by J. A. Gill
Baker caught his reflection in the mirror and saw his wagging finger. 'Anyway, now I'm happy. Just in a new way. And now it's time for a shower and to freshen up a bit. You don't mind if I use the en-suite do you? Okay, thank you. I think also I'll have a nice hot cup of tea.'
Baker stood in the hallway for a moment trying to decide whether leave the bathroom door open or whether to shut it. He decided on shut.
Back in the kitchen he flicked on the kettle to re-boil the water to make his tea. While the tea brewed he walked about the house trying to decide on a suitable memento.
'I am going to take a shower. I just decided I'd have my tea first. And no, I'm not looking for a trophy,' he shouted to Faye. 'I'm not some sort of serial killer cliché who needs to collect locks of his victim's hair or pieces of jewellery or underwear or a finger, I'm not sick. I don't have voices in my head telling me what to do, you know. All this is merely transactional. Everything you made me do is payback. You screw up my life up, I screw up yours. The difference being, you mess with me. You don't get to mess again. Ever. The memento? It's for a friend.'
Baker lifted the tea bag out of the cup and dropped it in the bin. He began opening cupboards. 'Have you got any biscuits, Faye? I've got the nibbles.' In a cupboard over the sink he found a tin tucked away at the back behind gravy granules, stock cubes, herbs and spices. The picture on the front of the tin was of the Virgin Mary holding the Baby Jesus. He lifted it out and looked at it for a moment. Are you religious, Faye?
Inside were family photographs. Little Faye. Faye as a baby and as a child. Pictures of her as a little girl holding a baby, probably a sister or brother. He saw a child Faye sitting on her dad's shoulders by the beach. Toddler Faye eating ice cream with a little brother and mum. Another of little Faye learning to ride her bike - a bike with streamers hanging from handle bars. At the bottom of the tin he saw a silver chain. He lifted out a Saint Christopher necklace and held it up in front of him, he watched it swing from side to side. The patron saint of travellers, thought Baker. I suppose we're all on journeys of one sort or another and none of us know when or how they'll end.
Baker closed the lid and sighed. He put the tin in his rucksack. He drank half his tea and poured the rest away, he no longer had the taste for it. He showered in silence. He dressed slowly then collected his rucksack and looked around the house one last time. He stood for a long while looking at the bathroom door. He chose not to speak to her again nor to go back in. Closing the front door behind him he left the house and didn't look back.
Twenty-Two
It was dark out when Baker arrived home. He was exhausted. It had been a long and emotionally draining day. He also ached, he was bruised and he felt like he'd pulled a muscle in his shoulder. Yet he still had plenty to do and it was likely to be another late night. A little louder than was necessary he shut the front door behind him. He hung up his overcoat and took off his outdoor shoes and put on his Wallace and Gromit slippers. They look like they've been chewed again. Bloody rat dog.
He shrugged it off. Not even Beckham was going to spoil this day. Baker looked in the hall mirror and smiled. He tightened and straightened his tie, then brushed his hair. The smile lessened. He could hear her. The rasping and wheezing. He waited in silence, stood motionless. A different sort of smile came across his face. Just a little fun. No harm done. Come on. Any second now.
'Simon? That you my love?'
'Yes Mother, I'm just putting those M&S slippers you got me for my birthday. They're lovely and cosy.'
'That's good, sweetheart.'
Baker stood motionless. Waiting. Holding back the laughter. 'Here it comes. Five, four, three, two, one.'
'Simon sweetheart, did you manage to pick up my cigarettes?'
Suppressed laughter sprayed from Baker's mouth. He covered his mouth with his hands. Instead of replying, he silently routed around the pockets of his coat and found what he was looking for. Baker looked at his reflection. He waited again, smiling.
'Simon love? Did you hear me. I wonder, did you manage to pick up a packet of slims?'
Baker paused just a moment longer and then with a hand behind his back and a big smile on his face walked casually into the sitting room.
'Good evening Mother. I got you something better, something you'll enjoy much more than a packet of cigarettes.'
'What do you mean?' Disappointment spread across the old woman's creased and powdered face. 'Don't play your silly games, Simon. I really am not in the mood. It's been a long day and Beckham is just not himself.' She patted Beckham who was panting heavily. His large Pug eyes glared at Baker.
Simon stepped close to his Mother. She smelled of lavender soap, stale cigarettes and dog. Beckham growled. Baker leaned over Beckham and kissed his mother's forehead.
'Thank you, sweetheart. Simon, what do you mean? "Something better." You know I like to enjoy a Friday evening cigarette. It's one of my last remaining luxuries. A small sherry and a slim cigarette. I am sure that bitch ex-wife has messed with your brain. You used to be so on the ball and now you forget the simplest of things.'
Not wanting his mother to start on about his ex-wife he fast-tracked his surprise. Baker rolled up his sleeves and began waving his arms around like a magician. 'Mother. Look. Tuh dah! Two packets.'
'Oh Simon. You naughty boy. You had me going again. You are so naughty, teasing me all the time. Thank you, sweetheart.'
Beckham rolled his fat body off her lap as the old lady rose to her feet. She walked over to the drinks cabinet and poured herself a large sherry. Beckham stood guard beside her and stared at Baker. Baker glared back and showed his teeth. Beckham's flat face looked more wrinkled than usual as he growled, panted and growled some more.
'Stop it Beckham, it's Simon.' The old lady, sherry in hand, walked to the chair close to the window. Baker opened the window as his mother eased herself down into her favourite chair. She took a quick sip of sherry and then taking a lighter from the window ledge lit her cigarette. Baker watched as his mother closed her eyes, sank back in her chair and slowly exhaled a large cloud.
'Thank you Simon. You know when you get to my age it's the small things that give a lot of pleasure. You're a good boy. I know moving in with me is hard at your time of life. But you'll get back on track. You'll put the lies and betrayal behind you and move on. Isn't that right Becky-Boo-Boo?' She stroked and patted the dog fondly.
'I know. It's you I worry about though, Mother. You know you shouldn't be smoking at all. Your chest. Your breathing. It's getting worse. Are you using the oxygen?' The old lady put out her hand and Baker sat down next to her. He took her frail hand and looked at it.
'I know sweetheart. You're a good boy. I do use the Oxygen but the mask, it frightens Beckham. He gets upset and doesn't stop barking until I take it off. I don't like to worry him.' She looked down adoringly at the Pug who was using his big glossy eyes to encourage a stroke and tickle.
'I know you love the dog Mother, but for Christ's sake, you need to use the mask. I don't know, perhaps lock the fat hamster in the kitchen while you use the mask.' Beckham growled and barked at Baker.
'Please don't raise your voice sweetheart, Beckham isn't himself today.' The old woman gave Beckham a few kisses. 'He's very sensitive to change. You know he never used to bark and growl at you.' Beckham circled a few times on her lap and then settled, his eyes fastened on Baker. The old lady began stroking him again. Then lit a second slim.
'Okay, if you're not going to listen to me then I have things to do. Now, before I start can I get you anything? Some dinner perhaps?'
'But you've only just got in. You'll make yourself ill if you don't take some time to relax. I know you're in a hurry to get your life back in order after what happened but don't hurry on my account. I enjoy having you around. This big old house can get very lonely.'
Baker ignored her and repeated his question. 'Dinner? Would you like some? I think we have some nice cheese but if you'd like something hot then we have some ping food
in the freezer. I can microwave something for you when I do mine, if you want?'
The old woman looked out of the window at the darkness.
'Mother? Some food? I think there is a shepherd's pie, a lasagna and maybe a biryani. I'll do some peas as well.'
'Thank you darling, but Mrs Benson visited earlier with a chicken casserole. We ate together. Poor woman is beside herself with worry. You remember her eldest boy, Gareth? Well he's been posted to Afghanistan. I always thought he was gay but it turns out he's doing well in the army. They probably drummed that nonsense out of him. Mind you in my day plenty of officers were gay. If the army found out, they just sent you off to Africa or some remote post. Out of sight out of mind. I suppose things just move on. Everyone is so very liberal minded these days. Every time I turn on the television it's men kissing men and girls kissing girls. If it is a man and woman, well they're all about safe words and tying each other up all over the place. God help the next generation, they'll end up having to take a degree course before knowing what they want to do in the bedroom.'
'Thank you, Mother. Glad to hear you and Mrs Benson had a nice time. I'll grab some dinner and help you to your room around ten. But I want you to start taking better care of yourself. I might not be around forever.' He instantly regretted saying the last part. Baker got up to make a hasty retreat before his Mother began worrying or had time to move onto her next favourite subject: Illegal immigrants.
'What do you mean? Are you leaving? I hope you haven't gotten yourself mixed up with another tart already. For Christ's sake Simon don't you ever learn. Your life is in tatters, your reputation in pieces, every penny you worked so hard for taken by that woman or spent on lawyers and you're gallivanting about. Ready to jump in bed with the next floozy looking to take you for every penny you have. Which, if I might add, is most likely to be your inheritance - the way my health is deteriorating. Six months they give me. Six months. And here I am worrying about the reputation of this family. A family name with a proud history. You should be spending every second of the day restoring our family name. Not running around with your trousers round your ankles. I thought I brought you up to have more sense than that. Your father, God rest his soul, and I spent a fortune on your education. We were too soft on you. We should have made you go into law or become a doctor. Instead we indulged you and tried to accept that you were an artistic boy and not so academic. Perhaps your father was right. Perhaps I did spoil you. Perhaps I should have made you follow him into law. That law firm would be yours now. You'd want for nothing. Where do you go all day anyway? Not that we need it, but I don't see any money coming in. So you're not working.' Mother began gasping for air. Beckham jumped from her lap and looked on with a mixture of curiosity and concern. Baker collected the oxygen from beside the drinks cabinet and gently slid the mask over his mother's face. She looked at him wide eyed.
'Breath - Slowly - Calmly - Breath,' said Baker reassuringly.
A tear rolled down the old woman's face and Baker stroked her back and kissed her. 'Mother listen. We've been over this. I am not going anywhere, I am here for you. And same as before when you've questioned me I am not about to run off with a tart. Nor have I suddenly become gay like Gareth. I haven't become a religious nut, or a terrorist, or a paedophile, I also haven't joined the Labour Party. And I did vote, yes, to Brexit just like you asked.'
His mother smiled and laughed through the mask. Baker continued while the old woman couldn't talk back. 'I will restore the family reputation. As it happens I am working on ensuring my name is remembered for a very long time, you must trust me on that. And just as you and father taught me, I will also ensure those who betrayed me pay a heavy price and that we Baker's have long memories and an even longer reach. I have been too trusting in the past and too forgiving. Now I am looking out for me and for you and for family. And even for Beckham here.' Baker reached out and stroked Beckham. Mother lifted the mask.
'Good boy, remember you have Baker blood in your veins. I know you're tired of me telling you and it sounds far too over-dramatic but our particular Baker bloodline can be traced back beyond the Crusades. We didn't survive all those centuries by being weak. You understand me? I know you're a sensitive soul but you can no longer afford to be sentimental, you'll be on your own soon. There will be time enough to continue the bloodline, right now you need restore and repair. So go continue your work, go and do whatever it is you need to do. As for me, I am going to finish my sherry and watch Newsnight, hopefully I'll see some liberal politician squirm a little, that always cheers me up.'
Baker closed the window a little, replenished his mother's sherry glass and retreated upstairs.
Twenty-Three
Alberto and Vlad had known each other since boyhood. They grew up in the same village. Their fathers regularly did business together and like his father, Alberto was a man of integrity and unquestioning loyalty.
As boys they had worked out that in some distant way they were cousins and that had sealed their brotherhood. They became blood brothers and dreamed together of becoming rich in America, powerful and fearless like Al Capone. They childishly vowed that together they would take on the world and probably die side by side in a blaze of glory.
Alberto's wasn't the sort of loyalty driven into men by military service. His was the family loyalty that you cannot explain, the ancient, instinctive kind that binds us unquestioningly to those we love. It ran through his veins and was DNA deep. He truly would protect and if necessary die for those he considered family.
Today his loyalty to Vlad meant he was presenting him with an innocent young woman. A young woman who had done nothing more than suspect her friend's murder was linked to rumours about a man called Wolf, an Albanian mafia millionaire who was said to be killing young women for kicks. So when she suspected her friend had been murdered by him she decided she didn't want to stick around, so she ran. Unfortunately for her, in Vlad's eyes that made her a problem, it made her look like she knew something. Why run if you know nothing?
Alberto watched the girl as he sipped his Pepsi. She had only spoken to tell him her name, Anya. He liked her spirit, a real fighter. In a very traditional way she was also incredibly beautiful. Looking at her made him remember home and his first girlfriend. A local girl who he'd promised he'd return for after a few months when he first left for London with Vlad. That was nearly twenty five years ago. He'd changed a lot in that time, he'd gone from teenager full of excitement and ambition to a man hardened through tough choices and blood-soaked hands.
Alberto looked at his watch and drained the last of his Pepsi. He got to his feet and put out a hand to show Anya the way, it was time to take her to Vlad. Another tough choice and very likely more blood on his hands.
Twenty-Four
Vlad picked up the remote control and turned off the latest episode of 'Narcos'. He felt an affinity with the Columbian drug lord Pablo Escobar portrayed in the series and was watching the first series for a third time. Escobar had been a smart man and a lot could be learned from his successes as well as his failures.
Vlad was in a good mood and smiled graciously as Alberto brought in the girl, Anya. He studied her as she stepped hesitantly into the room. 'Come in, come in, I won't bite, I promise,' said Vlad. 'Thank you Alberto, Anya and I will be fine now. I will call you if we need anything.' Vlad smiled and gestured for Alberto to leave and to close the large carved oak doors behind him.
Alberto gave Anya a firm prod to encourage her into the room and then closed the doors behind him.
'Please sit down. I am sorry about Alberto he can be a little rude in his manner and a little rough, he forgets that you are a young woman and so should be treated with tenderness and with care.' He smiled warmly and poured Anya and himself a glass of red wine. As he poured he watched as her eyes darted around the room. Her vulnerability sent a charge of adrenaline through him. He passed Anya a glass of wine and sat down in his favourite leather armchair. He motioned that she should sit as well. He drank and watched
her, she really is as beautiful as he was told, he thought. Her rich brown eyes. Those lips. Those long slim legs.
'Anya, I understand you come from a small village not far from my own home town,' said Vlad. 'Do you have family there?'
Anya hesitated for a moment wondering how he might know that about her. She could feel herself trembling and tried to stay calm, she needed to get herself back in control. 'Yes,' she said then continued. 'My parents are still there.'
'A little brother too I understand.' Vlad smiled reassuringly.
'Yes, I have a brother.'
'I am sure he misses you a great deal. I should imagine they are reliant on your sending them a little money from time to time? Things are tough in the world at the moment, financially I mean. I am sure they appreciate and perhaps even rely on your support. A little money goes a long way back home.' Vlad had caught her attention. Now he had her attention he wanted her to focus and understand what he was implying and also what he was offering. 'I'll be straight with you. I feel responsible for what happened to your friend Aleksandra. I feel an obligation to look after, or at least look in on, those who arrive here in London from Albania. I feel I let you both down. Especially Aleksandra. I want you to know I have taken steps to reach out to her family.
