Ben

by Cody Young

  Glenn had said to look out for a house with a red door and renovations going on inside. Mr Birch had a finger in lots of pies, and one of them was property development.

  The street was long, as London streets often are. The street numbers ran from one to a hundred and ninety. But there was only one house with builders’ debris in the front garden. So Ben put his money on that one. Number twenty. Twenty thousand reasons to get her out of there – easy to remember. There was a light on in the upstairs window, glowing behind a torn curtain.

  He decided that to approach the front door was risky. Better to drive on. Ditch the car in a side road, and walk round and see if there was any kind of access at the back. These old Victorian terraces often had a narrow alley running past their back gardens. A Dickensian arrangement, encouraging theft and villainy, but it would definitely serve him tonight. He walked up the lane as silently as he could, thankful that his coat was black, and his hair was black – as long as he kept his head down, he might not attract any attention. The lane was in poor repair – as was often the way with communal territory. He bypassed broken pavement and pools of muddy water glimmering in the night light, and counted the houses silently until he reached what must be number twenty.

  The garden gate wasn’t even locked. And to his relief he could see he had the right place. More builders rubble, the back garden was full of it. A slippery mound of rain-soaked debris obscured his view of the kitchen window – which was at once a curse and a blessing.

  He made his way carefully around it. Trying not to dislodge the slithering heap of cracked timber and corrugated iron. Keeping his footfalls quiet. Treading on flaky material that could easily be bits of asbestos. Ben sighed. That made perfect sense too. Mr. Birch wouldn’t be worrying about health and safety regulations when he did his renovations, would he?

  He went as close as he dared to the kitchen windows, so that he could see who was there. The lights were on – and bright – inside. No nets, no curtains. And there was music playing. The kind of thumping Gangsta rap music that makes white boys feel all tough and ethnic. Two young men sat playing cards at a kitchen table in the middle of a room that had recently been stripped bare of its original fittings. The men – boys really – sat on broken kitchen chairs – almost as spindly and fragile as their own bodies. Behind them, a backdrop of mismatched paintwork and cracked tiles – all that remained of what had once been a family home. The music was coming from some kind of portable device standing on the floor – and Ben was very grateful for it. It might help to cover the sound of what he intended to do.

  He sat crouched against the brick wall under the window for a time, planning what to do. He was unarmed. He should have thought about that, but he was unprepared for any of this, in every sense of the word. He reached quietly for a lump of broken brick. He felt the weight of it in his hand, and wondered if he had enough courage to smash it into a man’s skull. He’d trained for ten years to mend people, not break them. Intracranial injuries were horrible. He didn’t want to inflict one. But all he had to do was think of those men with Layla, and he knew that he could kill them, if he had to.

  He put the lump of brick down on the back step that led up into the kitchen. And looked up. There was an old fashioned fuse box there. Locked, probably. He couldn’t risk standing up to find out. There was frosted glass in four panes in the kitchen door. If either of the guys saw movement behind it, he’d pay a high price. There were two of them, undoubtedly armed with knives at the very least. And if what he’d seen at the Fizz club was anything to go by, they might have handguns, too.

  Ben sighed. Two wannabe gangsters with baseball caps bigger than their egos. Armed and ready to fight if Mr. Birch snapped his fingers. And what did Ben have? He reached into his pocket, felt the smooth vial of liquid. Chutzpah and a hypodermic needle. Ben looked at the piece of brick. Looked up at the fuse box. He leaned his head back against the brick wall for just a moment more. The breeze was cool against his flushed cheek. He could still turn back. Give up on this fool’s mission. His feet were cold, yes, and his hands were beginning to get cold too, inside the pockets of his black cashmere coat. But his heart burned for Layla. He couldn’t sit here shivering on the back porch while she was in there with a pack of fiends from hell.

  So, he rose to his feet. He figured the lights were bright inside, and he was in darkness. The music pulsed and one of the men laughed – which sent a spasm of fear through his chest. But he was here for a purpose and there was no turning back. He tried the door of the fuse box and as predicted, it didn’t open. He slid his car key along the edge and prised up the plywood. Ancient ceramic fuses, the type he hadn’t seen since he was a child. He chose the fuse he believed might kill the power in the kitchen. He tested first – wiggling it gently, until the light in the adjacent room flickered. Heard a voice in the kitchen say, “What the fuck?”

  He pushed it back in, and the lights went back on. Yes. That was the one.

  Do it. Do it, now. He removed the old ceramic fuse, and put it in his pocket.

  No sound now from inside – except the surprise in the men’s voices because their world had gone dark. Ben grabbed his piece of brick and backed away from the porch. He went and stood with his back against the brick wall, waiting for further developments. He couldn’t believe it when he heard the men arguing about whether the light bulb had blown, where to find one and who ought to change it. How many gangsters does it take to work out that if the stereo isn’t playing either – the power supply just died.

  “Come on,” he breathed. Psyched up to dealing with them now.

  He was lucky. One stayed inside the house fumbling with the light fittings, the other unlocked the back door and came out into the crisp winter night. He was so close that Ben could smell the cigarette ash on his breath.

  It was now, or never. Smash his skull. Smash his fucking skull.

  But it was a hard bridge to cross. Ben didn’t want to kill him – only stun him – and that was a difficult thing to judge without prior experience. The boy was young. No more than twenty – probably still a teenager like Jacob’s son. He looked up and swore when he saw that the fuse had been removed. The realisation that he’d been duped must have struck him – just before Ben did. With the brick.

  The boy keeled over sideways with his mouth open and slack, and Ben reached down and grabbed him under the armpits and hauled him further away from the house and into the debris-filled garden.

  Ben dragged him across the garden and dumped him on a pile of timber. The kid was only stunned and already beginning to moan and open his eyes. Ben had to act fast. He knelt on the boy’s chest to keep him down, and felt for weapons. Oh, yes. The hard metal barrel of a handgun. Right there in the unzipped pocket of the boy’s bomber jacket.

  Ben knew that the person with the gun controlled this situation, so that had to be him. He assumed it had some kind of safety on it, that had to be clicked back. So Ben looked and flicked what looked like it needed to be flicked. It gave an ominous click, and the boy gasped. A strong indication to Ben that the gun was now ready. Ben pressed the barrel of the gun into the soft skin of the boy’s neck. “Shut up and I won’t hurt you.”

  The boy’s eyes flared in fear. He tried to swallow but Ben had the gun pressed hard against his throat. He lifted a hand to push the gun away – almost involuntarily – but Ben held his ground, hand firmly around the trigger. He shook his head.

  “Hands up,” Ben said, and grinned. He’d always wanted to say that.

  The boy’s arms fell back on either side of his head like a rag doll, and he lay gasping and staring at Ben. The fear in his eyes grew greater still when Ben reached into his pocket and pulled out the syringe. The needle was loaded, like the gun. He’d thought of that. Primed and ready to put in the kid’s veins.

  “Let’s do this slowly,” said Ben. He kept the gun trained on the boy. Didn’t lose concentration. Glanced at the house. No sign of the other guy yet. “Push your sleeve back. Show me your arm.” />
  The boy did as he was ordered to do, but he was terrified. “What the fuck is in that thing?”

  “Oh, you’ll like this. It’s the Rolls Royce of pre-operative anaesthesia.”

  “No. Don’t. Please. Where’s that fucking needle been?”

  The question surprised Ben. A boy so careless with his life that he ran with a gang – yet scared of a second-hand needle. “Don’t worry kiddo, this needle is a virgin.”

  “I don’t want to die,” the boy said, with real terror in his eyes.

  “And I don’t want to kill you. So do as I say, and maybe you’ll wake up in a better place.”

  A left-handed injection wasn’t easy, but with the victim’s cooperation, it was done. Before Ben could count to three, the boy returned to slack-jawed sleep on his bed of broken timber.

  The next guy was calling out from the darkened house, unsure where his friend had gone. “Hey Trav! Travis! Wotcha doing out there?”

  Ben stayed low. Waiting. He’d rather deal with each one of them out here – where he could see them come out of the door and knew if they were alone or not.

  The second boy swore, angrily. “Don’t make me put my shoes on, Trav.”

  Yes, put your bloody shoes on and get out here, thought Ben, hiding Travis’s gun under the rubble and reaching for a length of heavy timber. He crept back into the last remaining shrubs by the fence – so that the first thing the boy would see was his friend, lying on the builders’ rubble. He hoped it would give him enough of the element of surprise to repeat the whole procedure with him. But this time, it was even easier. The boy was shocked by the sight of his friend’s apparently lifeless body. He knelt down and started shaking him. “Trav. Bloody hell, Trav. Come on mate!”

  And Ben could see the gun tucked into the back of the boy’s jeans as he leaned over Travis. So he merely came forward and reached out and took the gun. Like picking lint off the boy’s shoulder.

  The boy almost screamed as he turned and saw Ben. He must have been sixteen. No more. He looked with flaring eyes and saw that Ben had his gun. But all he said was, “Aren’t you meant to be in Hawaii?”

  “Change of plan. How many others inside the house?” said Ben.

  “My boss. That’s all.”

  “Jimmy Warren?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What about Mr. Birch.”

  “Mr. Birch?” the boy said, in surprise. “I think he’s at the Coliseum.”

  “The Coliseum? Do you mean the theatre?”

  “Yeah. He goes to the opera. He likes opera. That’s what I heard.”

  Ben glanced back at the house. “So Jimmy’s alone in there? With my girlfriend?”

  The boy nodded. “He’s upstairs with her. Told us to stay in the kitchen.”

  Ben refused to think about the implications of this statement. He glanced at the house. One more assailant in there. And a loose-tongued idiot out here. “Do you want to go to sleep beside your friend?”

  The boy shook his head. “No. Let me go. Please. I don’t want no trouble.”

  Ben knew that pity was a dangerous emotion, but it overtook him, like it or not. “Alright. Go on. Run away from here, as far as you can get.”

  “You’re letting me go?” said the kid, in confusion.

  “Yes. And if you see Mr. Birch. Tell him Loverboy’s back.”

  The boy didn’t stop to answer. He slithered over the pile of timber and rubble and headed for the gate that led to the alley.

  Ben waited, listening to him racing down the street, splashing through the mud in the alleyway, desperate to reach the relative safety of the well-lit street. Only when he was satisfied that the boy had gone, did he turn towards the house. And went inside to find Jimmy Warren. And Layla.

  He went through the dark kitchen and into the hall, where the light still glowed from the upper landing. He began creeping up the stairs.

  Jimmy

  Jimmy Warren had worked for Mr. Birch for a very long time. He’d begun when he was fourteen and he was thirty-four now. Married, in a manner of speaking. Common-law-wife. Father of one.

  He liked this little piece, though. Layla. And she’d like him too when she got used to the idea. He was encouraging her to express her natural affection for him. Encouraging her, with the blade of his knife. She was all tear-stained and sorry for herself, of course. Hunched up on the floor, hugging her knees like a frightened child, back against the wall.

  “Come on, Layla. Take your top off. Let’s have a look.”

  She shook her head. “You ain’t supposed to rape me, Jimmy. What will Mr. Birch say if you do that?”

  “He won’t know. He’ll think it was the good doctor.”

  “You think Mr. Birch will still get his money if you do that?”

  “Mr. Birch is good at getting his money. Don’t usually matter if the deal isn’t quite so sweet for the other party.”

  Jimmy crawled even closer to her, across the floorboards. And put the blade of his knife to her neck. She didn’t even flinch, which was a good sign. “You’re almost ready, aren’t you, love?”

  She shook her head, but she was weak. She was tired. She was going to give it up. He was going to have her, right here on the floor.

  “Oh you were a tough little fighter, you were. But it’s all over now, sweetheart. And you’ll find out, sooner or later, that it’s easier to accept the inevitable.”

  “So will you,” said a voice from the doorway.

  Layla looked up with a gasp to see Ben, standing in the doorway, pointing the gun.

  At Jimmy. Who, in one reactionary movement, turned his head and saw. Instinctively, he crouched beside Layla. Forced his arm behind her back. Tried to get his torso behind hers, as far as was possible, and made sure the knife was on her throat.

  Ben took a step forward. “Put the knife down, Jimmy.”

  “What the fuck are you doing here? Why didn’t you just wire the money, you idiot?”

  “I’ve decided not to be blackmailed anymore. Let her go.”

  Layla shook her head. “No. Ben. Don’t.”

  Jimmy forced Layla up to her knees – giving himself more protection – while he kept the point of the knife on her soft neck. The odds were not in his favour, but he had twenty years’ experience of situations that turned a little sour, and this clown wasn’t used to negotiations. If he was, he’d have shot from the doorway, instead of standing around having a chat.

  Then he frowned. “That’s Mark’s gun.”

  “Yes,” said Ben. “He’s having a lie down outside. I’m looking after his gun.”

  “And Travis?”

  “I’ve dealt with him, too.”

  Jimmy began to feel a tiny bit scared. A feeling he believed he’d grown out of, since he started playing with the big boys at least. But then he realised he’d heard no shots. Nothing. Only silence until this prick came into the room. The girl trembled as he held her, close against his body, and Jimmy nestled his arm around her pretty little neck.

  They seemed stuck – in an impasse – the three of them. Jimmy couldn’t move. The doctor couldn’t shoot. And the girl couldn’t do anything about it.

  To Jimmy’s surprise, the girl begged on his behalf. “Please Ben. We’ll all get hurt. Put the gun down. You don’t even know how to fire it.”

  “Yes, I do. Look.” And Ben fired into the floorboards, a loud reverberating shot that made the whole room jump and everyone in it.

  “You fucking madman!” Jimmy said.

  Jimmy saw that the doctor was shaking – wasn’t used to the violence of the sound and the sharp recoil in the palm of his hand. But the young fool had a wild look on his face, and Jimmy didn’t like that look. Ben Stein was a loose cannon and no mistake. “What the fuck did you do that for? We have to go now, before the police get here.”

  “No, no. We’ll wait,” said the doctor, with that mad glint in his eye. “We’ll see if they can help us sort this out.”

  “No we fucking won’t. Mr. Birch don’t like pol
ice reports. Too much paperwork.”

  “We need those reports. They’ll be interested in where the guns came from, won’t they? And the cocaine in the kitchen. And the girl being held against her will.”

  “She won’t talk. She’s one of us, you fool.”

  “No, she isn’t. Not anymore.”

  Jimmy almost laughed. This doctor was barking, raving mad. Mr. Birch could control Layla, Jimmy would stake his life on it. He got to his feet, bringing the girl up with him, and the doctor didn’t shoot. He couldn’t.

  So Jimmy taunted him. “Too scared are you? Too scared of hurting the girl.”

  “Aren’t you?” said Ben. “If you hurt the girl, what will Mr. Birch do to you?”

  That was a point. But he couldn’t let Ben have her, either. The only solution to the problem lay in getting out of this room and getting his hands on his own gun. That would even things up. Jimmy could picture where he’d left it. Inside the pocket of his jacket, which was hanging on the banisters at the top of the stairs. The doctor must have walked right past it, never guessing it was there.

  “Go on, take her. Mr. Birch won’t let you enjoy her for long.” Jimmy shoved her so hard she almost fell at Ben’s knees.

  After that it was confusion. Ben had to step back out of the doorway so Layla could get through. “Run! Go for the kitchen door, it’s all clear.”

  If Jimmy had been running this show, he’d have shot now. It was the only logical thing to do. Take the enemy out and scarper. But Jimmy was staking his life on the doctor’s inexperience. And true to type, the stupid man just glared and lowered the gun.

  “Leave us alone,” the young fool said.

  Jimmy almost laughed.

  Ben turned on his heel and ran after the girl. And Jimmy strolled out of the room and picked up his jacket, like the evening was turning rather chilly.

  Gunshot

  Layla heard a yell from the upstairs landing. Ben turned and looked up. She saw Jimmy aiming at Ben, who was almost all the way down the stairs. So close he’d almost made it.