by Shaun Baines
Bronson was tucked between a battered Kia and a blue Nissan. Cutting the Jaguar engine, he looked at Scott's front door and twisted his hands around the steering wheel. The afternoon light cast long shadows and Seaburn felt different. The inescapable sound of the sea was the same, as was the screeching of hungry seagulls, but Butchers Road had an alien feel, as if Bronson was trespassing somewhere he didn't belong.
Scott's neighbour stepped from her front door, a broom in hand. She was about eighty years old, wearing a tabard over her floral nightie. She brushed the pavement outside her home. Once done, she stepped back inside with a final search of the street.
The roads of Seaburn were familiar to Bronson now. He'd spent hours driving through them, up one way, down another. He'd been thinking about Daniel, of how he was obstinate and unstable; how he refused to reveal the location of the cocaine and how he'd tried to kill Bronson. Twice.
And then Bronson found himself at Scott's house, afraid to get out of the car. If he released the seatbelt, if he opened the door, he was going to Scott's house. If he was there, he'd ring the bell. And if it was answered, he was going to ask Scott to take over the Daytons. He gagged at the thought, but it refused to leave him alone.
A van rumbled down Butcher's Road. There were no parking spaces and it stopped in the middle of the street, its brake lights blinking out. Bronson sat up, his eyes swelling as Sprout jumped from the driver's seat. The boy walked quickly to the rear doors, keeping his head low. He bungled the van keys, dropping them and plucking them out of the gutter. Wrestling a gun from his tracksuit bottoms, Sprout opened the van.
"Holy shit," Bronson whispered.
Lily stumbled into the sea air. She was crying, wiping tears away as fast as they fell. Sprout raised his fist as a warning and she cowered under the threat. Pushing her to the pavement, he showed her the gun again before locking the van.
A seagull screeched from a rooftop. Bronson's hand went to the door handle, but he froze. Sprout had been missing since the incident at The Devil's Playground. Bronson assumed he'd been spooked and decided to start a new life. He'd forgotten how dumb the boy could be. But what was he doing here? And why was he threatening Lily with a gun?
Pulling her up by the elbow, Sprout barked out an order and they marched down the street. The van blocked Bronson's view, but there was only one place they could be going.
The glove compartment of his car was empty. He'd decided against bringing a weapon as a show of trust, but that trust had been betrayed. Given his recent behaviour, the irony wasn't lost on him.
Bronson slipped from the Jaguar and jogged to the back of the van. He peered around it in time to see the door of Scott's house close. Bursting through the front entrance was likely to get him shot and he considered his options, resolving to run away.
The back lane was narrow, overlooked by towering houses on either side. There was a river of sky above him, but the sun was hidden by the buildings and the air was cool. Wheelie bins sat outside of back gates leading into concrete yards. Bronson side stepped old mattresses and dog turds, counting down the houses. He arrived at Scott's backyard with its thigh-high fence and gate. Not the security he expected and he stole inside.
Ducking beneath the back window, Bronson squinted through the glass. The room beyond was dark. He saw movement, vague shadows drifting through the mist, but nothing else. He searched for a weapon. A roll of dirty blankets lay by the gate with a string of grey bandages unravelling in the wind. No half bricks. No metal pipes. Nothing he could use.
Pulling out his mobile phone, he rang Daniel, cursing when the call went to voicemail. Tapping the phone against his chin, he had another idea, but Masani and Marvin didn't pick up, either. Bronson was on his own.
"Can I help you with something, dear?" Scott's elderly neighbour leaned over the boundary wall. Up close, he saw the deep folds of her wrinkles and the brilliance of her blue eyes.
Bronson shook his head. "Just waiting for a friend."
"A friend? Crouched down like that?" she asked. "Do you think I came over on the last banana boat?"
"I'm waiting for Scott," he said, glossing over the casual racism.
Her face lit up and she clutched her gnarled hands to her chest. "Oh, he's such a sweetheart, isn't he?"
"Who? Scott?"
"Always a kind word," she said, her dentures sliding at odds with her jaw. "A lot of the young ones don't talk to us pensioners. He says, it's a shame. We have so much to offer."
Bronson was lost. "Who does? Scott?"
Her eyes flamed, the blue changing to red. Bronson was sure she was frowning, but it was difficult to tell under her wrinkles.
"Are you certain you're his friend, dear?" she asked. "You don't sound like you know him at all."
"It's okay, Mrs Clearby. I'll take it from here."
Scott's shoes scraped along the concrete of the yard as he entered. He closed the gate, sliding in the bolt with a clunk. He rattled it, checking it was secure.
"There you are, dear," Mrs Clearby said. "I caught a gypo trying to break into your house."
"I know who he is," Scott said. "Why don't you go back inside?"
Fixing her loose teeth, she fled into the house. Moments later, her curtains fluttered and Bronson knew they were being watched.
"I wasn't expecting visitors," Scott said.
"You've got her fooled," Bronson said, standing up.
"It's a quiet street. Best to keep on everyone's good side."
"She'll turn on you when she finds out who you really are."
"I don't know what you mean." Scott frowned, tilting his head to the left. "I thought you and I were friends now."
Skirting along the boundary wall, Bronson closed in on the fence. It was a few steps away, low enough to jump. Bronson watched Scott watching him. He was ill, but gaining strength. Fighting wasn't an option. It would waste time and the outcome was uncertain. It might alert Sprout and throwing a stupid kid with a gun into the mix was the last thing Bronson wanted.
The wall chafed against the back of Bronson's legs as he moved.
"No more man dates at the cinema for us, then." Sunlight broke through a gap in the buildings and shone on Scott's face. He smiled, like a cat might to a mouse. "If you're running for help, don't bother. I have my own."
Angel Maguire strolled along the back lane, spitting a lump of gum at a nearby seagull. Her glasses were gone. Her hair had changed. Her clothes were stylish. She was a new woman, but madness was still etched on her face. Angel's lips gibbered in a silent conversation with an unseen entity. She stopped when she saw Bronson and her eyes focused into beams.
"Surprise," she said and linked arms with Scott. "Together at last."
"I should have known." Bronson propped himself against the wall, closing his eyes. Sprout wasn't the fool here. He'd defected to a winning side; a side who were swelling in numbers. It would prolong his life. It was unlikely Bronson could say the same.
Scott and Angel gazed at each other.
"He killed two of your men," Bronson said to Angel.
She batted her eyelids. "It was an easy swap. Scott is worth ten of my goons. As soon as he was on my side, I didn't need them."
"It was all for show," Scott said. "No matter what you said, I figured you were plotting to sink me in the Tyne. I had to win you over so I could concentrate on dealing with my imbecile brother."
"When? When did you get together?" Bronson asked, staring at his feet.
"We met on Tyne-der," Angel said, her face glowing. "Isn't that romantic? He sent me a message and I found him waiting outside of my house."
Scott ran a hand over his head. "When Daniel torched the coke, or I thought he did, I saw the Daytons going down in flames. He was never going to let me back in the fold. I needed a new life and you were my bargaining chip."
Bronson spat on the ground, but a bitter taste in his mouth remained. "Daniel was right about you all along."
"Can't quite get the hang of the trust thing, can you?
"
Running for the fence, Bronson vaulted over it, but Angel was too quick. Her arm slammed into the side of his head, forcing him down. He landed on his face, his vision blurred while lights flashed behind his eyes. Rolling onto his back, Bronson held his head, stickiness oozing between his fingers. The sky above was far away. A seagull pitched on the eddies of the wind and vanished into the sun.
Scott's moon-like face appeared above him. "Did you honestly think I'd forgive you for what you did?" He rummaged in his pockets and produced a coin, handing it to Angel. "I've just sold you for a pound. That's all it took for me to buy a new life."
Bronson's tongue was mushy in his mouth. He tried to talk, but the words refused to come. The world gyrated beneath him. Not just the physical world, but all the false assumptions he'd based his life on.
"This is going to get ugly for you, mate," Scott said, joining Angel on the other side of the gate. He gave a quick wave to the twitching curtains of Mrs Clearby's house and hooked his arms under Bronson.
"I told Panwar I'd collect Lily when I was ready," Angel said. "I better give him a call."
Bronson felt Scott's arms jerk in surprise. "There's no hurry. Don't you want to show your mother what you've done? I think she'll be proud of you."
The smile on Angel's face was humourless, but her eyes sparkled as she took in Bronson's form. With a nod, she skipped along the back lane, her lips moving to a silent song.
"It's time to pay for your sins," Scott said to Bronson. "All of them."
Chapter Forty-Two
Scott stood in the doorway, eyeing the Alsatian with distrust.
"Relax," Eleanor said, rubbing a bandaged hand over the dog's head. "He's well trained."
She sat at the head of the eight-seater table in a high back chair that looked more like a throne. By her glass was a brown vial of pills. Shaking one out, Eleanor swallowed it with a gulp of wine.
The Alsatian was like stone. Its back was rigid, its head proud as Eleanor tickled it behind the ears. Scott saw the welts on its muzzle. Fur was missing from its hindquarters. Like him, it was thin and had seen its fair share of fights.
"I rescued him from Henderson's, poor thing," Eleanor said, picking dog hairs from her bandages, "but I couldn't find Henderson anywhere."
Scott took a seat, finding it hard and uncomfortable. "What happened to your hand?"
"That's Hope's seat," Eleanor said, draining her wine, "and my hand is none of your business."
The napkins were made of cloth, not the paper kind Scott was used to. He laid one over his lap, assuming it was the right thing to do. A bowl of green soup was waiting for him and he selected one of the many spoons.
"And where is Hope?" he asked.
"Holiday." The word hung in the air, heavy and loaded. Eleanor ran a finger around the rim of her glass. "I haven't heard from her. I'm sure she's fine. It's not like her, that's all."
"Perhaps she's too busy enjoying herself," Scott said. "Although, it's an odd time to stay out of touch, isn't it?"
Doubt crept over Eleanor's face. The fine lines around her eyes darkened into scars from a lifetime of treachery. "I've been in this game a long time. Longer than your departed father, in fact. I'm beginning to wonder if there is something rotten in my household." She looked at him from under hooded eyes. "Are we friends, Scott? Or allies?"
"We're working together, but we both know this deal has shaky legs. And we both know why."
"I have something for you." Eleanor reached under the table and produced a folded piece of paper.
Scott opened it and whistled. "A cheque? For fifty thousand pounds?"
"It's for a day centre in Bologna. They look after people like my daughter."
"You want to send Angel to a nut house?" Scott asked. "Out of sight, out of mind. Why is it signed to me?"
"She doesn't listen to me anymore," Eleanor said between mouthfuls of wine, her words becoming increasingly slurred, "but I've seen how she looks at you. You have to help her before it's too late."
The door opened and Angel sloped in, wearing ripped jeans and a faded punk t-shirt. She avoided her mother's stare and fixed her attention on Scott. Her eyes travelled over his body and when Scott looked at her, she blushed.
Scott returned to his soup. The sweats were over and his tremors only came at night when he was forced to revisit The Playground in his nightmares. His appetite was building into a constant hunger, but there were some things he simply couldn't stomach.
"Don't you like pea and ham soup?" Angel asked. "I could find you something else."
"I'm sure Scott is fine with what he's been given," Eleanor said with a knowing look. "Why don't you tell us why we've been kept waiting for your presence?"
Angel took a seat and hunched over a bowl, spooning green liquid into her mouth. "I've been busy. Again."
Scott caught the look between mother and daughter and leaned into his chair.
"We all know what you've been doing," Eleanor said. "What you haven't done is explain how it helps to get the cocaine back." She refilled her glass with wine and drank it in a single slurp.
Scott placed a hand on Angel's knee. Her soup missed her mouth and she frantically mopped at her t-shirt with a napkin.
"Let me tell your mother what we've been up to," he said. "It's simple, really. There are only a handful of places the cocaine can be. Angel has eliminated the scrapyard. She also searched the home of a man called Bear. It's not there, either."
Eleanor raised her eyebrows at her daughter.
"The last place it can be is Five Oaks," Angel said, "but it's a big place and Daniel rarely leaves for long."
She gently squeezed Scott's hand under the table. Her grip was clammy and did little for Scott's appetite. Monica might have messaged him with news. He wanted to check his phone, but while his hand was held captive, he'd have to wait.
"So we put a man on the inside," he said, smiling thinly at Angel.
"I masked up. Made Daniel think his family was in danger. Predictably, he moved them to Five Oaks and our man littered the place with cameras."
Eleanor shifted in her seat. She scooped up the soup with her spoon and let it dribble back into the bowl. "Why not storm the house?"
"Do you want this cocaine back or not?" Angel's lips continued moving long after she finished speaking.
Scott winced as Angel's fingernails dug into his hand. "I'm not like my brother, Eleanor," he said. "If he thinks he's under threat, he'll torch the coke for real. Better to play a long game."
"Speaking of which," Angel said, "I'd better make a move and pick up our last piece of the puzzle."
Wriggling his hand from her grip, Scott wiped it on his trousers and propped his elbows on the table. He saw the rejection in Angel's face and threw a smile in her direction. It was a cliché, but it was true. Women liked bad guys. The problem for Angel was that she didn't know how bad Scott really was.
"Give Panwar time to set up," he said. "You've devised a smashing plan. Let's not ruin it by being hasty."
Angel glowed, pressing fingers into her hot face. "It'll mean spending more time together."
"I can live with that," Scott said, checking his phone. There was no message from Monica and put the phone away. "We'll tell once we have the hostage and we want the cocaine in exchange. It will take him time to organise, but we'll be watching. As soon as we know where it is, we swoop in and take it before he does anything stupid."
Scott glanced over the paintings of the hunting dogs on the wall. "You know, I'm going to be a father soon. If my child turns out to be anything like Angel, I'd be delighted."
Eleanor tapped the table next to Scott's full soup bowl. "She's highly strung, but I think you bring out the best in her." The bottle next to Eleanor was almost empty. Her cheeks were flushed and she swayed in her chair. "Please tell me you're giving me a reason to buy a wedding hat."
"Mam," Angel said, wafting a hand in front of her face. Her cheeks were as red as her mother's, but she couldn't hide her s
mile. "You're embarrassing us."
"Of course, she's never been the same since the accident," Eleanor said.
A knife jumped into Angel's hands. She banged the handle on the table and got to her feet. "Why is it not enough? We have Bronson. We have a plan. What do I have to do to make you like me?"
Scott didn't react. He had a fruit fork secreted under his napkin.
"You never do anything for me," Angel shouted and stormed out of the room, slamming the door.
"Like I say, highly strung." Eleanor stretched over the table, taking Scott's untouched glass of wine.
"There was an accident?" prompted Scott.
"This was back when dear George was still alive. My wonderful husband. Hope and Angel were playing outside with a football. They must have been six or seven."
"I was six," Angel said, returning to the room. Bronson lurched in after her to the sound of Eleanor's gasp. He pushed a trolley laden with plates, guiding it with his left eye. His right eye was swollen shut under a black bruise. His mouth was taped shut and he was bare-chested. The skin around his nipples was cut. Blood cascaded down his midriff to three silver forks buried in his stomach. Another fork hung from his twitching cheek, dancing like a divining rod over water.
Eleanor waved a bandaged hand at Bronson. "Glad to see my prawn forks have been put to good use."
Not long after his arrival at The Devil's Playground, Clive had paraded Scott through its dimly lit corridors. White faces appeared in doorways and laughed at Clive's latest pet. Scott's hands were chained and a dog lead was secured around his neck. He was too stoned to feel the shame, but he remembered the syringe hanging from his arm like the forks hanging from Bronson's body.
Scott took the wine glass from Eleanor and toasted Bronson's capture.
"I was in the middle of a perfectly good story," Eleanor said to her daughter. "It really is typical of you, isn't it? Playing your sick games so everyone will notice you. It's time you grew up. Be more like your sister."
Angel turned to Bronson. "Do you like that? The way my mother hates me?"
A fresh bottle of wine materialised from nowhere. Pulling out the cork as easily as picking a scab, Eleanor poured herself a glass. "So, Hope and Angel were playing football. Hope was gifted at sports, but one of them accidentally kicked the ball into the pond."
