Читать книгу The Hunted - Kerry Barnes - Страница 12

Harry Harman entered his mother’s kitchen with a face like a smacked arse. Doris was in her pinafore, not that this was unusual. Making a sandwich, she turned to her eldest son. Briefly looking him up and down, with no hint of an expression, she carried on slicing the cheese.

‘Where’s the ol’ man?’ His deep voice was gruff from too many fags and he had another distinguishing characteristic – a fat neck to match his overlarge head. A spiteful-looking man, he glared with hate most of the time. Those cold eyes never softened, even when he watched his mother with her crooked fingers, riven with arthritis, pouring tea into her dainty bone china teacup. She was almost fifty-seven and yet the boys still had her running around after them, cooking and ironing their shirts. They had moved out years before, with huge drums of their own, yet they would still bring their washing home, treating her as though she was their slave.

‘I don’t know, Son. Shall I give him a message?’

Harry tutted. ‘Nah, I need to find him, like fucking now!’

Doris stopped buttering the bread and wiped her hands on her apron. ‘Son, he’s probably up to no good with that old tom up on the Sandycroft estate, as well you know an’ all. So, I would be grateful if you didn’t come in ’ere and raise your voice at me,’ she said calmly, before she picked up the knife again and carried on buttering the bread.

Harry was seriously irritated. He knew his father was off somewhere having it away with the next tart who would put it out for him for a few drinks, but he felt somewhat guilty; he should have been more polite to his mother. Doris had a knack for winding him up with her righteous ways. She moaned constantly about their father and for good reason: he shagged everything in sight, and when he wasn’t doing that, he spent all their money on drink.

Whilst she could at least thank her lucky stars that her husband never belted her one, her mother always said she’d married beneath herself. And as the years rolled by, she wished things had been different. Hindsight was a wonderful thing but if only she’d never said ‘I do’ at the time. Trying as hard as she had, she’d been unable to change him or her sons for that matter. All three were a chip off their father’s block. And all of them had two things in common – a total lack of class and not a single brain cell between them.

Frank Harman wasn’t the best-looking man in South-East London, but he was okay – although he viewed himself as a Paul Newman double. If he was, Doris never saw it, and now he resembled the wrestler Big Daddy. Still, she’d made her bed and she had to damn well lie in it.

With three boys and a girl in the family, they sadly took on their father’s looks and build, with the possible exception of Scottie, who was the better looking of the bunch. Paris wasn’t too much of a looker without make-up, and certainly never had her mother’s sweet face.

Trying to keep up her posh voice and sophisticated ways only earned Doris the reputation for being a snob, and so, as the years dragged by, she became resigned to being put down at every turn by her insufferable children and humiliated by her villainous husband. Even her daughter had an air of arrogance about her, goaded on by the three boys. Their little princess, they called her. Doris wasn’t so blinded by her antics as the boys were, though. She was a class-A tart and was always causing unnecessary bother. Flashing her new tits and a five-hundred-pound pout, she was a spoiled little madam.

If only she could be proud of at least one of her four children, but the truth was she was ashamed of them. Totally. Frank was to blame. He brought them up to do whatever it took to earn a few bob, and there was nothing legitimate in it either. He laughed at their naughty antics, and so it was no surprise that they were all off the rails before they even reached primary school.

‘Where’s Paris?’ Harry asked, trying to moderate his angry tone.

Doris shrugged her shoulders. ‘How would I know? I haven’t seen her in a week. She’s probably staying over with that new fella of hers … Travis, I think his name is.’

Harry knew that wasn’t the case. He shuddered inside, remembering the picture of Travis in pieces. It wasn’t the bruises that turned his stomach but the fact that it was obvious he’d been gruesomely tortured. The photo on the phone had served as an ominous warning.

As thick-skinned as he was to violence and life itself, he felt uneasy. Looking back at his brother Vinnie’s feeble attempt at revenge made him want to crucify him. Gutting the dog was pathetic and instantly sent out the wrong message. He should have carved up Stafford, not the mutt: now that would have been a real warning not to mess with the Harmans.

‘I’ve made some fairy cakes. Would you like one?’ asked Doris, with a fake smile.

Harry thought he could see a trace of sarcasm on his mother’s sweet face, but, on reflection, he assumed he was just on edge and angry. ‘No, I need to get hold of Farver and Paris.’

Doris took her cup and plain cheese sandwich over to the kitchen table and sat herself down. Harry watched her, and for the first time in his life, he noticed how lonely and pitiful she looked as she ate her boring lunch at the Formica tabletop in her plain dress and pinny. The vision of Travis and then this image of innocence, his mother, oblivious to her son’s antics – he knew he wouldn’t be able to bear it if the Regans hurt her. She wasn’t like them. ‘Muvver, can you go and stay with your sister for a while?’

Holding the china teacup in her hand, Doris looked up at her son and just stared.

Harry was uneasy. ‘It’s just safer for the moment, Muvver.’ He softened his words.

‘Have you forgotten, Harry, my sister passed away six months ago? You were all invited to the funeral … but I guess you were too busy to go.’

Harry swallowed hard. He did remember her mentioning something, and yet he’d forgotten about it. He’d been too busy at the time – although he wouldn’t have gone anyway. He hardly knew his aunt. ‘Well, have ya got a friend you can stay with?’ His guilt now turned to annoyance.

‘No, Son, I don’t have any friends because your father put a stop to having any of those! Anyway, why do I need to get away? What trouble are you in now?’ Her tone was bitter.

‘Never you mind, Muvver. Just do yourself a favour and get away for a bit.’

‘No, Harry.’

With a deep furrowed frown, Harry glared. ‘Listen, Muvver, I ain’t fucking about. Ya need to get away from the house—’ Before he could finish, Doris jumped up from the table.

‘No, Harry! You listen to me for once in your life. I’m sick to the back teeth of being bullied … yes, bullied, by all of you. As for that useless father of yours, I’ve been pushed around by him for far too long, and I will not take it from you too. So, take note, sunshine, I’m not going anywhere. This is my home and not yours, so if anyone is leaving it’s you, Harry. Christ Almighty, I’ve had years of hiding from the aftermath of your troubles or dodging the police. Well, no more!’ She sat back down and took another sip of tea.

Harry sighed in frustration. Of course, she was right. For the first time in his life, he looked at her for who she really was – a downtrodden, washed-out woman. He pulled a chair out and sat opposite. ‘Muvver, I’ve a flat down the coast. It’s nothing too fancy, but it’s okay. Why don’t I take you there for a short holiday?’ His voice was almost sweet; it was so unlike his usual gruff tone.

Doris gave him a wry grin. ‘Harry, please stop taking my aloofness as stupidity. I’m fully aware of what you’re up to. Since when did you do charm? If you think offering a trip down to the seaside is doing me a favour, you’re very much mistaken. I know the truth and so do you. Like all of you, if I was to get hurt due to your antics, then none of you would be able to live with yourselves because you would be eaten up with guilt!’ she said, with a raised voice.

‘Muvver!’

‘No, Harry, just shut up, please! A holiday down the coast? I never even knew you had a holiday home. I haven’t been to the coast in over twenty damned years. You only want me to go now because it suits you. Me, invited to have a break? It’s ridiculous.’

Those words, coming from the mouth of this mild-mannered lady stunned Harry. And the look in her eyes told him she was not going to put up with him pushing her around. The speed at which he jumped up from the table caused the chair to topple over. Before she’d a chance to say another word, he left, slamming the door behind him.

The cold stark reality of the present situation made Doris so tearful. Her dear sister’s departure from this life was such a travesty. Doris deeply missed their weekly chats on the phone and the odd weekend trip up to Bath. It shouldn’t be this way; she should have been able to sit and share a pot of tea with her own daughter and chat, but Paris was just like the others – all out for herself. Staring down at the china teacup, she heard nothing but the quiet humming sound of the fridge, her only company. It was a stark contrast to when her kids had lived at home; the constant loud noise had been unbearable. They never spoke – they always shouted.

Just as she stood up to wash up the cup and plate, the back door burst open and in stormed Paris. Usually, Doris would greet her, offering lunch or a drink, but not today. Today, she wanted nothing more than to be alone and pretend she’d never had a family.

‘All right, Muvver?’ she said, as she plonked an oversized bag on the table. ‘I’ve got a few bits that need to be hand-washed. Put the kettle on. I’m fucking parched.’

Doris ignored her and continued with the washing up.

Paris rifled through her Louis Vuitton tote bag looking for her phone, still annoyed that Travis hadn’t returned her calls. In among the make-up, hairbrushes, and hairspray, she finally felt the rhinestone-covered phone case and retrieved it from her bag, only to find the battery had died. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ she cursed and dived in again to find the charger. After plugging it in, she returned to her seat and looked over at her mother. ‘Did ya make the tea?’

Doris untied her pinafore and turned to face her daughter. ‘No, Paris, I didn’t. If you want a cup, then make it yourself.’

Paris’s heavily made-up face produced a frown that even the Botox couldn’t freeze. ‘What the fuck’s up with you?’

‘I’ve had your brother in here demanding I move out for a while, I’ve had your stinking father take my last tenner from my purse yesterday, and now you, expecting your washing done and tea made. Well, you can all go and bugger off. I’m sick of all of you.’

Her caustic words made Paris gasp. She’d never heard her mother speak with such hostility to her, nor wear that look of spiteful anger. It just wasn’t in her nature.

Doris glared with tight lips, feeling her blood boiling. Her once sweet little girl was now nothing but a tart. Everything about her was fake, with her ever-changing bleached hair extensions, her oversized lips, and the thick black eyelash extensions, all of which made her look like a transvestite ready for a Las Vegas show. The skintight dress and fake tan would, Doris thought, be fine for the nightclub, but it was midday. Her look was more suitable for streetwalking around King’s Cross, where she would probably make a fortune selling her arse. In fact, Doris wondered if the figure-hugging dress did Paris any favours, particularly as it was bright green and the lumps and bumps made her look like a caterpillar. Still, what did she know about fashion? On balance, the boys seemed to go for her, and she wasn’t short of a fella. Perhaps it was the prodigious fake tits, mused Doris, that distracted anyone from thinking that she looked like a pig in lipstick.

Paris ignored the outburst and asked, ‘Who wanted you to leave?’

Doris gave a dramatic sigh. ‘Harry did.’

Paris guessed there was trouble. There was no way Harry would want their mother out of the house unless something bad was about to happen. Before she’d a chance to say another word, her phone sprang into action, bleeping with a string of messages. Leaping from her chair, she snatched her mobile, and with hands shaking from a hangover, she scrolled down the long list of messages and swallowed hard. She hastily dialled Harry’s number and waited for him to answer, anxiously tapping her foot.

‘Harry, what the fuck’s going on? Muvver’s got the raving hump, and I’ve had thirty missed calls.’

Harry told her he was on his way back and would pick her up in five minutes to take her to their seaside flat.

Now uneasy, Paris waited quietly in the kitchen. It was the panic in her brother’s voice that troubled her. Her brothers were never nervous: they were always self-assured, as if nothing ever fazed them. She was proud to be their little sister. It gave her a reputation and allowed her into places where drinks would be bought for her. She was spoiled, and she knew it. With a whinge, a whine, and a sulky pout, she would get the latest bag, shoes, or even a car.

Annoyed, she called him back.

‘Harry, why ’ave I got to go to the flat, for fuck’s sake? Travis ’as promised me a long weekend in some foreign country. He reckons it’s a surprise. Harry? Harry?’ She looked at the phone and realized Harry had ended the call.

‘Muvver, what’s going on? I’ve got Harry telling me he’s on his way, but now he’s put the poxy phone down, and you ain’t even gonna make me a brew!’

Doris stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the hall and sighed; her daughter was such a petulant, rude, and insensitive little cow. She hadn’t even looked up to acknowledge her mother; she merely applied a layer of lip gloss.

‘Paris, you can wait for Harry outside.’

With her lip gloss in one hand and a small round mirror in the other, Paris froze and slowly flicked her eyes to see her mother looking deadly serious.

‘You what?’

‘I said you can wait outside for your brother and also take that washing with you. I’ll not be your skivvy, ever again. And that goes for your brothers as well. Are we clear?’ Each word was precise.

Paris frowned. ‘What’s wrong with you? I mean, ’ave ya started the menopause or something?’

Doris shook her head and walked away, mumbling under her breath, ‘I started it years ago.’

Ignoring her mother, Paris began adding another layer of lip gloss. Suddenly, Harry came flying into the kitchen as if he had a rocket up his arse. ‘Right, where’s Muvver? I need her to come with me. You! Get ya gear. We have to go.’

He watched Paris still fussing over herself. Clearly frustrated, he once again shouted at his mother.

‘Muvver! Come here! You have to leave wiv me, right now.’

Paris suddenly jumped up from her seat. ‘What’s going on, Harry?’

‘Nothing. Just get yaself into gear and wait in the car.’

He looked down the hallway. ‘Muvver, will you hurry up!’

There was silence. Beads of sweat were now running down his nose and he hastily pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and ran it over his wet face. ‘Muvver!’ he screamed again.

‘Oh for God’s sake,’ he growled, as he marched along the hallway.

Doris casually appeared from the living room, looking right through Harry as if he wasn’t even there. She’d been about to go upstairs when that irritating son of hers had started up again.

‘Muvver, what’s wrong with you? Can’t you hear me? I ain’t messing about. You have to come with me.’

Unexpectedly, Doris stopped, turned, and glared, with contempt smeared across her face.

‘Harry, take your precious sister and get out of my house. And, listen well! Before you upset my neighbours with your bellowing, close your big mouth, turn on your heels, and just go. I’m not going with you, so please leave, before …’ She sighed. ‘Oh, never mind. Just get out!’

Harry was looking at a stranger: this wasn’t his mother. There was nothing he could do except physically throw her over his shoulder, and he wasn’t about to do that.

Doris was about to shout, ‘And don’t slam the door’, but it was too late. The back door banged shut, and she was left with a ringing sound in her ears and a tightening in her chest.

Harry almost pushed Paris with all her bags into his Mercedes. ‘Hurry up, Paris. We need to get out of ’ere.’

With her brother panicking the way he was, and almost manhandling her, Paris sensed this situation was more serious than she’d previously thought. Usually, she would have been gobbing off, but, for the first time in her life, she remained quiet and allowed Harry to get himself settled and on the road before she opened her mouth. He didn’t pull away gently either; he left rubber on the tarmac. Never would Harry drive like that, not in his precious top-of-the-range car.

‘Harry, what’s happened?’ She kept her voice low-key.

‘Well, princess, I hate to tell ya, babe, but your fella won’t be taking you away for the weekend. He’s dead.’

After being forcibly pushed into the back, Paris was leaning forward, gripping the corners of the two front seats. ‘What?’

Her voice was so loud, it seemed to vibrate in his ear.

‘Sit back and get ya seatbelt on.’

In a sudden daze, Paris sat back and fastened the belt. ‘What happened? Who the hell killed him?’

‘Did I say anyone killed him?’ He knew that question was unfair. This mess wasn’t his little sister’s fault.

‘Well, bruv, we wouldn’t be flying up fucking Wrotham Hill like Lewis Hamilton if he died of natural causes, would we?’

He looked in the rear-view mirror. ‘Sis, you don’t seem upset. I thought you liked Travis?’

She squirmed in her seat. ‘Well, yeah, ’course I did, but I weren’t gonna marry him or have his babies. He was all right, sweet, really … anyway, what’s ’appened?’

‘He was working for me, an inside job, but the silly bastard got sussed out and …’ He paused, waiting for a reaction.

‘So I ain’t going away this weekend then? Fuck it. I was looking forward to that.’

Harry flicked his eyes to the rear-view mirror again. ‘You’re a heartless cow.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Well, I was taught by the best, Harry.’

The thought circled in his mind: she wasn’t wrong. They had pressured her when she was a kid not to show weakness and indoctrinated her in the belief that only wimps cry, and everyone is out for themselves.

He remembered when she was only thirteen, and all the girls in her class were invited to a party except her. She’d fallen out with this young girl called Amberley Fitzgerald. He shuddered when he thought about it; perhaps, on that occasion, his family had gone too far.

Amberley had made it quite clear that she wouldn’t be friends with Paris because Paris had taken her boyfriend away. Amberley lived in a big house in Wilderness Avenue in Chislehurst. Her parents were bankers, and so she always had the latest clothes that outshone any other girl, plus she had a pretty face with long dark curly hair. She had it all. All the girls wanted to be friends with her, and so when they went against his sister, it was a racing certainty that all hell would break loose, no matter what.

When Paris came home in tears and told them that she’d been victimized and bullied, Harry and Vinnie went mental. They told her to stop crying and stand up for herself; no one must ever bully her, and, more to the point, get away with it. There was no such thing as having a friend; everyone has their own agenda in life. The only people in the world you could depend on were family. ‘Tears are for weaklings,’ Harry told her. In response, she wiped her cheeks with a tissue.

The very next day, outside the school grounds, backed by her brothers, Paris stood ready for the fight of her life. Her fingers loaded with cheap rings, she launched an attack the minute Amberley appeared. With no sense of control, Paris punched the girl relentlessly, gruesomely tearing shreds from the girl’s face. Harry and Vinnie watched with pride as their little sister showed her worth, rucking as violently as any lad. The fight was eventually broken up by the head teacher, who was given a fierce verbal attack by Harry. All the way home they patted her back, showering her with praise.

Harry remembered his father’s words when they arrived home: ‘Now then, you start showing people who’s the fucking boss. That little larruping will give a warning to all those silly little girls that no one messes with a Harman.’

* * *

In the rear-view mirror Harry witnessed the same expression as the day she’d sniffed back those tears and fallen into a world of callousness. Since then, she hadn’t changed; she still had that sneering look to this day. Nothing ever fazed her. It was as if he and their father had ripped out her soul and left a void. Still, he loved his sister; she was loyal to them, regardless.

‘So, tell me, Harry, what’s going on? You look like you’re shitting a brick.’

‘Travis was tortured, the poor bastard …’ He swallowed hard as he recalled the images of Travis on that chair with his eye scooped out and with his flesh ripped from his cheek; he could only guess it had been done with a claw hammer. ‘I need to get you away, princess, because the bastards that killed Travis will be coming for us.’

Paris gasped, ‘Oh my God, Harry. It’s the Regans!’ Her mouth remained open, digesting his silent acknowledgement. ‘Are you fucking nuts? Seriously? Why would you get involved? This ain’t our vendetta.’ She paused, waiting for an answer, but then she noticed in the mirror her brother’s shifty eyes and knew that he hadn’t done it for the family honour.

It was always about the money with her family. Planning and scheming to ruin the Regan family was a continual source of conversation, from father to sons, like some hereditary disease.

His silence irritated her. ‘I just hope it was worth it, Harry, because the Regans are legendary. And you may have kept me out of the business, but I ain’t blind or deaf. And our flaming uncle and our ol’ man should have cut their losses years ago.’ She huffed. ‘What I don’t get is, if they have killed Travis, why are they coming for us, now they’ve had their pound of flesh?’

With a sharp intake of breath, Harry shook his head. ‘All right! Paris, leave it, will you? Just let me think!’

The realization hit Paris like a horse’s hoof in the teeth. ‘Leave it, Harry? How can I? I’m now mixed up in it. I just don’t get why they’re after us now though, if they’ve already killed Travis …’ Her jaw tightened. ‘Harry, what else have you done?’

With her words ringing in his ears, he snapped. ‘For fuck’s sake, Paris, Vinnie has murdered Ted Stafford’s dog and thrown its butchered body back in the garden. Now shut up and let me think.’

‘Why would he do that?’ she softened her voice.

‘Because, Paris, he has shit for brains, he’s taken too many drugs, and he thought that stupid stunt would have our ol’ man singing his praises.’

They drove in silence for twenty minutes, both contemplating the reality of the situation.

For a moment, Paris felt sorry for her brother. They were close, and she looked up to him; yet, as much as she acted the needy little sister, she wasn’t as oblivious to what her family’s firm did as she made out. The years of brainwashing and inciting hatred towards the Regans hadn’t worked on her, but, obviously, it had done the trick on Harry. Time would tell if the family would have their backs, now the shit had hit the fan. Or would they be hung out to dry?

Harry flicked his narrow eyes back to the mirror. ‘I’m sorry, Paris, but I promise you this much. I will get it sorted out. But, for the moment, we need to get down to the coast. I’ve left a message for Farver to fetch Muvver and bring her down an’ all. I dunno what’s got into the dopey cow, walking around like a fart in a trance. Was it me or did you notice her behaving strangely?’

‘Yeah, she told me to take me washing and practically told me to fuck off. Menopause, I suspect. So what’s gonna ’appen now? I can’t stay in that poxy flat. I’ll get cabin fever.’

Harry didn’t answer, his mind now back on the photos of Travis. He took a few deep breaths to steady his nerves.