by Jacqui Rose
The sound of a car alarm made Ray-Ray look at his platinum Rolex watch; a seventeenth birthday present from his father. He needed to stop thinking about Laila and get a move on. He was supposed to be at the cinema on the other side of town by eight with some of his mates.
He turned to see his mother, Tasha, watching him. She gave him a big smile before gently rearranging his shirt collar.
‘You look a sort babe. Going anywhere nice?’
His mother’s voice was soft and lulling but her cockney accent was clear to hear.
‘No, just going to the cinema. You don’t look too bad yourself.’
‘I’m going to meet your Auntie Linda; she came up for the day.’ Tasha smiled at her son, holding him a little tighter and a little longer than normal. Both of them knew what she’d just said wasn’t true. Her stepsister Linda was no more likely to leave Soho than the Queen would leave the royal family, and Tasha was grateful to her son for playing along with her untruth. She knew he didn’t feel comfortable with what she was doing; of course she hadn’t said anything to him, but he wasn’t stupid. She knew Ray-Ray would feel like he was betraying his father by not saying anything and therefore feel like he was somehow complicit in the whole situation.
But Tasha also knew Ray-Ray would be in no doubt what would happen to her if Freddie ever got even the slightest hint she was seeing someone else. And no one wanted that. Not her, not Ray-Ray and in a way, not even Freddie. So Ray-Ray played along, not wanting to know any more than he’d already guessed and not asking any questions. And as she said to herself in an attempt to make herself feel better; what he didn’t know, wouldn’t hurt him. The last thing Tasha Thompson wanted to do was hurt her precious son.
He was so like his father in many ways, but in the one way that mattered he wasn’t. Ray-Ray was kind. He had a heart. Her husband was the opposite. It always amazed her how, despite this, Ray-Ray doted on his father, and his father on him. They idolised each other and turned a blind eye to the parts they didn’t want to see.
Ray-Ray chose to ignore what his father did, much in the way he chose to ignore what Tasha was doing now. Freddie was notorious; putting the fear into the hardest face. That’s what had attracted her to him all those years ago.
Tasha’s father had been a bully and handy with his fists and her mother had been nowhere to be seen for most of her childhood. The combination of an absent mother and a bully of a father had driven Tasha into Freddie’s arms, seeing him as someone who could protect her from her father. And he had.
Tasha could still remember the day it’d had happened as if it was yesterday. Her father had been sitting on the outside toilet, reading the Racing Post with his kecks round his ankles and no doubt the usual sour look on his face.
After hearing the way her father treated her, Freddie had pulled up outside their house in his Rolls Royce, walked through the house, into the garden, and kicked down the door of the toilet. Her father’s face had been a picture; surprise, then shock, then fear.
Everyone in the East End knew Freddie Thompson and her father hadn’t been any different. The last thing anybody wanted was to be on the wrong side of Freddie, especially with their trousers round their ankles.
Freddie had dragged her father through the kitchen, before kicking him out onto the doorstep. Even now it made Tasha smile to remember her father pleading with Freddie not to hurt him, his trousers still down and his pasty spotty white arse on show for all the neighbours to see.
That day Freddie had packed up her stuff and moved Tasha in with him. And she’d been with him ever since. Within a week she’d realised she was only swapping one controlling man for another, rather than the man of her dreams.
Even though Freddie was just as much of a bully as her father, at least in his own way Freddie loved her. Her father hadn’t even come close to loving her. Freddie had looked out for her and wouldn’t let anyone hurt her, and for that Tasha was grateful. He’d never raised a hand to her, whereas her father constantly had. However, there was one big difference between the two men. If Tasha ever cheated or said she was leaving, even though he’d never laid a finger on her, she knew Freddie Thompson would kill her.
Tasha looked over her son’s shoulder to check herself in the mirror. She looked good. Her blonde highlighted hair tumbled past her shoulders. Her constantly tanned skin glowed and her curvaceous figure hadn’t changed much since she was twenty.
She knew she was taking a risk. A huge risk. But she couldn’t help it. Last month she’d tried to stop it but after a week she’d found it impossible to curtail her feelings. Her sister had told her it was madness. ‘Tash, Freddie ain’t going to be happy with just giving you a hiding. He’ll kill you and what’s more, he’ll probably bleeding kill me ‘an all.’
Tasha didn’t need to be told; she knew. She’d never meant it to happen, but some things in life you just couldn’t help. And love was one of them.
Tasha sighed, watching the frown forming on her forehead in the mirror as doubt started to show on her face and a sudden dread swept over her. She turned away, not wanting to see her own fear reflecting back at her. She didn’t want to think about it anymore. Freddie was banged up, she was in Bradford. Perhaps it would be alright … it had to be.
Standing on her tiptoes to kiss Ray-Ray on his cheek, she purred as she spoke. ‘Okay baby. I’m going.’
Ray-Ray watched his mother as she walked out of the room but before she got to the doorway he grabbed her hand.
‘Mum … be careful … please.’
Tasha smiled; a deep warmth showing in her eyes, before turning to walk away without another word.
Ten minutes later, Ray-Ray rushed down the stairs. He was going to be late. As he got to the bottom of he heard a loud bang then froze as the front door was kicked open and four men he’d never seen in his life forced their way into the hallway.
Instinctively, Ray-Ray ran towards the kitchen and towards the back door, hoping to grab hold of one of the kitchen knives in the wooden block on the side. Fear didn’t rush through him, only survival.
He hadn’t reached the door before he felt a hot pain at the back of his head, then the warmth of his blood trickling down his neck as he continued to run for the door. The kitchen knives were over in the far corner. He hesitated, only for a fraction of a second, trying to decide whether to grab one, but it was enough to cost him the chance.
Ray-Ray felt his arm being pulled, causing him to spin round and face his attackers.
‘Motherfucking pig. You stay away from her,’ Mahmood screamed at Ray-Ray, enjoying the rush of adrenaline. He would make him pay for the dishonour he brought on his family and was going to teach him a lesson he wouldn’t forget.
Holding onto Ray-Ray, Mahmood could feel he wasn’t as strong as him and if he wasn’t careful he’d soon be overpowered. He quickly looked round for Tariq who was standing back doing nothing, with a look of shock on his face.
‘Tariq, what are you doing? Get hold of him.’
After a moment’s hesitation Tariq grabbed hold of one of Ray-Ray’s flailing arms as his cousin, one of the four of the group his Uncle had recruited, held onto the other. Mahmood drew back, clenching his fist before he began to pummel Ray-Ray’s stomach. Over and over again he brought back his hand, until Ray-Ray began to noisily cough up blood, the sound of it drowned out by Mahmood continuing to shout, his eyes wild with rage, ‘You will never see her again. Never.’
Tariq and his cousin let Ray-Ray fall onto the floor. Tariq stepped away towards the door, wanting to go. It’d gone far enough. This isn’t what he’d thought was going to happen. Maybe he’d been naive, but he’d believed his Uncle when they’d told him they were only going to shake him up; scare him a little.
He watched as his Uncle drove his steel heel sideways into Ray-Ray’s nose, crunching the cartilage down as he groaned in agony, splattering the area with blood.
‘Pour it.’ Mahmood gave the order, passing a small bottle to Tariq. ‘I said, pour it Tariq.’
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Tariq froze, staring at the bottle, then looked at his Uncle in horror. ‘No, Uncle, I can’t. Not this. Stop it, please.’
Mahmood’s face creased into anger. ‘Do not disobey me and bring shame on me boy.’
Tariq felt the bottle being snatched away from his hands by one of the men who’d come in with him. A man Tariq hadn’t seen before. With a smirk he spoke to Tariq. ‘Give it to me. I’m more than happy to do it.’
The agony and the smell of his own burning flesh was the last thing Ray-Ray Thompson remembered.
JACQUI ROSE · DISHONOUR
‘No matter what she did, he would always be there, right behind her. She could never escape …’
Enjoy this extract? Buy the rest of the book here:
DISHONOUR: 9780007503605
A Note from Luca Veste
Time’s Up began life in 2011. It was only the second short story I’d ever written, weighed in at a ‘hefty’ 600-odd words, and was very different to the finished version you see before you. It was picked up by the awesome website Thrillers, Killers ‘n’ Chillers which showcases short stories from all kinds of writers. The validation I received from having that story chosen led me to not only keep writing, but also influenced the charity anthologies (the Off The Record series) that came after.
Following, much eating of celebratory fudge (one of my many vices), I moved on to write more short stories, before writing the novel Dead Gone … more on which later. Back then, Time, as it was then called, was a little tale, set in one unnamed location, with the central idea being about time counting down before the narrator’s life could return to normal, with the ending revealing what it was that was missing from his life.
When I was asked by Avon to come up with a short story for this collection, Time instantly came to mind.
The reason for this was that around a month or so later, as most writers will attest to happening once an idea has been published, a better way of telling that story came to mind. The idea being, what led that character to that place … what if he had to do some really bad stuff to get there? And, if that was the case, how far could one person be pushed? How far would you go to get your life back? Could you be forced into doing things you wouldn’t normally do, and how would you be able to live with the consequences of those actions? Taking place as the narrator counts down the days, hours and minutes which leads him to the present time, recounting the various, horrific acts he has to carry out, at the behest of an unknown presence, Time’s Up became so much more than its original story … to the point where there’s very little remaining of it! It’s also given me the chance to give a little cameo to a character I hope you will come to enjoy reading much more about when my debut novel Dead Gone is released in 2014.
Set in my beloved city of Liverpool, during a rare summer heatwave (we do get those in the North sometimes!), taking in some of the sights and sounds an outsider may be familiar with, whilst also taking you to places you possibly won’t be, it’s a story of being lost and seeking redemption. Overall however, it’s about hope. About never giving up, no matter what the cost is.
I would love to hear what you thought about the short story, so if you want to get in touch, or if you want to just say hello and send me links for the best places I can buy nice fudge around the country (always happy to accept those), you can reach me on Twitter @LucaVeste, at my website www.lucaveste.com or on Facebook under the same name.
Also, following the short story, there is a little sliver of a taste of my debut novel, out in January 2014. Introducing the character DI David Murphy, Dead Gone is a Liverpool set psychological thriller/police procedural, which sees Murphy on the trail of a serial killer unlike any he’s faced before … one who kills to discover more about life. I hope it piques your interest to pre-order at the book - http://www.amazon.co.uk/DEAD-GONE-Luca-Veste/dp/0007525575/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1366713287&sr=8-1&keywords=luca+veste
Time’s Up
A short story by Luca Veste
Just over twenty-two days I’d waited.
Five hundred and thirty-six hours.
A week since the first email had turned up unannounced.
Now, standing here, a chill creeping up my arms causing the hairs to stand on end, my limbs heavy, all plans for this exact moment dissipated from my thoughts. I was aware but not fully conscious of my feet shifting one to the other, bearing weight down on each side, slowly, side to side. Eyes on mine, watching carefully.
Stood in a warm first-floor flat, above a boarded up shop, in a shitty part of Liverpool. I remember a time when I wouldn’t have been caught dead in a place like this. I was brought up well, good set of morals, a sense of hard work and what was the result of that?
I wasn’t supposed to be here.
How far would you go?
If you were put to the test, exactly how far could you go?
***
It would have been a normal Wednesday morning. Summer in full effect outside, the heatwave we’d been experiencing dragging on into a further week. It should have been a day to enjoy; t-shirt weather, maybe a trip to Formby beach, or even over the water to New Brighton. Amusement arcades, fish and chips and a day on the sand. Pretend we’re abroad for a few hours.
The alarm rang out from the mobile phone on the bedside table. I’d fumbled around to shut off the racket. I rubbed sleep from my eyes, stretched one arm upwards as I yawned myself awake.
I had that glorious moment when everything bad which had come before that day was forgotten. The space between sleep and consciousness when nothing is real or tangible. It’s still dreamlike, ethereal. It lasts seconds, but as reality began to creep in, millisecond by millisecond, I tried desperately to hold on to that feeling.
Everything is normal. Everything is as it should be.
Except it wasn’t.
It was twelve hours since the email had arrived. Twelve hours in which I’d paced the floors of my apartment. Looked out over the River Mersey and watched the final ferry coming across. Drank my third, fifth and seventh bottle of lager. Thrown the empty ninth bottle at the TV, watching it as it bounced off and smashed against the wall. Listened to the groans of the ridiculous couple next door as they had passionless sex in the bedroom which shared my wall. Falling asleep as the sun began to make its way back up.
The email had been simple really. Just a few lines, black text on a white background doesn’t have any power. Sometimes, your mind just projects that on to it. Words mean nothing in isolation. Group them together, create sentences, add context, punctuate, and it all changes.
It was what I had been built for. There was a problem and I had to fix it. To do that, all I had to do was follow a simple set of instructions.
It contained specific details. Information only I would know. That’s how I knew it was serious and not just some crank. I’d been told to expect those. Not this though. Nobody had prepared me for this.
There in the stark text of an email. Impersonal, unknowing.
If you want him back, then there are things I want you to do first. I want you to kill for me.
My first job.
***
536 hours since that first email. Or 16,080 minutes to be more or less precise. 16,080 minutes since the man standing just six feet away from me had led me to places I never wanted to go. To do things I never wanted to do. All his fault. All of it. Blood on his hands as well as mine. All this and more. To lead me to this place, at this moment. In a shit-hole of a flat, fourteen miles from where I call home.
Wallpaper peeling from the grease which crawled over the walls in the small kitchenette opposite. The man who had brought me here stood in front of the cooker, his sweaty palms leaving marks on the counter next
to it. A week’s worth of dishes was piled up in the sink, the smell from the dirty remnants of food hardened on the surfaces becoming more suffocating by the second. A stack of used teabags stained the worktop next to a scummy kettle.
The living room to my left-hand side was faring no better. I chanced a look through to it again, having only seconds ago previously pushed my way through there into the kitchen. A pair of what would have been white underpants in another lifetime lay across the head rest of a tired-looking armchair.
The smell. God, the smell of the place was turning my stomach.
A door leading through to the bedroom behind me.
The sounds of outside life, entering through the slightly open kitchen window above the sink, brought my attention back to the kitchen. Just cars passing by. Normality. A few more seconds passed by, the only sound was our breathing. In and out. Mine, controlled. His, laboured.
A few teenagers walking past, talking far louder than necessary, soft laughter as someone became the punchline to a joke delivered in poor taste no doubt. The television was still on in the corner, volume turned low. Flickering images trying to catch my attention.
But I’m focussed again. My blue eyes resting on his. Not willing to give any ground.
***
The first job went well.
Two of them. That’s what he wanted. Which should have been more difficult really. It’s amazing what one person can do when he puts his mind to it.
When I put my mind to it.
I searched for a few hours for what I was looking for. Drove up and down Scottie Road, knowing its reputation. I’d found only boarded up shops, garages with bars across their windows, and lifeless young girls pushing buggies with increasingly hefty children sprawled inside them. More interested in the mobile phones they all carried.
Every now and again I’d spot one or two hopefuls. By the time I doubled back around in my Audi, they’d disappeared.
