Slow Burn (6 page)

  “If my son remembers anything I`ll call you,” Mr Bernstein said quietly.

  “Mr Bernstein?”

  “You heard me, leave us in peace,” Mr Bernstein walked away from the detective and back to his family. It was a decision that he would live to regret.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Mamood / present day.

Mamood crossed two lanes of the dual carriageway, which separated his school from Knowsley Safari Park. He cut through the school grounds on his way to the reservoir. The light was fading but the bulk of the rush hour traffic had melted away. Crossing the road during peak time was impossible, but now it wasn’t difficult, and it would save him ten minutes. He climbed through a gap in the railings and jogged up a grassy bank, which led into the grounds of the safari park, and the reservoir beyond. A gravel track snaked through a copse to the water`s edge. His heart beat faster as he thought of Vicky Stanton waiting for him. He couldn’t believe his luck. Of all the girls in the year above him, she was the one he fancied the most. She certainly played her cards close to her chest, barely giving him a second glance in school time. Vicky could take her pick of the boys in school, and she certainly hadn’t shown any interest in the students the year below her. Still he wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth, and he was one of the best looking guys in his year, after all. Maybe she was embarrassed about being seen with a younger guy, and so she had kept it quiet. `Who cares? ` Mamood thought to himself. She had put pen to paper and written him a perfumed letter. It had to be a sure bet.

 The light was fading fast when he turned the final bend in the road, and he could make out the silhouettes of the lockups about five hundred yards away. There was no sign of Vicky. It was growing cooler though, and he guessed she would be waiting around the corner, sheltering from the evening breeze, which came off the water. He wondered what she would be wearing. Mamood had seen her in town once, wearing tight black leggings and knee-high boots, turning every head in the place. He hoped she was wearing a skirt tonight, easier to get into, and he didn’t want to be fumbling around with buttons and zips. She would think he was an inexperienced virgin. He was, but he didn’t want her to know that. Mamood had come close a couple of times, but never actually gone all the way. Tonight was the night. In her letter she had promised to make it worth his while, what else could she mean?

He reached the water`s edge and picked up a flat stone. Mamood cocked his throwing arm and skimmed it across the surface. The lockups were less than a hundred yards away now, once used as boatsheds, they`d been empty for years. A number of drownings one summer prompted the reservoir owners to stop all leisure activities on the water, but people still came here because it was picturesque. The double doors of the lockups came into view, one of them almost intact, the other broken and shattered. A dull light flickered and glowed from behind the missing panels. She was already in there. His mouth went dry, and he put his hand in front of his mouth to check his breath was fresh. He broke into a jog, eager and excited, only stopping as he neared the buildings.

Mamood peered into the gloomy lockups. Boat racks were fixed to the walls, cobwebs and dust now hung were canoes and paddles once lived. There was a smell of decay in there.

“Vicky?” he called into the gloomy interior. A paraffin lantern dangled from an ancient roof truss. The light from it glowed orange, flickering and inviting, tempting him inside. He stepped through a gap in the rotten planks, ducking low to avoid banging his head.

“Vicky, it`s Mamood. I got your letter,” he tried to sound cool. His hands were shaking with nervous anticipation. She had gone to a lot of trouble. He hoped that he wouldn’t disappoint her when the time came. Malik told him to think of his dream England squad for the next World Cup; that way the sex would last longer. He wasn’t sure he wanted to think of anything else, but then Malik had already had lots of girls, so he should know. The older girls in school were scathing about their sexual encounters, especially if they`d been disappointed, of jilted. A guy`s reputation could be ruined in a lunchtime break.

A shifting noise from the back of the lockup brought him back to reality. There was a doorway fixed to the back wall, probably leading to a storeroom. The door was ajar, and he could hear a radio playing quietly, the disc jockey was chatting aimlessly to his co-presenter, between tracks.

  “Vicky,” he called a little louder, uneasy about penetrating the gloom at the rear of the lockup. She would think he was a Nancy boy if she saw him dithering. He steeled himself and walked to the rear of the building. “Vicky, it`s Mamood, I got your letter.”

 “Meet me at the reservoir, and I`ll make it worth your while,” Nick stepped from the darkness as he mimicked a female voice, sounding nothing like one. There was an evil sneer across his face.

  Mamood froze and inhaled sharply, confused and frightened. The man was tall, well built, and somehow, he knew what Vicky had put in her letter.

“Who the fuck are you?” Mamood tried to sound aggressive, but he didn’t. “Where`s Vicky?”

 “Vicky is probably at home, tucking into her spaghetti bolognaise. She will not be coming I`m afraid,” Nick spoke in a monotone voice. His face was distorted by a nylon stocking. His nose looked flatter and elongated, his chin hooked with a dimple in the middle. The beard and hair he had grown for the bombing were cropped to the bone, exposing his high cheekbones and Neanderthal forehead. Nick was ugly, frightening to look at, especially in the flickering shadows, even more so with the stocking pulled tight over his features. “Do you know why you`re here?”

 “Get out of my way, weirdo!” Mamood shouted. He was scared witless. The man was between him and the doors, and he was freaky looking. How did he know about Vicky`s letter?

“You`re here because you`re vain, little Mamood, just like your father,” Nick walked toward him as he spoke. Mamood wanted to move away but his legs ignored his brain. “How is Ashwan? Is he still a fucking wanker?”

 “What do you want? How do you know my father?”

 “Oh that`s a long story, Mamood. Your father is a bad man, a nasty piece of work, and now it`s time for him to pay for his actions,” Nick moved a step closer, his shadow smothered Mamood.

 Mamood cowered, shuffling backward against the boat racks. The man towered above him, wearing army camouflage fatigues and combat boots. He had something in his right hand that Mamood didn’t recognise. His mouth opened in a silent scream as two conductive darts pierced his chest, and fifty thousand volts surged through his body. The stun-gun did its work quickly and efficiently, Mamood collapsed in a heap. “Maybe your father will listen now. Your life depends on it,” Nick growled.

CHAPTER NINE

Richard Bernstein; school days

Richard Bernstein spent Christmas, and the best part of the following three months in the Royal Hospital. Recurring infections hampered the healing process, and the surgeons struggled to make skin grafts take. His parents hired private tutors to further his education, and his father gave him a computerised chess game to pass the hours. The game was a challenge for the first month or so. When he left the hospital, he could beat the computer within twenty minutes, taking just twelve minutes at his record best. Richard loved the game, draining the power from a dozen batteries a week. He managed to lose nearly two stones in weight too, a combination of a healthy diet and less chocolate, although his mother brought him daily treats. The police had kept their distance, as requested, and Richard`s memory of the incident had not shed any light on the matter. He never disclosed the names of his attackers, and no one pushed him to. 

 Life outside the hospital carried on without him. His brother David did well in his final exams, and he had been awarded the captaincy of the school`s First Fifteen, rugby team, which was an honour indeed. Mr Bernstein turned out every Saturday afternoon with his flask of coffee to watch his son play. Sarah continued to be the bane of her father`s life, late nights and an ever decreasing hem lines were driving him demented. She began to hang out with the older set, and came home several times, smelling of cigarettes and alcohol. All was not well in the Bernstein family home, and Richard could sense a change in his sister as soon as he arrived home. She looked older, and somewhat tarty. Mr Bernstein wasn’t a religious Jew, in that he didn’t frequent the Synagogue regularly, weddings and funerals mostly. He was a member of the chamber of trade, as were many of his Jewish friends. On several occasions, he noticed raised eyebrows and hushed whispers when his back was turned. Sarah was becoming a regular topic of conversation. 

 “Nice belt, Sis!” Richard joked about the length of her mini-skirt. He had been home a fortnight and already put back on the weight he had lost in hospital. His mother fed him at every opportunity, `to build up his strength`, she said.

 “Shut up, Richard,” Sarah retorted nastily. “Dad is always on my back, and I don’t need you joining in thank you.” She twirled three hundred and sixty degrees, checking out her outfit in her bedroom mirror. “This is called a waistline, something you`ll never have to worry about.” She said pouting, her hands on her hips.

  “Just kidding,” Richard mumbled. There was no mirth in her voice anymore. She had always teased and joked with him, but things had definitely changed. Her remarks were becoming nasty. She wiggled past him in her bedroom doorway, trying to emulate the catwalk models on the television. He tried a different tack to engage his younger sister in conversation, pretending to be sensible. “Are you going anywhere nice?”

 “Mind your own business,” she looked at her reflection in the hallway mirror, pouting and looking way too sexy for a fourteen year old girl.

“I`m just being friendly, Sis,” Richard smiled at her, but she didn’t look at him. “Are you going to a party?”

“What is it you want exactly?” Sarah turned on him. Richard hardly recognised her anymore. “If you`re fishing for an invite then forget it. It`s definitely not your scene Einstein. There will be no..........” She stopped.

 “What? Fat kids?” Richard finished off her sentence.

“Why don’t you go and eat a Mars Bar or something?”

 “Take a chill pill, Sarah. I was trying to make conversation, forget it,” Richard snarled. He headed into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. There was a packet of sliced pepperoni sausage open on the middle shelf, next to a triangle of cheddar cheese. He broke a chunk of cheese off, and wrapped it up in a slice of pepperoni, before stuffing the tasty parcel into his mouth. A large gulp of gold top milk from the bottle added to the mix of flavours.

 “Richard Bernstein!” his mother`s shrill voice came from the hallway. “What have I told you about snacking all day long?”

 “I`m hungry,” Richard blushed. He wasn’t hungry at all. Sarah had been nasty, so the pepperoni and cheese made him feel better. Comfort food.

 “You should not drink milk from the bottle, young man.”

Richard crossed the kitchen to meet her. She held four carrier bags full of groceries in each hand, having come back from her weekly supermarket trip. His father was following close behind her, loaded to the hilt, and trying to close the front door with his foot. Richard`s parents were creatures of habit, always dressed in sensible, practical clothes. His mother had a chocolate coloured anorak, and a matching headscarf; his father wore a navy-blue anorak, and a matching flat cap. They looked like extras from a seventies sitcom.

“Where`s your sister?” Mr Bernstein asked, emerging from the hallway. Mrs Bernstein plonked her shopping down heavily on the kitchen table.

“She was in the hallway two minutes ago,” Richard answered, a little surprised.

“She had better be in her room, or she will be in big trouble,” Mr Bernstein muttered. “She`s grounded after her performance last week.”

“Please stop moaning at the girl, for heaven`s sake!” Mrs Bernstein scolded her husband. “She is growing up. We were young once too.”

 “You didn’t prance around in clothes that should belong to a tart,” Mr Bernstein mumbled under his breath. He plonked down his shopping and struggled out of his anorak, leaving his flat cap on his head.

 “Don`t use that word please, especially not about your own daughter.”

 “She did look like she was dressed up to go to a party, now you mention it,” Richard stirred the issue. He looked in his mother`s shopping bags for treats. “Dad is right about her clothes, Mum. Her skirt barely covered her arse!”

  “Richard Bernstein! How dare you use language like that in front of your old mother, and about your sister too?” Mrs Bernstein clucked around like a mother hen, banging tins into cupboards to show her annoyance. As much as she loved Sarah, she was slipping out of control. She was losing respect for both her parents, and her tutors. School reports and parents evenings were becoming a trauma. Her attitude toward Richard was downright nasty.

  “Sarah!” Mr Bernstein shouted up the stairs. There was only silence in reply. “Sarah!” He repeated, but to no avail. Sarah had sneaked out seconds after her parents had returned. “I`m at a loss with that girl.”

  “Where has she been going while I`ve been away?” Richard found a packet of chocolate-chipped cookies, his favourite. “Can I have one of these?” he asked, already ripping into the packet.

 “You will not eat your dinner if you pig out on biscuits, Richard.” His mother gave him three, took the packet from him, and placed it into the cupboard. “She`s been hanging around with some older kids, and that`s why your father is not happy about the situation. He thinks that she is drinking and smoking.”