The Words of Their Roaring

by Matthew Smith

  Gabe knew that the moment the suggestion of criminal activity reared its head, the smart thing would be to get out of the outfit immediately. But the fact was that there was much about the job that he enjoyed, not least the frisson of excitement at being part of an enterprise that operated on the fringes of the law, a throwback to his wild youth. He grew to like the camaraderie between Flowers' employees, a closely knit group that watched out for one another, bonded by a disregard for conventional authority, and he appreciated the shared glory of being associated with the boss himself. Every time he piloted Flowers through the streets of London he could feel the instinctive respect that the man garnered from those around him. Perhaps there was a touch of fear there too - Flowers often remarked that nothing put people in their place quite like a fearsome reputation - but that seemed more attributed to the facade that Harry liked to project rather than any genuine malice on his part. Indeed, the greater the length of time Gabe spent in his employer's company, the more he realised he was becoming like Childs, Hendricks and the rest - drawn into Harry Flowers' inescapable orbit, he found the strength of personality there arresting. He was funny, clever and remarkably honest for one who spent much of his time concealing his dealings from those that would subject them to scrutiny. He had a temper on him, but the nuclear blast of his anger lasted only as long as the time it took for the person on the other end of his wrath to get the message before it was whipped out of sight again. He felt at times like a surrogate father, affectionately lording it over his unruly family, paternally responsible for his charges, and Gabe wondered if the absence of his own family, the loneliness of his convalescence as he recovered from his accident, brought this into even sharper relief. As long as he was part of Flowers' outfit, then someone would always have his back.

  As the weeks elongated into months, Gabe became slowly but surely inured to the surreptitious side of the boss-man's custom, perhaps a little more easily than he expected. He was never asked to be involved, and Flowers clearly appreciated his unquestioning attitude. Even so, it wasn't as if this was the only sphere in which he conducted business. Indeed, there were relatively few of these clandestine meetings amongst the daily routine. Gabe would drive him to lunches with overseas manufacturers, distribution heads and other such mundane facets of his empire, and in the evenings there were appearances at charity parties and club openings, where he would rub shoulders with minor actors and musicians, many hankering for his patronage. He appeared extraordinarily well connected. When Gabe opened the Jag's rear door and Flowers emerged, he transformed from the shady operator into the popular philanthropist; and by extension Gabe got a taste of the glamour and fame, if only at a distance.

  Such benefits were enough to make his position with Flowers a tenable one, but there was a further element that piqued his interest even more and ensured his renewed enthusiasm for the job. Every alternate Wednesday, Harry instructed Gabe to take him - strangely, always using one of the other pool cars rather than his regular Jag - to a flat in Vauxhall, into which he would disappear for almost exactly an hour. He always went alone, smelling strongly of aftershave, and entered and departed empty-handed. He would say next to nothing about the nature of these visits, and often the journey back from the apartment was a silent one, Flowers broodily glaring through one of the car's side windows. Gabe never attempted any enquiries, knowing from his boss's mood that such questioning would not go down well, but posited a theory in his head that the flat housed a mistress that Harry was courting, and had been for some time. He had not mentioned any women in his life since the death of his wife, but all the evidence - the scent, the spring with which he left the car, the gloom in which he returned - pointed to a doomed affair of some sort.

  After driving Flowers to several of these assignations, the mystery nagged at Gabe; probably more than it should. What business was it of his if Harry got his bi-weekly jollies with some old flame? The routine despondency with which he returned to the car suggested the relationship had been dragging on over a fairly lengthy period, and the driver imagined the unseen lover as being of a similar age to Flowers; a wrinkly gangster's moll kept in affluent seclusion. It really was nothing to do with him and not worth musing on, he reminded himself, and he wouldn't have thought anymore of it if he had not seen the face at the window.

  Gabe didn't know why he looked up when he did; usually he was still sitting behind the wheel when Flowers reappeared, but on that bright Wednesday he was leaning against the bonnet of the parked car, enjoying the warmth of the sun's rays. He heard the front door slam and saw his boss heading towards him across the forecourt; stepping back to duck into the vehicle, his eyes flickered momentarily upwards at the building's frontage and he caught sight of the young woman gazing down at him. He knew instantly that this was the subject of Harry's visits. Even from that distance, he could see a resemblance in the narrowness of her cheeks and the dazzling blue eyes. It was not a bed-partner he was spending time with - it was a relation, and, in all probability, his daughter. They locked stares for long seconds before she vanished behind the curtains, and Gabe was left with an indescribable ache at her absence. He snapped from his reverie when he realised that Harry had almost reached him, and tried to put her from his mind for the journey back to the mansion. He made no mention to his employer at having seen the woman, and Flowers - being typically morose - did not indulge in conversation.

  But Gabe found it difficult to erase the face from his memory; there was something so sad and heartbreaking about the cast of her features that he kept returning to it. He studied it from what he could recollect - the long blonde hair hanging to her shoulders, the pale white skin, the small teeth visible behind the purse of her lips - and tried to analyse why this woman looked so caged and lonely. For all he knew, she could be married with half a dozen rugrats under her belt; but her demeanour suggested otherwise. She appeared afraid, and her father's trips to see her - for Flowers had to be her parent, there was no question of that, the more he compared the two - did nothing to assuage that fear; indeed, it possibly even heightened it.

  Gabe looked forward to each trip to south London and a chanced glimpse of the mystery woman, and though he never saw her as clearly on subsequent visits he could always discern her outline hovering at the curtains' edge, like a spirit trapped behind glass. Flowers appeared not to notice Gabe's eyes constantly drifting to the same window, but that was hardly surprising; he was becoming increasingly distracted. Gossip amongst the men suggested that an old rival of Harry's had started moving in on their territory - Goran Vassily, a kingpin from eastern Europe, who had carved out a chunk of property north of the Thames, and with whom Flowers had a volatile relationship. Vassily was making challenges to Harry's power base: customers were being stolen, profits slashed, insults traded. Flowers was said to be livid, and he spent more and more time at the mansion, issuing directives to combat this threat. As a result, the journeys to Vauxhall dried up, and Gabe was left haunted by her image.

  He had considered asking some of the others in Harry's employ whether they knew anything about her, but discarded the idea, worried that word might get back to the old man, who would no doubt take a very dim view of his chauffeur poking his nose in other people's personal matters. He wasn't sure who he could trust amongst the ranks; who would keep their mouths shut and who would find his casual curiosity suspicious.

  Suddenly, Gabe made an unconscious decision before the rational side of him could oppose it: he would go see her without Flowers' knowledge. It was a risky strategy, and one that seemed to fly in the face of common sense, but he didn't think he'd be able to put that face from his mind until he'd made an attempt to help her. He recognised a vulnerability that he himself had struggled to overcome following his accident, and saw in those pained features a desire to escape the claustrophobic confines of her dwelling, if only she wasn't so scared of what lay beyond. As someone who had suffered similar circumstances, Gabe felt he was in a useful position to give her whatever aid she required. To
minimise the amount of deceit required, he chose a day when he needed to take the Jag in for a service, and could legitimately escape Harry's gaze, though in truth the boss was so preoccupied with this enemy organisation muscling in on his operations that Gabe doubted he would be even missed. Every morning seemed to bring with it some fresh tale of disrespect and a growing sense of events escalating: a small fire in a club bathroom; shots fired outside several bars; an increased police presence acting on anonymous tip-offs.

  He drove over to the apartment block not knowing what he was going to say, and stood before the list of residents next to the exterior door, his mind still blank. There was only one woman's name marked, and that read Anna Randolph, Flat 4. His hand, acting independently, reached out and pressed the button adjacent to it.

  A reply came seconds later out of the speaker. "Yes?"

  "Ms Randolph?" Gabe exhaled and took a leap of faith. "I work for your father. Mr Flowers."

  The silence stretched interminably. Finally: "And?"

  "And he hasn't been able to make it for a few weeks, so I... I came in his stead. To see how you were."

  More silence. "Who are you?"

  "My name's Gabriel O'Connell. As I said, I work for Harry."

  "Look up for a moment."

  "Huh?"

  "Just look up."

  He did as he was told, seeing instantly the CCTV camera positioned just under the roof of the porch. He looked straight into its flat black eye.

  "You're the driver, aren't you?" came a crackly voice from the intercom. "The one who brings him."

  "That's right."

  "And he doesn't know you're here, does he?"

  "Well, I..." Gabe stuttered. "I thought..."

  "Push the door." A buzzer sounded and the lock snapped free. Gabe paused for a moment, cast a glance behind him, then entered, jogging up the short flight of stairs to the first landing. Number four was opposite the stairwell. He rapped on its door, which was opened by the woman from the window. She was shorter than he imagined, in her early twenties, and wore a black vest top and grey sweatpants. She beckoned for him to enter, and ushered him into the living room, a chaotic sprawl of discarded clothes, magazines, CDs, books and unwashed mugs.

  "Sorry to disturb you like this," he began.

  "If Harry knew you were here," she answered, sitting on a sofa arm, one leg folded under the other, "he'd have you strung up. I'm presuming you know the risk you're taking?"

  "To be honest, I'm not sure myself what I'm doing here. Why'd you let me in?"

  "I'd see you looking up at my window when you'd come to collect Dad. You have a trustworthy face, I guess. Somehow I wasn't entirely surprised you turned up at my door."

  He nodded slightly. "I wanted to talk to you. You seemed lonely and... I don't know, a bit trapped, I suppose." He ran a hand through his hair. "I don't make a habit of this, I have to say. Turning up at stranger's doors for a chat, I mean."

  "You must have been sure, though. As I said, Harry will feed you your balls if he finds out you've been here."

  "I know. It felt like something I had to get out of my system. If I didn't... I would've been haunted by what I didn't do because I didn't have the nerve." She was studying him, clearly a family trait. "Why does he keep you here?"

  "For my protection. Dad's made a fair few enemies over the years, so he thought it better I didn't stay at the mansion. Hence me taking on mother's maiden name too. But it suits me, being as far away from him as I can. If he would let me, I'd escape to the other side of world."

  "I got the impression that the two of you don't have a happy relationship."

  "My father's an animal, and the fact that he acts the popular businessman somehow makes it even worse. If he was a simple thug that didn't know any better, I might have some semblance of respect for him; but he's very exacting in how he inflicts pain. If something stands in the way of getting what he wants then he won't hesitate to destroy it."

  The vehemence of her words took him aback. She must've noticed his shock because her tone softened. "Look, clear some of that stuff off the chair and sit down. You look like you're waiting for a bus."

  Gabe picked up a stack of unironed T-shirts and placed them on the carpet. Seating himself, he took in his surroundings: there was clutter everywhere, spilling from cupboards and off shelves, though there was a comforting homeliness to it. There was no sense of ostentation. The furniture was evidently several decades old, and an extensive album collection was lying in piles around a tatty stereo player held together by duct tape. It didn't look like she had much use for her father's wealth. He noticed there were no photographs of Flowers perched amongst the bric-a-brac, only a woman he took to be Anna's mother; the two of them were smiling out of many of the picture frames.

  "Is that why you didn't tell me to get lost?" he asked. "Because having me here would upset him?"

  "Partly," she conceded. "I do like making things as difficult for him as I can. He deserves it."

  "What on earth do the two of you talk about when he comes to visit?"

  "Not a lot. It's mostly just him apologising, and asking for forgiveness. Me, I'm just counting the hours till he goes."

  "Forgiveness? For what?"

  She sighed. "Long story."

  "That's kind of why I'm here," he said, smiling. "Anything you want to get off your chest, I'm willing to listen."

  She paused as she picked at a nail. "Suffice to say, I used to see this guy that was friends with the wrong crowd. Dad made sure he left town and didn't come back."

  "More enemies?"

  She nodded. "Of a sort." She looked up at him, the same piercing blue eyes as her father boring into him. "Do you want a cup of tea?"

  He smiled and replied that he would, and when she returned with two steaming mugs they chatted comfortably about their pasts. Gabe told her about soldiering overseas and the scenes he witnessed there, and the accident and the terror he'd experienced at leaving the safety of his home. Anna sympathised, telling him that Flowers had instilled in her at an early age a dread of straying from his side, informing her that there were all manner of bad people who could do her harm. She realised in her late teens, after he'd hounded her mother to death, that he was the one she needed to be afraid of. But even so, he wouldn't let her go, refusing to keep her at anything more than arm's length.

  Gabe felt an assurance with Anna that put him at his ease, bonded by their similar experiences of living with fear, and though he was conscious of the time that was slipping away as he sat inside this Vauxhall flat watching the shapes her mouth made as she spoke, it was good to be in her company. With each anecdote, she was clearly relishing a chance to relate to someone, having broken free of Flowers' control. She told him about bands that she liked, playing song after song, scattering CDs in an arc around her as she searched through her collection, and reeled off novels that he should be reading. It was like he had suddenly tapped into the reservoir of her interests, and it came bubbling to the surface.

  "You got any kids?" she asked him after he'd told her a little about his own family.

  "No, none. I've never been in a steady enough relationship."

  "I had one once, with the guy from the wrong crowd. A baby boy. Dad insisted I give him up for adoption, said I wasn't in a fit state to cope." She was studying an album sleeve, running her eyes over it sadly.

  "I'm sorry to hear that."

  "Post-natal depression." She looked over at him. "I'd like to see him again, though, one day. He'd be a proper little lad by now."

  Eventually, he told her he had to go, but would like to return, if that was OK with her. She told him it was, as long as he was careful. He should never underestimate Harry, she said. Gabe promised he would take every precaution, and true to his word he came back a week later, and then another seven days after that, and then twice more the following month.

  Unaware that on each occasion he was being closely watched.

  The first inkling that something was wrong came when his m
obile rang at 3.30 in the morning. At first he was content to let it run to voicemail, but it didn't stop; somebody was calling his number repeatedly. Rousing himself from sleep, Gabe sleepily glanced at the display and saw Flowers' name. A chill ran down his spine, and all notion of fatigue left him instantly. He answered it warily.

  There was no greeting. "They've got her," Harry whispered, hard and precise, the anger vibrant within each word. "They've got her because of you."

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Dr Jenny Cranfield leaned back from her desk, her head throbbing. She removed her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose as she reread the last paragraph she had written on the monitor screen, then stood from her chair, arching her back. She had been hunched over her workstation for the best part of the morning, and her neck felt as stiff as the corpse on the gurney behind her. She reached up and squeezed the nape and her shoulders, the muscles tense beneath her touch, though her efforts were limited with only one good hand at her disposal. She looked down at the left, the appendage swathed in bandages, and once more attempted to flex it, but the cramping pain returned to travel up her arm. It was like a dead weight, as if the tendons within had frozen; she fought the urge to slam it against the wall, just to give it back some sensation.