“Venom,” she murmured, recalling the name Dane had called her. It certainly had a ring to it.
BATTLER AND BRUISER
Ken huddled deeper into the doorway, the cold gnawing at his bones. Beside him slept his younger brother, Oliver. The streets of Manchester weren’t the easiest place to get some rest with the noise and relentless stream of traffic but he’d been so exhausted the need to sleep had overwhelmed every discomfort.
Ken kept intermittently checking his brother to make sure the cold hadn’t claimed him completely but the rise and fall of his chest beneath the stained, dark blue sleeping bag reassured him he was still alive. Ken desperately wanted to sleep too but he forced himself to stay awake by sheer force of will. He would watch over his brother instead, the streets were very dangerous. They’d been living rough for a year and a half and it wasn’t getting any easier. In fact it only seemed to be getting harder. Fortunately their size meant they avoided a lot of trouble. Ken was just eighteen but already he was six foot five while Oliver, at fifteen, was six foot four and just as wide. They’d always been huge, right from birth, Oliver’s traumatic delivery having killed their mum, leaving them in the care of their useless dad. Ken had never resented his younger brother for the loss of their mother. His instinct had always been to protect him and it had been the two of them against the world their entire lives. Their dad, unable to cope, had abandoned them when Ken was five, consequently they’d spent years in care. When the father in their last foster family had thought he could touch Oliver the two of them had hammered the shit out of the bastard, hospitalising him and the police had been called. Ken had found it a harsh life lesson that he and his brother had been treated as the criminals and the pervert had been made out to be the victim. They’d been left with no choice but to disappear into the city’s underbelly and there they’d remained.
Ken pulled the dark green woolly hat down over his ears, wishing he had more hair to protect him against the elements. Already he was receding drastically, making him look a lot older than his years. Oliver too was showing signs of going the same way but it wasn’t a surprise, their dad had been a baldy bastard.
Beside him Oliver sighed and shifted, stirring in his sleeping bag. His eyes slowly rolled open and Ken watched as the confusion gave way to tired resignation at their shitty life.
“Get some more kip,” Ken told him.
“Hungry.”
Oliver’s lack of speech used to dismay Ken but he’d got used to it, it was just his way. From the moment he’d learnt to speak Oliver had been a chatty little boy. Then the children’s homes, being shunted from one foster home to another and the succession of disinterested faces had taken their toll and he’d become more introverted until he’d given up trying to communicate with anyone altogether, except for his brother of course, but even he only received the odd word.
Ken peered into the tattered camouflage backpack he’d taken from the last foster house and pulled out half a chocolate bar he’d nicked from a shop. “That’s all we’ve got left.”
Oliver raised his hand, indicating Ken should eat it.
“No, I’m fine. Take it,” said Ken, thrusting it into his hands.
He watched Oliver devour it greedily, shoving the whole thing into his mouth in one go. Ken’s stomach ached at the sight of the food. “We need to go on the scavenge again,” he said.
Oliver nodded, rolled up the sleeping bag and stuffed it into the backpack. Countless people had tried to take that bag off them but none had succeeded, often getting bust noses and broken bones for their trouble. The majority of homeless gave them a wide berth but there was always some mad, desperate bastard, usually high on drugs, mental enough to try. They hauled themselves to their feet, Ken slinging the backpack over his shoulders and together they headed down the street, seeking a likely-looking target where they could nick something to eat.
After stealing a pack of morning rolls, some biscuits, a sponge cake and a bag of apples from a corner shop they retreated to the abandoned warehouse they sometimes dossed down in to tuck into their feast. Not many people came round here, they’d marked it out as their territory and few dared challenge them over it.
They snuck into what had once been the boiler room. As it had no windows it was well protected from the elements. There were also two exits in case they needed to get out quickly.
They spread the sleeping bag out on the floor and sat on it to eat, silence reigning as they tore into the food. Their size meant they required a lot of fuel but somehow they could never steal or beg enough to sate their appetites. Both had forgotten what it felt like to be full and satisfied, it was as though all they’d ever known was the perpetual ache of hunger.
They both froze when they heard voices, slabs of cake halfway to their mouths.
“Someone’s here,” whispered Oliver.
“Fucking cheek of it. Let’s see the bastards off before we’re inundated with the pricks,” replied Ken.
They wrapped up the remains of the feast and replaced them in the backpack before stuffing both it and the sleeping bag behind the old boiler out of sight.
Quietly they crept out of the room, careful not to let the big metal door swing shut behind them. Despite their size they could be stealthy when they wanted to be.
They crept down the long derelict corridor, the voices growing louder as they neared the main part of the factory - a vast open space that had once been the main workshop floor but was now just an empty room containing nothing but bits of left over machinery and dead pigeons.
Peering round the corner Ken saw five men, all in expensive suits and thick woollen coats. They looked odd in this place of decay and ruination.
Three of the men faced down the other two, their arguing bouncing around the room, distorting the words. All the men were furious and snarled and spat at each other. Violence hung heavy in the air, causing Ken and Oliver’s muscles to twitch and the adrenaline to surge around their bodies.
The arguing was abruptly cut off when one of the men in the line of three pulled a gun and aimed it at the big chest of the older of the two men. Ken couldn’t help but be filled with admiration when the huge man with the shaggy hair roared at the man with the gun, like a fearsome lion. The man beside him appeared to be boiling over with anger too, his limbs twitching with it. Ken studied the big man with the mane of hair, for some reason he looked familiar.
It was becoming clear that the man with the gun fully intended to shoot the other two. Ken looked to his brother, who shrugged. Who were they to interfere? Ken wasn’t about to risk his own life or his brother’s for strangers.
He was about to retreat when it finally dawned on him who the angry man with the shaggy hair was. Frank Maguire. Everyone in Manchester knew who he was. A supposedly benevolent businessman, it was whispered he was a gangster. His presence here supported that rumour. Benevolent businessmen didn’t meet men with guns in deserted factories. Even if he’d come here in all innocence and this was some sort of robbery he wouldn’t be telling the man with the gun he was going to kill him for this treachery and stick the gun up his arse. It wasn’t the first time this man had seen violence, he wasn’t in the least bit intimidated by the weapon, in fact it only gave fuel to his rage. Whatever was going on Ken saw a chance to drag himself and his brother out of the gutter and he was going to snatch at it with both hands. He might not get another.
Just as the man with the gun cocked the weapon Ken picked up a discarded wrench and threw it across the room. The sound was painfully loud, bouncing off the walls, and it drew all their attention. When the man with the gun instinctively looked behind him Ken acted quickly. He charged at him while his head was turned, knocking the gun upwards just as it went off, the bullet ploughing into the ceiling and Ken felt tiny pieces of debris land on his balding head. The man was only small and it took Ken seconds to wrench the gun off him and punch him in the face, knocking him out. Oliver had reacted swiftly too, throwing himself at one of the other men, head butting him
then proceeding to give him a thorough kicking when he was lying on the floor. Ken started to pistol whip the third man when he stupidly attempted to intervene.
Only when all three men had been disarmed and were lying on the floor bleeding did the brothers take a step back. As the adrenaline wore off Ken became aware of Frank Maguire standing behind him, watching them in silence and unease crept up his spine. The gun clenched in his hand was reassuring.
Both he and Oliver turned to regard them, ready to defend themselves should it be necessary but neither Frank nor his associate appeared ready to attack.
“Where the hell did you two big bastards come from?” said the associate.
“Wherever they came from they’re most welcome,” said Frank in a deep, booming voice. “Well done lads, I haven’t seen such a good fight in years.”
Ken and Oliver stood their ground as the two men walked round them. Frank smashed his fist into the face of the man who’d wielded the gun. “You fucking stupid ponce John, did you think you could come here and take what’s mine?” He hit him again and again until John’s face was nothing but pulp, his breath a sickening death rattle.
Frank straightened up, took a pristine white handkerchief from the breast pocket of his coat and proceeded to wipe his knuckles. “What are your names lads?”
Ken suddenly wasn’t sure his idea had been so great. Frank might not want anyone to know he was here meeting with these three. He might want to get rid of any witnesses.
“It’s alright, you can tell me,” pressed Frank.
“I’m Ken and this is Oliver,” he replied, deciding to trust what his instinct was telling him. This was the right thing to do.
Frank’s associate sniggered. “I’d expected two bruisers like you to have tough guy names like Brick and Rocco. Those names make you sound like a couple of accountants.”
“Terry, my younger brother, is right,” said Frank. “You two can’t work for me with names like that.”
Ken glanced at his brother, who looked equally surprised. “Work for you?”
“I could use a couple of lads like you. You’ve got good skills. I take it you’re living rough?”
Ken nodded. “A year and a half now.”
“Family?”
Ken hesitated before shaking his head. He was the one holding the gun. “Just him, he’s my younger brother.” Ken sighed inwardly. He’d just told these two there would be no one to miss them. “But we have plenty of friends,” he hastily added.
“Don’t worry, you’re in no danger,” said Frank with a reassuring smile. “Like I said, you two show great promise. How do you feel about doing a bit of enforcing?”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean visiting those stupid enough not to pay up their debts to me.”
“You two turning up on the doorstep would be enough to shit anyone up,” added Terry. He was grinning, clearly enjoying the situation.
Ken surmised Terry was about the same age as himself while Frank appeared to be in his late twenties. What did Frank think he was doing, bringing his little brother here to meet these people?
Frank must have read his mind because he said, “this piece of shit lying on the ground was someone I thought I could trust. He brought me here promising me a legitimate business deal but it was a trap, he wanted what was mine. You can’t have it John,” he bellowed at the man on the ground before attacking him with his fists again. When he’d got it out of his system Frank straightened up and composed himself, once more the suave businessman. “As well as the enforcing I think you’d make great bodyguards too.”
“Who would we be guarding?” said Ken.
“Me,” replied Frank. “You’ve already proved yourselves and anyone would think twice about trying to pull a stunt like this again if I’ve got you two by my side. You’ll get your own flat, a regular wage, which will be fucking good, I promise you that. When was the last time you had a decent meal in your bellies?”
Ken shrugged. “Can’t remember.”
“Or a shower,” grimaced Terry. “You fucking stink.”
Frank slapped him round the back of the head, almost knocking him onto his knees. “You will show these two some respect,” he snarled. “They just saved our fucking lives.”
Ken watched Frank in astonishment. It fascinated him how he could go from cool and calm to frenzy in seconds, but his anger never seemed to get out of his control. He only released it when he wanted to.
“So, what do you say lads?” pressed Frank.
“Yeah, okay then,” said Ken.
Frank looked questioningly at Oliver, who just nodded.
“He doesn’t talk much,” explained Ken.
“Fair enough,” said Frank. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”
“But…,” said Ken, gesturing to the three men on the ground. He was pretty sure John was dead. All his twitching and whimpering had ceased.
“You don’t need to worry about them. I have someone who takes care of situations like this. You’ll probably want to get rid of that too,” said Frank, indicating the gun. When he held his hand out for it, Ken hesitated. “You’re safe, both of you, I promise and I never break my promises. Just chuck it away if you don’t want to give it to me.”
Ken tossed the weapon towards the back of the room where it landed with a clatter. “No offence but I don’t take chances with my brother’s life.”
Frank smiled. “I can relate to that. I think me and you are going to get on very well.”
After a team of four men turned up to deal with the bodies, setting about their gruesome task in quiet efficiency, Frank decided it was time to leave. Ken and Oliver ensured they stuck close to one another as they followed Frank and Terry outside to a smart black Audi hidden round the back of the building, which was why they hadn’t seen it. A dark blue Mercedes, presumably belonging to the three dead men, sat beside it. Ken was afraid this was all some sort of trick as he climbed into the back with his brother while Terry took the passenger seat, Frank driving.
It was a surprise when, twenty minutes later, they pulled up the drive of a luxurious detached house that peeped out at them from behind a high hedge.
“Here we are. Home sweet home,” said Frank jovially.
“This is your house?” said Ken, impressed.
“It is. We need to get you two cleaned up.”
“Too right,” muttered Terry, earning himself another clip around the back of the head from Frank.
Ken and Oliver followed the Maguires up to the front door, convinced when it was opened they were going to be greeted by a group of armed men, the floors covered in plastic to guard against the blood splatters. Instead they were met by a small, pretty blond woman with a big pregnant belly.
“Hello Frank love,” she grinned, kissing him full on the lips, obviously delighted to see him. Then she kissed Terry on the cheek. Ken took an instant shine to her, she was obviously a warm, caring woman. “And who are these two?” she said, smiling up at Ken and Oliver, their dishevelled appearance and ripe odour doing nothing to put her off.
“This is my brand new gorgeous wife, Martina. Martina, this is Ken and that’s his brother Oliver,” explained Frank. “They work for me now.”
“Lovely, and this is either little Alex or Alexa,” she said, running a hand over her belly. She held the door open for them. “Come on in boys.”
They stepped into a warm and welcoming home, the smell of roasting chicken wafting towards them from the kitchen. Both Ken and Oliver’s bellies growled loudly, their mouths watering.
“My, someone’s hungry,” grinned Martina. “Good, I’ve cooked enough to feed an army.”
“Ken and Oliver need showers. I’ll get one of my men to fetch them some clothes. None of mine will fit,” said Frank.
“I’m not surprised. They’re big lads, aren’t they?” said Martina cheerfully. “But you’d better be quick, dinner won’t be long.”
Ken and Oliver were ushered upstairs where they took it in turns to enjoy a
hot shower for the first time in years. Ken felt like a new man after the pounding hot water had hosed the filth of the street from his body. Embarrassed by the dirt left in the bottom of the tray he wiped it out before drying himself on the big fluffy towel and donning the expensive white shirt and black trousers that had been left out for him. He thought this must all be some wonderful dream and he’d wake up to find himself exhausted and hungry in that shop doorway, almost overwhelmed by the desperate need to try and find food.
He returned downstairs to find the others already tucking into the food, a feast of hot roast potatoes, corn soaked in butter, mashed carrot and swede and the centrepiece - an enormous juicy roast turkey. Ken thought he might faint with pleasure.
“I told them to wait but they couldn’t,” said Martina, greeting him as he entered the dining room. She eyed him up and down. “Much better. Sit yourself down and help yourself. It all needs eating up.”
“Thank you,” he said, sitting beside his brother, staring at the food in wonder.
“Would you like a beer?”
Ken smiled gratefully at the little blond woman. “That would smashing, thanks. I’ll get it,” he said when she waddled towards the kitchen.
“I can manage. As I keep telling my husband, I’m pregnant, not made of glass.”
“Don’t try to help, she’ll have your arm off. She’s the scariest of all the Maguires,” grinned Terry. “Ow,” he said when he was clipped around the back of the head again but this time it was by Martina.
“You make me sound like a monster,” she said before waddling into the kitchen. She returned with a beer for him then finally took her place at the table.
They ate in companionable silence, Martina waving at Ken and Oliver to continue eating even when the others had finished. They kept going until everything was gone.
Dividing Line Origins (Short story anthology - Dividing Line Series) Page 8
