‘He’s probably made my mother angry and wants to use me to get round her; you know, put a good word in.’
‘Do you want me to pass on your address if he comes back?’
‘Heck no. Micky is hell on earth waiting to happen. I don’t want to even set eyes on the bastard.’
‘After seeing him today, I feel the same way.’
‘You should call the police. Tell him he threatened you.’
Nat paused for a second. ‘Hmm, no. I’m going up to my grandparents’ place in Scotland tomorrow. I’ll be away for three weeks. If he comes back here, there’ll be no one home.’
‘Cheers, Nat. Thanks for letting me know about Micky.’
‘Oh, just one more thing. Micky must have made someone mad.’
‘How so?’
‘Someone’s beaten the crap out of him; his face was all bruised. There were blisters, too, like he’d been burnt with a cigarette lighter or something.’
‘I’m sure he deserved what he got,’ Ben said and meant it.
‘OK, I’d best go and pack for Bonnie Wee Scotland. See you soon, Ben; take care of the leg, drink lots of cider, limp after some girls.’
‘Yeah, I’ll do plenty of that. See you soon, Nat.’
‘Ciao, Ben.’
Ben sat there thanking his lucky stars that Micky hadn’t got hold of this address. The last thing he wanted to see was that slug’s repellent face here in Devon.
John hurried home after work to check on Oliver. He found Ingrid sitting with the boy in his bedroom. Oliver answered when John asked him how he was feeling. He still seemed tired, however; his face was flushed, and he had an air of being preoccupied with something that worried him.
Ingrid tried to reassure John. ‘He does seem much better. He’s had plenty of fluids, and about twenty minutes ago he ate a sandwich.’
‘I’m sure he’s on the mend.’ John cheerfully ruffled the boy’s hair. ‘You’ll be back to normal tomorrow. But if you’re still feeling under the weather we’ll have a trip to the doctor’s; that sound good to you, Oliver?’
Oliver nodded. His face remained expressionless, which made John a little uneasy.
John asked, ‘You’ve no aches or pains? You don’t feel sick?’
Oliver shook his head. ‘Something happened last night. I can’t remember what it was. It did, but I don’t know what.’ He lay down on the bed to stare up at the ceiling.
He can’t remember what happened? John now remembered what had happened in the castle thirty years ago. The night that Philip lost his hand in a terrible accident. John had suppressed the memory of his friend’s bloody wrist. Is Oliver suppressing a memory, too?
Ben Darrington was reading his e-book in the garden, so he was already holding the phone when the call came through. He checked the screen. Micky calling.
‘No way,’ Ben grunted. ‘I’m not taking a call from you, you low-life bastard.’
He ignored the call, leaving Micky to be directed to voicemail. At least the creep didn’t know where Ben was staying. Ben intended to keep it that way. There wasn’t a chance in hell he’d tell Micky where he was staying. In fact, Micky Dunt could go to hell as far as he was concerned.
Ben went back to reading his book. The sun had moved across the sky, and the shadow from the tree no longer gave him shade, but Ben hadn’t bothered to move his chair. The heat felt good on his face. He relished its power. Ever since he’d broken his leg he’d either been cooped up in hospital or had been lying in that gloomy back room in the Tolworths’ house. Being outdoors in the sunshine felt like being liberated from a prison cell.
More calls had come through from Micky Dunt. He ignored them all. He’d even covered the screen with his hand so he couldn’t see the caller photograph. That was one photo and contact he’d delete. In fact, he thought, this is the perfect time. He picked up the phone from the patio table at the same moment another call came through. He saw his mother’s photo appear on-screen. For a moment, he thought of not answering. But his mother was in Thailand. What if she was in trouble and needed him? He took the call.
‘Hello,’ he said, wondering if there was a problem; after all, it must be the middle of the night in Thailand. ‘You OK?’
‘Hello, Ben,’ said his mother. ‘It’s lovely to hear your voice. How’s your leg?’
‘On the mend. Isn’t it late over there? I mean, after midnight or something?’
‘That doesn’t matter. I just wanted to give you a call.’
‘Is there something wrong?’
‘No, no, everything’s alright here. It’s hot, though. Like a sauna. Like … phew!’
Ben heard her voice slurring. Drink? Drugs? Both? Crap. Yes, both. He knew his mother’s habits only too well. ‘Are you sure nothing’s wrong? You’ve got a hotel for the night, haven’t you? You’re not having to sleep outside?’
‘No. Don’t worry about me, sweetheart. I’m stopping with friends.’
‘You have friends out there? In Thailand?’
‘I’m fine, baby. They took me to a banquet tonight. Fish on skewers, all kinds of things … but … that’s by the by. It’s Micky.’
‘Uh … I thought you’d mention him.’
‘I’m fond of Micky.’
‘He’s a bastard. He hits you.’
‘That’s all in the past, Ben. Listen. Micky’s worried. He doesn’t know where you are.’
‘I’m stopping with my father and his family.’ Best not tell my mother where I am, he told himself. She’ll only tittle-tattle to Micky. ‘They’re looking after me while my leg heals.’ He brushed away a fly that scurried up the cast.
‘Oh? John Tolworth? That’s lovely, really lovely, Ben, I’m pleased.’ Again, slurring. ‘Micky wants to visit you.’
‘I bet he does.’
His mother kept her voice sweetly pleasant. ‘You’ve got something of Micky’s. You know the – the thing that he asked you to keep safe.’
‘Get to the point, Mother. You mean, Micky wants his drugs back.’
‘Yes, he needs them, like, now.’
‘He’ll get them back in a few weeks when I can move round again on my legs.’
‘No, Ben. This is important. He needs the thing now.’
‘Thing! Drugs. Coke. Nose candy. That’s what you’re referring to.’
‘Don’t use those words. Stick with thing, OK?’ She sounded breathless, like she was scared all of a sudden. ‘You don’t know who might be listening.’
‘Like the police?’
‘Ben, this is important. Tell me where you’re staying. Micky will pick up the thing you’re keeping for him.’
‘No way. I’m not telling Micky where I am. I won’t tell you, either.’
‘Please, Ben. You don’t know what’s happened.’
‘I know that Micky steals from you, and he’s stolen money from me. If you hadn’t burst into tears when I said I wouldn’t hide the drugs for him, I’d have told the bastard to piss off.’
‘Ben. Oh, please, Ben. Micky’s in trouble. The coke isn’t his. There are people who want the drugs back. They’re ever such bad people, do you understand? They’ve hurt poor Micky. If he doesn’t give the coke back to them they’re going to kill him. I know they will. They’ve tortured and murdered before. Tell Micky your address, or he’ll end up dead, and – and I don’t want him to die.’ She began sobbing.
Ben listened with a mixture of horror and disgust. How had his mother wound up with such a loser as Micky Dunt?
‘Please, Ben. Give him the coke back. If you don’t, they’ll kill poor Micky. Tell me your address … you’ve got to, baby. Please—’
Ben couldn’t take any more and ended the call. He sat there, feeling so upset by his mother’s pleading that he felt sick. But this time, he resolved not to let his mother’s tears make him do something stupid; he wouldn’t tell Micky his address. It might put the Tolworths – his new family – in danger, not to mention himself.
‘Ben, you shouldn’t sit in the sun for
too long. You might make yourself ill.’
Ben swivelled his head to see John Tolworth emerging from the house. Ben’s nerves were in shreds. He hated the fact that his mother was distressed, but – Christ! – he wasn’t going to help Micky-shithead-Dunt.
John said, ‘I could help you into the shade.’
‘I’m alright here.’
‘The sun’s strong today. I thought—’
‘Don’t give me orders! Damn well stop telling me what to fucking do! OK?’
‘OK.’ John physically recoiled from Ben’s yell. ‘Only trying to help out, Ben.’
‘I’m nineteen. I know what I’m doing. If I want to sit in the fucking sun, I will!’
‘OK.’
‘So don’t you ever – ever! – give me orders!’ Abruptly, Ben stopped shouting. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and realized he was shaking.
John said, ‘I’ll leave you in peace.’ He walked across the patio in the direction of the house.
Ben called out, ‘John, I’m sorry.’
John stopped and turned to face Ben.
Ben shook his head, feeling angry with himself. ‘Sorry. I had a call from my mother. Well … you know … not good. When I talk to my mother it’s always the same. Difficult.’ Ben realized he wasn’t expressing himself clearly, but his mother had that effect on him. She got him so tensed up, he wanted to punch something, yell, spit in Satan’s eye – anything to release the unbearable tension that hurt every muscle in his body. Now I’ve blown it with John. I swore at him. He’ll tell me to leave.
John, however, didn’t storm back to the house. He walked across the patio and sat on a low wall beside Ben. ‘If it helps,’ John said with a heartfelt note of sympathy, ‘Carol, your mother, made me feel the same way. It was a long time ago, of course. I was young, and I loved your mother. I cared about her. The trouble was, she did things in her life that frightened me.’
‘Drugs?’
John nodded. ‘I tried talking to her, because I genuinely thought the world of her. But I didn’t seem to be able to make Carol see how much I cared, or how worried I was, because she was putting that poison into her body. Whenever I tried to raise the subject of drugs she either wouldn’t listen, or got angry.’
Ben sighed. ‘You know, it could be me saying the same thing. I care about my mother. But what she does … taking drugs, boozing at nine in the morning … it frightens me. It scared me back when I was kid, and she’d be off her head when I came in from school.’ He grunted with the pain of remembering. ‘One Christmas morning I woke up so excited that the day had finally come. I’d have been ten or eleven. I went downstairs and found that my presents had been unwrapped and left by the back door. Of course, this mystified me, so I went up to my mother’s bedroom. She lay in bed with a man I’d never seen before. I couldn’t wake her. She’d vomited down herself. The guy woke up, got dressed, went downstairs, and began stuffing my presents back into the Santa sack. I stood there, just five feet from him, watching him do it. I mean, what could I do to stop him? I was a kid. The guy left the house with my presents and never came back, but there were others just like him. Now my mother’s in Thailand. I think she’s there because her boyfriend, a thug called Micky Dunt, has made her go. It’s something to do with drugs, I know it is. He’s probably using my mother as a drugs mule, and … and … when she calls I get so uptight, so wound up, I can’t speak to her for more than thirty seconds without wanting to scream at her. Why has she fallen for a loser like that? Why won’t she wake up and realize that I care about what happens to her? And what if the police catch her when …? Uh … sorry. I can’t … Damn, damn, damn.’
Ben closed his eyes again, feeling himself tremble so violently that his body seemed in danger of shaking itself to pieces. An arm went around his shoulders. Suddenly, he felt a powerful hug. The sensation bewildered him. He remembered the rare occasions he’d visited his mother’s father: his grandad used to hug him like this. Ben took a deep breath. When he opened his eyes John had sat back on the wall again.
John spoke gently. ‘Ben, if you want to talk about your mother to me, then we’ll talk. If you don’t want to talk about her, that’s fine, too. I’m here though. I’ll listen.’
Ben didn’t know what to say or do next. For a full minute, he sat knowing he should say something. John’s care … his compassion … had left Ben floundering. Knowing he should do something, he held out his hand. Smiling, John shook it.
‘Thanks,’ Ben said. Then a moment later added, ‘Thanks … Dad.’
Micky Dunt pulled on a pair of latex gloves in the back yard. After that, he gained entry to the student house where Ben Darrington had rented a room by squirming through the kitchen window, which had been left open. Micky would have preferred to leave this particular bit of housebreaking until after dark, but the guy who owned the cocaine that was, theoretically, still in Micky’s possession wanted his drugs back. And one guy you don’t mess with is Karl Gurrick, Micky told himself with a shudder. Gurrick, king of the local mobsters. Even the police don’t tangle with Gurrick.
Micky stood absolutely still in the kitchen. He could smell bacon that had been cooked here earlier. The frying pan stood on the hob; fat from the bacon had begun to solidify and turn white as it cooled. This, and the fact Micky could hear the sound of a TV, proved to him that one or more people were still in the house. Another one of those bratty students? Micky wondered. A bratty student like Ben Darrington? He loathed Ben, only tolerating him because he was screwing the kid’s mother.
As Micky stood there, listening for signs of movement in the house – especially sounds that would suggest someone was heading in the direction of the kitchen – he saw his reflection in the glass panes of a wall cupboard. Bruises, his face was dappled with them. Even worse were the burn marks from the electric cable that had been used to torture him. The circumstances that led to his body getting blistered to hell and back by that sadist in the cellar infuriated Micky Dunt. It should have been so easy, right? But, no, it wasn’t – the plan had all gone to shit. It started off well. Micky had cut a deal with Gurrick. Gurrick had paid upfront for two kilos of coke. Micky, along with Carol Darrington, had taken the ferry to Rotterdam, contacted the dealer, bought the two kilos of coke, then they’d smuggled it back through customs at Hull. The problem was that the police had started taking an interest in Micky. They’d searched his house when he’d been away in Rotterdam. So, what to do? What to do? Micky couldn’t keep the drugs at his house, because the cops were likely to come busting their way in again (Micky was well known to the police; he’d got convictions for drug-dealing in the past). So, Micky had come up with the simple solution. He’d persuaded Ben Darrington – with a little help from Carol – to stash the drugs for a few hours until Micky could arrange a meet-up with Gurrick. But then the stupid kid had broken his leg. Before Micky could retrieve the stash from Ben, the kid had vanished. All he knew was that Ben had gone to stay with his father. The big problem was that nobody knew exactly where Ben Darrington was staying.
The even BIGGER problem was that Karl Gurrick suspected that Micky had pulled a scam. That is, Micky had persuaded Gurrick to hand over a heap of cash for drugs that didn’t exist – or did exist, but Micky had lied about not being able to pass them on to Gurrick. The mobster was furious. He punished his drug mules who didn’t deliver, or who tried to cheat him by pretending they had to dump the coke, or heroin, or whatever they were carrying, because the police were chasing them. Gurrick hurt anyone who cheated him, or failed to do their job to his satisfaction. The guy was a tyrant. He enjoyed burning bare flesh with a live cable. Micky could vouch that burns caused by electricity were agonizing.
He ran his blistered tongue over his lips and flinched at the pain. There’d be more torture to come if he didn’t get that coke delivered to Gurrick soon. So, time to find out where the kid was staying and grab the coke. Micky would also deliver some torture of his own on Ben Darrington’s body. Ben had jerked Micky around ??
? made life more difficult for him. If Ben had given his address when Micky had phoned him, then he wouldn’t be risking jail by breaking into this house.
Micky moved as quietly as he could. He left the kitchen and found himself in a big hallway. Typical student accommodation, scuffed paintwork on the walls from bikes being leant against them. In fact, there were a couple of bikes standing against the wall at the far end. A noticeboard by the front door displayed leaflets for music gigs, bike repairs, takeaway menus, bus timetables. How considerate of those bloody students to tell each other where they could get their crappy bikes repaired or buy the cheapest pizza.
Micky growled with anger. Students! Ben Darrington thought he was so superior to Micky. The kid looked down his nose at him. ‘Well, I’m boning your mad bitch of a mother,’ Micky grunted.
The sound of the TV grew louder. Audience laughter, bright and bouncy music. A game show, probably. Micky’s plan was simple: break into Ben’s room (because he suspected the other student had lied to him when he said that Ben didn’t live here any longer). With luck, Micky would find the address where Ben was staying. ‘I’ll show the bastard what torture is,’ he snarled. A blister on his tongue burst, flooding his mouth with a vile taste.
Just then, a door opened in front of him. Micky darted to the wall, pressing his back against it. He’d expected to see a young kid emerge from the room, one of the students that lived here in their poxy rooms. But what Micky saw was a man of around sixty with lots of white hair tied into a ponytail. The guy had turned right when he’d exited the room; he faced away from where Micky pressed himself against the wall, so he hadn’t seen the intruder.
Micky remembered the searing pain of electricity blazing from the end of the cable into his skin. The smell of burning. The convulsions. The sheer mind-blowing agony. Gurrick would do that again to Micky if he didn’t deliver the coke. Hell, the sadist would torture him in many other inventive ways, too. Micky’s predicament was desperate. He’d have to do whatever it took to find Ben’s address, otherwise the consequences would be unthinkable. Micky padded up behind the man, grabbed him by the white hair, and smashed his head against the wall. He pounded the guy’s skull against the brickwork again and again. When the body went limp he allowed the man to drop to the floor. Good, out cold. Micky’s instinct told him to check his victim’s room first. You never know, there might be someone else in there who needed taking care of.