Authors: Curtis Jobling
Dougie’s mask of misery slipped at the mention of Red Brook House. He made headline news that day in autumn, locally and nationally. He’d ridden that tide of celebrity in the
following days and weeks, but time had moved on. For many, it was already a dim and distant memory, but it had clearly struck a chord with Sergeant Kramer, who turned to Mr Hancock as he was led
into the hall.
‘You know, you might want to look into this,’ he said, voice low. ‘Crazy business what went on at that school house. And to think, the headmaster was behind it? I’m no
psychologist but daft calls like what your boy’s been up to can be a cry for help. Perhaps there’s a shrink he can speak to. Maybe he has issues that have driven him to this,
eh?’
‘Yes, Sergeant,’ said Mr Hancock, opening the front door. ‘You may well be on to something there. We’ll be sure to arrange for a doctor’s appointment at the soonest
and talk about that very thing.’
‘Just keep an eye on the lad, yeah?’ said Kramer. ‘You’re his dad. If anyone can spot when something’s not right, it should be you.’
The door closed and the latch clunked into place. Dougie and I stood at the window, watching the police car head off. That had taken some explaining, and thankfully Dougie made a good blagger
when circumstances demanded. Sergeant Kramer had answered an emergency call, arriving pumped up and braced for violence. When a teenage boy had calmly answered the door, the poor chap had looked
rather crestfallen, the energy escaping his tense frame like guff from a whoopee cushion. There had been no domestic, just an apologetic son and an embarrassed father.
‘Yeah,’ said Dougie, rolling his eyes as his father returned. ‘You’ll keep watch over me, won’t you, Dad?’
‘Sorry about that,’ said Mr Hancock, standing over his chair and its creased cushions. He scratched his jaw before joining Dougie at the window. He squinted, flinching like a Morlock
seeing daylight for the first time. ‘Thanks for taking the rap there.’
‘It’s the only one I will take, Dad. Now might be a good time for you to explain everything that’s happened. Remind me why I’m not turning you into the police for the
part you played in Will’s murder.’
I was taken aback by the choice of words, and so was Dougie’s father.
‘Hang about, Douglas. Murder’s a bit strong!’
‘Is it? What happened?’
Mr Hancock turned his back on the bright window. He dropped his head, chin resting on chest, his haggard face lost in shadow. ‘I remember it being deathly cold.’
I shivered, the irony of the phrase not lost on me, as Dougie’s dad continued.
‘I hadn’t been expecting a call from him. I’d been playing dominoes with the lads at the social club. When the phone rang there was no avoiding him; you don’t dodge
Bradbury. It’s just not done. So I took the call and did I as I was told. He needed picking up from a business appointment at the snooker hall.’
‘Which one?’ asked Dougie.
‘Behind the rugby club.’
I knew the place well, and so did Dougie, the two of us sharing a look. We knew
not
to go there. It was in a rough part of town, a well known hangout for bad lads. Most of the pubs and
nightclubs in town hired their bouncers from that snooker hall, a breeding ground for knuckle-dragging Neanderthals.
‘That place is always in the news,’ said Dougie. ‘Somebody’s always getting beaten up there.’
‘That night was no different,’ said Mr Hancock. ‘Turns out the business Bradbury had there was a spot of retribution.’
‘Retribution?’
‘Aye. Some deal he had turned sour. I found him skulking in the shadows outside, sporting that spivvy black suit, canvas bag slung across his shoulder, nursing bloody knuckles.’
‘He beat somebody up?’
‘Oh yes. He was forever doing that.’
‘I thought he was the Big I Am? Doesn’t he have friends to do that stuff for him?’
‘He has hired thugs for sure, but you’re missing something important here, son; Bradbury
likes
that side of his job. He
enjoys
getting his fists dirty.’
‘So he beat some guy up that night?’
‘A couple of guys actually. Unpaid debts apparently. That’s what was in the holdall, a heap of cash. He wanted me to take him to his lock-up, then home. I should’ve taken him
straight home, right there and then. I could sense his blood was up and he reeked of booze. Last thing I wanted to do was tick him off, so I drove him to his lock-up.’
I tried to imagine Mr Hancock’s anxiety in Bradbury’s presence. Dougie and I had met the man, of course, the day we were chased through town by Vinnie Savage. Sunshine has a way of
softening those harsh and horrid edges in life, dialling down the potential terror of a situation. But Bradbury had scared us both. He had an assured, confident menace.
‘I must have waited for fifteen minutes outside the lock-up for him to come back out. I was having a leak in the bushes when he finally reappeared and by the time I got back to the Bentley
he was sitting in it. In the driver’s seat.’
Mr Hancock shivered in spite of the sunlight upon his back. Dougie’s face glistened, his brow slick with sweat as he followed his father’s confession. His nerve impressed me. Had the
roles been reversed, I doubted I could’ve stood there as my old man spilled his guts. I’d have left the room, unable to look at him, let alone listen. But my mate stayed put, feet fixed
to the carpet as if nailed there. Mr Hancock caught his breath, composing himself.
‘I should’ve said something; insisted he move across, allow me to drive. But who am I kidding? Nobody speaks to Bradbury that way. I took the passenger seat he’d vacated and he
pulled the Bentley away from the lock-up.’
Again, Mr Hancock paused. ‘That ride . . . if I close my eyes, I can see it, now. Bradbury cursing his enemies, barking out obscenities, swerving across the road. He was all over the shop.
I tried reaching, to straighten the steering wheel, keep him from driving into oncoming traffic.’
He stopped to clear his throat. ‘The bicycle . . . I saw its lights, I shouted at Bradbury, tried to warn him. All he heard was my yelling as I hit his hands away, grabbing the wheel. He
retaliated, elbowed me in the face, sent me back into my seat. Next moment, we’d hit him.’
‘Will, Dad. You hit Will.’ Dougie took a protective step closer to me. I swear, if he could’ve reached out and held my hand, he’d have done so.
‘The Bentley’s a big car. Powerful. Unforgiving. It took quite an impact for the bicycle and rider to stave a wing in. The crack on the windscreen where he rode off the bonnet tells
its own tale. And you probably couldn’t see, but the roof is also dinged where he bounced off it.’
My guts were in knots as he described the events of my death, oblivious to the fact I was stood before him. Perhaps it was the way he reeled off the details in matter-of-fact fashion, like a
match report on the evening news. Every impact rushed back, shuddering through my body, causing my very being to hum and vibrate. I could
feel
the accident all over again, my bones breaking,
body pulverised. For a moment I thought I might tear apart, right there and then, a smear of ectoplasm my parting shot on the living-room carpet. I swear, if it hadn’t been for Dougie’s
passionate words, I’d have blinked out of existence altogether. Not for the first time, he was my anchor to the world of the living.
‘
He
, Dad, you keep saying
he
. It was Will, remember? My best friend!’
Mr Hancock winced, pinching the bridge of his nose. The words found their way out between tear-soaked sobs. ‘I relive that journey every bloody night, Douglas. That’s my punishment,
son. That’s my curse.’
‘He thinks
he’s
cursed,’ Dougie whispered under his breath as his father trembled uncontrollably. ‘He should try enduring you twenty-four/seven.’ It was
light-hearted, meant to diffuse the tension I was clearly feeling. My anxiety must have been rolling off me like a tsunami and Dougie took the brunt of every wave. His banter was well meant, but
misjudged.
‘Let him speak, Dougie.’
We turned back to his wretched dad as he continued. ‘He got out of the car at the bottom of the road, left the engine running. Said he’d walk the rest of the way, no longer needed
the lift. All I could do was stare back up the street to the top of the rise. I could see the mangled shape on the tarmac, boy and bicycle, buckled wheel still turning and catching the moonlight. I
was frozen. Then Bradbury was off, but not before he’d dragged me into the driver’s seat and threatened me. It was my car, he said. If
anyone
ever connected him to this night,
he’d tell them it was me who was driving. And I’d confess to that very thing if I knew what was good for me. Good for me . . .
and my son.
’
Mr Hancock dropped to his knees, assuming the position of condemned awaiting the executioner’s axe. The blood had drained from Dougie’s face, leaving him as washed out as a pair of
hand-me-down growlers. He searched my face for answers, but what was I to say?
‘Dude,’ I sighed. ‘I think he needs you.’
Dougie tentatively reached a hand forward, palm down, hovering over his father. He seemed unsure of whether to touch him or not, as if he’d catch leprosy with the slightest contact.
Finally he patted Mr Hancock’s shoulder gingerly, his dad shaking as if electrocuted by his son’s compassion.
‘Let it out,’ said my mate, roles reversed as was so often the case.
His father sobbed, a broken man.
‘Just let it out, Dad.’
‘Bummer of a deal, Sparky.’
The Major winced, ruffling his immaculate black quiff until it had transformed into a roadkilled crow. Dougie shifted uncomfortably against the wall outside the A&E. If anyone was looking to
master the art of standing awkwardly with the weight of the world upon one’s shoulders, then my mate had just nailed it.
‘Sounds like your old man’s been stuck between a rock and a hard place since your best buddy here bought it. Jeez, I wouldn’t wish that guilt on my worst enemy.’
‘You could wish it on Bradbury,’ I said without hesitation. Neither of them disagreed. ‘What he’s put your dad through, Dougie . . .’
Dougie shook his head. ‘He doesn’t resemble the man who raised me. He’s a mess. And it’s all Bradbury’s fault.’
‘And he isn’t finished with him yet,’ I added.
‘How so?’ asked the Major.
‘He’s lined up Mr Hancock for another job. Apparently this will buy him his freedom from Bradbury.’
‘And he can’t go to the cops because every bit of evidence points to
him
being behind the wheel. Man, that blows.’ The Major sucked his teeth. ‘This Bradbury; what
kinda guy is he?’
‘A very bad one,’ I said, doing the villain a great disservice in the description department.
‘He’s a career criminal,’ said Dougie, picking up the story. ‘Late thirties and never done an honest day’s work in his life, if what Dad says is true.’ I
thought about my friend’s choice of words as he continued; did he doubt Mr Hancock’s version of events or was it just a slip of the tongue? ‘He was born in Liverpool and moved
here as a teenager. Bradbury was a bad lad before he even got here and soon had his own gang running rackets across the borough: robberies, extortion, drugs and loan sharking. Seems there’s
nowt he won’t do to make a few quid.’
‘Sounds like a real piece o’ work,’ said the Major, breathing life into his quiff once more with a few sweeps of his hands.
‘He dresses in a snappy black suit, white shirt, black tie. Fashions himself on those old East End gangsters from the Sixties. Or
Reservoir Dogs
. Wears his black hair slicked
back.’ Dougie turned to the Major. ‘Not unlike yours.’
‘Back up, Sparky,’ said the Major. ‘I’ve been sporting this look since the Forties. Sounds like Bradbury’s all about appearances. He’s a cheap knock-off, a
hokey imitation of a villain.’
‘There’s nothing fake about him,’ I said. ‘You can’t underestimate him. He’s put plenty of people in hospital – you’ve probably witnessed them
rolling through those doors on gurneys – and he’s lost no sleep over what happened to me. He’s a gangster alright. He’s the Real McCoy.’
‘I don’t know what to say, boys. As you know, when it comes to matters of the heart, I’m your man. If it’s lady trouble, look no further. But dealing with killers?
I’m striking out. That’s what the cops are for, ain’t it?’
‘Ordinarily, yeah,’ agreed Dougie. ‘But not when Bradbury’s got my old man’s knackers in a vice. Dad has no evidence to prove Bradbury was driving that night.
Indeed, all
we
have is his word.’
‘But that’s enough, right?’ I asked, wanting to check where my pal stood on his father’s innocence.
When Dougie spoke it was with all the integrity his breaking voice could muster. ‘I’m in no doubt about my dad’s involvement that night. He wasn’t driving. I’ve had
a glimpse of the old him, and I want him back. We need to do whatever we can to make this right now. If that means watching him and Bradbury like hawks then so be it. Bradbury’s a bully.
He’ll slip up sooner or later. They always do.’
I nodded, but didn’t share his optimism. Bradbury had got this far in life taking advantage of those around him, beating, robbing, scheming and thieving. That comeuppance hadn’t
arrived yet. Dougie smiled; it was half-hearted. Perhaps he was trying to show me that he was back on-topic, the two of us together again, united in the mission like Kirk and Spock. (Don’t
even go there – I am
so
obviously Kirk in this scenario.) Maybe he was trying to show me he was confident we were going to come out of this unscathed. Like I say, his optimism was far
from contagious. It was blinder than a bat in a shoebox. One that was blindfolded. Bradbury was a
very bad man.
Dougie tried to change the subject. We went with him, happy to be momentarily
moving on from the dark subject of my killer.
‘Enough worrying about my dad,’ said Dougie. ‘That’ll sort itself out, no doubt and no worries. What are we going to do about this old gimmer?’ he said, directing
his comment towards the Major.