With unseemly haste, he bundled himself out of Sue Ling’s flat and staggered into the cool night air. For some moments he leaned against the wall of the building, his chest heaving. It was a nightmare. A bloody nightmare. As soon as this thought came to him, the same violent image flashed back in his mind.
‘Fuck off, will you,’ he cried to it. Why on earth did this affect him so much? Why was it there and why had it castrated him? He fumbled in his pocket for his pack of small cigars. He lit one and breathed deeply allowing the tobacco to seep into his lungs. At that moment he felt as low as he could ever remember. He was gripped by a sudden fear that true emotion had found a way into his system. Real turmoil inducing feelings had finally broken through the once impregnable barrier.
With a snarl, he threw the cigar into the gutter and made his way home.
Home was a small guest house which in reality was only one notch up from Sue Ling’s bedsit; such was the lot of the provincial actor in rep. At least he had en-suite facilities in the room so when he got back, he stripped off and had a shower, attempting to sluice away the growing sense of his despair. Then he lay on the bed and re-read Alex’s letter. The last sentence seemed to radiate from the page: ‘So you see Laurence, that’s why I want this man dead.’
Laurence closed his eyes, a thin veil of perspiration still covering his face from the heat of the shower. It was against all they had agreed, all they had promised to do. They would not leave a mess in their own back yard. It was too dangerous. Connections could be made. They must remain separate entities at all times. And yet they hadn’t reckoned on this. One of their own being damaged. They hadn’t contemplated Leather Man.
Impulsively, Laurence dragged on his clothes again and ventured out into the cold night air. At the end of the street, he found a phone box. It smelt of urine and stale beer. He dialled a number he had memorised. It rang for quite a time until eventually a sleepy voice answered: ‘Yes?’
‘Russell, it’s Laurence. Are you free to talk?’
‘What…’ Russell was still dragging himself awake and not quite believing what he was hearing.
‘It’s Laurence. Are you alone?’
‘Yes, yes. Sandra’s out at some medical bash. What’s this all about?’
‘We need to meet up,’ Laurence said, his old authoritarian tone reasserting itself.
‘Meet up?’ There was a faint note of panic in Russell’s voice.
‘Have you heard from Alex?’
‘No. Why? Should I have? Is something wrong?’
‘Don’t want to go into that now. But I reckon we’re going to have to change our plans for the next project.’
‘What do you mean? What’s up?’
‘Not over the phone. Can you get to London next Sunday?’
‘Next Sunday! Are you mad?’
‘It’s important. Vital. You must.’
There was a pause while Russell came to terms with this passionate injunction.
‘It’ll be bloody difficult,’ he said at length, knowing that he’d have to comply with Laurence’s wishes. ‘On what excuse?’
‘Oh, come now, I’m sure you can come up with something. The two us need to have a board meeting urgently. I’m down in Salisbury and I can’t get away during the week because of the play I’m in.’
‘This is to do with Alex?’
‘Yeah, yeah. Something needs sorting out – rather urgently. It is important.’
There was a pause and a heavy sigh. ‘OK. I’ll wangle it some way.’
‘You are an ace wangler, Russ.’
‘I wish you’d tell me what it’s all about.’
‘Next Sunday. 12.30 in the Spice of Life pub at Cambridge Circus.’
Laurence replaced the receiver before Russell could reply.
So, he thought, Alex didn’t send a letter to Russell detailing his ordeal. Only to me. I suppose that makes me chairman of the board. Which I am and always have been, of course.
Once again the image of his friend being savagely buggered flew into his mind and he felt his stomach turn yet again. What am I going to do to exorcise that demon? he pondered, as stepped out of the phone box. Standing alone in silent street, he suddenly felt very vulnerable.
FIFTEEN
Russell was early. It was just after twelve when he walked into the dingy bar parlour of the Spice of Life, the atmosphere heavy with the aroma of strong bleach and stale beer. There were only two other customers. One was a scruff in a decaying track suit that was fooling no one. Its owner, pint in one hand and half smoked cigarette in the other, was coughing heartily. He would have trouble sprinting to the gents let alone doing any serious running. The other punter was Laurence, who was lounging at a corner table with a pint glass, smoking one of his little cigars which he waved in a camp fashion as a way of greeting. Russell bought a pint and joined him.
‘This had better be important,’ Russell said tersely, without ceremony, slumping down on a seat. A four hour train journey had made him crotchety.
Laurence did not reply. He just withdrew some sheets of paper from his jacket pocket and held them out to Russell. It was Alex’s letter.
‘What’s this?’
‘Read it.’ It was an order, not a request.
Russell took a long drink of beer and read the letter. While he was doing so, Laurence observed his friend’s countenance closely. The stern irritation which had been etched on his features slowly evaporated to be replaced at first by a look of concerned surprised which evolved, as Laurence knew it would, into a look of horror. When he had finished reading, Russell glanced over at his friend, his eyes wide with shock, but he said nothing for a time. Laurence retrieved the letter from his limp hand and replaced it in his jacket pocket.
‘Christ almighty,’ said Russell at last and then took a large gulp of his beer.
‘Indeed,’ said Laurence. ‘Christ-all-fucking-mighty.’
‘I’m having difficulty getting my head around this. Why… why did he just write to you and not me? I think I had a right to know.’
Laurence shrugged. ‘I suppose putting it down on paper once was about as much as he could take. To recount it again, well that would have been too painful. And anyway, he’d know that I’d tell you.’
That sounded a reasonable explanation but Russell couldn’t help feeling a small pang of jealousy at not being confided in as well as Laurence and just hearing the matter second-hand. Yet again he was the lieutenant not the captain. He knew this was the case, of course, but it still did not prevent him from wishing otherwise. In all other departments of his life he was an also ran. He had believed that he had at least equal status in the Brotherhood. Apparently not. With another drink of beer he attempted to wipe these selfish thoughts from his mind and return to Alex’s horrendous ordeal.
‘What are we going to do?’
Laurence stubbed out the small cigar in the tiny glass ashtray. ‘There is only one thing we can do. We must kill the bastard. Now how about an Italian?’
Twenty minutes later they were sitting in Pizza Express on Dean Street going through the motions of eating their chosen pizzas. Neither was really hungry and the thought of Alex’s experience as recorded in his letter had robbed them of any real appetite they might have had. However, they had consumed most of a bottle of red wine before the food had arrived and Laurence ordered a second.
‘Are you serious?’ said Russell toying with a portion of his American Hot.
Laurence knew that he was picking up on the conversation they’d left hanging in the air back in the pub.
‘I am. It’s our duty.’
‘But we’ve always chosen anonymous victims before – those that had no connection with us. This is really dangerous. There is a link. We could be traced.’
‘It is a tenuous link. We’re experienced fellows. If we plan. If we take the usual precautions, we’ll be fine. Besides… if we do nothing… Then it’s all over. Us. The game. The Brotherhood. If we can’t kill for our own, then we can’t do it again�
�� ever.’
Russell stared into Laurence’s eyes. The usual jaunty sparkle was missing. His face was grey, serious and strangely sad. ‘To be honest, Russell, old chap,’ he said, ‘I can’t get the thing out of my head. It’s haunting me. I feel tainted and soiled. It’s as though I’ve been buggered too. Revenge is the only solution. It’ll be like a kind of exorcism for Alex and for both of us. It will be like a purge – scrubbing the deed away. I saw your face when you read the letter. You feel like me. Don’t you?’
Russell nodded. Laurence was right. It was strange but true. ‘It was horrible,’ he said softly. ‘Far worse than anything that we’ve… Poor sod.’
Laurence’s hand reached across the table and touched Russell’s briefly. ‘I knew you’d feel the same,’ he said.
The two men held their gaze for some time.
‘How do we go about it?’ asked Russell.
Russell cocooned himself in his own thoughts as the train rattled back to Durham early that evening. The carriage was noisy and crowded and a child was screeching loudly a few seats away, but he was able to shut out all the extraneous sensations and concentrate on his thoughts as he stared out of the window at the rapidly darkening landscape. Trees, houses, farm buildings were gradually merging with the blackness of the sky and houselights, like inferior stars, speckled the inky night.
He went over the conversation that he’d had with Laurence in London and the plan that his friend had presented to him. The mechanics seemed fine – as all Laurence’s plans were – but he couldn’t help feeling that it was wrong, a mistake to take this particular route. It was a dramatic and a dangerous departure for them. And yet he realised that really this was their only option. There was no choice in the matter. They could not ignore what had happened to Alex, their brother. To retaliate, to take revenge was the only honourable thing to do. He knew that things would never be the same if they did nothing about it. However, Russell was equally sure that nothing would be the same if they did. It was a no win situation. Nevertheless, there was no going back. The time for withdrawal had long since passed. Since he and Laurence had killed old Mother Black’s dog they had formed a bloody bond that would bind them until their own death.
‘Tea. Coffee. Refreshments.’
The trolley service had arrived at his seat. He waited until the other passengers had ordered and then asked for a black coffee and a couple of whiskies.
By the time the train pulled into his station, tiredness and the whisky had relaxed Russell enough for his mood to have shifted to one of bleak acceptance of the situation as planned by Laurence. He didn’t like it, he feared it, but it had to be done. He afforded himself as wry grin as he made his way wearily to the taxi rank. As always, he mused, following Laurence was better than doing nothing.
SIXTEEN
Sandra lay on her back staring at the ceiling unable to sleep. As usual she had gone to bed early on Sunday evening, extra hours under the covers in readiness for Monday and the week ahead. She had contemplated waiting up for Russell, but in the end she ditched that idea. It was so unlike him to go off suddenly for the day. He was such a meticulous person who planned his activities with great care well in advance. Spontaneous he was not. So this excursion to visit an old friend who was very ill seemed so out of character and, to be honest, suspicious. As he explained it to her without much conviction, she knew that it was a lie. She’d never heard him mention this friend before – Russell didn’t really have friends – and he failed to explain why it was so important for him to go so quickly to see this man. As always, she refrained from asking him too many questions but she couldn’t help thinking that there was something more to this sudden trip than she was being told. However, this was nothing new. She was well aware when she agreed to marry Russell that she would never know him fully, would never reach that special intimate oneness with him, would never own him as some wives owned their husbands. She thought of Russell as ‘iceberg man’ – so much unseen below the surface. Even when they made love, she was conscious that he was not giving fully of himself, that he was keeping part of something back, hiding a secret self which he would never reveal. She accepted this. It failed to rouse her curiosity to any great extent. She was content that she had a reliable and respectable husband.
At the thought of their lovemaking, Sandra instinctively stroked her stomach. There was as yet only a gentle swell, but she was conscious of the child growing inside her. The child that would make her whole. The child that would be hers completely, someone she could own and love unconditionally. There would be no reserve, no secrets with her child. They would bond and be inseparable. She acknowledged that in helping to create this baby, Russell had performed his ultimate function. From now on, she knew that they would grow apart – grow further apart. As a married couple with a child they would function in a clichéd fashion without the true warmth and passion of closeness of real partners and parents. As she contemplated these thoughts, the fact that Russell was not yet back suddenly ceased to worry her. Suddenly, it did not matter. She had the baby. That was all that really did matter.
With an incipient smile on her face, Sandra finally slipped away into peaceful sleep and failed to hear Russell return to the house and get into bed beside her just before midnight.
In its own way, Russell’s trip had changed both their lives.
Earlier that evening Alex had received a telephone call from Laurence.
‘Can you talk?’ asked Laurence without ceremony.
‘Yes. I’m on my own again. John left about a week ago. I’m a bit difficult to live with at the moment.’
‘I will be brief,’ said Laurence. ‘The Lone Ranger and Tonto are coming to your rescue. We need to meet, form a plan and then proceed with its execution. We rendezvous at the Guardsman in Leeds at noon a week on Saturday. Do not mention this to anyone. Is that clear?’
‘Yes.’
The telephone went dead.
Alex stared at himself in the hall mirror. He looked tired, he thought. Tired and something else. What? Tired and … haunted. He was not sure what Laurence and Russell had in mind, but he didn’t think that anything they did would exorcise the dark shadow which had fallen over his life. He doubted if he ever would feel whole and clean again.
When the meeting took place in the Guardsman, it did not surprise either Russell or Alex that Laurence arrived full of enthusiasm with a fully formed plan of action. It was daring and shocking and all three were aware that that it was taking them into new territory.
‘I know there is more danger in this enterprise,’ Laurence observed, casually as though discussing the weather, ‘but there is a purpose, a focus to our deed – other than our own pleasure – which adds extra spice to the venture. Remember that. Cherish it as an add-on feature. We mustn’t get timid now.’
Russell grimaced. ‘There’s always been danger, but this time it seems as though we are taking too much of a risk. We’ve never had a reason to act before. Our actions have been random and motiveless and therefore to outsiders, i.e. the police, unfathomable. There has been nothing to connect us with the victim. That’s been our success. Tenuous though it might be, in this case there is a link between us and the victim.’
Alex nodded. ‘That’s me. I am the link. Russell’s right, it does seem a bit rash. I’m not sure about this. I really shouldn’t have got you involved. I don’t want you to take risks on my behalf. I know that you’re only doing this because of me…’
‘Not just you, old lad,’ said Laurence leaning in close. ‘But for all the others – past and possible future. This is a bloody social service we are about to perform. As always. And don’t tell me that you won’t feel more than a frisson of pleasure when we do the bastards in.’
Alex’s features softened to allow the ghost of a smile to register there. In truth, he didn’t know how he would feel. At first the idea of revenge was sweet, but then he realised that whatever was done to the men who had raped him, it wouldn’t alter the fact. The dirty, sordid, unf
orgettable fact. You cannot wipe out the past by future actions. Now he wondered if anything at all, other than death, his own death, would bring him peace. But he saw the fire in Laurence’s eyes and was aware that this was just as important to him.
‘If you’re sure…’ he said quietly, at length, holding back his reluctance.
Laurence raised a questioning eyebrow at Russell who, after the briefest pause, nodded firmly. ‘It’s the least we can do,’ he said evenly.
Laurence gave a little guffaw of satisfaction and ordered another round of drinks. ‘Now that’s settled, I need some information from you, Alex, so I can set this plan into operation. Don’t look so worried, mon ami. I assure you, it will go like clockwork.’
SEVENTEEN
Laurence was thorough. Doing his ‘homework’, as he called it, was almost as pleasing to him as the actual job itself. The run of Twelfth Night had now finished and he had happily said farewell to his fellow actors and, with some relief, to Sue Ling also. After his disappointing performance in her flat, he had avoided her. He didn’t want to be reminded of his failure and had no intention of making a second attempt – although she still seemed keen – in case the same thing happened again. That, he couldn’t live with.
So he now entered a period of ‘resting’, allowing him time to devote to his ‘homework’. He travelled up to Huddersfield wearing a light disguise, his old favourite: a false moustache and glasses, with hair greying at the temples and a shabby blazer and flannels which, normally, he wouldn’t have been seen dead wearing. In this persona he booked in at the George Hotel by the station giving his name as Tom Harris and began his recce. Using Alex’s directions, he hired a car and drove out into the country to locate the isolated house owned by the man called Matt. He did it with ease. He parked the car fifty yards away on the opposite side of the road and gazed at the property for some time. There wasn’t another house for nearly a mile. There was no sign of life. No doubt Matt was at work – which allowed Laurence the opportunity to scout around. He made his way up the path and pressed the bell. As expected there was no reply. He walked around the perimeter familiarising himself with the geography of the place. He gazed in through the windows; what he could see through the smeared glass matched Alex’s description of the ground floor. Very chintzy.
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