Brothers in Blood (13 page)

‘Right guys, are we ready to rock and roll?’ he said as he breezed into the sitting room. His cohorts, Ronnie Fraser and Dave Johnson, who were lazing on the sofa sipping gin and tonics, nodded in unison. Whatever Matt said was OK with them. They were more than happy to acknowledge that he was the leader of their pack

‘As ever,’ said Dave before downing the dregs of his drink. ‘Come on darling,’ he added ruffling Ronnie’s blonde thatch, ‘rouse yourself.’

Ronnie giggled. ‘Later, sweetie, later.’

It was always the same in the Starlight on Saturday night: a heaving dimly illuminated sweatbox with sudden flashing coloured lights spraying the faces of the punters with rich rainbow hues. It was a kind of discothèque version of hell: bodies writhed, music boomed, hands groped and squeezed, eyes scrutinized and liaisons made.

As usual Matt, Ronnie and Dave split up as soon as they entered, each seeking his own little adventure to begin with, a frisson of pleasure, an appetiser, before the main course later. While Ronnie and Dave skirted the dancing area, Matt made for the bar. He grabbed the last available stool and ordered a ginger ale from the slim youth who served there all on his own. Usually on these occasions he rejected alcohol, not wanting his sensibilities to be impaired in any way. Booze would help him relax later but for now he wanted everything to be pin sharp and real.

As he turned on his stool to face the dance floor, some lanky goon with shoulder length blonde hair stumbled into him, knocking the glass from his hand.

‘Ooh, I am sorry,’ he said, throwing his hands up to his face like a camp version of Edward Munch’s The Scream.

‘Bloody idiot,’ growled Matt.

‘I am, aren’t I,’ said the blonde in a disarming fashion. ‘Let me buy you another. What was it?’

For the first time Matt looked at the interloper. He was tall and slender with pointed features, and remarkably bright blue eyes. He had to admit that clumsy though he may be, this bloke was quite attractive. Could be that he’d hit upon the jackpot very early on this week.

‘Ginger ale,’ he said and managed a smile.

The blonde raised an eyebrow. ‘How exotic. Can’t I press you to a short or something?’ The voice was camp, sibilant and pure Huddersfield.

‘Ginger ale is fine.’

‘Well, I suppose it is appropriate.’ He giggled. ‘I’m Barry by the way.’

Matt nodded. ‘Matt.’

And so it began.

In another part of the club, Russell lurked, keeping an eye on Matt while trying hard not to catch anyone else’s eye. He wasn’t very comfortable in this environment. He knew he did not have the flamboyant skills to carry out any charade if he were to be approached by one of the prancing fellows who seemed to press in on him from all directions. It was all very surreal and unpleasant. The claustrophobic dark made him feel very vulnerable. For the first time ever he wished he was not involved. Not involved in this crazy game that had now grown personal and much more dangerous. It really was too close for comfort. But he was trapped. He was part of the team – the bonded brotherhood – and there was no getting out. The journey had been started and one must follow the road to the end.

Russell glanced at his watch. God it was only nine o’clock. It was going to be a long night. He envied Alex waiting outside in the car.

Russell felt a hand on his thigh and he brushed it off with a brisk motion.

‘Sorry I’m sure,’ said a voice in his ear.

Without looking at the owner of the voice, Russell moved away to another part of the room. He wondered how many times he’d have to do that before the evening was over.

Matt and his new blonde friend were dancing now and seemed to be getting on famously. Ronnie and Dave who had gravitated to the bar watched the pair’s gyrations on the floor with great pleasure.

‘He’s got a lively one there,’ said Ronnie. ‘Ooh, I do like a lively one.’

‘He reels them in, doesn’t he,’ observed Dave. ‘He’s just got the knack.’

‘Lucky for us, eh?’

Grinning lewdly they clinked their glasses in a mock celebratory toast.

Around ten thirty, Russell saw Laurence head for the toilets. He followed him. Luckily they were empty, allowing them time for a brief conversation.

‘How goes it?’

‘Thumbs up, I should say. I’m rather good bait. Keep an eye out for his mates: the blonde haired guy in the check shirt and the baldy in black. I reckon they’ll be leaving soon.’

The door thumped open and two other fellows staggered in, noisy and tipsy and so the conversation was at brought to a halt.

Matt eyed his new conquest as he made his way from the toilets, circumnavigating the dance floor and its throng of gyrating bodies to join him at a small table in a dimly lit alcove.

‘Are we having another drink or what?’ asked Barry as he resumed his seat, his hand stroking Matt’s.

Matt pulled a face, ‘It’s a bit dull here tonight. And a bit restricting. How about coming back to my place?’

‘Your place?’ Barry seemed hesitant.

Matt nodded. ‘I’ve got a cosy bijou pad in the country. Nice and quiet. No neighbours to hear the moans of ecstasy. Clean sheets and all mod cons. The lot.’ He grinned.

‘That’s some invitation.’

‘You’d better believe it. Well, are you on?’

‘I trust you make a mean breakfast.’

‘Just you wait.’

Barry grinned and nodded. ‘OK then. Lead on, Macduff.’

‘I’ll just get some fags and then we’ll make tracks.’

Matt wandered to the bar and seemed to indulge in a brief conversation with two men there before making his purchase. They moved away from the counter before he’d paid for his cigarettes. Russell clocked them as they headed for the door in a far from casual manner.

With some relief, he followed them.

Outside, Alex waited. He was sharing similar thoughts to Russell. He now wished that they’d never started this project. He had been carried along by Laurence’s enthusiasm and zeal and his own desire to exact revenge. But this desire had cooled considerably. There really could be no effective vengeance. That awful night was branded on his consciousness and would stay with him for the rest of his life. A childish getting your own back wouldn’t lessen the hurt. He was also aware, like Russell, that the thing was too personal. The enjoyment and indeed the safety of their previous ventures was in ending the life of a stranger, someone with whom there was no connection whatsoever.

Was it too late to turn back? he wondered, while already knowing the answer.

It was nearing eleven and one or two punters were starting to leave. His stomach churned menacingly when he saw Matt’s mates emerge from the club. There they were: the two men who had helped to rape him. He would never forget their faces or their voices. Unlike the others leaving the premises, they did not saunter, but moved quickly and with a purpose to a black Corsa and drove off at great speed. Moments later Russell emerged and headed for Alex’s car.

‘All systems go,’ he said as he slid into the passenger seat.

‘Are you sure we should go ahead with this?’

Russell glanced at Alex, his face ghoulishly green, illuminated by the lights on the dashboard. ‘What on earth do you mean?’

‘I… I don’t think it’s right. I’ve got bad vibes…’

‘Now’s a fine time to start having second thoughts…’

‘And you haven’t?’

Russell turned away and gazed out of the window. ‘Yeah, of course I have… But then I always do when we have a project on the go.’

‘But this isn’t the usual.’

‘It isn’t… Don’t you think I know that but I think it’s too late for this conversation now. Look.’

Standing on the steps of the Starlight Club were Matt and Laurence. As he swaggered forward Matt slipped his arm through Laurence’s and gripped it tightly as though he was announcing to the world that this fellow was his.

‘The show has begun,’ said Russell quietly, almost to himself. Even as he spoke, his mouth suddenly felt very dry.

Matt and Laurence walked down the street and turned the corner.

Automatically, Alex started up the engine and drove slowly, following them at a distance. On a nearby side street, they saw Matt opening up his large 4x4. When Alex caught sight of vehicle, his stomach retched. It was the very same one that he had travelled in. The same one that had transported him to his nightmare. The sight of the 4x4 suddenly brought horrid images welling up before him. Things that happened to him that night. ‘My God,’ he cried faintly, shocked at his own reactions. He should have been expecting this, to be disturbed and unnerved by what he saw and what memories it would regurgitate, but strangely he hadn’t considered it. Not given it a thought. Perhaps, subconsciously his brain had blanked such things from his mind. But now, seeing that bloody vehicle again, he was shaken to the core.

‘What is it?’ asked Russell.

Alex shook his head. He didn’t want to explain. To verbalise his thoughts would make it so much worse. Instead he concentrated on trying to bring his turbulent stomach into check and banish all images from his mind.

Both men saw Laurence clamber aboard the vehicle and within seconds the beast roared forward into the night, the exhaust booming. With gritted teeth, Alex slipped his car into gear and followed.

The streets were empty and Matt took advantage of this, racing the car through the centre of Huddersfield at high speed, soon reaching the long stretches of country roads. Alex had great difficulty in keeping up with him. He knew that he couldn’t hang too closely on Matt’s tail for fear of giving the game away but no way could he afford to lose him just in case they weren’t headed for Matt’s lonely house.

But they were.

Some fifteen minutes later Matt turned off a winding B road on to the narrow track that led to his home.

‘This is it,’ said Alex, bringing his car to a halt and switching off his lights.

They watched as Matt’s car pulled up outside the isolated house about a third of a mile ahead of them. Dimly they saw the two occupants emerge and head for the front door.

‘Right,’ said Russell, grabbing the door handle.

Alex nodded. No further words were needed. They were well rehearsed in their plan and knew exactly what they had to do.

Swiftly and silently, they retrieved their balaclavas and the shotguns from the boot of the car and began making their way down the road to the house. It stood there like a spooky haunted house from some ghost story, dimly silhouetted against the moonless sky.

NINETEEN

‘Another drinky poo,’ said Matt Wilkinson, his arm making a grand sweeping gesture towards the drinks trolley.

Laurence was well aware that he had to keep a cool head now – he hadn’t drunk half as much as he had pretended to at the club – but he was also sure that it would be a capital mistake to refuse a drink now. Nothing, absolutely nothing must rouse Matt Wilkinson’s curiosity or, indeed, animosity. Laurence knew that there was a savage brute quivering beneath that large, cool and apparently friendly exterior.

‘A wee G and T would go down a treat.’

‘We don’t do small drinks here, pal. You’ll get a big one and like it.’ His tone was a strange mixture of the aggressive and the jokey. It unnerved Laurence. It reminded him, not that he needed reminding, how very vulnerable he was. If the Fifth Cavalry in the shape of Alex and Russell didn’t arrive at the crucial moment, he was about to be dealt with in a very unpleasant fashion.

Matt handed him a giant gin and tonic. ‘Come on, Sunshine, let me show you upstairs.’ He held out his hand and Laurence felt obliged to take hold of it. They moved up the narrow staircase on to the upper floor and Matt led Laurence into the gym. It was as Alex had described it. To Laurence it was like a smooth and polished high-tech torture chamber. There was a running machine, a rowing device, dumbbells and an exercise contraption which looked like something out of a science fiction film. Any moment now Peter Cushing would appear and strap him into it while attaching electrodes to his forehead.

‘You like to keep yourself fit, I see,’ said Laurence lamely.

‘You don’t get a body like mine without working for it,’ said Matt and stepped back, pulled off his black T-shirt to reveal an impressive, fairly sculptured waxed chest, although the tummy was getting a bit podgy, thought Laurence.
Better not mention that though
.

‘Very nice,’ he observed, while his mind was groaning, ‘Jesus, he’s got bigger tits than Raquel Welch.’

Matt jumped on an exercise bike and began pedalling like fury. ‘It keeps you toned and focused. Fit and active. Fit and eager, if you catch my drift.’

‘Oh, I do,’ said Laurence quietly – so quietly that Matt slowed down his manic pace of pedalling and cast a curious glance at him.

‘You seem nervous,’ he said.

Laurence shrugged. ‘Nah, it’s just not my scene. I’m too lazy for all this. I’m content to be the slob I am.’

‘I could soon train you up, build up your muscles. As they say, the body is a temple. It should be treated with respect.’

It was with that comment that Laurence knew it would give him great pleasure to kill this arrogant self-centred bastard. And he wanted to do it now.

‘My body is less of a temple, more of a Methodist mission hut.’

Matt grinned and clambered off the bike.

‘I think we’ve done enough of the small talk now, don’t you think? Let’s move on to pillow talk, eh?’

So soon? thought Laurence, his body tensing. This fellow doesn’t waste time. Very well, then, I can’t wait any longer. I’ll have to start without my back up. It’s time for action stations.

‘What’s that?’ asked Laurence suddenly, his features contracting into a concerned frown as he pointed in the vague direction of the far corner of the room.

Matt, suitably distracted, turned his back and followed Laurence’s gaze.

As he did so, Laurence snatched up one of the silver dumbbells lying on the floor and brought it down on the back of Matt’s head with great force. There was the gentle sound of cracking bone, a brief spurt of blood which mingled with Matt’s gelled hair, before he fell to the floor face down with the faintest of moans. Laurence bent over him and repeated the action with the now bloodied dumbbell. After the second blow, Matt lay still, apart from a strange twitching movement of his right hand which lay outstretched on the polished wood. For a few moments, his fingers danced erratically as though they were using an invisible typewriter and then they froze into the shape of a claw as death finally took dominion.