I drop him to the floor, and know that I need to shut him up. Grimacing, I grab the gun and smash the pistol butt down hard on the part of the bulky fabric where I think the man’s head is. The impact is fierce, the resulting silence immediate. He is out of his misery temporarily, into unconsciousness. I pull the curtain back, to find a battered and bruised face. He’s about mid thirties, perhaps - not much older than myself. And he looks of mixed descent, perhaps English Chinese.
I’m not happy about what has happened to him, but it’s taught me something very valuable - someone wants Jack Brooker dead. And that same party has enough reach and power to know when the name Jack Brooker books into a hotel, or makes a credit card purchase. I just wish I’d got a name before I had to put him out.
I need to get out of here. A party with that reach will have eyes and ears in all sorts of places. I grab my belongings, shoveling them into the rucksack in 30 seconds flat. I take the gun too, feeling uneasy taking carriage of such a weapon after so many bitter experiences in the company of firearms. It feels strange to the touch - a little lighter than I remember. That added weight of bad intentions is gone. I check it over. I recognize the piece immediately as a Glock 17, somewhat modified for the silencer. The Glock 17 is one of the most popular pistols in worldwide law enforcement, but this... this is something a little different. I’m ashamed to say I like it. I stick it in my waistband, and I’m out of the door less than a minute after the altercation had reached it’s wretched climax.
I need to get to Jack. I also need a new base, and a new identity, quicker than ever. I can’t go around town pretending to be Jack Brooker, when there’s quite obviously a hit out on that very same name. I might as well wander around with a sandwich board advertising myself as the man himself. What on earth is he involved with?
5
The taxi slows to a stop in a charming, verdant neighborhood about fifteen minutes drive west of Manchester, in Worsley. The properties are sure handsome, with the ornate appointment yet modest size of moderate wealth, and the sun even threatens to shine, if only a touch. According to the taxi clock, it is 8.50am. I pay the driver, and hop out.
There are autumn leaves all over the street, and this picture-book scene of successful England is really quite lovely. It immediately piques my interest in Jack a little more - most notably the notion that the guy who helped out a murderer (even though he might not know that) with what can only really be classed as money laundering lives here in this quiet, upstanding, comfortable setup. I walk to the house in the corner, to the address he specified when I text him after breakfast.
The house itself is a white stone beauty, with two pillars either side of the door, manicured gardens and two stories of living space. The door is a solid slab of mahogany, and, as I use the heavy black iron door knocker, I hear the echo on the other side of polished surfaces. I wait a moment, listening to the birds chirruping high in the trees, but there is no answer. I try again, applying a little more force. Still no answer.
I leave the porch, and crane my neck up to look at the windows. Nothing visible, with all the curtains open. I glance back at the street - empty. Is this odd? I wouldn’t know. I haven’t been in a fairly opulent neighborhood in a while. So, just to make sure I really stick out like a sore thumb for any passers by, I walk around the side of the house, trying not to look like a burglar. I follow the fence which separates Jack’s house (or is it?) from the neighbors, and end up in a small back garden. It is well-manicured, canopied by oak trees and much smaller than I expected. It really has a perception of scale, despite the moderately close wooden fence, but then I realize that the property backs onto a golf course. A big, bloody beautiful one - not exactly the correct golf parlance I believe, but it is certainly a good view. And then I notice Jack, sitting on the decking that leads up to the back of the house and it’s porch doors.
He stares out at the golf course, wearing a hoody and sweatpants, holding a glass of orange juice. However, judging from the half-full, unmistakable blue bottle of Bombay Sapphire gin, that’s not the only thing in the tumbler. I head over to him, stepping up onto the decking and grabbing a spare chair to pull over.
‘I’m sorry mate,’ I say, knowing that that will carry little weight but serves more as an opening gambit than anything else.
Jack turns to me, his face torqued with emotion. He’s ordinarily, if I dare myself to say it, a handsome bloke. A shaven head, sharp features, and eyes that could burn a hole on the moon, such is their intensity. Yet now what sits ahead of me is a young man ruptured by fear and sorrow. His eyes scream for help, but his gritted teeth seethe vengeance. It’s a complex, dangerous look, which I have seen many times in the haze of Iraq, or the blazing sun of Afghanistan. It is a look that, if left to brood, can lead to dangerous places.
‘I can give you 24 hours,’ I add, hoping that that will serve to calm him a little and perhaps offer a little hope - even though I have no idea what this situation is about, let alone whether I can do anything practical to make things better for Jack.
Jack swigs from the tumbler, a heavy glug. The orange juice looks pale, almost transparent, and I can almost smell the gin from my seat. This isn’t a good sign. If he drinks himself into an angry stupor, he will need the majority of those 24 hours to sleep it off, and that would be a chronic waste of time for both of us.
‘Without meaning to tell you what to do, I need you to go easy on that,’ I ask.
Jack looks at me with a flash of indignation, but cools it quickly. I think he gets it. He drops the glass to his lap.
‘You’ve seen things, done things... How are you supposed to behave when your world is ripped out from under you?’ he asks. It seems a genuine request. I think of the awful scene in the hotel room earlier, which I intend to keep from him. There’s nothing to be gained from telling him people want him dead too.
‘It never gets easier. You never get your head around it. You never comprehend it. But time help’s you learn to live with it. And that’s all you can ever hope for.’ I reply from the heart. Tears begin to well messily in Jack’s eyes, and spill out uncontrollably.
‘I just want to fucking kill everybody...’ he seethes. I don’t doubt him either.
‘Just take it easy. I’m here for 24 hours, OK? Now, if you listen to me, and acknowledge that I have a certain way of going about things, we can get a fair amount done in that time. But we need to act fast and you need to be honest with me.’
‘I will. But you must promise me something.’
I was expecting this. A request straight out of the male pride playbook.
‘I know what you are going to say. You want to kill them. You want to punish the person who did this to your Dad. You want me to agree to it - that if we find who did it, you can be the one to put them away. I understand that. I really do. But, you need to understand it will change nothing. Taking a life is something you simply cannot undo, and it changes you for the worse. Are you really prepared for that?’
He looks at me with that burning gaze, trying to make his case.
‘Don’t answer that,’ I say. ‘You made it pretty clear that you want to. But think about it. Think about that, which, by doing so, you will lose.’
‘Promise me’, he says. I see that vehemence in him again.
‘No. I will make no such promise. Let’s not waste time on this pointless debate, OK? We need to get started.’
Jack releases that mental coil a little, enough to glance out at the golf course.
‘Shortly,’ he says. ‘We need to meet someone first.’
He gestures out to the golf-course. I follow his suggestion, and ambling across the fairway, is what looks like a woman with a startling peroxide bob. I glance back at Jack.
‘Is this...’ I begin.
‘Just go with it,’ interrupts Jack. ‘She lives in the estate on the other side of the golf course. It will be useful in explaining a few things’.
That has certainly got my attention, as I watch the woman get closer. She is about Jack’
s age, I would guess, and wears a dark winter jacket, jeans and red wellies. She is soft and pretty, although her features are augmented by the streaming mascara coating her cheeks like rivulets of ink. Jack’s girlfriend perhaps?
She notices me, and I simply nod to her with an understanding smile. She hops the fence into the garden, and walks straight up to Jack, who still hasn’t risen. She too looks shattered by grief.
‘Jack, I’m... so... so sorry,’ she says, bending to pull Jack close. Jack doesn’t return the gesture as enthusiastically as he might if this was a romantic entanglement of his. He just opens his arms to accept her, and that’s it. Because he refuses to get up, she has to bend awkwardly, almost comically.
‘What can I do?’ she whispers, barely audibly.
‘Zoe, you can start by telling if there’s anything I should know,’ Jack whispers back.
Zoe let’s go and glances over at me. She looks unsure of me, and vulnerable. I smile over to her again, to try to reassure her. I don’t want to scare her off if she has any light to shed. I motion to stand.
‘I can give you guys some time, if you like?’ I say, knowing full well I intend to go nowhere.
‘No, it’s fine. Zoe this is...’ Jack opens his palm to me, allowing me to fill in the blanks. A smart, respectful move which I am grateful for, allowing me to construct the lie on which to base my future. I haven’t thought of a false name yet, but I am blessed with one of the most popular names in the UK.
‘Ben,’ I reply as warmly as I can.
‘Ben is an old friend of mine. He is completely trustworthy, and he is experienced in affairs like ours,’ Jack says.
Interesting. What affairs are these?
‘Hi,’ says Zoe, offering her hand. I shake it. She is cold but that’s only the low temperature of the morning. She seems most genuine. I’m surprised that it was that easy to get into her good graces - maybe she too is an astute judge of character? Or is she simply naive? - but these appear to be times of crisis. She turns back to Jack.
‘I really want to ask how you’re doing, but I would imagine that would be a bit... counter-productive,’ she says to Jack, standing over him, but taking a step back so she can see him fully.
‘On the money as always,’ Jack replies. Zing. Not what I was expecting, as it is becoming increasingly apparent that there is an interesting dynamic at play between these two. They seem bound to each other, in some way, but Jack certainly seems to hold some misgivings.
‘Funeral is at three a week yesterday. The best the crem could offer. Everything’s taken care of. Grandad thought you’d like to be free of the hassle.’
‘Six foot tall to six feet deep in six days flat. Is that about the sum of it?’ Jack looks at her sharply. Zoe sighs and tries to brush it off. I’m staying out of this one, at least until I’m invited to comment. The questions I have for Jack are mounting.
‘It’s at Altrincham Crem, Jack. Grandad said that was your Dad’s - Royston’s - wishes.’ says Zoe, to which Jack arches his eyebrows.
‘Hey, what do I know, right?’ he replies.
Zoe looks back at him, her brow wilting like a Bassett Hound’s. She looks exhausted, hurting, committed but most obviously sad. Silence sits for a moment, punctuated by a distant echoing swipe splack of a tee shot somewhere on the golf course.
Then suddenly, Jack combusts. He stands so quickly his chair flips backwards onto the decking, his glass of gin and juice smashing on the wood. His words come out like machine-gun fire, with such force that Zoe has to take a step back.
‘I will tear this fucking city to shreds. I promise you. I will drag every dark corner out into the light. Why my dad? Why Royston Brooker? Why him? He was no junky, no snitch, and you know it. He always did the right thing by me, by you...’
Zoe stands firm, and doesn’t break eye contact. If this were a TV show I would be reaching for the popcorn - my eyes flitting back and forth between the two like I’m watching a tennis match that has devolved to non-physical warfare.
‘Now, your Grandad has taken care of everything in death, but where the fuck was he in life? It’s no good making hasty funeral arrangements, if he could have done something about this. He is with you for that sole reason, isn’t he? Under the wing, in house, that’s what it was about wasn’t it? Under that golden fucking umbrella? Well, I’ve got news for you, it turns out that that golden umbrella isn’t bulletproof!’
Jack turns away, and exhales loudly, as if preparing for round two. Zoe still says nothing but watches him with strength. I am impressed with her - she’s obviously got backbone. My eyes drift to the golf course, where two nattily-clad golfers look stand staring at the scene on the decking.
‘Stop gawping and mind your business!’ I holler over. They shuffle along, dragging their golf-trollies with added pep. So much info is bubbling to the surface here, I don’t want to miss a scrap. Jack turns back to Zoe, crunching glass under his feet.
‘No one can tell me anything! The police have come round, they don’t seem to know their arse from a hole in the ground, all they seem to be doing is insisting on a grief counsellor coming round.’
He takes a step towards Zoe.
‘Zoe, I know you are aware of more. You know their workings better than I do. I don’t know how much more, but I promise it’ll be more than me. If there’s anything you know, about what happened, or about anyone involved, you have to tell me. If your Grandad is the man that everyone seems to think he his, he must know something. You have to tell me. Or I will go into that city and I can’t be held responsible for what might happen there.’
Wow, I think. This is definitely not the Jack I left behind a couple of years back. Much has clearly happened to Jack in the intervening years, so much so that he has molded away from the boy he was and emerged as a man. A man with steel, character and resolve. It is impressive. It reminds me of recruits after their first tour, going away timid, nervous yet ready, and returning bold, sure, weathered in deeply personal ways. It is something I have endured myself and can certainly relate to.
‘I can’t pretend I know what you are feeling,’ Zoe says, with authority yet with sympathy, ‘But I can tell you that we are all right behind you. I know that goes without saying, but I thought it is something you could do with hearing.’
‘Woop-di-doo. It’s all settled then, is it?’ Jack fizzes sarcastically. ‘Can they or can’t they tell me, who did it?’
‘Jack... you know Grandad is devastated over this too. You know Royston was blood for him. You must recognize that this has cut him deeply too, and he is doing everything he can to sort this. I can promise you that.’
That seems to placate Royston a little. All I know is that I’m very interested in this Grandad character. Suddenly, it seems like sticking around wasn’t such a bad plan after all.
‘You have my mobile number, don’t you?’ says Zoe ruefully. ‘I can see there’s not much here I can do.’
Jack looks down, and speaks quietly, as if a little ashamed of his outburst and trying to recalibrate.
‘I have it,’ he says.
She motions to go, sticking her hands in her pockets. Then she turns to me.
‘Keep an eye on him please, Ben. It was nice meeting you,’ she says.
‘Likewise, Zoe’, I say. ‘I’ll keep him in line.’ I don’t really know whether I intend to keep to that, but I feel Zoe has an important role to play here, and I really want to keep her sweet.
‘Just... lay low. And look after yourself,’ she says to Jack earnestly. Her eyes plead with him, and his veneer breaks down a little. He searches for his voice, and just about finds it.
‘I will. Thanks. For coming down. I know we haven’t spoken in a while...’ he says.
‘Forget it. Behind the scenes, things are underway. I’ll keep you in the loop. And if I don’t see you beforehand, I’ll see you Thursday.’
And with that Zoe leaves, back across the lush fairways from whence she came, a peroxide, winterized will’o’the’whisp.
‘You have a car here I can drive?’ I ask.
Jack doesn’t answer - he seems lost in watching Zoe go. This is no time to wallow. If I’m to make any sense of things, Jack is going to have to spill ASAP.
I feel too intrigued by this setup to walk away. My senses tingle at the prospect of some dark forces at work, a mysterious force at play in the shadows, and I want to get a look at it. This fits in with my self appointed code - this fits with my ethos. If it’s bad news, I’ll be judge, jury and executioner. We now live in a near-lawless Wild West, in the grip of a fiscal crisis inhabited by an apathetic populous governed by the self-serving, whose principal priority is power. Some green grass of home...
Great Britain needs protection, and revolution, from the ground up. I can’t do all that on my own - but I can do the dirty work to get things started. I can create small foundations for revolution.
Modern justice is flawed, and skewed for purposes beyond it’s original design. Harsh times call for harsh measures, and no red-tape. And who better to clean up the squalor than an ex-soldier, AWOL in the very society he was locked away from, with a very precise moral compass.
If there is shit to mop up here, I will do it. For Great Britain. The Great Britain I remember. The Great Britain I have devoted my life to protect.
6
We are silent the entire drive to McDonald’s on the East Lancashire Road, the A580 that leads straight into the heart of the city. We had taken what I assume to be Jack’s late father’s Lexus IS250, a snazzy, sporty, luxury saloon that goes like the proverbial off a flat-faced garden implement. I enjoy the feel of being back behind the wheel, after 20 months away.
We park up outside, and walk into the restaurant. The sole purpose here is of sobering Jack up, and stodgy carb-fests are pretty good at that. I order on his behalf, a black coffee, a breakfast wrap meal, two extra hash browns and a bowl of rather goopy ready-porridge. I take a bottle of water for myself. I have looked after myself while in prison, and I don’t want to undo it all that quickly.
The Baby And The Brandy (Ben Bracken 1) Page 4
