Brothers in Blood (11 page)

‘Would you like some wine?’ Sue Ling asked, after she had turned on two table lamps and the electric glow fire.

‘I’d prefer to kiss your breasts,’ Laurence replied casually, tossing his jacket on to a wicker chair.

Without a word, she pulled off her T-shirt. ‘Your wish is my command, Sir Andrew.’

Laurence grinned. ‘You are quite beautiful, aren’t you?’

He meant it. There was something very attractive about her small frame and smooth features with that broad smile and ingenuous almond-shaped eyes. He kissed her firmly on the lips while his hands cupped her breasts and gently massaged them. She responded with a sigh, moulding herself into his tall frame.

As she slipped out of her jeans revealing her smooth, pert backside, Laurence experienced a strange stabbing pain in his head and he suddenly felt nauseous. He closed his eyes and a violent flashing image filled his vision. An image torn from Alex’s letter; vivid, graphic, greatly unsettling. Violent male sex – brutal bestiality. It was like a fierce light being shone in his eyes. He winced and found himself shuddering involuntarily.

Sue Ling noticed his odd behaviour. She ran her cool hand over his brow. ‘You OK, Laurence?’ she asked.

He nodded and added a weak smile as an afterthought. Despite her naked presence, he felt his ardour waning. His mind had been overtaken by the image, like a scrap of film on a loop juddering uncompromisingly in his head. This was so unlike him and anger mixed with his concern, further diluting his passion.

‘Come to bed. Make love to me,’ Sue Ling said, leading him to the tiny single bed in the far corner of the room. A sandy-haired teddy bear with a red bow-tie sat on the pillows, its glassy eyes gazing out at them with enigmatic stillness. Carefully Sue Ling lifted the bear from the bed and placed him on the laundry basket.

As soon as Laurence was on the bed, kissing and caressing Sue Ling, he knew the adventure was doomed. That image with its ferocity and blood had stayed with him and dominated his emotions. Nothing stirred below. Even when she gently massaged his penis it refused to respond. She kissed the head gently before placing her mouth over it. But nothing happened. Laurence’s emotions shifted from dismay to annoyance and then to humiliation. This had never happened before. He had never even contemplated such a situation. As a rule he could achieve an erection as quickly and as easily as snapping his fingers.

But not tonight.

‘I’m sorry, I must have had too much to drink,’ he mumbled softly, well aware that this was a pathetic excuse.

Sue Ling was obviously disappointed. ‘Maybe later, eh? Perhaps you are too tense. Shall we have coffee?’

Laurence shook his head. ‘Some other time. I think I’d better go.’ He had got up from the bed and began scrabbling about for his clothes. My God, he thought, I’ve become a character in some cheap farce. A fucking vicar will come in at any moment without any trousers.

‘Oh, don’t leave, Laurence. We can just sleep together. It doesn’t matter. You might feel better in the morning.’

Feel better. It sounded like he had a bloody illness. A disease. He had been affected with the can’t-get-it-up virus. He glanced at the narrow single bed. He didn’t fancy spending the night on that and anyway he wanted to escape, to be alone to wallow in his own shame. He was terrified. He had experienced the ultimate male failure. He knew that he may well have started a cycle of impotence that might be difficult to break. He had read all about this in various magazines. Once you fail to perform, the fear and apprehension prevents you the next time and the next time… forever.

He came out in a sweat. He must get away. He needed to leave the scene of his crime. By getting out, he hoped he could disassociate himself from the ignominy of it. He gazed at the still naked Sue Ling. She was eminently desirable. What on earth was wrong with him?

With unseemly haste, he bundled himself out of Sue Ling’s flat and staggered into the cool night air. For some moments he leaned against the wall of the building, his chest heaving. It was a nightmare. A bloody nightmare. As soon as this thought came to him, the same violent image flashed back in his mind.

‘Fuck off, will you,’ he cried to it. Why on earth did this affect him so much? Why was it there and why had it castrated him? He fumbled in his pocket for his pack of small cigars. He lit one and breathed deeply allowing the tobacco to seep into his lungs. At that moment he felt as low as he could ever remember. He was gripped by a sudden fear that true emotion had found a way into his system. Real turmoil inducing feelings had finally broken through the once impregnable barrier.

With a snarl, he threw the cigar into the gutter and made his way home.

Home was a small guest house which in reality was only one notch up from Sue Ling’s bedsit; such was the lot of the provincial actor in rep. At least he had en-suite facilities in the room so when he got back, he stripped off and had a shower, attempting to sluice away the growing sense of his despair. Then he lay on the bed and re-read Alex’s letter. The last sentence seemed to radiate from the page: ‘So you see Laurence, that’s why I want this man dead.’

Laurence closed his eyes, a thin veil of perspiration still covering his face from the heat of the shower. It was against all they had agreed, all they had promised to do. They would not leave a mess in their own back yard. It was too dangerous. Connections could be made. They must remain separate entities at all times. And yet they hadn’t reckoned on this. One of their own being damaged. They hadn’t contemplated Leather Man.

Impulsively, Laurence dragged on his clothes again and ventured out into the cold night air. At the end of the street, he found a phone box. It smelt of urine and stale beer. He dialled a number he had memorised. It rang for quite a time until eventually a sleepy voice answered: ‘Yes?’

‘Russell, it’s Laurence. Are you free to talk?’

‘What…’ Russell was still dragging himself awake and not quite believing what he was hearing.

‘It’s Laurence. Are you alone?’

‘Yes, yes. Sandra’s out at some medical bash. What’s this all about?’

‘We need to meet up,’ Laurence said, his old authoritarian tone reasserting itself.

‘Meet up?’ There was a faint note of panic in Russell’s voice.

‘Have you heard from Alex?’

‘No. Why? Should I have? Is something wrong?’

‘Don’t want to go into that now. But I reckon we’re going to have to change our plans for the next project.’

‘What do you mean? What’s up?’

‘Not over the phone. Can you get to London next Sunday?’

‘Next Sunday! Are you mad?’

‘It’s important. Vital. You must.’

There was a pause while Russell came to terms with this passionate injunction.

‘It’ll be bloody difficult,’ he said at length, knowing that he’d have to comply with Laurence’s wishes. ‘On what excuse?’

‘Oh, come now, I’m sure you can come up with something. The two us need to have a board meeting urgently. I’m down in Salisbury and I can’t get away during the week because of the play I’m in.’

‘This is to do with Alex?’

‘Yeah, yeah. Something needs sorting out – rather urgently. It is important.’

There was a pause and a heavy sigh. ‘OK. I’ll wangle it some way.’

‘You are an ace wangler, Russ.’

‘I wish you’d tell me what it’s all about.’

‘Next Sunday. 12.30 in the Spice of Life pub at Cambridge Circus.’

Laurence replaced the receiver before Russell could reply.

So, he thought, Alex didn’t send a letter to Russell detailing his ordeal. Only to me. I suppose that makes me chairman of the board. Which I am and always have been, of course.

Once again the image of his friend being savagely buggered flew into his mind and he felt his stomach turn yet again. What am I going to do to exorcise that demon? he pondered, as stepped out of the phone box. Standing alone in silent street, he suddenly felt very vulnerable.

FIFTEEN

Russell was early. It was just after twelve when he walked into the dingy bar parlour of the Spice of Life, the atmosphere heavy with the aroma of strong bleach and stale beer. There were only two other customers. One was a scruff in a decaying track suit that was fooling no one. Its owner, pint in one hand and half smoked cigarette in the other, was coughing heartily. He would have trouble sprinting to the gents let alone doing any serious running. The other punter was Laurence, who was lounging at a corner table with a pint glass, smoking one of his little cigars which he waved in a camp fashion as a way of greeting. Russell bought a pint and joined him.

‘This had better be important,’ Russell said tersely, without ceremony, slumping down on a seat. A four hour train journey had made him crotchety.

Laurence did not reply. He just withdrew some sheets of paper from his jacket pocket and held them out to Russell. It was Alex’s letter.

‘What’s this?’

‘Read it.’ It was an order, not a request.

Russell took a long drink of beer and read the letter. While he was doing so, Laurence observed his friend’s countenance closely. The stern irritation which had been etched on his features slowly evaporated to be replaced at first by a look of concerned surprised which evolved, as Laurence knew it would, into a look of horror. When he had finished reading, Russell glanced over at his friend, his eyes wide with shock, but he said nothing for a time. Laurence retrieved the letter from his limp hand and replaced it in his jacket pocket.

‘Christ almighty,’ said Russell at last and then took a large gulp of his beer.

‘Indeed,’ said Laurence. ‘Christ-all-fucking-mighty.’

‘I’m having difficulty getting my head around this. Why… why did he just write to you and not me? I think I had a right to know.’

Laurence shrugged. ‘I suppose putting it down on paper once was about as much as he could take. To recount it again, well that would have been too painful. And anyway, he’d know that I’d tell you.’

That sounded a reasonable explanation but Russell couldn’t help feeling a small pang of jealousy at not being confided in as well as Laurence and just hearing the matter second-hand. Yet again he was the lieutenant not the captain. He knew this was the case, of course, but it still did not prevent him from wishing otherwise. In all other departments of his life he was an also ran. He had believed that he had at least equal status in the Brotherhood. Apparently not. With another drink of beer he attempted to wipe these selfish thoughts from his mind and return to Alex’s horrendous ordeal.

‘What are we going to do?’

Laurence stubbed out the small cigar in the tiny glass ashtray. ‘There is only one thing we can do. We must kill the bastard. Now how about an Italian?’

Twenty minutes later they were sitting in Pizza Express on Dean Street going through the motions of eating their chosen pizzas. Neither was really hungry and the thought of Alex’s experience as recorded in his letter had robbed them of any real appetite they might have had. However, they had consumed most of a bottle of red wine before the food had arrived and Laurence ordered a second.

‘Are you serious?’ said Russell toying with a portion of his American Hot.

Laurence knew that he was picking up on the conversation they’d left hanging in the air back in the pub.

‘I am. It’s our duty.’

‘But we’ve always chosen anonymous victims before – those that had no connection with us. This is really dangerous. There is a link. We could be traced.’

‘It is a tenuous link. We’re experienced fellows. If we plan. If we take the usual precautions, we’ll be fine. Besides… if we do nothing… Then it’s all over. Us. The game. The Brotherhood. If we can’t kill for our own, then we can’t do it again… ever.’

Russell stared into Laurence’s eyes. The usual jaunty sparkle was missing. His face was grey, serious and strangely sad. ‘To be honest, Russell, old chap,’ he said, ‘I can’t get the thing out of my head. It’s haunting me. I feel tainted and soiled. It’s as though I’ve been buggered too. Revenge is the only solution. It’ll be like a kind of exorcism for Alex and for both of us. It will be like a purge – scrubbing the deed away. I saw your face when you read the letter. You feel like me. Don’t you?’

Russell nodded. Laurence was right. It was strange but true. ‘It was horrible,’ he said softly. ‘Far worse than anything that we’ve… Poor sod.’

Laurence’s hand reached across the table and touched Russell’s briefly. ‘I knew you’d feel the same,’ he said.

The two men held their gaze for some time.

‘How do we go about it?’ asked Russell.

Russell cocooned himself in his own thoughts as the train rattled back to Durham early that evening. The carriage was noisy and crowded and a child was screeching loudly a few seats away, but he was able to shut out all the extraneous sensations and concentrate on his thoughts as he stared out of the window at the rapidly darkening landscape. Trees, houses, farm buildings were gradually merging with the blackness of the sky and houselights, like inferior stars, speckled the inky night.

He went over the conversation that he’d had with Laurence in London and the plan that his friend had presented to him. The mechanics seemed fine – as all Laurence’s plans were – but he couldn’t help feeling that it was wrong, a mistake to take this particular route. It was a dramatic and a dangerous departure for them. And yet he realised that really this was their only option. There was no choice in the matter. They could not ignore what had happened to Alex, their brother. To retaliate, to take revenge was the only honourable thing to do. He knew that things would never be the same if they did nothing about it. However, Russell was equally sure that nothing would be the same if they did. It was a no win situation. Nevertheless, there was no going back. The time for withdrawal had long since passed. Since he and Laurence had killed old Mother Black’s dog they had formed a bloody bond that would bind them until their own death.

‘Tea. Coffee. Refreshments.’

The trolley service had arrived at his seat. He waited until the other passengers had ordered and then asked for a black coffee and a couple of whiskies.