Face Book: A disturbing novel full of shocking twists

by Paul Johnson-Jovanovic

  ‘Go away,’ he said. ‘Please just go away.’

  Fifteen minutes later, the doctor turned up. He was a dour-faced, bored-looking man who spoke in a monotone drawl. Jack heard approaching footsteps, the swishing sound of the curtains being drawn around. He was still under the covers. His eyes were red raw, glistening. Cheeks still wet from crying. At first he ignored the doctor, hoped he would go away. But when he didn’t, when he just hovered at Jack’s bedside, Jack eventually emerged, sitting up and wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. Jack folded his arms. Stared dead ahead, focusing on a wall poster about flu jabs. Fuck it. So what if people noticed he had been crying. After seeing himself in the mirror, he didn’t give a toss. The doctor’s words of assurance that the wounds would look better when they had fully heeled went in one of Jack’s ears and out the other. Jack had seen the wounds, so he knew the doc was just trying to make him feel better. Nothing anyone said would make him feel better. The doc checked Jack’s pulse, which was running at a fine and dandy eighty beats per minute. Jack had his blood pressure analysed. Found it discomforting to have the inflatable cuff on his arm. He was glad when it was over and told that he wasn’t about to pop a gasket soon. Next came the penlight in the eyes (look straight ahead, please). Last but not least, the doc checked for concussion. He asked Jack how many fingers he was holding up (two), and Jack made the V for victory sign. He held his hand up again, displaying four fingers, and Jack said four. The doctor asked some questions. Jack answered them with no hesitation. What’s your name? Where do you live? Who’s the Prime Minister? Jack felt no sense of joy when he was given the okay. He was just glad it was over, so he could sink beneath the covers again. Cry some more.

  2

  Derek Lambert was snookered and knew there was no way out of it. The white ball was on the bulk cushion, tucked tight behind the yellow and blue. All angles between cue ball and his intended target, the cluster of reds down the other end of the table, were cut off. It would take nothing short of a trick shot to avoid giving away a foul. So Derek went to attempt it.

  ‘You’ve got no chance, man,’ Chris said, snorting. ‘You make that shot and I’ll give you fifty quid.’ He reconsidered. ‘A’tually, I’ll give you a hundred. No, make it two hundred!’

  Derek figured that if he could strike down on the white at a high enough angle, then he’d be able to bend it around the yellow. In his mind’s eye he saw the cue ball curving wickedly around the obstacle, coming off two cushions and smashing into the reds. Whilst chalking his cue, he weighed up the shot.

  ‘Just get on with it,’ Chris said. ‘We ain’t got all day, you know.’

  ‘I’m a professional,’ Derek replied, ‘and a pro-fessional has to take his time. This cue is an extension of my arm, brother. We are as one, me and the ash. Know what I’m saying? I’m like a Jedi Knight with his Light Saber. Like a Master Swordsman with a Bushido Blade. Like a …’

  ‘I’ll tell you what you’re gonna be. You’re gonna be a sorry fucker if you don’t get a move on. Why? ‘Cause I’m gonna bend your black arse over that table and shove my six and a half ounce Jimmy White cue straight up your Jacksy. Now take your shot!’

  ‘That’s the best offer I’ve had in a while.’

  ‘I can believe it. Now take your shot!’

  Positioning himself, Derek spread his fingers wide in an elevated bridge. With the cue raised high, he began feathering the white. He struck down hard, blue chalk dust puffing up as the cue’s tip hit its target. The white didn’t swerve, however; it just bounced off the table and rolled across the floor, out of sight.

  Chris burst out laughing. ‘What were you saying about being a pro-fessional? Jedi Knight, my arse! Master Swordsman wit’ a Bushido Blade! Whew!’ He held his cue up, brandishing it like a makeshift sword. Swiping at the air with it. ‘Pffft!’

  ‘We’ll see who’s laughing at the end. The scoreboard still says I’m winning.’

  ‘Not for much longer, man. Not for much longer.’ Chris moved the slider on the scoreboard. ‘Four points to me. And you can take that shot again, if you can find the white.’

  While Derek looked for it, Chris went to the bar and got a bottle of beer from one of the fridges. Prizing the top off, he took a swig.

  The 147 club had twelve snooker tables. Before their game, the brothers had been busy all day, brushing the worn baize, polishing the dark oak. They wanted the place spotless for Thursday’s Grand Opening. They had invested all their money in the club. Every penny. Derek had even sold his Audi sports car to help finance the venture. They were determined to make the club a success. Not only was it a business for them, it was also home. Upstairs, on the second floor, was a spacious two bedroom living area. Enough room for the brothers to stretch out, relax. Have a little privacy should one of them want to get jiggy with a chick they’d pulled. The club needed refurbishment, which was why they’d got it cheap. Or, at least, that’s what they had assumed. The brothers were new to the area, so they were not aware of the previous owner's troubles.

  ‘Found it!’ Derek said, holding the white up.

  ‘Good,’ Chris said, taking another swig of beer, ‘now the arse-whooping can once again co-mence.’

  ‘When was the last time you beat me? Refresh my mind as it must be ages ago.’

  ‘I’ve beaten you loads; you just choose to forget ‘cause you’re sick of getting caned. Want a beer?’

  ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea to drink away the profits before we’ve even opened.’

  ‘One more beer won’t bankrupt us.’

  ‘One has a habit of becoming seven or eight where we’re concerned. Plus, a lot of these tables need to be resurfaced soon, so we’ll need every penny we’ve got. We’ll have to show some restraint where the laughing juice is concerned. Yeah?’

  ‘Easier said than done.’

  Derek cleaned the white with his t-shirt, then repositioned it as best he could behind the yellow and blue. He intended to try the same shot again, because he still couldn’t think of a way out of the snooker.

  The door opened and three men walked in. Three big white men. One was ginger. One was bald and covered in tattoos. And the other guy had more gold on his finger than B.A. Baracus, Derek noted.

  ‘Sorry, fellas,’ Chris said, ‘but we don’t open ‘till Thursday.’

  ‘We ain’t come to play snooker, wog,’ the bald guy said. He cracked his knuckles as he approached with the other two.

  Chris was still behind the bar. He gave Derek a concerned look and Derek gave him one back.

  ‘Nice place you’ve got here,’ the man with the gold on his fingers said. He rested his elbows on the bar. Took everything in. ‘Mine’s a pint of lager, monkey boy. Chop, chop!’

  ‘I’ll have a pint, too,’ the ginger one said.

  ‘Me, too,’ the bald guy said. ‘I could murder one.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re deaf or too dumb to understand,’ Derek said, moving towards them, cue in hand. ‘So I’ll repeat what my bro said. We … are … CLOSED!’ He spelled it out for them, just in case they still weren’t getting it. ‘C-l-o-s-e-d … spells closed, you dumb racist shyte. As in not open.’

  Pursing his lips together, the ginger one sucked in air. ‘There’s only one thing I enjoy more than giving out beatings,’ he said, ‘and that’s giving out beatings to blacks. I’m going to love shoving my fist down your throat.’

  ‘Really?’ Chris said. ‘I’d like to see you try.’

  He put his bottle aside. Reached below the bar and pulled out a baseball bat.

  ‘Got to use a weapon,’ the bald guy said, his cheeks flushing red with anger. ‘What a surprise, a nigger that don’t fight fair.’

  ‘There’s three of you and two of us,’ Chris said, ‘so I guess Babe Ruth here evens things up a bit.’

  The man with gold on his fingers pulled a knife out. ‘Advantage us again, I think,’ he said, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He beckoned Chris to come out from behind the relative safety o
f the bar whilst keeping a watchful eye on Derek.

  Although Derek was eager to teach the racists a lesson, he didn’t want things to escalate. He and his brother hadn’t even opened for business and already there was going to be a brawl in the place. A brawl where someone might get stabbed or bludgeoned to death. There was also the negative publicity to consider. Things were getting out of hand. Something needed to be done.

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘let’s just all calm down, shall we? Chris, put the bat down.’

  ‘Tell him to put the blade away first.’

  ‘Just put the bat down,’ Derek repeated.

  Chris set it aside. Still within easy reach, though.

  ‘Who are you and what do you want?’ Derek asked the men. ‘You ain’t in here to sup ale. That's obvious.’

  The man with gold on his fingers introduced himself as Curly. He said that the bald guy was Larry and the ginger one was …

  'Moe, right?' Chris said, shaking his head. 'We've got the Three Stooges in the house, amen to that.'

  'You should feel privileged,' Curly snarled.

  'What do you want?' Derek asked again.

  'Money,' Curly said. ‘Five hundred a week and we guarantee you’ll get no trouble.’

  ‘We’re giving you nothing!’ Chris yelled.

  Derek’s grip on his cue tightened. Here he and his brother were, trying to make a life for themselves. Prepared to work every hour so their business was a success and these arseholes wanted to lay claim to a big wad of cash every week before the hall had even opened. No way, he thought. Never in a million years.

  ‘We’re not giving you any money,’ he said. His dark eyes narrowed to fine slits.

  Tilting his head to one side and cracking his neck, the bald-headed brute, who was apparently called Larry, moved towards Derek. But Curly grabbed him by the arm.

  ‘Leave it,’ Curly said, looking at Chris, then Derek. ‘We’ll give these boys some time to think it over.’

  ‘We don’t need time,’ Chris said. ‘The answer is no today and it’ll be no tomorrow and the day after that, you fuck!’

  The three men backed away, towards the door.

  Curly said, ‘Nice place you’ve got here. Be a shame if it was to burn down, wouldn’t it?’

  Derek picked his cue up, but the men had already gone. The sound of laughter faded away.

  ‘This is all we need,’ Derek said, tossing the cue on a table. ‘Shit!’

  ‘What are we gonna do now?’

  ‘I dunno. But we’re not giving ‘em a penny. That I do know.’

  ‘Too fucking right.’ Chris patted the business end of the baseball bat in his palm. ‘You should have let me take care of ‘em. Now we’ve gotta worry about the place being torched.’

  Derek loved his younger brother to bits, but he was amazed how dozy he could be sometimes.

  ‘You think giving them white boys a beating would have helped. It would have made things worse – a lot worse. We need to find out who we’re dealing with here. If it’s just some local thugs trying it on, then fine; we can take care of ‘em. If they’re working for someone else, some big city crime lord, then …’ Derek didn’t even want to think about it.

  ‘It doesn’t matter who it is; we ain’t giving ‘em a penny, though, right?’

  ‘No, we ain’t giving ‘em anything.’

  ####

  In his office, sitting at his desk, Charles Byron was relaxing back in his leather recliner when a knock at the door pulled him out of his thoughts.

  ‘Come in, fuckwits,’ he said.

  McCarthy, Quinn and Gerard entered. They stood before him, looking sheepish. Quinn ran a hand through his ginger hair. Gerard took an interest in a tattoo on his arm. McCarthy fiddled with the rings on his fingers. Byron knew when things hadn’t gone well.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked. ‘I take it they said no.’

  ‘They did,’ McCarthy said. ‘They’ll pay, though. Like all the others, well make them pay.’

  ‘I hope they don’t,’ Quinn said, grinning. ‘I want to beat the shit out of those niggers.’

  ‘But if people stop paying,’ Byron said, ‘how am I supposed to keep myself in the manner I’m accustomed to?’

  He lived in an ivy-covered Victorian mansion on the city’s outskirts. Set high up on a hill, it overlooked nearby suburbs and was visible for miles around. That’s what had appealed to him when he’d bought it. He knew it would serve as a constant reminder to people. That they would see it and think of him. Surrounded by high walls and with cameras everywhere, the mansion’s security was tight. Guard dogs patrolled the spacious grounds. Dobermans and Rottweilers. Byron loved the charm and history of the place: its original features and cavernous rooms. He especially liked the wall-mounted servant bells.

  Whenever he needed to call Debbie, his personal assistant, he would give her a tinkle and she’d come running in her high heels. She was blonde and beautiful and leggy. She took care of Byron’s trivial business and serviced his needs. Debbie was skilled in both departments. Of much more use than the three dimwits he was glaring at now.

  ‘The blacks will pay, boss,’ McCarthy said. ‘You’ll get your dosh.’

  ‘Good,’ Byron said. ‘Glad to hear it.’

  Not that he needed the money from his protection racket. Making businesses pay was a way of keeping control, a means by which he could remind people who was in charge. He made most of his money from drugs and importing fancy cars. He owned a collection of supercars that would put most rock stars to shame, such was his wealth. His latest acquisition, a 680bhp Porsche Panemera, was his favourite; he made Quinn polish it every day.

  There was a full-length mirror on the wall. Byron stood in front of it, turning his head left to right, checking his profile. Admiring himself. Wetting his fingertips on his tongue, he ran them over his plucked eyebrows. Satisfied he was still looking the biz, he brushed his brown tweed jacket down and said, ‘Are you still here?’

  His men disappeared.

  ####

  In the living area at 147, Derek was sprawled out on the settee, watching TV. Except he wasn’t really watching it; he was just staring at the screen. He was trying to take his mind off what had happened, but couldn’t. Since moving into the club, he had got to know the owner of the corner shop down the road. He and Mr. Patel had always exchanged pleasantries whenever Derek went in for his newspapers. So he quizzed Patel to see if he’d had trouble with thugs demanding money. Derek had described the men and Patel had known who they were straight away. They visited him once a week to collect cash. Five hundred quid. Not some local hoods trying it on, then, Derek had thought dismally. Patel’s advice: pay up.

  ‘D’you want some pizza?’ Chris called out from the kitchen.

  ‘No thanks,’ Derek replied. ‘I’ve lost my appetite.’

  Chris joined him in the lounge, slumping down in an armchair and saying, ‘We should call the fuzz. Let the pigs deal with these fuckers.’

  ‘I really don’t think that’s gonna help, somehow.’

  ‘Maybe Patel exaggerated. Maybe these guys aren’t as bad as he’s making out. I think we should sit it out, call their bluff. They ain’t gonna do nothing, those dumb in-breds.’

  ‘So that’s your plan is it, bro? Just sit tight and hope nothing happens.’

  Picking up the TV remote, Chris flicked through channels.

  Derek was always amazed at how his brother could put blinkers on. Close your eyes and hope it goes away: Derek was sure that would be etched into his brother’s epitaph (hopefully not any time soon, though).

  ‘These are the sort of people that’ll throw us in the canal with concrete shoes on,’ Derek explained. ‘The sort that’ll burn us in our beds while we’re sleeping. I don’t want to end up propping up some flyover and I don’t want you to either. Chris, are you hearing me?’

  He continued to channel surf. ‘I’m hearing you. I just don’t know what we’re gonna do about it.’

  Derek shot up off the
settee. He stood in front of Chris, arms folded, obscuring his view of the TV. Derek glared down at his brother.

  ‘I can’t turn the telly over with your big black arse in the way, now, can I?’ Chris said.

  ‘This ain’t gonna go away.’

  ‘I know it ain’t.’

  ‘We need to discuss what we’re gonna do about it, then, don’t we?’

  Chris looked up at Derek and said, ‘Only one thing we can do. Fight fire with fire.’

  Sniffing at the air, Derek said, ‘I think your pizza’s burning.’

  ‘Doubt it; I only put it in five minutes ago.’

  They exchanged a look of horror. Then Chris took off downstairs, Derek right on his heels. The lights were off in the hall, so they immediately saw the fire near the entrance, flames licking high towards the ceiling.

  Chris weaved in and out of snooker tables as he sprinted across the room. He pulled an extinguisher off the wall.

  ‘There’s another one behind the bar!’ he yelled.

  Derek tore towards the bar. Vaulted over it. As he did, his feet clipped some bottles. They fell to the floor, but didn’t break.

  It took them seconds to put the fire out. The extinguishers hissed white vapour as the flames were dowsed. The damage was minimal. The door was singed black and some carpet tiles would need replacing. But this didn’t concern them. What did concern them was the small broken bottle at the foot of the door and the acrid smell of petrol.

  ‘They didn’t waste any time,’ Chris said. ‘A miniature Molotov through the letterbox. I take it this is their warning shot across our bow, so next time they come we’ll be so scared we just pay ‘em. What if they’d done that at two in the morning, while we were asleep?’

  ‘We need to make some calls. These bastards want a war, we’ll give ‘em a war.’

  ####

  After five days in hospital, Jack felt a lot better. The aches and pains had subsided. Bruises had faded. Swellings gone down. Stitches had been removed. He could see fine now and his bottom lip was nearly back to normal size. His ribs still hurt. He had been told that it would be a while before they’d be fully mended. It wasn’t his ribs he was worried about, however – it was the scabbed-over cuts on his face. The doctor hadn’t bullshitted him. Hadn’t given him false hope. ‘You’re going to be scarred for life,’ he’d said. Jack had felt like crying again. He still did.