by M W Foolster
The other one yelled, "Ain’t no second warning brov."
Then they were gone. The hostility he’d heard in their voices had made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and although he'd had no idea what they were talking about at the time, he'd cycled a damn sight faster after that. Yep, he had been very fortunate, because if he'd been cycling along the road a few minutes later… He dreads to think.
And by the time he'd got home, all hell had broken loose. Along with most of the rest of the UK, as well as a sizeable International audience, he'd sat glued to the television, feeling horrified as he'd watched it all unfold. The following morning had been just as shocking, the scale of the damage caused, the smell of burning which had lingered in the air for days after, and as for this pitiful road, it had been completely closed off, was for weeks, awful memories.
A police siren pierces his thoughts, bringing him back to reality with a jolt. In fact, the air is full of the sounds of distant sirens. And the noise of the traffic is deafening. He is suddenly in desperate needs of a smoke.
His mind drifts to his estranged, actually no, it’s now ex-wife Cathy, and at how she had insisted that they both give up smoking at the same time, their joint New Year’s resolution back in 2012. 'Yer right'. He had finally relented to her demands, as he usually did back then, but with a compromise that he would only attempt to quit if he could have an electronic ciggie to help him. She’d reluctantly agreed as long as he promised not to use it in front of her.
Something thunders across the sky above him. He looks up, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand, and spots a distinctive police helicopter, most likely monitoring the traffic. Not that anything is moving, the traffic is at a complete standstill and nobody is getting anywhere soon. People are vacating their cars, mobiles in hand, imitating meerkats as they go up on tiptoes and crane their necks in an attempt to see what's happening further down the road. Passengers streaming off of the buses, the realisation setting in that it will be quicker to walk. Jason wondering if there will come a time when they'll have to ban cars from being used during the rush hour, or at least restrict their usage, if not, these sort of scenes will become the norm.
Now here’s a difficult choice, the electronic or a normal ciggie. He contemplates the choice for all of 2 seconds before pulling the 20 pack from his jacket pocket. He'd hated keeping secrets from Cathy back then but needs that must, and he'd truly envied her willpower. She’d managed to stop immediately and to his knowledge, she hasn’t smoked since. He had lasted all of 12 days. He guessed she must have smelt the cigs on him but she never said, on his part, he never smoked in or anywhere near the house. Damn it, the lighter is out of petrol, right, first priority, a box of matches, and Mr Patel's Newsagents is just a few shops down.
Jason catches a reflection of himself in the Newsagents window. Damn, he looks rough, the bags under his eyes are fast growing into suitcases. He lights up the ciggie and inhales deeply, followed immediately by a spasm of heavy coughing. He checks his watch. Still got thirty-five minutes, plenty of time. And as for poor old Harry, the girls in work will take that news hard, he just wants some good news for once. He steps up the pace, but isn't easy breathing with the traffic fumes. Why don't they just turn off their engines?
Past the infamous Hangman's Noose pub that dates back to the 17th century, rarely uses it himself, far too expensive for his pocket. Now at Borrington Pond. Not that there is a pond anymore, long since filled in, just a giant roundabout, and also completely clogged up with traffic. He smiles to himself as he thinks back to a conversation he'd had with Harry regarding the area. Harry informing him that back in the 17th Century, there had been a public gallows erected here, hence the name of the pub, although it had been a busy Coaching Inn back then And the much used public gallows had remained well into the 18th Century, reason being. that the London Road had been a favourite haunt for Highwaymen, rich pickings to be had along this road with it having been the main route into London. And many of those Highway robbers had eventually met their maker on this very spot, where they’d be left dangling for days. Even rumoured that the notorious Dick Turpin, probably the most famous Highwayman of them all, had plied his trade along this road. Riding the legendary Black Bess, he'd terrorised the highways back in the 1700’s. Dressed in a black cape, face masked, wearing a tricorn hat, musket in hand, he'd hold up stagecoaches, robbing their rich occupants, uttering the infamous words, 'Stand and Deliver', to his victims. That's the romanticised myth anyway.
He remembers that his boys, Ollie and Jamie, had loved that story, so much so that they'd pestered him for weeks to buy them costumes. He'd eventually relented, and managed to find some costumes online. Masks, hats, cravats and capes for both of them. And of course the toy muskets. He grins as he remembers them running around the garden, straddling brooms as they'd both pretended to ride their very own Black Bess. How on returning home from work, and much to their delight, he'd imitate a hapless victim, falling to his knees, handing over the change in his pocket. His grin becomes a huge smile as he recollects the episode with the postman. How they'd leapt out in front of him one morning, yelling 'Stand and deliver... Your money or your life' at the top of their voices. The postman had literally screamed. Jason can still hear that high pitched squeal as the postman had thrown the post and packages high into the air. Both him and Cathy had rushed out of the front door, thinking a woman was being attacked, only to find their little Highwaymen stood there staring up at a very embarrassed postman. Struggling not to laugh, they'd sent the boys indoors, apologising as they helped the postman hunt around the garden picking it all back up. With a dead pan expression, and not having uttered a single word, he'd haughtily stormed off, slamming the gate behind him. They'd barely made it back indoors before collapsing on the floor in hysterical laughter.
Jason checks his watch on reaching Borrington High Street. 8:35am. He best get a move on. Past the medical centre and the three B&B’s, all neighbouring each other, the bookmakers, several recently opened pawnbrokers and then the coffee shop, the rich aromas always so enticing. The Tamil greengrocers, Jason’s always fascinated by the vegetables displayed out front, many have names he'd never even heard of. On past Josie's florist, and then the beauty salon, June spotting him and giving him an enthusiastic wave. The Modellers shop, so tempted to stop and look in the window at the new railway layout, but no time this morning. Several budget shops, which he is forever shopping in, his finances having now become a serious issue. The games store, a big colourful poster advertising the new zombie apocalypse first person shooter, apparently now available for all platforms. He desperately misses the games consoles, another sacrifice made in the separation. On past Borrington train station, his attention drawn towards the commuters stood outside, all looking thoroughly perplexed. A sharply dressed, mousy haired man arguing vociferously with a harassed looking woman in a South Eastern trains uniform, he doesn't envy her. Cab Office next door packed out. Walking opposite Luigi's cafe, stares over, is being beckoned across but no time for breakfast this morning. Jason shrugs his shoulders at Maria and points at his watch. She waves her hand in acknowledgement.
8:45am. He'd made it with fifteen minutes to spare. The huge green and white sign behind him showing: Borrington Central Library, and listing the opening hours.
13 A Meeting With Butner
Gabriel wakes bathed in sweat, head swimming and immediately regrets having drunk the lagers. Grimacing as he pulls himself free of the leather sofa, he walks into the bathroom for a pee. Another shower to clear his head, and into the bedroom. Looks down at the jeans and t-shirt, knows he can’t put it off for much longer but he doesn’t feel ready, not yet. Imagines himself competing in a body building tournament as he stares at his body in the full length mirror, speaking aloud.
“Double bicep pose, biceps like bowling balls. A full lat spread, impressive, abs clearly defined and bulging. Right side chest and tricep pose. Looking good, Gabriel Brown. Looking good.”
The sound of the letterbox springing closed catches his attention. Feet thudding loudly on the laminated flooring, he wanders through into the hallway. A solitary envelope lies on the floor. Gabriel tears it open, anger cursing through him as he reads the hand written message inside the Welcome Home card.
Tick. Tock. You are a walking dead man Brown. Get ready to meet your maker.
He storms into the bedroom and pulls the plastic bundle from beneath the bed. Hesitates momentarily before tearing at the bubble-wrap, unable to prevent its carefully wrapped contents from falling noisily to the floor. Now sat on the edge of the bed, he bends over and reaches for the shiny, black object, releasing a heavy sigh as he feels the weight in his hand. He inspects it closely, surprised by how heavy it feels, the cold, hard steel reflecting his mood. Checks that the safety is on. Butner is right about one thing, if nothing else, he has been left with no other option, not now, it is him or Dyson. He ejects the magazine, reaches for the box containing the 9mm bullets and fills it. Pushes the magazine back in and hears a click. Checks his watch: 8:45am. Walks across to the built in wardrobe, intending to hide it inside a jacket. Something catches his eye from the living room. Movement. He tenses. There is somebody in the flat with him. He grips the gun tightly. A forward roll across the room, quickly stands and flattens himself against the wall. His heart now hammering loudly in his chest. Trying to calm himself, to control his breathing. He feels sweat forming on his forehead. Straining to hear something, anything, but the silence is deafening. He didn't imagine it, something moved across the room. There it is again. A rustling sound. Faint, but it’s there. Somebody waiting on the other side, waiting for him to show himself. How many though? One? Two? More? How did they get in? Key. Must have had a key, no other explanation. Bluff it out. Let them make the first move. Make them come for him. No. That might be a mistake. Surprise them. Move fast. Take the fight to them.
'Get a grip Gabriel, you can do this.'
He takes a deep breath and then storms into the room, gun held two-handed as he’d seen on the internet.
"You dead, you f..."
He collapses to his knees, mumbling to himself
“‘Balloons. I was hiding from fucking balloons.”
The gun wavering, hands trembling, he can't move, just kneels there staring as the 3 balloons bounce around the kitchen doorway. They must have come loose from the light fitting they were tied to. He looks around the room. The trouble they had gone to for him. Yassi, Chloe, Ash and Jonah. The ‘Welcome Home’ banners, the balloons, and as for the table full of alcohol, that alone must have cost them a small fortune. The fridge-freezer full of party food. And the flat looking immaculate. Dusted, cleaned, and even his washing had been done for him, ironed and put away. He loves them. They are his family. He looks down at the gun, his hands still shaking.
'Shit, the safety is still on. Man, who an I trying to fool, would be dead if anybody had been in the flat. Whad the fuck am I doing? This ain’t me, no way. Am not cut out for it.’
Now doubting himself. Thinking of what he will have to sacrifice. And that it will mean breaking the code they all hold sacred. He doubts Yassi will ever forgive him because she’d know. But whether she understands his reasoning, or not, he has a responsibility to protect her. To protect all of them. Or die trying.
Thirty minutes later, and with the gun having been carefully deposited back underneath the bed, Gabriel starts to grow restless. Flicks through the TV channels, same old crap, decides that he probably needs to get out into the open, the flat is starting to feel like a prison cell. And he needs somebody to talk to. The truth is, he's missing Frenchy. Overcome with loneliness, he reaches for his mobile, scrolls through the messages and stares down at the selfie Louise had sent him. Wearing nothing but a skimpy pair of french knickers and a bra, the accompanying message being, 'All yours'. He runs his fingers across the image on the screen. Smiles to himself as he thinks back to the last time he'd seen sexy underwear. Frenchy.
Gabriel emerges from the doorless toilet, the eyes now peering through the metal door flap at him enough to give anybody constipation. Two weeks banged up and doesn't get any easier. Could have been far worse, he knows that. Gerome, his cell mate from that first night in reception, well, he hasn't been so lucky. Had only seen him a few times since that night, and the poor guy had obviously been badly beaten, no clearly visible marks but he could tell. Yep, Gerome had looked a broken man. Heard later that the pig eyed bullies had got to him. Then all the commotion on the landing two nights back, boots clanging on the metal gangways, screws shouting and then came the whispers, somebody had killed themselves. Gerome's cell empty the following day, rumoured that he'd cut his wrists in the middle of the night. Frenchy less than sympathetic as he'd told Gabriel that he wasn't the first to top himself, and sure as hell won't be the last. That like many lifers, he'd thought about it himself but he just wasn't that desperate, not yet at any rate.
At least he'd had no further problems with his fellow inmates, still getting dirty looks and the odd derogatory remark at his expense, but nothing he couldn’t handle. Dwayne and Josh, the man mountains, had taken a real liking to him, and the gym time spent in their company was really paying off. With their powerful and sculptured bodies looking as though they'd been chiselled out of granite, their eyes as cold as the metal they pumped, both proved to be men of few words but they listened. And he'd left them in no doubt as to why Gerome had committed suicide. Didn't comment on it, let alone show any show any emotional reaction but they'd made a point of visiting the two pig eyed thugs in their cell. Both were now recovering in the infirmary.
Frenchy suddenly flings off the heavy blanket and poses in front of him, "Well?"
"Fuck, Frenchy, you crazy?" He rubs his eyes in surprise on finding himself gazing up at his very made up cell mate. Eyeliner and mascara emphasising his eyes, pale lipstick and blusher, his body shaved smooth and wearing nothing but a pair of silky white French knickers.
"The screws see you like that man and you will be banged up in solitary.."
"A man has gotta do what a girl ain’t here to do," Frenchy cracks up in a high pitched laugh.
"You are crazy, man, you know that, right?"
"Don't be such a bore. Anyway, I have got to play Butner's game, keep him happy, you know?"
"Ehh. Butner's game?"
"Yep, and you would not believe the lengths I go to in keeping Raymond Butner satisfied."
Frenchy leaps back up on to his bunk, Gabriel shaking his head as he sits in the wooden chair, legs stretched out in front of him.
"As in, brov? Or shouldn't I ask?"
"Not what you are thinking, babe, that's for sure. All very innocent really. I just dance around his cell and pour him a few cocktails. That's all Butner has ever asked of me. And believe me, it's all that's on offer."
"You are so right, man, would never of thought that."
Frenchy squeals with laughter.
"Well, my sweet Gabe, you and Butner both have something that has no appeal to me, whatsoever."
"Ehh?"
"Look, just because I look and act this way it doesn't mean I find men appealing in that way, because I don't."
"I… Well..."
"Don't know what to say?"
"Yer, brov, that's about right. So you saying you like women?"
"No. Don't do anything for me either. Am, look you ever heard of an asexual?"
"No, man, you have like lost me."
"I have no interest in either sex, Gabe. Am just not sexually attracted to anyone, no matter their gender, never have been."
Gabriel feels a certain relief in Frenchy's disclosure, but then finds himself feeling deeply ashamed, after all, what difference does it make?
"But what about that guy you worked with, brov. Fred right? The crime passionel, or whatever it was."
"It was Frederico and we weren’t… We were just an act. The Cocktail Kings. But that was all... Look, it's complicated. The truth is I have only ever been with one
person before, and she was my closest friend. Not even sure how it happened. I had never been sexually aroused before that night. But it just, well, felt right. Chances are, it will be my one and only time, you know!"
Frenchy suddenly goes quiet, looks to be deep in thought, and then he continues.
"Her name is Cheryl. We used to work together at the bar and I do love her. Okay, maybe not in the same way you would a woman but, well I really do love her. More than... To be honest, Gabe, she's all I think about. Not what you expected to hear, right?"
Doors unlocked, lunchtime, Frenchy, now dressed in the prison grey jumper and trousers, his head down, walks straight out the door. Gabriel battles his way through the canteen, grabs a tuna sandwich and water before heading back to the cell. Strips to the waist, washes at the sink, still doesn't trust the showers.
"Pssssstttttt."
Gabriel turns to finds himself staring down at a small, greasy haired guy easing his way into the cell. The stranger leans out of the door and checks the gangway, and pushes the heavy metal door closed.
"Want to do some business, mate? Frenchy said to drop on by and see you."
Gabriel is relieved, not that the guy looked like he would pose any threat. Hunched shoulders, tiny weasel like eyes peering up at him. And a slight lisp as he asks. "Well, mate?"
