But no, he had been wrong. The Priors, or rather the Mortons, were very well known indeed. Infamous, in fact. It is true that Catherine herself was a bit of a mystery, but the rest of the family had sprayed their name over just about every wall in the area. According to almost everybody he had managed to get to air their opinions, the Mortons were, excluding the expletives, scum, filth, trash, neo nazis, boot boys, skins, schizos, savages. They were feared and hated. They represented everything that was wrong with the estate; they were violent, rude, aggressive, uncivil, racist, selfish, dangerous. Not to be messed with.
Which changed things radically and tied in perfectly with his hostile reception at the hands of Trudy Morton. He had to warn Jill.
Unfortunately she refused to answer his calls. He understood, she was in a state of shock, sedated probably. It didn't occur to him that under the circumstances a call from Dr. Flynch brought back to Jill a host of full colour photos showing...... Nonetheless he was determined to help. He would use his media powers, he would tell the nation, he would even tell the police if they would listen, because he could feel another hunch creeping up on him.
No candles had been lit, no incense sticks burnt into the air, he was not squatting in the official lotus position. Instead he sat slumped in an armchair, wrapped in a towel, staring at the cold grey TV screen in silence. Because he was not meditating, he was thinking. Meditating he found easy, reducing his sensations into manageable chunks then giving them names like Peace, Harmony, Oneness, Interconnectivity and the like. He could muse for hours over the concepts of Unit and Unity or play with words until he found a connection between Response and Responsibility. It was an exercise he enjoyed, it was relaxing, and his discoveries could later be used in a master class for his disciples.
Thinking straight was another matter. What had happened, what might have happened, what should have happened, things said, intentions, misunderstandings – it all clamoured and bustled inside him like a room full of noisy kids demanding attention. It should have been me, he thought. Not Mr. Swan, not poor little Robbie, but me. I am to blame. No doubt both Johnny Eagle and Robbie would have agreed with him on that. But how could that be so? How could he, of all people, bring about so much suffering? Paul Kavanagh, the pacifier, the lover of forgiveness and atonement? How could he be so misinterpreted, he asked himself, for although he was the new messiah he had not yet realised that we are all misunderstood by some section of society, it was part of the game.
The more he thought about it, the less he understood. There had been a sequence of events that had led to the disaster, a succession of minor events that all fitted together so neatly, so perversely. That phone call from Rani from the shopping mall. A trolley full of goods and not a penny to his name. Of all the evenings for Rani to forget the credit card. And the phone was in the bag, the very bag that Rani had left behind and should have carried off to do the shopping with. Fate? And to take the back gate instead of the front door because it was quicker, shorter. Worse, they never shopped on Thursday evening, they usually did that on a Tuesday, but Diamond had had to go to the gynaecologist so they had put it off. Destiny? It had to be something like that, some kind of intelligent design, because it all fell so neatly into place. Mr. Swan, murdered. May peace be with him. And they blame Ken! That's why he was not at home to defend his family, that's why Jill was the new treasurer, that's why he, Paul, was there, or not there, but should have been. So Paul Kavanagh should either be dead or kidnapped. But he wasn't, he was sitting at home while others suffered in his name.
Then Ron had sent the dossier. Why on earth had he got some lawyer to do that, he had never believed a word of it right from the start, ever? And why had he sent it on? It was odd, baffling. It was as if his eldest brother, the campaigner for 'Dad is innocent', had suddenly had a change of heart, because the folder was damning stuff. And the timing of it? Weird.
The police thought the motive was money, but he was convinced it stemmed from well before the Sect's success. He had started the ball rolling, he had set things in motion, and everything that had followed had been a consequence of that initial action, that attempt at appeasement. So maybe he hadn't gone far enough. Maybe mere self-castration was insufficient. Maybe he should have offered the victim more than self-mutilation. Maybe he should have sacrificed himself before her. Or maybe he should have tried to speak to her, to seek her out and beg for forgiveness. Yes, maybe that was the way to halt the chain mail, to hit the delete button. He would put it to Ron.
They blamed his parents, who had obviously not prepared him for life in the jungle. No doubt they mollycoddled and pampered him, expecting him to grow up without so much as a scratch and go to university, or work in Daddy's firm. He'd have all the latest toys, get to see the films as they came out, boast designer clothes, and always be tucked in with a kiss at bedtime. How they hated him.
He hadn't stopped whimpering and whining since he'd arrived, blubbering like a baby day after day, though they judged he must be at least eight or nine years old by the looks of him. And he'd hardly touched his food either, after all the trouble they'd been to, and bits of pizza and hamburger littered the floor of his makeshift cell. Not good enough for him, spoilt brat.
He'd pissed his clothes and the bed, too, little bastard, and Chris had wanted to give him a good hiding for that, but as soon as he had raised his hand the kid had started wailing and sobbing like a bloody girl. Pathetic. So he had taped his mouth again, carefully this time, and made him lie down in his own piss for a few hours. That would make him think twice about doing it again.
Mr. Morton's worst fears were being confirmed. Kids of today, it was enough to make your blood boil. Weak, that's what they were. The only exercise they got was getting in and out of the car on the way to school. Flabby arms and legs, fat, suet pudding bellies, frightened eyes with no challenge in them. The sons and daughters of wet liberals, of the middle class with their burglar alarms and insurance schemes, holidays abroad and gourmet frozen food. What was the world coming to? He couldn't imagine his own kids caving in so soon. They would put up a fight, glare back at you, dare you to touch them. They had balls, and balls is what it takes if you want to survive in this world. You had to be tough, firm. He slapped his chest. You had to turn off the hot water half way through the shower and rinse yourself down in cold, icy water. It was invigorating, it was manly, it was the only way. Everything else just made you weak, and therefore vulnerable.
Bobby hated the boy because he came from a world he had only seen on the TV, a make believe world of plenty and safety: advertland. Diaphanous white kitchens, Mum, Dad, son and daughter, so clean, so happy, so healthy, so full of such good-natured fun. He was the sort of kid he would have cheerfully bullied at school, the sort of kid it was almost his duty to taunt in the park. Got any money? Nice bag. I like your new jacket, can I try it on? He deserved it, it would teach him a lesson, teach him not to flaunt his good luck in my face, little shit!
The Morton family hated him for the same reasons, but with the added insult of his surname. He was not only a snivelling, grovelling good for nothing, wetting the bed and crying for his Mum. He was the enemy. A direct descendant. It was undeniable, it was in his blood. He was one of them, a Kavanagh, like it or not. And now he was in their hands. Tough luck.
Bobby Hornsby pulled on his balaclava, unlocked the office door, and made straight for Robbie.
‘No, no!’
Without uttering a word, Bobby knocked him about for a few seconds. The boy fell silent. Punishment and response. It worked, as Bobby knew only too well, having learnt it the hard way over so many years.
The garage doors squeaked open and Chris nipped in, closing them swiftly behind him. He beckoned to Bobby, and took him to the far corner where they talked in whispers, still afraid that if Robbie was eventually rescued he may be able to recognise their voices.
‘Get him ready. I've got a a track suit in the car. Get him to clean himself up a bit, and make sure he's tap
ed up again all right. I'll be back around five.’
‘What about lunch?’
‘Yeah, it's in the van too. And if the little runt don't want any, that's his look out.’
‘Fuck him.’
Chris winked his approval.
‘Any trouble? Anything.... you know?’
‘No, nothing. Kid keeps crying all the time and it gets on my fucking nerves, Mum, Mum all day long. But I keep him shut up one way or another. No trouble.’
‘And the neighbours?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Great. Let's get the stuff out the car, and I'll be back around five, five thirty.’
‘Make it four thirty, five, I've had enough in here. Shaz is waiting for me.’
Chris looked alarmed.
‘She doesn't........’
‘No! No, of course she don't. She's alright.’
Should he drive it home again, the importance of discretion, of secrecy, or would that be like treating Bobby as if he were an idiot?
‘Not a word, eh, for our own sakes. Ah, and if it all goes tits up, you're on your own. We all are, ok? No grassing. Yeah?’
‘Never!’
‘That's the stuff. You're a fucking godsend, Bobby, really. Great job.’
Bobby was genuinely touched. At last somebody appreciated his skills and even went so far as to praise him. Yeah, Danny's Dad was alright.
As promised, just before five an immaculate red Ford Focus parked under the protective cover of some horse chestnut trees a few hundred metres from the warehouse. Five people climbed out. Two youths, hooded, and three adults, each one hidden under a huge umbrella despite the fact that it had stopped raining. They trudged in silence and in single file like a funeral procession.
Once inside they gave Bobby the nod and he rushed out, clearly relieved to be out of there and no doubt looking forward to Shaz's warm welcome. He promised to do another shift that night. After ten. Ten, ten fifteen.
There was tension and, following Chris's instructions, nobody uttered a sound. The women were escorted towards the office, which remained locked. From inside a faint sobbing could be heard. Catherine looked at her sister in fright. What was going on? What on earth had they done? Trudy hardened her face and turned away – it was not her problem. All comments to be made to her husband, please.
Mr. Morton handed out the balaclavas. The women took them, but did not put them on. Put them on, urged Chris with his eyes, with his hands. Reluctantly the women complied. Chris took a deep breath. This was an historical moment, it was the moment they had all been yearning for over the years. It was their moment of triumph, of revenge, of justice. He unlocked the door and pushed the women inside. There. Your prize. The end of your suffering at long last.
Robbie had been placed on the bed, dressed roughly in a dark blue track suit various sizes too large for him. Bobby had plastered his hair down over his head with gel, and wrapped him up in masking tape. The poor kid could hardly move. A look of fear and panic had been carved onto his face. He wriggled and twisted himself further from the door and these hooded intruders as if trying to escape, albeit by a few more centimetres. The office stank of stale food, spilt soft drinks and piss. It did not resemble the kind of scene that goes down in history.
After this anticlimax, the tension gave way to awkwardness. They were all huddled about the boy's bed, staring at him through the slits in their woollen masks, unsure what to do next, and unable to speak a word. How was there to be retribution without a speech? Were they to accuse him by mime? How could the culprit be sentenced in silence? And who was this boy?
Catherine pushed past the others and left the office. She wrenched off her balaclava and readjusted her hair, which was now a total mess. She hissed for Trudy and Chris to join her in a far corner of the warehouse. She needed an explanation.
‘Who the hell is that? Who the hell is that?’
‘He is the grandson of the bastard that raped you, that's who. A Kavanagh.’
‘For Heaven's sake!’
‘Don't look at me,’
and Trudy stomped off to be with her children.
‘What are we supposed to do with, with... For heaven's sake, Chris, he's just a child. Have you seen the look on his face? For heaven's sake.’
‘He's just frightened, that's all, it's perfectly natural, and we haven't so much as laid a finger on him, honest. He's just weak, that's all, a coward like the rest of them. Now we can do whatever you want. It's your decision. You decide. The boys and me will do whatever you want.’
She shook her head.
‘He's a Kavanagh, like his Dad, like his Grandad. We wanted to get Paul, you know, the nutter, the one who chopped them off and got in all the papers. But Bobby blew it and got the kid instead. He's yours now. You decide. But make it quick. He's already been here long enough and we'll have to do something before the cops sniff us out.’
‘I can't... I can't think, not here, not now. Can we go? Can't I have a little time to think about it? I can't think, not here.’
Chris sighed. She was making it all so fucking difficult. They'd only just arrived and now she wanted to go. Why couldn't she just say what she wanted, they do it, and then it would all over and they could clear out before the shit hit the fan. The longer they stayed there the worse. Women.
‘You can have till tomorrow, but only till tomorrow. We can't keep this up for much longer, the cops are swarming all over the place and god help us if they catch us now. Till tomorrow, ok?’
Catherine agreed, there was little else she could do. She motioned to her sister, come on, let's get out of here. Trudy looked surprised, they'd only just arrived. Chris widened his eyes, nodded. I know, I know, but that's your sister for you. Let's go. The three adults unfurled their umbrellas and left the two boys to keep guard until Bobby's return.
Shaken out of his lethargy, Ron was rehearsing his lines. So there was to be a showdown? Bring them on.
He was looking forward immensely to the debate with his little brother, it was an excellent opportunity to put the record straight once and for all. The evidence as presented in Quigley's slim and hastily put together dossier would be ripped to shreds. Paul had no chance of success whatsoever. Ron would destroy the argument point by point, employing both lacerating logic and resonant rhetoric. If necessary he was even prepared to play his ace card, that of eldest brother – he had known his father better and longer, whereas Paul had been no more than a child.
Ron knew that to win a case like this it wasn't so much the content that mattered as the conviction. Naturally certain specific aspects would need to be addressed, but it was the overall impression that would eventually swing the jury. You had to believe that you were in possession of the Truth, you had to show the judge that there was no shadow of a doubt, at least not in your mind. Once you had achieved that, the rest would just roll out effortlessly. All your speeches, summaries and cross examinations would lead to the same unavoidable conclusion. QED. I rest my case.
Still, he would do his homework. He would have a few harsh words with Quigley the Traitor and find out just who these tale-telling old fools were and on what authority they shitted on his dear dead father's name. If he could belittle the source, he could dismiss the hearsay at a stroke. Then he would be free to paint his own picture of Sam Kavanagh, not based on malicious gossip, but on first-hand experience. He would be eloquent, thorough and concise. Dad would be re-instated.
Because it was vital. Given that nobody could now ever claim to know the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth about his father, it was crucial that he take a stance and stick to it. Sam Kavanagh was innocent, he had to be innocent, because if not then Ron's entire existence would have to be reassessed, and he had no desire to have his life overhauled at this stage in the game. Not by Quigley, not by Daphne, and certainly not by his weirdo kid brother. He was not prepared to suddenly become the son of a wife-beating, alcoholic rapist. And he was very sorry if Paul had lopped them off because he had d
ecided to swallow all that rubbish, but that was his own stupid fault. One thing he knew for sure, his were staying where they were.
Paul had not bothered to plan ahead, what was the point? There was no way of knowing what Ron would say, or if Daphne would back him up, so it was impossible to prepare counter arguments. For all he knew they would for once find some common ground over it all, or at least agree to differ. Anyway, thinking ahead was not his forte, as he tended to get in a muddle and lose his thread, or go round and round the same situation, changing it slightly each time until it became absurd. He preferred to let events progress naturally the way a river slides downstream to the sea. The course of life. One thing, though, was clear. He had to make Ron see, see that Dad may just not have been what he thought, or imagined, or remembered; he had to get him to doubt. As for the rest he would play it off the cuff and hope for the best.
Carlton, whose status had increased tenfold after the latest developments, gave him the go ahead to pass into the lounge. The rest of the colourful crew would have to wait in the van, off the grounds. Leave this to the experts, please, and no-one will have anything to lament.
Daphne had arranged the seating, one brother on either side of her moderator's chair. Refreshment had also been supplied in the shape of tea, real tea, and biscuits, assorted biscuits of all shapes and sizes, some even wrapped in gold or crimson shiny paper like tiny presents. A spare copy of the dossier had been left on the sideboard as she had rightly assumed that Paul would forget to bring his own and that Ron would under no circumstances be prepared to share his with anyone. Let combat begin.