Bad Sons (Booker & Cash Book 1)

by Oliver Tidy

  That was all. That was all this was about.

  Everything has to start somewhere. Because the giant was an albino he couldn’t tolerate sunlight. Because he couldn’t tolerate sunlight his outside movements were restricted to night-time. Because of that, the three of them had appeared to be acting suspiciously in Flashman’s yard. Because of that, my relatives had taken an interest. And because of that they had been killed by a drug-crazed paranoid with a grudge, a sociopath with no regard for human life and a retarded albino giant. Because they had been killed and I couldn’t leave it to the police, the professionals, I was going to die too.

  My head swam with the banality behind events that had brought me to that point. The desperate straits I was drifting in gave me sudden and ridiculous ideas about lashing out at his bar stool; knocking him down; jumping up and kicking lumps out of him before he could appreciate what was happening. But such actions are best undertaken with the intoxicating adrenalin that gives rise to them still boiling, pure and fresh in the system.

  The antidote that is intelligent thought poured the necessary scorn and cold water on my hot impulse and probably saved me some nasty scars, perhaps my life.

  On reflection, I have to be glad for my delay, or more accurately my cowardice. Action would almost certainly have resulted in only a foolish token opposition that would have ensured I got better acquainted with the business end of his knife. In any case, I waited too long.

  He stood and moved away from me. He called to the giant, who emerged seconds later pushing Jo along in front of him. She looked ghastly and close to tears. Her clothes looked as though they had been interfered with. Buttons were undone. A crushing wave of guilt and wretchedness broke over me for what I’d involved her in.

  He spoke firmly to the giant in French and they both looked at us. There was nothing in their eyes to give me hope that either Jo or I would see the morning.

  ***

  47

  The rain had been drumming its steady death-knell tattoo on the corrugated roof, making it necessary for us to raise our voices to be heard. There was something about the noise now that I found profoundly oppressive.

  Jo seemed to have lost her power of speech and I found it hard to look at her.

  My bile was bitter and building and my recently-consumed meal threatened an encore.

  Any window of opportunity – however narrow the opening had been – to do something that might have had positive consequences for our situation slammed firmly shut with the reappearance of the tame albino giant. I despised myself for not having given vent to my impulses when the odds, while still poor, were better.

  Even though it was stupid and obvious I couldn’t help myself. ‘What are you going to do with us?’

  ‘No one knows you’re here, no one will look for you here. Your secrecy might prove to our advantage.’

  ‘Who says no one knows we’re here?’

  We both turned to look at Jo.

  The driver studied her seriously. ‘Are you saying someone does?’

  ‘Of course they do. I’m a police officer. You don’t think I go chasing around on murder investigations without letting others know where I am, do you?’

  For a long moment the rain was the only sound as our host showed a renewed interest in her. ‘Are you really? Who exactly have you told and what have you told them?’

  ‘My senior officer knows we’re here and he knows what we’re here looking for. If I don’t show up for work on Monday this place will be swarming with police. I advise you to release us.’ Her words sounded particularly brave if ultimately hollow but I admired her for trying.

  He looked to be giving Jo’s speech some thought. ‘I think you exaggerate. But thank you for the warning. We shall need to move your vehicle, of course. Give them somewhere else to look.’

  He issued instructions to his pet colossus. While my senses and limbs were still lethargic with terror and before I realised what was happening, the big man moved around behind me and took my head and neck in his enormous arms. I struggled and kicked with the desperation of a drowning man as I understood that they weren’t going to be standing on any ceremony; Julien was to snap our necks like rabbits and we were to be disposed of only God and they knew where.

  I was vaguely aware of Jo shouting and running at him and kicking him. Despite her arms being still bound behind her, she landed a couple of decent blows with her heavy boots, kept her balance and danced backwards to come in for some more. The grip that held me like a cooper’s metal hoops relaxed enough for me to squirm and as she moved back in for round two he swatted her away with a flick of the back of his hand. I watched on helpless as she sprawled on the floor. Our host guffawed loudly and I felt myself pulled back into the enormous body. His arms entwined themselves back around my neck and head like a pair of courting anacondas in preparation for the finale to his murderous embrace.

  I thought of my uncle and Dennis Flashman, both of whose necks had been snapped, probably by this unthinking killing machine. A quick wrench to the side and my life would be extinguished as my head lolled useless on my broken neck. I tensed every muscle I had. I pushed and wriggled and kicked and writhed in pointless and futile resistance. And the tears of self-pity and frustration and helplessness stung my eyes and blurred my vision.

  With his arms covering my ears the shot sounded like a child’s popgun: a gentle harmless barely-audible crack. A party-popper of an intrusion to the proceedings. I was dropped to the cold, damp concrete floor and I lay there chasing my senses and my breath.

  Every condemned man appreciates a stay of execution and I was no exception. Whatever had happened and was about to happen, I wasn’t going to allow myself to be taken into those arms again without resistance.

  Our host and the albino were both looking towards the wooden door we had come through. Jo finally struggled back up on to her feet. There was blood at the corner of her mouth and the glint of hate in her eyes.

  The balance of power had shifted and my initial reaction sensed it was little to do with the firearm that had been discharged to take everyone’s attention.

  Another large man stood dwarfing the little doorway. The juxtaposition gave a surreal Alice in Wonderland quality to the scene. He wore his hair long and grey and combed back harshly; a bushy grey and yellowing beard covered the bottom half of his face and he was running to fat and old age. But he exuded a patriarchal control. If his size, his presence and his overall effect hadn’t given him away as a close blood relative of the giant who’d just been trying to snap my neck the bone structure around his eyes did.

  Seen through the light of the weak bulb above the doorway, the rain fell behind him less intense but constant like a recently-disturbed glass-beaded curtain. I got to my knees then my feet and took the couple of steps to stand with Jo. The fact that I was all but ignored by the two men who had been about to end my life bore further testament to the authority of the newcomer. It was immediately evident he was used to being obeyed without query in this company.

  He growled out his question. ‘Gaston, qu’est-ce qui se passé?’

  The giant looked immediately towards his confederate, telling me something I didn’t know.

  Gaston’s confident and authoritative facade slipped off his face like a cheap Halloween mask to reveal a man afraid and guilty; a schoolboy caught torturing the family cat.

  ‘Papa.’

  I was learning things fast.

  ‘Répondez-moi.’

  I decided to remind them they had guests. ‘Do you speak English?’

  The old man turned his intense gaze on me.

  ‘You are English?’

  His English was good, although his accent was heavier than his son’s.

  ‘Yes. Your sons were about to break my neck. Kill us. Do you understand me?’

  His gaze swung back to Gaston.

  ‘Papa, écoute-moi.’

  ‘We will speak in English.’

  From the way his head nodded in the direction of Juli
en, I understood his reason was as much to keep him ignorant of what was to be discussed as it was to make Jo and me part of it.

  Gaston persisted in his native tongue: ‘Papa, s'il vous plait tu dois m'écouter.’

  ‘I said English.’

  Gaston’s eyes burned with fury at the rebuke and he fell silent.

  ‘Who are you? Why are you here?’

  He’d spoken to me but it was Jo who answered him: ‘I am a British police officer. We have been kidnapped and brought here against our will.’ She turned to show him her bound hands. ‘Your sons are wanted for questioning in connection with three murders in the UK. When you walked in they were in the process of committing two more.’ It was a strong speech and depending on just how much he loved his children compared with the strength of his moral compass would either save us or doom us.

  He looked back at his offspring and, if he were not party to any of it, I could only imagine his inner turmoil.

  ‘Papa.’ It was Julien. His utterance betrayed his fear and confusion.

  His father spoke softly but firmly to him. ‘Va dans la maison et regardez la télévision.’

  The giant’s shoulders slumped and he walked towards his father and the exit behind him without another word or a backward glance.

  Jo couldn’t help herself. Maybe she thought her speech had put us in the clear. ‘Where’s he going?’

  ‘To the house. He should not be here. It will upset him and then he can become difficult.’

  ‘Upset him?’ Jo was raising her voice at our only way out and I didn’t like it.

  ‘My son is an imbecile. He has the mind of a child. He understands nothing about the consequences of his actions. If he has done something wrong then it is his brother’s responsibility.’

  I tried to give Jo a look to tell her to leave it. I was happy to see the man who nearly snapped my neck leave the building. And it improved our odds, although the longer the stand-off went on the greater I believed our chances of getting out alive and without a fight to be.

  Father turned his attention back to Gaston. ‘Do they speak the truth? You have killed in England? Did you have your brother murder for you?’

  Gaston’s tongue played nervously around his lips. ‘No, papa. It was not like that. It was the Englishman, Flashman, the pump engineer. He killed them.’

  I decided to join in: ‘And who killed him?’

  ‘It was an accident. Poor Julien, he cannot control his emotions sometimes. Flashman made fun of him, they fought and Julien broke his neck.’

  I didn’t believe a word of it and I could see his father had heard it all before: the excuses, the worming, the blaming his brother.

  ‘Remove their ties.’

  I looked at Gaston but he did not move.

  ‘Did you hear me, boy?’

  ‘Listen to me, Papa. If we release them they will be free to come back in numbers with more police. They will take Julien and lock him away. He will hate that. It will drive him mad. Think of his condition. He cannot control himself, you know that. He will end up being restrained and confined in some mental institution. Could you live with that on your conscience?’

  ‘If he is truly mentally incapable of being held responsible for his own actions the courts will take that into consideration,’ said Jo. ‘If, indeed, he did any killing.’

  Gaston shot her a look that spoke for what he’d like to do to her for that.

  ‘I said release them.’

  Fear and anger played around Gaston’s features. His face burned with his humiliation and the frustration of his position. He was deeply in the shit and his eyes said he knew his lies weren’t going to help him out of it. He tried again: ‘We cannot, Papa. For Julien, we cannot. You must see that. I’m only thinking of Julien.’

  ‘You have never thought about anyone but yourself. Do not talk to me of conscience. You are my shame. If your mother were still alive the burden of having you for a son would have destroyed her. It is the only good thing about her death that she cannot see what you have become and what you have done to Julien. Now, release them.’

  Gaston’s pretence and artificiality fell away from him. His face became hard again like it had been when he had been in control.

  ‘No, papa. I will not. And I will not allow you to either. They cannot leave here alive. If you care anything for your son you will understand that.’

  Jo wasn’t finished either: ‘Don’t listen to him. If Julien is guilty of anything he will be helped, not punished.’

  The old man barked out a harsh laugh. ‘I do not believe we are talking of Julien any longer. Eh, mon garcon?’ He spat the final two words out of his mouth like broken teeth.

  Gaston did not answer. He looked crestfallen, defeated. He took a weary step to me and lifted his knife. I turned so that he might cut my tie and he whipped an arm around my neck and pulled me to him. I felt the cold steel against my throat. He turned me so I was between him, his father and the exit.

  ‘Now, you will listen to me, Papa. Why should I not think about myself? It has always been poor Julien this and poor Julien that. Julien, Julien, Julien. Look after your brother. Play with your brother. Stay inside with your brother. Include your brother. I have a life too.’

  ‘He is your brother. He is special and he needed you.’

  ‘Well, now I need him and you had better listen to me. These two cannot leave here. If they leave I will go to prison. I am not going to prison for something I didn’t do. I swear, it was Flashman killed the two in England and it was Julien who killed Flashman. That is the truth. I am not going to prison for them, or for you. I haven’t killed anyone, but I will kill these two to preserve my freedom and Julien’s and you will keep quiet about it, if not for my sake then for Julien’s.

  ‘If I am taken by the police I will see Julien is implicated and you will have to live with what happens to him for the rest of your life. Do you hear me, old man?’ He was bordering on hysterical. His screeching bared his fear and his uncertainty.

  The edge of the blade was pushed hard up against my windpipe and he had me on my heels. To fight would have risked him slitting my throat, deliberately or otherwise. He’d been sure to give me a good look at that knife and I had no desire to risk the fragile plumbing in my neck.

  ‘Tu est un idiot. Sometimes you are more stupid than your poor idiot brother.’

  ‘Arrêter! Don’t compare me to him. Don’t poor Julien me. Enough.’

  The blade’s pressure was increased and I pushed myself back against him, trying to ease it.

  I don’t remember where I was looking. I don’t know what I was seeing. But for the second time that night I heard a gunshot. Without Julien’s arms protecting my ears it was a deafening report in the enclosed space.

  I felt the searing heat of the bullet’s trace on my cheek and then my release as my captor fell backwards. I fell with him. The blade sliced across my throat and immediately I felt the blood warm, wet and sticky on my neck. But I could breathe.

  I rolled off him and knelt on the floor watching my blood drip and pool on the oil-stained concrete beneath me. It was bad, but it wasn’t my artery.

  The patriarch had shot his son in the shoulder. An audacious act, not without great risk to me. But I doubted my welfare was then uppermost in his mind.

  I was aware of the father hurrying to cover the distance between us. I looked up to see him kneel at his son’s side.

  Jo was pulling me up. Her hands were free. I hadn’t seen her manage that. She tore a sleeve from her cotton shirt and held it against my throat.

  She was pulling me away from them when I saw the blade flash up and into the father’s stomach. He let out a great moan and collapsed on to his prostrate son.

  The pistol fell from the old man’s grip to clatter on the concrete between us. Jo reached across and snatched it up. It looked old and heavy. Something out of their museum, perhaps, and I had to wonder at either the father’s superb marksmanship or my good fortune that he hadn’t shot me in th
e face. She had it in her grasp when Julien’s stupid, enormous form once again squeezed through the little opening.

  I heard his roar of emotion. I saw him look from his injured family members to me to Jo. I registered the dumb confusion and the panic and the anguish and the terror on his idiot’s face. And then I saw his rage, the rage that had probably swamped him to break Flashman’s neck, if Gaston were to be believed.

  Jo pointed the weapon at him, both arms extended, feet planted a yard apart. Text book small arms positioning. She looked like she’d done it before.

  ‘Stay where you are. Get down on the floor.’

  Some of my schoolboy French came back to me: Arrêter. Descendre. He couldn’t understand her. He was panicked and losing what pathetic grasp he had of his self-control. I saw him look around wildly and then he made his last mistake. He picked up a length of metal tubing and advanced.

  Jo shot him four times. This was followed by two more dry clicks as the firing pin fell harmlessly on empty chambers. I don’t know what he had done to her in the room at the back, but there seemed something personal in it. She grouped the bullets around the centre of his chest. At least one of them pierced his heart. He pitched forwards, fast and hard. The noise his face made as it connected with the concrete was unlike anything I had ever heard or wanted to hear again.

  She dwelt on it for only a second and then she was back with me, using some tool she’d found to saw through my bonds.

  With my hands free I was able to hold the cloth to my own neck. It had been white. It was now crimson and sodden with my blood. But I could breathe. He’d cut me. It wasn’t going to look nice for a while, but I wasn’t going to die from it.

  ‘You need an ambulance. I’m going to find a telephone. Do not move. Keep that pressed tightly to your neck. Keep your chin down.’