by Matt Drabble
FANGLAND
Matt Drabble
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
MORE BOOKS BY MATT DRABBLE
CHAPTER ONE
December 1994
“Hit him harder you weak-assed runt” Jimmy Eyes screamed from across the room.
Ghost looked down at his raw skinned and bloodstained knuckles, this is a major mistake, he thought for what seemed the thousandth time that evening. But Jimmy was gone, lost to the blinding rage that often overcame.
The gibbering wreck at his feet was Bennett Drake, once a man dangerous of thought and deed. Now just a man, lying in his own blood and terror, and accompanied by the unmistakable stench of soiling filling the room.
A roaring fire crackled and spat with indifference as a backdrop to the brutality, its flames lighting the room in dancing shadows. A ruined and expensive looking large rug sat impotent upon the hardwood floor, and offered little support to the drowning man. The study was large and luxurious, as befit a house of this size that bordered on mansion status. The darkened oak panelled walls were lined with proud bespoke bookcases that encased the hand crafted furniture, demanding attention for the owner’s taste and culture.
Ghost had sat in this room many times over the last year, relaxing on a cloud of an Italian armchair. He had barely listened to the conflict of threats and anger bouncing between Jimmy and Drake, as they discussed Jimmy’s proposed expansion. Ghost did not need to listen now to the words that flew between the two egos, as he knew that he could rely on his ever watchful and steadfast instincts. Once assured that Drake’s body language had never risen toward the physicality, he had let his eyes settle into his surroundings.
Drake was a small, thickset man, his official age was forty seven, but he liked to pass himself off as thirty nine, an indicative nod towards the man’s vanity that spoke volumes. He was a little over five feet seven, and his frame appeared to have once supported a lean and hard figure. Now however, he looked as though good living had made him softer than he should have been for his line of work. This was a particular occupation that the three of them shared. Whichever way you sliced the legitimate aspects of Drake’s income, the money all had bloody and criminal origins.
Jimmy and Ghost were the new kids on the block, looking to carve their own niche in the underworld, but evolution was always met with resistance. The old guard would never fade quietly, and territory always had to be taken by violent force.
A hand clasped feebly at his ankle, Drake was staring up through a battered face. His left eye was grotesquely swollen, his right eye was a crisscross of red spirals, and a multitude of lacerations covered his pink and puffy flesh.
“Please” he said, his voice burbling weakly somewhere deep in his throat.
“Code” Ghost replied quickly, as Jimmy marched towards them with the razor out, its wicked blade catching the fire’s dancing light.
“12-34-56-78-GHD” Drake managed.
Ghost put a protecting arm out to prevent Jimmy from finishing the broken man, “Wait!” He spoke with a firm authority that he rarely used, but one that would not be denied, “Check it first”
Jimmy reluctantly moved away from the prone figure and towards the computer screen. He woke the system with an angry shake of the dormant mouse and punched in the code with venomous fingers. After a few seconds his triumphant face raised and turned back to Ghost, and the two men smiled.
CHAPTER TWO
April 2012
Abraham turned the corner carefully, the Audi Q7 that he drove, purred with a luxurious arrogance. The luxury 4x4 glided smoothly across the poorly maintained road and barely registered the shallow potholes that scarred the faded tarmac surface. The spring sun had already set, and he was on the way to work, this was his morning and the start of his business day.
Eagleport was a medium sized city residing on the Eastern coast of the UK. The weather was better than most could expect, and like many of its peers, the poor and the prosperous lived in a combination of resentment and ignorance.
This particular area of the city that saw Abraham “Ghost” Kane cruising in comfort, was where the port was located. Fresh Haven was a natural deep water port handling over 30% of the country’s energy. Last year the Fresh Haven Port handled just over 92m gross tonnes of shipping, which amounted to nearly 61m tonnes of cargo. A 24/7 operation, the Port offered a range of marine services as well as providing facilities and services for general cargo handling, fishing, marine-leisure, ferry operations and cruise calls. The surroundings were almost exclusively industrial, the sights and sounds were gray and basic. The work was hard, and the workers harder, broken veins in ruddy faces spoke of too many days in the unforgiving raw sea air and too many nights nursing hard liquor in the dock bars. The largest of which was Ghost’s destination. The Quebec, was a large unobtrusive building with only a modest sign out front advertising the bar. Ghost shuddered as he thought of the raging battles that he and Jimmy had fought over the look and design of the bar. Jimmy had been an avid fan of the Sopranos when it first debuted back in 1999, and had been desperate to slather the building in bright humming neon that screamed gangster. Ghost had won that battle and the bar had remained low key, from the outside at least. It was their office and their bunker and it needed to fly under the radar, as did they. Although over the years it became harder and harder to convince Jimmy that this was ever the wisest course of action.
He eased down the car window and swiped his key card to open the heavy protective gates and pull into the private rear car park. He was greeted by the ostentatious slap of a bright yellow Bentley Mulsanne. The 6.75-liter V8 twin turbo monster clocked in at dangerously close to a quarter of a million. It was an attention getter at the best of times, but the custom paintwork meant that it, and more importantly its occupant would never go unnoticed. Ghost pulled his Audi carefully into one of only two spaces in the car park and parked next to the behemoth. He exited out into the crisp evening air; he wore a conservative dark navy suit with a stylish polo shirt underneath. He stood a little over six feet one, broad of shoulder and barrel-chested. The hand-made suit was elegant without extravagance and contoured perfectly to his athletic frame. His hair was almost black, but now at thirty-eight there were the occasional flecks of silver compliments. His face was clean-shaven and smooth to the touch, a consequence of careful, but not overindulgent grooming. He walked with a smooth confidence of body and spirit; his movements were graceful and nimble. As always his expression was poker and unreadable, his eyes were vaults, never betraying the thoughts that lie behind.
He crunched his way through the loose gravel, making a mental note to have the private area re-laid; the cost of having the tracking altered on the Audi was borderline extortion. He also made a mental note to look into taking on a high end car fr
anchise, due to the constant flow of his money that seemed to depart.
The rear door to the bar opened before he reached it; the solid shadow mass that filled the door frame was Eddie. Standing at well over 6ft 8” the man was simply a beast, weighing in at over twenty stone he dwarfed Ghost with his sheer bulk. Ghost, however, was the one man from the very start, that he had always seemed to be automatically respectful of. As always he wore all black, from his size 16 boots to the cavernous leather jacket. The coat had cost a small fortune and consisted of enough material to make about five normal sized coats.
“Morning Boss” the amiable rumble greeted him as Ghost entered.
“Evening big-man” Ghost answered as he stepped into the warm hallway. He eased past the human boulder and started to ascend the narrow, steep staircase to the upper office floor. The stairway was hidden from the patrons of the bar down stairs, and the only entrance was from the private car park at the rear, through the key-carded gates and blocked by a monster.
“You know…” Eddie started behind him.
Ghost turned and paused, the big man did not engage often, but it was always intriguing when he did.
“Zombie movies right, they all stumble around trying to eat people, and we see that when they catch someone they rip them to pieces leaving nothing left. So where do all the walking zombies come from? If you’re turned by a bite, then they’d have to bite you once and then leave you alone in order for there to be thousands of them walking around” and with that Eddie retreated back onto his stool and back into himself as he regained his sentry post.
Ghost smiled to himself and headed up to the office, he paused, mentally steeling himself as he approached the reinforced door. Despite the solid oak and metal infusion, he could still hear a screaming voice bouncing off the walls. He could already picture Jimmy’s strained purple spitting face as he raged loose again and out of control.
CHAPTER THREE
August 1987
Abraham watched as the small boy flew into battle once again, no matter how many times it seemed he was knocked to the floor, he climbed up again, a little bloodier and a little angrier. The boy was about two years younger than Abraham’s age of thirteen, but significantly smaller and weaker looking. He was however, the darling of the orphanage at Saint Mary’s. His face was usually a portrait of angelic innocence that elicited blood from the stony faces of the Sisters. He emanated a natural charisma that drew people to him, and even at eleven Abraham had noticed from afar. He had begun to display the natural understanding of a predator to use his charms for his own gain. An extra blanket here, a larger desert there, but this attention would always draw jealousy from the wrong sources.
Malcolm was the caretaker’s son, he was as big as he was mean, and at sixteen he had a pockmarked face and a permanent scowl as befit his position in life’s shit bowl. Usually he enjoyed his time at the orphanage; this was the one place where he could feel superior, the one place where he was not scraping the bottom of the social barrel.
Leaving school had been a nightmare, for although he was big, he did not have the courage to match. When forced out into the real world, he’d found that he was a small and bitter fish in a large edible ocean. At school he had been able to dominate his surroundings, he had fast learned how to spot weakness in his prey, and the plains of the educational environment were bountiful with smaller and younger children that were easy meat. He’d left school without enough qualifications to enter into higher learning, and had been forced into servitude with his sickly father. A skinny man with an enduring sniffle combated with a constant wiping of a filthy rag. He had been assisting his father at the orphanage for around two months now, and from the very first day, he had despised “Little Jimmy”. He had thought that at least in this bleak and hopeless setting, he could once again ascend to dominate. Although his home was austere and depressing and his father worthless, at least he had both, unlike the scuttling cockroach orphans. In the beginning, they had run from his authoritarian footsteps, however, “Little Jimmy” had not run. He had not cowered, and despite being half his size, he would not bow. Although the small boy’s attitude had unnerved him, the boy's manner had slowly begun to rub off on the other children. Suddenly he was not quite as feared, and his control was not quite absolute. The slaps that he dealt the boys and the sly gropes that he gave the more developed girls were becoming resisted. His physical superiority had still given him just enough confidence, so he had determined in a rare moment of fog lifting clarity beneath his Neanderthal furrowed brow, to set an example. Deciding that as he would be in no physical danger from the small child, this would be a one-sided reclamation of his kingdom. He had waited, finding a rare patience, until he had a full audience and the adults were otherwise occupied.
His main job was floor cleaning in the sleeping quarters of the children, and so after dinner he had set upon Jimmy in full view of everyone. At heart, he was always a coward, and had struck the much smaller child from behind with the mop handle. Jimmy had fallen hard onto his face and split his lip, spilling blood on the linoleum floor. Malcolm’s victory was short lived as Jimmy, instead of bawling, slowly regained his feet and charged.
Abraham watched, as the caretaker’s bully of a son struck his victim from behind; however he was not surprised to see the smaller boy charging back in defiance. Jimmy was throwing his puny fists in violent windmills, his sheer ferociousness driving the much larger boy backwards. Malcolm looked terrified as Abraham had known he would, the fight would have ended there, but for Jimmy slipping on the wet floor. Malcolm spotted this advantage and flopped down heavily onto Jimmy’s back. Once he had the upper hand and was no longer in any physical danger, he regained his lost confidence and began looping weighty ham-fisted punches on the side of Jimmy’s head. Once he was suitably dazed, Malcolm dragged Jimmy up and then slapped the defenseless boy to the floor again. Abraham figured that the fight was over, but Jimmy staggered back up regaining his feet again. Malcolm’s celebrations were cut short as he turned to face the bloody boy wobbling towards him; he struck the boy harder this time. A full blooded punch connected flush and sent two of Jimmy’s small teeth spinning across the room. Jimmy somehow rose to his feet again. Some of the children on the outskirts of the watching circle gasped, some turned away, and many more cheered their hero for standing against their tormenting bully. Abraham watched closely, he was suddenly fascinated by the lights twirling in Jimmy’s eyes, the mad light danced and swirled, and a strange smile crept through bloody gums.
Malcolm was now scared, this runt was threatening to ruin everything, he snatched the mop handle from the floor. He swung it full force at Jimmy’s head, no longer caring about the consequences, merely caught in the animals dance. The wooden handle would have inflicted serious damage to a young and fledgling skull, but he was past caring. Suddenly the arc of the swinging weapon stopped, he looked down to stare stupidly at his hand, which no longer held the handle. The next that he saw of it, was when it crashed across his brow splitting the skin and spilling his blood from a narrow cut. The sight of the crimson dripping drove all of the fight from him in an instant; he sank to his knees and began to cry.
Abraham threw the mop handle down and kicked it under a bed out of sight. Jimmy staggered after the weapon, and Abraham could tell immediately that the smaller boy meant to take after the bully again. He reached out and grabbed him firmly, steering him away from their loudly cheering audience. Jimmy struggled, his eyes were still glazed and lost, Abraham took him over to a quiet corner sat him on a bed. He held the small, trembling boy gently but firmly; he looked Jimmy full in the eyes and waited for the anger to clear,
“Steady” he told him, “It’s over”.
“Let me go” Jimmy panted, struggling “I’ll kill ‘im, I’ll kill ‘im”
“We can cover this, this but no more, this is still children playing, anymore and it’s police and borstal” Abraham voice was steady and calming.
“Who are you? I don’t think I ever eve
n heard you talk before, you was always at the back of the room” Jimmy’s voice was slower and more in the moment.
“I’m Abraham, and you’re Jimmy” he laid the small boy down on the bed and used his clean handkerchief wet with spittle to wipe the blood away from his bleeding mouth and nose.
“You’re my friend” a voice thick with tiredness proclaimed with the certainty of an eleven year old. “You’re my friendly ghost, watch over me whilst I sleep, watch over me”
From then on, Abraham did.
CHAPTER FOUR
April 2012
Harvey swaggered through the night, the streets were his domain, and the people were his court. He may well answer up the line for now, but his was a waiting game. It would not be long before he would make his move, he had no idea just what his move would be, but it would be momentous. He ran the east side of Fresh Haven, the corners were his, and the sellers belonged to him and his will. Harvey was twenty two years old, and he made more money in a week than his pathetic father made in a whole year. All of his parent’s dreams of a university education had never been shared by him. He wanted money, and he wanted power, and that was never going to be found on any exam sheet, or in any lecture hall. His childhood was one of bullying and terrifying the other local school children; he had been a large boy growing up, and had only gotten bigger. He had soon progressed from mild misdemeanours in a boy’s world, to a criminal education in a man’s. In Fresh Haven Jimmy Dent was a legend, and everything that Harvey wished to become. Jimmy had power, women, and money; he had everything and lived the sort of life that Harvey dreamed of. Harvey had left his family behind in a cloud of angry tears and recriminations, but he did not care, his was an unconventional dream, but it was still a dream. He had worked his way up through the corner ranks until he had been talent spotted by Jimmy’s right hand no less. His rise had been relatively straight forward as he possessed the balls and brains to stand out amongst the scum.
