ‘Well, Dad, it couldn’t have gone better. Why I’ve been so worried about how Mike would react to me after all these years, I’ll never know. But I’m sure he’s forgiven me. Anyway, I need to talk to you about something.’ He gave his mother a look, hinting he wanted to discuss something privately with Arthur.
‘Right, I’ve some laundry that needs sorting,’ she replied, knowing it was business.
Once they were sitting in the dining room, Eric turned to his father and rolled up his sleeve. ‘This tattoo. Have you seen it before?’
Arthur grabbed Eric’s wrist and pulled it closer to his face. ‘Yeah, something like that.’ His face dropped. ‘That was many years ago, though.’
‘Who else had this tattoo?’
Arthur shook his head and stared off into space.
* * *
The date was 1959 and he was ten years old. It was cold, but he was dressed in grey shorts and a holey pullover. He was running through the backstreets, from the Old Kent Road on his way to Bermondsey. The night was drawing in and the darkness descended suddenly. Charlie Ritz, Teddy Stafford, and Big Lou Baker were on his heels. They were all laughing and running at the same time. Two Jewish lads, who were younger than Arthur, had also joined in the fun of knock down ginger.
Arthur had knocked at the door and turned to run, but a colossal giant of a man almost caught him. The man was furious, screaming and shouting at him. Arthur ran and was followed by the others until he was out of breath and his lungs burned from the cold. Behind them, they could hear the deep voice of the monster – as they saw him. But as young as they all were, they could run fast, and they did. As soon as they ran past the corner pub and into their street, they looked back, gasping for breath.
Arthur wondered where the two Jewish boys had gone. It was a shock to discover, two days later, that they’d both been killed with lethal blows to the head. Arthur and his friends were brought in for questioning because they’d been seen leaving the scene, but they were never charged.
When he reached the age of nineteen, Arthur was attacked in the middle of the night as he stepped off the bus. The attack was brutal and landed him in hospital with concussion, but he knew that the man who beat him had meant to kill him. It was the deathly whisper in his ear, saying, ‘You and your firm will forever be paying for the murder of those two boys.’ In among the pounding fists, he saw the tattoo on the man’s wrist.
After that scary night, the lads wouldn’t venture out anywhere alone. And it was the last time he mixed with the Jews again because he knew that the man who had attacked him was Jewish, and probably a relative of one of the dead boys.
He’d been unable to make sense of it then, and he’d not thought much about it since; that was, until now, when he saw the ink symbols on Eric’s wrist.
The tattoo became a blurred memory, until one night, after Kenneth Keller was shot in the back, a note was shoved through his own letterbox. It had similar symbols. Underneath was written ‘one down’. Teddy, Charlie, and Big Lou all received a similar note. Yet, as the years rolled by, it was viewed as a stupid threat. Arthur’s biggest problem was the Harmans meddling in his business, squealing and grassing where they could – all of which was dealt with by Arthur’s firm, swiftly and brutally, until the problem – or so it seemed – went away.
* * *
‘Dad, this tattoo was on my ex, Tracey, but where have you seen it before?’
Gloria had overheard the conversation and couldn’t help herself. She came into the dining room with her basket of wet laundry still in her arms. ‘Let me see.’
Eric lifted his wrist and watched as her eyes widened. ‘I know that tattoo. Carmella, that fucking snoopy bitch, had one on her right wrist too. I always thought what a bleeding ugly thing it was. I never asked her what it meant, though.’
Arthur was still recollecting the past. Without warning, he said, ‘Glor, where are the old albums, love?’
She rolled her eyes, placed the basket on the carpet, and opened the large teak cabinet. ‘There they are.’
Arthur glanced over her shoulder, and then, as she stepped aside, he pulled out the red album. Quickly, he flicked through the pages.
‘Here it is. I kept that note. I dunno why. It just bothered me, I guess.’ He placed the heavy album on the table and pointed to the faded note that had browned at the edges.
Eric looked at his wrist and then back at the note. It showed many differences, but the symbols were similar.
The phone rang, making all three of them jump. Gloria hurried over and answered it.
‘Mum, put Eric on, if he’s there.’
Gloria instantly recognized that her son had something urgent to say.
She called Eric to the phone. ‘It’s your brother.’
‘Mikey?’
‘Listen, I ain’t got long. That tattoo means ‘The Hunter’ in Hebrew. It’s the same one I saw in old Mrs Harman’s album. The more I look at it, the more I remember it. Do me a favour. Check out Ismail and ask him if he knows who else would have this tattoo. It’s got to be linked, and he can read Hebrew. The little wanker’s Jewish. He told Davey Lanigan that he would do anything to help find his sister.’
‘Mikey, listen. Dad recognized the symbols too. It’s a long story but it’s to do with Kenny getting murdered and—’
He didn’t finish. Arthur took the phone from him. ‘Mikey, I have an idea what’s going on. Do yourself a favour and keep your nose clean and stay out of trouble. I need you out on parole.’
‘Dad, what the fuck’s going on?… Dad?’
Arthur placed the phone down. ‘Son, you and I have a little bit of business to settle.’
Eric was a kid again, with his father taking control. Just his firm deep voice was enough not to allow anyone to backchat, no matter how big they were.
‘Hang on a minute.’ Pulling out his phone, Eric connected it to the internet and started to look up the symbols. It wasn’t easy because the Hebrew alphabet didn’t
translate simply into English. However, with a little patience, he finally worked it out. He translated the words ‘The Hunter’ into Hebrew and voila – it matched the symbols on the tattoo. So Mike was right. Then he searched the ones that were on the note and put them together. His mouth went dry as he looked at those words: We will hunt you down until you and your family are no more.
He showed his father the screen. ‘Look. That’s what the note says, but why?’
Arthur said nothing and left the room before returning a few seconds later with his coat. ‘This bullshit will end today. I thought this underhanded battle was dead and buried when the Harmans backed off, but I guess I was wrong. They’ve carried out this vendetta to destroy my family, and I will find out who’s behind this, if it’s the last damn thing I do.’
Gloria was open-mouthed. She hadn’t seen or heard her husband talk that way for thirty years. The look in his eyes and the tone of his voice took her back to when he was a fighter, a respected and powerful man, with a firm that most wouldn’t dare to cross. In some ways, she felt alive again, but the cautious side of her feared for his safety. ‘Wait, Arthur,’ she said, as she tugged his arm. ‘What are you going to do?’
He softened his eyes and kissed her cheek. ‘I’m going back to the beginning, starting with Ismail Ezra, Izzy’s son. I have a way of getting answers, and you know me, Gloria. If they want a fucking war, then they’ll have one.’
Eric was as shocked as his mother. He could now see how Mike took after his father. ‘Wait! Dad, I’m coming with you. I let Mikey down once before but I ain’t doing it again.’
Arthur looked his son up and down, and before he voiced any words of doubt he had about his son, he stopped. This was Eric’s chance to show his worth. ‘Okay. Let’s get Teddy and Big Lou.’
Eric frowned. ‘But they’re …’
‘Old? Yeah, I know, but trust me, Son, they ain’t stupid. And they’re still dangerous, mark my words.’
Eric wasn’t about to argue. He grabbed his coat and was about to follow his father out to the car.
‘Wait!’ called Gloria. As Eric turned to face his mother, she handed him a gun. ‘Give this to your father. It’s loaded.’
Eric grinned with amusement. His dear old mother was more involved in his father’s antics than he’d ever realized.
As soon as Gloria heard them drive away, her heart was in her mouth.
She sat at the table and stared at the open page of the photo album, the threatening note. Why Arthur had kept it, she had absolutely no idea. She sniffed back her tears and flicked over the page. It was an old album consisting mainly of photos of Mike and Eric as little boys. Her eyes suddenly focused on a photo that she thought she had chucked out. It was of Carmella Harman, her sneaky home help. She had been mortified when they’d realized from Doris’s photo album and the letter she’d left Arthur that her so-called trusted friend was a snoopy bitch. All those years of not knowing who’d been behind her Arthur’s incarceration, and of course the murder of his mate Kenny and the supposed suicide of Monty – until now. Now, they knew different – Monty was murdered.
The photo showed Carmella holding Mike’s hand. It was a summer’s day, and Carmella had taken the boys from under Gloria’s feet.
She pulled back the cellophane and removed the photo, but just as she was about to rip it to shreds, she noticed the unusual house and the little blonde-haired girl in the background. They were standing in the front garden. Gloria’s eyes widened. It was Carmella’s home. A big, posh house too. How they’d never sussed that Carmella was a plant was beyond them. She’d never needed pin money – a few shillings for helping out – she must have been loaded. Gloria stared again, and then like a light bulb flicking on, she recognized the house. It was unusual, probably art deco. She’d only ever seen houses like this one in Danson Park, where she used to take the boys every so often. It was unmistakable, with the flat roof and 1920s windows. Her heart began to beat rapidly as she made a decision. She could be wrong, but what the hell did she have to lose?
Quickly, she grabbed her phone, her keys, and her secret weapon: a small handgun she’d found in the drawer years ago. It hadn’t been on the property when the police raided the home. That was a bad time. It was just before Arthur was nicked and sent to prison for three years.
She brushed her hair, slapped on her lipstick, and put on some decent flat shoes, before sliding the gun down the back of her trousers and heading out of the door. It was still daylight – just. She knew exactly where she was going, so, without another thought, she tore away in her little BMW 1 Series – a birthday present from Arthur.
She pulled into Danson Road, close to the park, and slowly crawled along. She looked at the photo again and there, just across the street, was the house. It was the same except for the outside, where everything had been freshly painted and the garden all paved. She stared for a while and took a few deep breaths to calm her racing heart. ‘Oh, Glor, don’t be silly. The Harmans may have moved on years ago,’ she said aloud.
Staring at the photo, her anger increased. All those years, the Harmans had held some grudge and tried to destroy her family’s life, and now they’d succeeded. The thought of poor little Ricky, who’d left them without even a headstone to lay flowers at his grave, consumed her sense of rationality. The intense fury shot through her and nothing would stop her now if she came face-to-face with Carmella fucking Harman or her daughter, the bitch. Just as she was about to step out of her car, a black SUV pulled into the drive. Gloria was still raging. Out stepped a slim woman with mousy-coloured hair, dressed in a purple sports bra and black leggings, having clearly come from the gym. Gloria relaxed her shoulders. What was she thinking anyway? Of course, the Harmans would have moved on. This person was probably a professional who finished work and went to run a few miles on a treadmill. Then, suddenly, when the girl turned to the side to move the green bin that the dustbin men had left halfway across her drive, Gloria’s heartbeat immediately went to fever pitch. It was her! Tracey. It was the trollop who had dated her son and who wore an evil tattoo that was apparently connected to the past. Just before she got out of the car, Gloria took a deep breath and tried to steady her mind. She was frantically trying to process what she could see now and relate it to her own past. She needed answers before she tore into the young woman.
Tracey put her key in the door, and Gloria watched as she turned the hallway light on. She bent down to pick up some letters and then closed the door. Right away, Gloria assumed that Tracey was alone.
The loud knock made Tracey jump. She wasn’t expecting anyone; she’d only popped over to collect the mail and check on her dying mother.
As soon as she opened the door, her eyes widened in disbelief. Gloria Regan! She was the last person she would have expected on the doorstep. At first, Tracey was annoyed. Just the name Regan sent shivers down her spine. There was her mother upstairs in a bed, dying, her final and only wish being that the Regans were destroyed. Carmella never did recover from her twin brother’s death. It haunted and taunted her so much that she became obsessed. Guy had made a solemn oath to his sister to avenge his brother’s murder, and yet it was the Harmans who were being wiped out. She glared at Gloria; in her mind, she visualized wringing the woman’s neck.
‘Hello, Tracey. Can I come in?’
Tracey was taken aback. This was surreal. ‘What do you want?’
‘Oh, I thought we could have a little catch-up. It’s been such a long time.’
Tracey curled her lip and smirked. ‘Oh yeah, really?’ She looked over Gloria’s shoulders to see who else was about, but the woman was alone. Her mind then turned to revenge. Gloria would be easy pickings; she could kill the old dear and add another notch to her wrist. At least her mother would die with a huge smile on her face, and Uncle Guy would reward her highly.
‘Why don’t you come in,’ she said with an engaging smile, as she stepped aside. ‘We’ll go into the lounge.’
Gloria hoped her jacket was thic
k enough to conceal the gun. She followed Tracey, clutching her bag, and gazed around the room. The lounge was unfashionable, with framed family photos adorning the walls, and there were more on the sideboard. The old cabinets were very 1970s and the fireplace was still the old electric type. Why Carmella kept it so outdated was a mystery.
Gloria turned to face Tracey. ‘Just one word. Why?’
Tracey stood with her arms folded, planning how she could kill Gloria without leaving a mess. She had to admire her. Not just because even at her age she was still spritely and well dressed – she was wearing an emerald green Jersey tunic and navy-blue trousers, her hair immaculately in place and make-up neat and very current – it was her body language that Tracey most admired.
Gloria knew something.
The tense silence was broken when a croaky voice from upstairs called down. ‘Trace, is that you, love? Fetch me up a cup of tea. I need to take me tablets.’
Gloria raised her eyebrow. ‘Your mother’s sick, is she?’
Tracey nodded, still bemused by the woman.
‘Well, you’d better not keep her waiting then, had you?’
Tracey stared, still trying to suss out what game Gloria was playing.
‘She can wait. She won’t be going anywhere. She’s dying.’
‘That’s a shame,’ replied Gloria, sarcastically.
Tracey returned the smirk.
Instantly, Gloria pointed to Tracey’s arm. ‘I want to see your tattoo. Show it to me.’
An uncomfortable feeling sent another shiver down Tracey’s spine. What did this woman really know?
But what did it matter? She was already planning Gloria’s demise.
She chuckled. ‘It’s none of your fucking business.’
Gloria calmly sat down on the cream, plastic-coated sofa with square orange cushions. ‘Oh, but, Tracey, it is, ain’t it? I mean, you were with my boy Eric just to get ya fucking great nose in our business. Your family murdered my dear little grandson and your lot had my Mikey locked up for twelve bloody years, so, sweetheart, it most certainly is my business. Now, considering you and yours had the front to carry out such atrocities, I can only assume you’ll have the guts to tell me why.’
