Brothers in Blood (12 page)
By the time the train pulled into his station, tiredness and the whisky had relaxed Russell enough for his mood to have shifted to one of bleak acceptance of the situation as planned by Laurence. He didn’t like it, he feared it, but it had to be done. He afforded himself as wry grin as he made his way wearily to the taxi rank. As always, he mused, following Laurence was better than doing nothing.
Sandra lay on her back staring at the ceiling unable to sleep. As usual she had gone to bed early on Sunday evening, extra hours under the covers in readiness for Monday and the week ahead. She had contemplated waiting up for Russell, but in the end she ditched that idea. It was so unlike him to go off suddenly for the day. He was such a meticulous person who planned his activities with great care well in advance. Spontaneous he was not. So this excursion to visit an old friend who was very ill seemed so out of character and, to be honest, suspicious. As he explained it to her without much conviction, she knew that it was a lie. She’d never heard him mention this friend before – Russell didn’t really have friends – and he failed to explain why it was so important for him to go so quickly to see this man. As always, she refrained from asking him too many questions but she couldn’t help thinking that there was something more to this sudden trip than she was being told. However, this was nothing new. She was well aware when she agreed to marry Russell that she would never know him fully, would never reach that special intimate oneness with him, would never own him as some wives owned their husbands. She thought of Russell as ‘iceberg man’ – so much unseen below the surface. Even when they made love, she was conscious that he was not giving fully of himself, that he was keeping part of something back, hiding a secret self which he would never reveal. She accepted this. It failed to rouse her curiosity to any great extent. She was content that she had a reliable and respectable husband.
At the thought of their lovemaking, Sandra instinctively stroked her stomach. There was as yet only a gentle swell, but she was conscious of the child growing inside her. The child that would make her whole. The child that would be hers completely, someone she could own and love unconditionally. There would be no reserve, no secrets with her child. They would bond and be inseparable. She acknowledged that in helping to create this baby, Russell had performed his ultimate function. From now on, she knew that they would grow apart – grow further apart. As a married couple with a child they would function in a clichéd fashion without the true warmth and passion of closeness of real partners and parents. As she contemplated these thoughts, the fact that Russell was not yet back suddenly ceased to worry her. Suddenly, it did not matter. She had the baby. That was all that really did matter.
With an incipient smile on her face, Sandra finally slipped away into peaceful sleep and failed to hear Russell return to the house and get into bed beside her just before midnight.
In its own way, Russell’s trip had changed both their lives.
Earlier that evening Alex had received a telephone call from Laurence.
‘Can you talk?’ asked Laurence without ceremony.
‘Yes. I’m on my own again. John left about a week ago. I’m a bit difficult to live with at the moment.’
‘I will be brief,’ said Laurence. ‘The Lone Ranger and Tonto are coming to your rescue. We need to meet, form a plan and then proceed with its execution. We rendezvous at the Guardsman in Leeds at noon a week on Saturday. Do not mention this to anyone. Is that clear?’
‘Yes.’
The telephone went dead.
Alex stared at himself in the hall mirror. He looked tired, he thought. Tired and something else. What? Tired and … haunted. He was not sure what Laurence and Russell had in mind, but he didn’t think that anything they did would exorcise the dark shadow which had fallen over his life. He doubted if he ever would feel whole and clean again.
When the meeting took place in the Guardsman, it did not surprise either Russell or Alex that Laurence arrived full of enthusiasm with a fully formed plan of action. It was daring and shocking and all three were aware that that it was taking them into new territory.
‘I know there is more danger in this enterprise,’ Laurence observed, casually as though discussing the weather, ‘but there is a purpose, a focus to our deed – other than our own pleasure – which adds extra spice to the venture. Remember that. Cherish it as an add-on feature. We mustn’t get timid now.’
Russell grimaced. ‘There’s always been danger, but this time it seems as though we are taking too much of a risk. We’ve never had a reason to act before. Our actions have been random and motiveless and therefore to outsiders, i.e. the police, unfathomable. There has been nothing to connect us with the victim. That’s been our success. Tenuous though it might be, in this case there is a link between us and the victim.’
Alex nodded. ‘That’s me. I am the link. Russell’s right, it does seem a bit rash. I’m not sure about this. I really shouldn’t have got you involved. I don’t want you to take risks on my behalf. I know that you’re only doing this because of me…’
‘Not just you, old lad,’ said Laurence leaning in close. ‘But for all the others – past and possible future. This is a bloody social service we are about to perform. As always. And don’t tell me that you won’t feel more than a frisson of pleasure when we do the bastards in.’
Alex’s features softened to allow the ghost of a smile to register there. In truth, he didn’t know how he would feel. At first the idea of revenge was sweet, but then he realised that whatever was done to the men who had raped him, it wouldn’t alter the fact. The dirty, sordid, unforgettable fact. You cannot wipe out the past by future actions. Now he wondered if anything at all, other than death, his own death, would bring him peace. But he saw the fire in Laurence’s eyes and was aware that this was just as important to him.
‘If you’re sure…’ he said quietly, at length, holding back his reluctance.
Laurence raised a questioning eyebrow at Russell who, after the briefest pause, nodded firmly. ‘It’s the least we can do,’ he said evenly.
Laurence gave a little guffaw of satisfaction and ordered another round of drinks. ‘Now that’s settled, I need some information from you, Alex, so I can set this plan into operation. Don’t look so worried,
mon ami
. I assure you, it will go like clockwork.’
Laurence was thorough. Doing his ‘homework’, as he called it, was almost as pleasing to him as the actual job itself. The run of
Twelfth Night
had now finished and he had happily said farewell to his fellow actors and, with some relief, to Sue Ling also. After his disappointing performance in her flat, he had avoided her. He didn’t want to be reminded of his failure and had no intention of making a second attempt – although she still seemed keen – in case the same thing happened again. That, he couldn’t live with.
So he now entered a period of ‘resting’, allowing him time to devote to his ‘homework’. He travelled up to Huddersfield wearing a light disguise, his old favourite: a false moustache and glasses, with hair greying at the temples and a shabby blazer and flannels which, normally, he wouldn’t have been seen dead wearing. In this persona he booked in at the George Hotel by the station giving his name as Tom Harris and began his recce. Using Alex’s directions, he hired a car and drove out into the country to locate the isolated house owned by the man called Matt. He did it with ease. He parked the car fifty yards away on the opposite side of the road and gazed at the property for some time. There wasn’t another house for nearly a mile. There was no sign of life. No doubt Matt was at work – which allowed Laurence the opportunity to scout around. He made his way up the path and pressed the bell. As expected there was no reply. He walked around the perimeter familiarising himself with the geography of the place. He gazed in through the windows; what he could see through the smeared glass matched Alex’s description of the ground floor. Very chintzy.
Satisfied with his reconnaissance, Laurence drove back to town calling at a pub on the outskirts for a pint and time to ponder. As he sat in the gloomy snug, he sifted through the elements of his plan, tying them in with the evidence he had gleaned from his excursion and from Alex’s account of that terrible evening. One thing was clear. It was not going to be easy. Taking on one man had always been fairly straight forward – but in this case there were going to be three and these fellows knew how to handle themselves. The only real advantage that Laurence and Co. would have was the element of surprise. That needed to be great. Greater than even his comrades in arms realised. A trip to Leeds on the train was next. Apparently Matt worked in an estate agent’s office just off the Headrow – Alex had also done some homework.
Tom Harris had suddenly developed an interest in a nice little semi in Headingley. He sauntered into the brightly lit show room and, while pretending to look at the array of properties on display, he surreptitiously cast a glance at the various employees sitting at their desks who appeared to be busily doing nothing in particular. What was really engaging their attention Laurence could not determine but they created an air of studied industry which prevented them from taking note of the silent customers scanning the range of properties on display. There were five worker ants in all: two young girls, blonde totty, if he’d ever seen any, easy on the eye, dim of brain; a matronly grey-haired lady who looked as though they’d built the office around her; and two men. One of these was a sleek, pale faced creature with cadaverous features who snatched eager gasps on a home-rolled cigarette as he scribbled away with his pen. The other was Matt Wilkinson. Matt the bastard. He was big but well honed with hair that looked like a slick Brillo pad. His face was broad and glistened with fake tan and moisturiser. What ever he was doing at his desk, he was doing it slowly and almost absent-mindedly. Briefly, he broke off to retrieve a mint from his waistcoat pocket. The procedure of popping it into his mouth was a performance, carried out with delicacy, style and flair. Briefly his eyes closed as he sucked on the mint and then he returned slowly to his task.
What an amusing pillock, thought Laurence as he pulled one of the leaflets from the rack and walked over to Matt’s desk.
‘Excuse me,’ he barked in a broad Leeds accent, ‘is this semi freehold?’ He shook the leaflet in front of Matt’s face, so close that the man had to pull back. The frown of annoyance lasted for only a few seconds but Laurence took great delight in observing it. Soon the mask of professional caring was back in place, but that ill-guarded moment had revealed so much of the real Matt, the man behind the suntan sheen. Taking the leaflet from Laurence, with great deliberation he turned it over and ran his fingers down a column of print, stopping at the sentence: ‘This property is Freehold.’
Laurence bent over and peered at it, catching a strong whiff of Matt’s cologne.
‘Oh, I see. I hadn’t noticed that. Silly me,’ he said, grinning inanely.
Matt did not reply. He turned over the sheet and looked at the picture of the semi-detached house. ‘Are you interested in this property?’ he asked.
‘Possibly. Would you recommend it?’
Matt’s eyes narrowed momentarily, deciding which approach to take. He gave a quick glance at Laurence before continuing. ‘It’s a nice little place but if you are interested in the area and can stretch your budget by five thou or so, I’d recommend ‘Rushholme’, it has a larger more secluded garden and the road is quieter. Let me show you.’
Smooth bastard. Empty and soulless as a paper bag. That’s our friend Matt, thought Laurence as he journeyed back to Huddersfield on the train. He gazed unseeingly out of the window at the crowded hillsides near Dewsbury, dotted with new townhouses, cheek-by-jowl executive rabbit hutches with paper-thin walls and tiny gardens. He was glad he’d got some kind of measure of the man. Laurence could gauge that he was a cold calculating kind of beast. What he had experienced was the shell of the man, his professional persona, not the perverted bully. Strangely, there had been little evidence of homosexuality in his demeanour. Certainly, he was sleek and moisturised, but his beefy build and macho movements were deceptive.
Laurence smiled. Yes, he would take great pleasure in giving the cruel bastard what for. The thought of this lightened his mood and he was still smiling as the train pulled into Huddersfield station.
That night he visited the gay nightclub where Alex had first encountered Matt Wilkinson. He wanted to check it out for himself. For this occasion he wore a long blonde wig, a black T-shirt and very tight cord jeans. He fitted in beautifully with the clientele. Being a week night, the punters were thin on the ground and a sad lot they seemed: lonely singletons adrift in a macho world seeking solace in the sweaty gloom of a gay club. Indeed, Laurence hadn’t been in the place for more than fifteen minutes before he was being chatted up by a fat perspiring fellow with thinning sandy hair. This pleased him for it confirmed that his assumed persona was convincing, or convincing enough in the dim lighting of the club at least, although he had hoped to engage the attention of a more attractive fellow. He played along with his would be paramour for a while before gently giving him the brush off. After another twenty minutes, during which he carried a full survey of the premises, even running the gauntlet of visiting the toilets, he was satisfied that he’d seen enough. He high-tailed it back to his hotel and lay on the bed with a large glass of whisky.
Well, he thought, as he swirled the drink around in the glass, I think I’m ready now.
Matt Wilkinson returned for the third time to the bathroom mirror to appraise his appearance. He gave himself a false grin and adjusted a few strands of hair over his forehead. Satisfied with the result, he stood back from the mirror and turned sideways scrutinising his profile. The face was fine, the jaw line reasonably tight, but he was dismayed to observe that his shirt bulged rather unpleasantly at the front. He was getting a tummy. Blasted Mars bars. He would have to knock that habit on the head before he turned into a fat slob. Still, he looked all right. Quite the catch in fact, although, he mused, he wasn’t the one who was going to get caught. This thought brought a genuine smile to his lips.