Revenge Runs Deep

by Pat Young

  ‘Do you think he’s having some sort of nervous breakdown?’ asked Joe.

  ‘Who knows?’ said Sheila, ‘but I’m not sure this is working out the way we intended.’

  Their earlier hysteria evaporated.

  ‘I’m wondering if a man, who believes himself God’s equal, can ever be made to see the error of his ways,’ said Marty, sounding less confident than Joe had ever heard her.

  ‘Look,’ said Sheila, ‘I don’t want him physically hurt, you both know that, but I was hoping for an outcome that would be worth all this effort.’ She indicated the screen. ‘And I’m not sure this is it.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Marty. ‘We’re all taking a big risk being here. We could get a ten-year sentence if we’re caught. There has to be more payback than this.’

  ‘I was hoping he’d have an epiphany,’ said Sheila, looking from one face to another. ‘You know, a Damascene experience. Something that humbled him and changed his life.’

  ‘Obviously we’ve not put him through enough to make him a better person,’ said Joe. ‘Simple as that. We’ll just have to be patient until he shows true repentance.’

  ‘I’m not sure we have the luxury of that much time.’ Marty pointed to the screen where Smeaton was holding his defiant stance, challenging his creator. ‘How can anyone look at that and believe the man will ever behave any differently?’

  Marty’s eyes looked moist. When she spoke all the spark and energy had gone from her voice. ‘If our plan hasn’t worked, who is going to do something about Smeaton?

  ‘Let’s just give it a bit more time,’ said Joe.

  ***

  CHAPTER 84

  The morning air was bitterly cold and hung with a dampness that threatened rain. Because of the low cloud, it was still almost dark, only the sky to the east showing any promise of daylight. Wisps of mist lingered in the dips on the track that led back to town.

  Sheila thought of Smeaton, lying all night on that cold floor. She wanted this to be over, before it all went terribly wrong. She had a bad feeling about it.

  ‘It’s a dreich morning out there,’ she said, as she stepped back into the bothy and closed the door quietly. ‘I need a cup of tea.’ She shrugged off her ski jacket and hung it up on a peg in the kitchen area. ‘Maybe I should make us all a spot of breakfast, while Smeaton’s quiet?’

  Joe said nothing. The word brooding came into her mind.

  ‘Good idea,’ Marty said brightly, as if she were making a real effort to be positive. ‘I’ll give you a hand.’

  Sheila whispered, ‘For what it’s worth, Marty, I think the right decision would be to let him go tonight.’

  ‘We don’t really have much choice. We can’t keep him here forever. I just didn’t want it to end this way. Such an anti-climax. Joe’s obviously upset. Look at him.’

  ‘He’ll get over it,’ said Sheila though she wasn’t at all sure that was true. ‘Let’s focus on getting Smeaton out of here safely. I’m worried about hypothermia. It’s really cold. Much lower temperatures than were forecast.’

  ‘He’ll be okay. Joe knows all about that stuff.’

  ‘I hope so. We don’t want a corpse on our hands.’

  ‘Don’t we?’

  Sheila studied her friend, mouth open.

  ‘Joking,’ said Marty. ‘Did you think I was serious?’

  Sheila wasn’t sure what to think, so she changed the subject. ‘When do you mean to give him the Rohypnol?’

  ‘Around midnight. That should give us time to get into town and drop him off before he starts to come to.’

  ‘Don’t you wish we’d done it last night? We’d have been home and dry by now.’

  ‘Maybe. But Joe was always adamant we should wait till tonight. He said Smeaton wouldn’t see the error of his ways that quickly.’

  ‘Are we sticking to your original plan for the drop-off?’

  Marty nodded as she filled the teapot with boiling water.

  ‘You don’t think it’s too public?’

  ‘That’s the point, isn’t it? We want him to be found.’

  ‘You sure it wouldn’t be better to drop him off at home?’

  ‘No. We can’t risk being seen anywhere near his house.’

  ‘You’re the boss.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that.’

  ‘Come on, credit where it’s due, Marty. You’ve masterminded this from the start and it’s gone like clockwork.’

  ‘Apart from the unexpected visit from Joe’s boys. You sorted that one. You, with your sexy red bra.’

  Sheila struck a provocative pose, making them both giggle, like giddy teenagers.

  Suddenly the door flew open, revealing a huge man on the threshold.

  Sheila screamed, grabbing Marty’s arm.

  A beanie hat was pulled down over his eyebrows and black eyes glared from under its woollen edge. His jaw was square and covered in dark stubble. He looked rough and dangerous.

  ‘Where is Joe?’ he said.

  ***

  CHAPTER 85

  Sheila could feel Marty shaking. ‘You know this guy, Joe?’

  Joe ignored her. He walked over to the man, hand outstretched. ‘Stanimir?’

  ‘Da,’ he said, with a nod.

  Sheila noticed he didn’t shake Joe’s hand. ‘Where are you from?’ she asked, hearing how stupid the words sounded.

  ‘Sheila,’ said Marty. ‘This isn’t a cocktail party.’

  ‘Don’t ask, Sheila,’ said Joe. ‘You don’t need to know.’

  Joe pointed to the chairs. ‘Why don’t we all take a seat and I’ll explain.’

  ‘Explain what? Who is this man?’

  ‘Sit down, and I’ll tell you. Come on, Marty.’

  Marty lowered herself on to one of the chairs. Sheila sat down next to her and took her hand. Joe looked at the stranger and indicated a chair. ‘You too, Stan.’

  ‘Stanimir,’ corrected the man, who looked like he didn’t enjoy being told what to do.

  Joe stared at him and eventually said, ‘Please. Take a seat.’ The man sat, his huge, bulky anorak puffing up around his neck. Joe remained standing, looking tall, fit and confident. Whatever was going on here, there was no doubt who was the alpha male.

  ‘Are you in some sort of trouble, Joe?’ Marty’s voice sounded much smaller than usual. ‘Do you owe this man money or something?’

  Joe shook his head. ‘No, Marty, I told you. It’s okay. Nothing like that.’ He gave her a smile, eyes twinkling. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said gently.

  A millisecond later the smile was gone. Joe looked from Marty to Sheila and said, ‘Stan here has come to do me a favour. Well, to do all of us a favour, really.’

  Sheila had the distinct impression Stan was understanding little of what was being said. His eyes, barely visible, looked dead. Nothing about him suggested he went around doing favours for people.

  Joe continued. ‘I’ve arranged for him to complete the job for us.’

  Sheila gasped. ‘You don’t mean?’ She spread out her hands, hoping to convey what she couldn’t bring herself to say.

  ‘What do you mean, Joe?’ said Marty, her voice stronger and more like her usual self.

  ‘I mean what I say, Stan has come, at my request, to finish the job.’

  ‘But we have our own plan for finishing the job. Don’t we?’ Marty looked at Sheila, as if she suddenly wasn’t sure.

  The intruder pushed the cuff of his anorak up his arm and consulted a grotesquely large watch on his left wrist. Catching Joe’s eye, he tapped the face of the watch then covered it again. Joe did not react in any way.

  ‘I know we had a plan, Marty, but I don’t think it’s enough.’

  ‘Joe,’ said Sheila, ‘we agreed weeks ago Marty’s plan was a good one. We force Smeaton to examine his relationships with other people, wait for him to show some remorse, then send him back into his life. In the hope he’ll be changed by the experience and be a damn sight nicer to folk from now on.’

  ‘An
d right there is the word that’s giving me trouble,’ said Joe.

  ‘What word?’ Marty sounded keen to understand.

  ‘Hope,’ he said. ‘We hope he will be changed into a nicer person.’

  Marty looked confused. ‘That’s all we can do, isn’t it?’

  ‘No, Marty,’ said Joe, ‘It’s not all we can do. It’s not enough to hope he’ll stop wrecking lives. We have to make damn sure he does.’

  ‘He thinks he’s died and gone to purgatory, Joe. It must seem to him like he’s damned for all eternity.’ Marty gave a little laugh, as if the whole thing was self-explanatory. ‘Of course he’s going to mend his ways when he realises he’s been given another chance.’

  ‘Marty, I love the trust you have in people. I can see how it made you a perfect person to run a school, but you’re talking about this as if it’s a fairy tale.’

  ‘It’s a Dickensian tale,’ said Sheila, ‘Mr Scrooge in a Christmas Carol.’

  Joe gave her a look that made her feel like a child. ‘A Muppet Christmas Carol. It doesn’t work like that in real life, Sheila. In my experience an evil bastard’s always an evil bastard and Smeaton is up there with the worst of them.’

  ‘Joe, we all agree he’s foul,’ said Sheila. ‘That’s why we’re here, but surely he’ll change his behaviour when he wakes up from this nightmare?’

  ‘And if he doesn’t?’ Joe let the question hang in the air.

  Marty cleared her throat and said, ‘What is it you’re proposing, Joe?’

  ‘Heavenly Father, I am truly sorry.’

  Everyone turned to the screen. The man in the anorak leapt to his feet and pointed at the screen ‘Is him, yes?’ he asked Joe.

  ‘Shh!’ commanded Marty, in charge again. ‘Let’s listen.’

  ‘Ach, we’ve heard enough,’ said Joe. ‘Come on, Stan. Time to get to work.’

  The man didn’t move and again Sheila wondered how much English he understood. Marty grabbed Joe’s arm. ‘Joe,’ she said, ‘listen to Smeaton. He’s changed.’

  Sure enough, Smeaton sounded like a different man from the ranting lunatic they had witnessed earlier. For the first time, something in his voice made him sound genuinely contrite.

  ‘Father, forgive me, please. For the way I spoke to you and for the sins that brought me here in the first place. I accept that I am here for as long as it takes me to truly repent. Please, Father, find it in your heart to forgive me.’

  ‘This is crap,’ said Joe. ‘We’ve heard it all before. He doesn’t mean a word of it. Let him go and he’ll be back to his old tricks in no time. Is that what you want?’

  Marty stood up, face to face with Joe and said, ‘Of course it’s not what we want. You know that, Joe. But I think he sounds different. Maybe we just have to give him a bit more time. Please. Let’s see this through. We’ve come this far. At least let’s see whether he’s learned anything at all.’

  Joe looked towards the screen, where Smeaton was kneeling, offering up fervent prayers full of apology. He turned to the foreigner. ‘When’s your flight, Stan?’

  The man looked confused, ‘Sorry?’ he said.

  Joe ran his hand through his hair. ‘Jesus,’ he muttered, ‘they might have sent someone who can speak English.’ Looking straight at Stan he asked, slowly and clearly, ‘When does your plane leave?’ Joe mimicked a plane flying, arms out by his sides.

  Stan seemed to get the message, looked again at his watch and said, ‘Eighty hours.’

  Joe held up eight fingers and said, ‘Eight? Eight hours?’

  Stan nodded and said, ‘Da.’

  Marty said, ‘Eight hours. That leaves plenty of time to let us see how this pans out, Joe. Please?’

  Joe looked reluctant, but sat down and watched the screen with the others. Smeaton’s voice continued to ring out, minus the arrogant tone they were all so used to. He sounded like a different man.

  After a few minutes, Marty said, ‘Excuse me, I have to go to the toilet.’ She rose and left the table.

  The atmosphere seemed to loosen a little and the stranger took off his beanie hat. Without the hat he looked even scarier, his shaven head showing bumps and scars, some not fully healed. Sheila thought one looked like it might be a lobotomy, but decided not to ask the question. No one seemed in the mood for a joke. As she watched, Stan unzipped his jacket half-way and pushed his hand into an inside pocket, checking for something, his passport perhaps.

  When Marty came back she sat down for a few moments and then said, ‘Well, I guess the tea’s gone cold. Think I’m more in need of a strong coffee now. Anyone else?’

  Sheila said, ‘Me. I’ll come and give you a hand.’ Her chair scraped across the floor. Stan sat upright, his hand disappearing inside his jacket again.

  Marty stood, twirling her wedding ring round and round. ‘Joe?’

  Joe nodded. ‘Yeah, we could all use a coffee, I guess.’ He mimicked drinking from a cup and asked Stan if he’d like coffee.

  ‘Da,’ came the reply, but the icy stare did not waver. Sheila thought she’d never seen such cold eyes on a human being. She was reminded of a shark, and told herself not to be so melodramatic.

  ‘I could make up some rolls,’ offered Marty, with a smile to Joe.

  ‘That’d be great.’

  ‘I’ll come and give you a hand,’ said Sheila, watching them all carefully. Marty seemed to have recovered from her initial shock and appeared calm. Was she in on this plan of Joe’s?

  ***

  CHAPTER 86

  What did Joe have in mind? It couldn’t be what she first thought. Could it?

  Marty pushed the idea away. It was repugnant.

  Any change to the plans would make things more complicated, she knew that much. And they were already tricky enough.

  Up on screen, Smeaton continued to pray. She called through to Joe, making her voice light, ‘How does he sound to you, Joe? Don’t you think he’s much more repentant?’

  ‘I’m not convinced.’

  She looked at Sheila, the corners of her mouth turned down in dismay.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ whispered Sheila. ‘Did you know about this? Tell the truth.’

  Marty’s raised eyebrows said it all.

  In a stage voice that wouldn’t have sounded out of place in the panto, Marty announced, ‘Right, Sheila, you spread those rolls with butter and I will add a thick layer of this delicious home-made jam.’ Glancing towards the table, she said, ‘Wait till you taste this, Stan. You won’t want to go back to Bulgaria.’

  Joe shot her a look. ‘Who said anything about Bulgaria?’

  ‘I thought he was one of your pals, over for a visit.’

  ‘He’s not my pal,’ said Joe. ‘He’s a business associate.’

  ‘To do with the house?’

  ‘No, Marty. Nothing to do with the house. I think you know why he’s here.’ Joe gave her a hard stare before looking back at the screen.

  Marty and Sheila exchanged looks and Marty shrugged her shoulders. ‘Take this coffee to Joe and see if you can find out whether Stan takes sugar and milk. I’ll bring his over with the rolls.’

  Smeaton had gone silent. She could hear Sheila saying sugar in several different languages. Quite impressive.

  Joe said, ‘Zakar?’ and called through, ‘Yeah, sugar for Stan, please.’

  Marty put the plate of rolls in the centre of the table and handed Stan his sweet coffee.

  ‘Don’t you want to take your coat off?’ she asked him. When the man did not react she tugged at his collar to illustrate her meaning. He pushed her away, spilling coffee on the table. Glaring at her, he zipped his jacket up to the neck and took a loud slurp of his drink.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Marty. ‘Only trying to help. Would you like a roll? Joe, ask your friend if he’d like a roll.’

  Joe nudged the guy’s arm and gestured towards the plate. The man took a roll and began to eat noisily.

  ‘Has anyone else noticed something about Smeaton’s confessions?’ Joe
raised his mug towards the screen. ‘He only mentions certain people.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, I’ve been listening almost all the time he’s been here, and it seems to me there are a lot of names I haven’t heard. That poor guy who had the mental breakdown last year, for example. I saw him last week and he’s like a ghost. White hair, grey, haggard face. The man’s aged about thirty years.’

  ‘I’m not sure we can expect to hear him mention everyone he has ever upset or insulted, Joe,’ said Sheila.

  ‘I’m not talking upsets and insults, Sheila,’ said Joe. ‘I’m talking about lives wrecked, jobs taken away, men and women robbed of their self-respect. We heard him repent what he did to poor bloody Liz, for all the good it will do her. I can see why you might be quite happy with what we’ve achieved on that score, Sheila. But I want more and so does Marty.’

  Marty’s first reaction was to say, ‘Do I?’ but she said nothing. Instinct told her she would get further if Joe believed she was on his side, so she nodded, wondering what she was agreeing to.

  Joe drained his coffee cup and slammed it on the table as if to emphasise his intention. ‘Right,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘I think we’ve given him enough time. He looks to me like he’s done all the repenting he’s about to do. Look at him.’

  As if the others weren’t there, he spoke to the stranger. ‘Ready, Stan?’ Joe thumbed towards the door. ‘Let’s go, mate.’

  The man put down his empty mug and pulled his beanie hat back on, rolling it down into a balaclava that covered his face. Only the cold, steely eyes could be seen.

  Marty watched, horrified, as he opened his jacket, put his hand inside, and removed a gun. She bit hard on her lip but wasn’t fast enough to stop a squeal escaping. Joe turned to her. ‘You okay?’

  Sheila covered her face as if she couldn’t bear to look.

  Marty tried to speak and found she couldn’t. She shook her head, gave a little cough and tried again. ‘Joe, he’s got a gun.’