Hellfire- The Series, Volumes 1-3

by Leigh Barker

  Harry smiled. “Hi, Pop. Nobody told you because nobody knew.” The smile widened. “Not even the doctors.”

  Harvey stood up and pulled out a chair in time for Harry to crash into it. “Sorry, not used to walking wounded in the place.”

  Harry worked his way round the chair and sat down heavily. “No probs.”

  Frank came in from his room looking like the morning after a bender, which was appropriate. He crossed to the table, sat down, and helped himself to Harvey’s toast without acknowledging either of them. Eventually he looked up, but only to ask if there was another cup. “Not to worry,” he added, slurping Harvey’s coffee.

  Harvey and Harry exchanged glances. “Would you like breakfast?” Harvey asked.

  “Yeah, but just toast and coffee.”

  Harvey picked up the phone hiding on a little shelf under the table and tapped a number. “Yes, thank you,” he said to the unseen speaker. “Can you bring coffee and toast for two, please. Thank you. No, that’s all.”

  Frank picked up Harvey’s newspaper before he could reach it, pulled off the front page, and handed it to its previous owner.

  “How can you get marmalade on the paper when we don’t even have marmalade?” Harvey asked, holding it as if it had been used as a dog loo.

  Frank shrugged without lowering the newspaper. “It’s a gift.”

  Harvey had a smart answer ready for delivery, but Ashley walked past, wearing nothing but one of Rocky’s shirts.

  “Bathroom’s through here?” she said sleepily. “Oh, morning.”

  “Morrr…” Harvey said.

  Frank chuckled. “Yes, more would be nice, but I can’t see how that could be possible and still be legal.” He shook Harvey’s newspaper open and went back to reading the sports pages.

  Rocky’s door opened, and another girl appeared, this one blonde and also wearing one of Rocky’s shirts — a T-shirt with some rock band’s logo on the front — and padded sleepily into the room. “Do I smell coffee?”

  Nobody moved.

  The doorbell ringing saved the day. Harvey regained his wits and started to stand, but Frank, showing surprising sprightliness for his age and his condition, got up. “That’ll be breakfast. I’m starving.”

  Harvey was about to remind him whose breakfast it was, but the girl smiled, and he forgot.

  “I’m Amanda,” she said softly.

  “Course you are,” Harry said, before the old man’s blood pressure ran into the red. “Come and sit down.” He pointed at Frank’s vacant chair. “And tell us more about Amanda.” Which wasn’t what he was thinking.

  Frank glanced over his shoulder and tutted. Kids, they have no idea how to behave.

  “Bonjour,” said the little man in the white uniform, “I am Serge, and this is your petit dejeuner.” He pointed unnecessarily at the trolley and the domed silver serving tray.

  “I’m going to like it here,” Frank said, looking from the tray to the half-naked blonde girl, and stepped aside to let Serge enter.

  Serge trundled the trolley past and transferred the breakfast to the table, without even glancing at the girl in the tiny T-shirt.

  As he rolled the empty trolley back out the door, Frank put his hand on his shoulder. “Don’t tell me, let me guess,” he said, pulling a thinking face. “I’m good with accents.”

  “M’sieur?” Serge said, clearly puzzled.

  “It’s Basildon, isn’t it?” Frank said with a smile. “Go on, I’m right, aren’t I?”

  Serge looked like a startled rabbit caught in headlights.

  “Don’t worry, son,” Frank said, patting Serge’s shoulder, “I won’t tell anybody.”

  Serge looked around quickly. “Cheers,” he said, losing the French accent. “It’s just that they only employ exotics here, and I need the job.”

  Frank smiled and put his arm round Serge’s shoulders. “Don’t worry, Sergey-boy, your secret is safe with me.”

  “Ta,” Serge said quietly. “Appreciate it.”

  “No probs,” Frank said, leaning a little closer. “Just keep me topped up with single malt without His Nibs over there knowing about it and we’ll be like brothers.”

  “I can do that,” Serge said, shaking Frank’s outstretched hand.

  “And for God’s sake, bring some decent grub, ’cus that stuff in the fridge would stop up an elephant.”

  “Done,” Serge said, rattling his trolley away down the corridor.

  Frank went back to the table, to find the girl had returned to Rocky’s room with one of the coffee pots, Harvey had rescued his newspaper and was heading for the door and probably his office, and Harry had eaten the toast.

  Ashley padded back across the room, things moving as things should. Frank smiled. Yes, he was going to like it here.

  Harvey arrived at his office early, it being barely nine fifteen, but the apartment was getting crowded — and the girls didn’t seem in too much of a hurry to get dressed. He leaned back in his oversized chair and looked out the windows at the tops of the trees along the river showing the first gold of autumn. He sighed, not looking forward to another winter in London, now that his bones had started to complain about the damp. Getting old, how sad is that?

  The door opened, and Laura came in, accompanied by a young man who could get a job flashing his pecs to sell man-perfume, except this young man had chosen a different profession — thank God, because man-perfume, how weird is that? Harvey put the thought aside and let the young man’s choice of career stay with its owner.

  He watched Laura watching the young man’s butt as he came forward with his hand extended. “Robert Doyle, I presume,” Harvey said, a little pompously, even by his standards, particularly as he’d seen the man before.

  Laura continued to watch Bob’s sitting gear until Harvey gave her a long look. She shrugged, took one more look, and sauntered out, almost closing the door behind her.

  Harvey scanned the documents on his desk, while Bob examined the crash helmet hanging on the coat rack and smiled.

  “Well,” Harvey said, looking up from the documents he hadn’t needed to read, “it appears the police consider you a low flight risk and have set police bail. Good.”

  “Lord luv ’em, g’vnor, they know’d I never desert me ol’ mom,” Bob said in a God-awful Dick Van Dyke cockney accent.

  Harvey felt his jaw drop open and snapped it shut with a click. A moment later he’d regained his composure. “Call this a wild guess,” he said at last, “but you’re not a cockney, are you?”

  Bob shook his head. “No, I’m from Barnet. Laura told me to do East End on account of that’s where your old man comes from, and so you’d do me a better job.”

  Harvey looked past him to the open door and promised dire retribution. “Remind me to fire that girl,” he said almost to himself.

  “I’ll tell her tonight,” Bob said brightly. “We’ve got a date.”

  Harvey put his hand on his brow, but it didn’t help, so turned his attention back to the papers on the desk. “On the face of it, it appears to be a rather flimsy case against you, Mr Doyle.” He turned over a couple more papers. “They didn’t find any stolen jewellery in your possession, which is good.”

  “Didn’t have any,” Bob said helpfully.

  “So,” Harvey said, ignoring the help. “Why did they arrest you?” He raised his hand before Bob could help any more. “Ah,” he said, picking up a page and studying it carefully.

  “The dog,” Bob said helpfully. “A shitzu.”

  Harvey didn’t bother trying the joke again. “Where did you acquire the… dog?”

  “Found it,” Bob said with a smile. Nice chap, all this smiling.

  Harvey watched him steadily for a few moments. “And that’s what you told the police?”

  Bob nodded. “Yeah. They didn’t believe me.”

  “No,” Harvey said quietly, “I can see how they wouldn’t.”

  Bob looked hurt. “I did find it. It was floating in the lake in Saint James’ Park.
Poor thing was almost in doggy heaven.”

  He was kidding, right? “Perhaps it was trying to cool off,” Harvey suggested without much conviction. “Was it a hot day?”

  “No, it was night,” Bob said, perking up now. “It was drowning in a sack.”

  Harvey frowned. “Are you saying you rescued the dog?”

  “Yeah, like I said, it was drowning in a sack.” He frowned for a moment. “In the lake, really, but in a sack. If you follow me.”

  Harvey blinked slowly and waited for a punch line. None came. He pulled himself together before he disappeared into the other universe. “And did you tell the police this… this sad story?”

  “No, they was in a hurry. There was a big match on the telly, I think. They threw me in a cell and buggered off.”

  Harvey nodded. “So the police have the… shitzu?”

  Bob shrugged. “Dunno, they threw me in a cell.”

  “Quite. So are you saying you didn’t break into Lady Druce-Wright’s house?”

  “No, I didn’t break in.”

  There was more, and Harvey waited patiently for it.

  “Door was open,” Bob said with a shrug.

  “But you are a burglar, are you not?”

  “Yeah, and a good one,” Bob said, puffing out his already puffed chest. “Only got caught once,” he added proudly.

  “Mmmm…” Harvey said, glancing at the papers. “Three years in Belmarsh, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” Bob said with a sigh. “Judge said he wanted to make an example of me.” He shook his head sadly. “I wish he’d made a bloody model aeroplane instead.”

  “So,” Harvey said, relieved to be wrapping it up. “The whole case appears to hinge on your possession of Lady LDW’s dog. Very good.”

  “Yeah,” Bob said. “Can I go now? I’m meeting the lads in the pub.”

  Harvey glanced pointedly at the antique clock on the false fireplace.

  Bob headed for the door, stopped, and looked again at the crash helmet. “You got a bike?”

  “I beg your pardon,” Harvey said. “A bike?”

  Bob pointed at the crash helmet, and Harvey nodded. “I’ve got a friend who specialises in, err…” Bob frowned while the little gears engaged. “In picking up superbikes. If you’re interested.”

  “No, no, thank you,” Harvey said quickly. The other universe was beckoning again.

  Bob frowned. “Do you, y’know, like, ride it?”

  “Yes, of course I ride it, what else would I do with it?”

  “Dunno,” Bob said with a shrug. “It’s just that you’re a bit… y’know?”

  Harvey didn’t know, and his expression said so.

  “You’re just a bit, well, stuck up to be a born-again biker, is all.”

  “Thank you, Mr Doyle, I’m sure Laura will show you the way out.” Among other things.

  Bob waved cheerily and left, for the pub, at half nine in the morning, but right about then, Harvey envied him. It had been a long day.

  9

  It had also been a long day for Sergeant Shaun O’Conner, and it was now turning into a long night. His eyes ached, and waves of pain crashed in his head like breakers onto jagged rocks. How long had he been there, watching the warehouse that did nothing but watch right back? It was too dark to see the time, and checking the dash clock would mean switching on the ignition, and to do that he would have to move, and that was a price too high. He closed his eyes and listened to the pain in his skull.

  Anybody who bothered to look at him would have known at once that he was Irish. He was small, standing no more than five foot eight, but had been handsome once, was witty with an easy Irish charm and eyes that flashed with mischief, but he was forty now and looking every day of it. His dark hair was fading to grey and thinning, while his body was doing the opposite, as if to compensate, and his once soft eyes looked tired. But hard living and too much booze will do that to a man.

  He thought about the hipflask in his pocket, and for a moment, he almost moved, but tilted his head back against the seat instead. He’d sworn a hundred times that he would not drink on the job, and mostly he made it stick. He sighed and felt the world shift slightly as his tired body finally relaxed.

  His father spoke to him, and the part of his mind not yet asleep knew he was dreaming, but he also knew he wouldn’t wake up, not until the nightmare had run all its reels. His fifteenth birthday, and the day his life broke.

  “You’re wasting your time there, boy,” his father said, putting a hand on his shoulder briefly as he passed. “He won’t come. He’s too high and mighty for the likes of us.”

  But Shaun watched the dark street anyway, guilty at the kick of anger he felt at his father’s words. Patrick would come, he always did, except for sometimes. He looked across the small room at the single birthday card wedged between the porcelain horse and the gaudy cockerel on the mantelpiece above the smoking coal fire. It didn’t mean anything, Patrick was busy, he was The Man, and one day Shaun would be right there at his side, one day.

  Patrick was his older brother by twelve years and was everything he wanted to be, rich, famous, and yeah, feared. In Belfast these days, it was easy to be feared, all you needed was a gun, but people feared Patrick for who he was, not because of some brash swagger and black hood. He’d been wild, but what else was there to do when you’re a kid in a country at war with itself? Now he was respectable, in a perverse way, but he was still so close to crazy, you wouldn’t want to bet your life on the difference.

  Shaun looked back through the rain-streaked windows just as the car’s lights went out, and it coasted to a stop in front of the broken gate, where it sat for several minutes, black and silent. He ran to the front door, pulled it open, and stared at the car through slanting rain, but there was no movement inside as the occupants searched the dark terraces for something that didn’t fit.

  The passenger door opened, and Patrick stepped out, took a long look around, and then came down the path in four long strides. He was tall and had extra-long legs that made him look as though he was walking on short stilts, a fact that had won him the nickname Lucky Legs when he was a kid — lucky they didn’t snap off and shoot up his arse. Nobody called him Lucky Legs anymore; they called him Mr O’Conner.

  “Hello, kid,” Patrick said with a grin as he stepped past him out of the rain.

  Shaun was about to close the door when he saw two men get out of the car and start down the path. They were the Boys, the Bogeymen, and he held the door open for them without thinking. They stepped in, nodded, and closed the door and leaned back against it, to stop people getting in, or perhaps to stop people getting out.

  “Hey, don’t mind Paddy and Mick,” Patrick said as he steered his kid brother into the front room.

  Shaun saw the room again vividly in his dream, just as he always did, a faded flower-patterned three-piece suite, his father’s winged chair and the TV on but silent. He glanced back at the two men with the fat jackets that did nothing to hide the bulges under their left arms. They probably weren’t called Paddy or Mick, but he wasn’t going to ask.

  A moment later, his father came out of the kitchen, walked past the Boys and into the front room, slamming the door behind him. “I see you brought your dogs with you,” he snarled, waving his thumb back over his shoulder. “I want them out, now!”

  “No need to get stressed out, Da,” Patrick said with a shrug. “They’ll be going as soon as I’ve given Shauny here his present.”

  Shaun took the box, shook it gently, and put it on the table.

  “Aren’t you going to open it?” Patrick asked.

  “In a minute,” Shaun replied, not wanting to miss a moment of this time with his big brother. It was a Celestron telescope, but Shaun didn’t find that out until he opened the present two years later, and then only to smash it to pieces.

  He was grinning like an idiot. He knew he was doing it, but couldn’t help it. Patrick was here.

  By the time he’d reached Shaun’s age, Patr
ick was already well on the road to prison, or worse, when the Provos recruited him, recognising courage and a talent for ducking and diving they could use. It saved him from himself, or so it seemed at the time. So for five years Patrick almost vanished from Shaun’s life, turning up unexpectedly, usually late at night, but always with a present for his kid brother. But every time he came home, he would row with his father.

  Shamus O’Conner was a staunch Irish nationalist and proud of it, but he would have no truck with the IRA and had made it clear to his sons from the moment they were old enough to know the difference, but Patrick made up his own mind, always had. So they fought, and Patrick stayed away. And it hurt like hell.

  The part of Shaun’s mind that knew it was a dream felt his heart begin to thump in his chest, and he knew it was coming.

  Shamus turned back from the door. “You’ll be going now.”

  “I’ve come to see my brother on his birthday.”

  “So, you’ve seen him, now get out.” Shamus held the door open. “And take your thugs with you.”

  Patrick gave the Boys in the hall a tiny shake of his head, and Shaun knew for the first time what it meant.

  Shamus stepped up so close to Patrick they were almost touching. “As long as you’re with this… this…” He pointed at the Boys. “This scum, you’re not welcome in this house.”

  “Patriots, old man,” Patrick’s words came through clenched teeth, “they’re called patriots.”

  “Not by me, they’re bloody not!” Shamus pushed past him and leaned on the fireplace for support. “If your mother was alive today, she’d turn in her grave!”

  “She supported the cause, and you know it.” His breath was coming in short gasps. “And so should every true Irishman!”

  “Cause? Cause?” Shamus roared, “It’s just a bloody cover for gangsters and thugs!”

  “The British are the thugs here,” Patrick’s eyes blazed, “and we’re going to drive them out of our bloody country once and for all!”

  “And how are you going to do that by killing your own? You forget that I fought with those boys in the war, a real war, not cowards bombing and murdering innocent women and kids.”