A story by Jon Elkon and Gavin Daniel
According to legend, Queen Elizabeth I rested under an oak at the summit of One Tree Hill on her way to visit Lewisham in 1602. The current oak is the third on the site, planted in 1905. (Wikipedia)
- Fuck it
Brendan watched the Shard carefully, fully expecting it to take off any minute. From his bench on One Tree Hill in the South-East of London he could see the whole City laid out like a pincushion, the stark, ugly modern buildings insulting the sky. He took a swig from the vodka bottle, enveloped in its brown paper condom to hide it from park-keepers or police eyes.
“Fuck it”, he said.
Basically, he thought, if this was a cliff I’d fucking jump over it.
His mind was beginning to take refuge in the stifling, delicious mist of vodka. But before he took refuge, he was thinking – where is she now. Where is she, also. She and she. Wife and daughter. What is she doing now. And what is she doing now. Dead and alive. Dead and alive. Dead wife, disappeared daughter.
Fuck them.
I know what I’m doing now.
I’m getting drunk is what I’m doing.
Two weeks ago he was fired. He had made two resolutions at the time. One: to quit drinking. Two: to find daughter Sara and somehow make it up with her.
Instead here he was on a park bench with a bottle in his hand.
Fuck it.
It was like when he left the paras. Same thing. Resolution one, to quit drinking. Resolution two, to make everything nice with Megan and Sara. So what happened? He got drunk. He got kicked out. He got divorced. Megan died. That was eight years ago. Now it’s too late.
She was such a lovely little thing, Sara. It was such a lovely little life.
Fucked it. Fucked everything.
Blood and bone. Shreds of brain. Desist! Delete!
“So tell me, why are you drinking? Brendan looked up, shocked to see a man sitting next to him. He looked around. All the other benches were unoccupied. Why had some idiot sat next to him!
“What’s it to you? Mind your own business mate. This is my bench.”
“I’m only asking because you look ex-military to me. What was it? Paras?”
“How did you know! You paras?”
“No, navy. I was a Commander. You?”
“Officer eh? Nah, not so posh. I was a sergeant.”
“Afghanistan?”
“Ten years. NI, Germany, Afghanistan, the lot.”
“So that’s why you drink?
Brendan looked at his seat-companion carefully for the first time. He was relatively well-dressed, although there was something very slightly scuffed about the shoes; the jacket could have done with a good cleaning. Nevertheless the image was that of a gentleman. The clothes were certainly expensive, well cut. The accent was that of a counties Englishman, possibly public school. Posh.
Brendan had spent ten years following orders delivered in that accent, and he felt a moment’s resentment, hackles rising just a little at the thought of being condescended to.
Until the warm miasma from the vodka put fog between them and he grinned. “Would you like a shot?” he asked, offering the bottle.
“I haven’t touched alcohol for ten years. It almost wrecked my life,” the other man said.
“Well no fear ‘my friend’,” Brendan said, “It’s certainly wrecking mine! and you know what? That’s fine by me! ”
“Lovely view,” the man said. Then, after a sigh and a silence during which each man had their own thoughts about the City below, “Think of all the money sitting down there. Think of all the men and even women, making the stuff, wasting the stuff…”
“Hah!” Brendan said. “Just a tiny pinch of that stuff would save me from being kicked out of my flat! I hate the bastards.”
“Really? What’s your name?”
“Brendan. Howdydoo. You?”
“Arnie. Good to meet a brother.”
“Army and Navy! Cousins maybe”
“No, we both fought for our country. Brothers. Comrades in arms.”
“Right then. Brothers! Comrades!” They formally shook hands.
“I suppose I should salute, you being an officer.”
“Nonsense,” Arnie smiled.
“I shall call you Commander. Do you mind that?”
“Very good sergeant. I shall call you Brendan.”
“Cheers!” Brendan took a large glug of the vodka and felt safe, for the first time in years.
And so the two brothers sat on that bench in the late Summer sunshine, chatting, sharing their lives for a while. As Brendan took refuge more and more in his bottle, his story flowed out. He told the Commander about his terrible experiences in Afghanistan, about watching his commanding officer, who he revered, getting his brains shot out. How he had returned to the UK with a serious drinking problem. How Megan eventually gave him his marching orders, forcing him to leave his beloved daughter Sara, aged twelve at the time.
In return Arnie told his companion about his recent divorce from Marnie, how she had demanded half his wealth, and his fury at her serial unfaithfulness, which he only discovered on his discharge from the navy.
“Women, innit.” Said Brendan. “Come on mate, one drink won’t hurt you.”
“Not a chance!” Arnie waved the bottle away. “Look at you,” he said, “You’re not much different to me. Same height, same build, but look at you! Look what the drink has done.”
“I know sir,” Brendan said. “Don’t think I don’t know. This is my life now.”
“So tell me, Brendan. If your daughter were to see you now, what would she think?”
The thought descended like a deep, damp shadow. Brendan shook his head. A tear escaped his eye, wiped away.
Arnie put an arm around Brendan’s shoulders. “Listen here mate, listen carefully,” he said. “Look. I believe everything is fated. It was your fate to meet me.”
“Yeh?”
“I am here for a reason. We can fix this!”
“Yeh? You a miracle worker?”
“I’ll tell you something my lad. You are the miracle worker. If you accept my guidance. Look, let’s make a start. What do you say old boy?”
“With respect, Commander, I don’t know you – “
“Let’s think, right? What do you need? Rent, for starters. Seeing your daughter for the first time in years. All you need to do is to stop drinking. I will help you with all that. That’s the deal.”
“The deal?”
“Give me your landlord’s details. I will send him all your back rent, and a month’s rent in advance. “
“Why? Why do you do this?”
Arnie shook the man gently, laughed. “Look at this beautiful day as the first day of the rest of your life and don’t look a gift horse in the mouth! We’re brothers! Comrades! When I see a brother in distress it’s my duty to help. I’ve got the money. It’s my duty. Simple.”
Brendan turned and stared at his new friend. Looked back at the Shard. Then he stood up, and with a mighty heave, tried to hit the building with the bottle.
*
- First Blood
A month passed quickly. At Arnie’s insistence Brendan taped a home-made poster to his wall, headed BRENDAN BATTLES BOTTLE. Here he recorded each and every day without drink and how he felt about it. Arnie visited frequently, and monitored progress closely.
And then one day Brendan found Sara. It was far easier than he thought it would be. He found her on Facebook.
The last time he saw her was at Megan’s funeral. That day was a recurring nightmare. He would never forget how Sara, seeing him, had come up to him (she was only fifteen then) after the service to say “You killed her. You killed my mother. You killed her with your bottle and your divorce. I hate you! Why did you come. I hate you! Fuck off, father. Fuck off!”
There had been no point in saying that Cancer killed Megan. Big C. Cancer which had spread from breast to spine to lymph nodes and torn out the life of his ex-wife. It felt as if the blame was his. The divorce had been bitter, synchronised as it was almost perfectly with the advance of the cancer. And her death followed the Decree Absolute like the full stop to a life sentence. After the funeral he withdrew almost gratefully from the bleak role of the weekend dad, leaving Sara to grow up with her loving grandparents who hated him with the same vehemence as he had felt from his daughter.
He hadn’t seen her for eight years. Then he found her on Facebook.
When Arnie knocked on the door, he found Brendan drunk, sunken so deep into self-pity that he was almost submerged.
Arnie slapped him across the face. “Idiot! What have you done to yourself!” He took the man roughly by the arm and dragged him to the bathroom. He was furious. “Idiot!” He held his head down in the bath and turned on the cold shower. “You fuck! You’ll ruin everything!” He pushed Brendan’s head into the ice-cold needles of water, shaking him, swearing at him.
Eventually he tired and Brendan collapsed on the floor, blood pouring from his nose.
“Jeeeeesus Christ” Arnie said with disgust, ripping an arm’s length of toilet paper from the roll and throwing it at his head.
Brendan held the paper to his nose and began to sob.
“What happened? Why did you start drinking? Where did you get the money for the drink?”
“Got my Jobseeker’s Allowance” Brendan managed to say, between sobs. He then eventually explained how he had found Sara online, how that had brought up the bad memories, how the bottle had reappeared in his life.
“Listen to me now, Sergeant. This shall not pass. Look at us!” He took Brendan roughly by the collar and drew him up, so that both their faces were reflected in the bathroom mirror. “Look at us! We are not very different are we. Same bone structure, same type of hair. Agree?”
“That’s true” Brendan said.
“But one big difference, right? I’m fighting fit, right? You’re fucked, right?”
Brendan stared at his own addled, raddled, bloody face. “Yes sir, “ he said and started to weep.
“Don’t start that again. Clean yourself up. Come into the sitting room. And hurry up. I’ve got an idea for you.”
“Pay attention now Sergeant.” A cleaned-up somewhat sobered Brendan sat slumped on the grubby sofa. Arnie paced impatiently, turning on his heel to face his – what? Client? – when he wanted to emphasize a point. “I sent your landlord your rent, as you know. I paid your back rent. You need money for next month. And the next month. And the next. Am I right?”
“I’ll get a job.”
“Don’t make me laugh. What were you? Buildings superintendent? Security?”
“Security. They fired me for drink.”
“And you think you’ll get a reference? Don’t make me laugh. No, listen to me. You think you’re the only one with problems? Remember I told you my ex-wife is suing me for everything I’ve got?”
“Yes sir.”
“So I need to disappear. So this is what we are going to do. You are going to give me your identity, and I am going to give you your life.”
“I – I dentity sir?”
“Remember our faces in the mirror? Show me your driving licence. You have one have you? Not lost it through the drinking?”
“I have one. Never needed it. I haven’t owned a car for years.” Brendan withdrew a battered wallet from a drawer, extracted a dog-eared driving licence from its depths.
Arnie inspected it carefully. ”I see I need to grow a beard. No problem that. Then I get a photograph, they will ask for one up-to date. You tell the DVLA you’ve lost your licence and we change the address to mine. You sign.”
“I’m not sure – “
“You want your bills paid, don’t you? You want food. I have a lot of money, money’s no problem.”
“Money’s no problem….” Brendan echoed.
“Once I have the driver’s licence, I need a bank account. For my lots of money. Where she can’t get it, understand?”
Brendan sniffed, black blood beginning to flow again. “Yes sir.” He said.
Blood and bone. Shreds of brain
- Pain and Money
Gradually Brendan’s dependence on his Commander grew, as his dependence on the bottle declined. In a way the one was replacing the other. He didn’t suffer terribly from the symptoms of withdrawal. For most of it, Arnie was there, or if he couldn’t make it he would sent a taciturn Italian, his “friend” Spoletta, who would deposit food and medicines, and mysterious tablets to “make it better.”
Gradually Brendan was returning to something like the person he would have been had he not taken refuge in drink. In a way he was becoming a new person, as if his former personality was dissolving. At first this was reassuring. Arnie was reassuring.
Arnie’s violence in the bathroom really showed that he cared, didn’t it? Yet now he knew that if he didn’t follow orders there would be consequences. Probably in blood.
In the mornings Brendan had developed the habit of going for his breakfast to Lindy’s Café around the corner from his flat. Here he could get a Full English – two eggs, bacon, sausages, hash browns, beans for £4.90 in the company of a bizarre mixture of locals and hipsters enjoying the Full Veggie, cooked trendily in sunflower oil which, unbeknownst to them, had gained its delicious flavour from the bacon it had been used for several times. Here Brendan stared at the screen of his laptop, a gift from Arnie, and stared at the Facebook Page of his daughter Sara.
Did he dare make a friend request.
He had faced this dilemma ever since he had found the page online. And for the umpteenth time he went through Sara’s photos. There was Megan with Sara as a child. There were Sara’s friends, maybe a boyfriend? Ex boyfriend? School friends. There were no pictures of him. Very few personal details, but the page had apparently no privacy control, and seemed to have been neglected for at least two years, there were no recent posts at all.
It said, “Lives in Clapham”. Clapham! Down the road a bit. Clapham!
“Chris! Fuck me, it’s Chris!” A lean, dark Asian man had come up to him and was whispering urgently in his ear.
“What – ?”
“What the hell are you doing here man! Get out! They’re looking for you everywhere. I tell you, Armed lot as well!”
“I’m not Chris,” Brendan said.
“Yeh yeh not Chris, fine, not Chris. Whatever. Just get out of here. Quick!”
“Fuck off mister. I don’t know you. I’m not Chris. I’m having my breakfast,” Brendan said, and once the man had disappeared, went back to his screen, his dilemma, and his sausages.
That afternoon Arnie appeared at the flat, as he had so often that week. “How are we doing sergeant?” he asked. “Clean today?” He inspected the poster on the wall upon which Brendan had written “Breakfast. Facebook. Zero alcohol. “Is this true? You know what happens if you start lying to me?”
“Yes Commander!” Brendan gave a cheery mock salute. “Clean as a whistle today. I swear it.”
Arnie sat next to him on the sofa, patted him on the shoulder. “You know what? I’m starting to feel just a little – just a little proud of you Brendan. You’re even putting on weight! Let’s have a look.”
The two men went to the bathroom and Brendan, after removing his jacket, stepped on the bathroom scale. He weighed just under two hundred pounds.
“Improvement!” Arnie said, and replaced Brendan on the scales. He weighed twenty pounds more. “We’re getting there eh? I’m slimming, you’re putting on weight, very soon we’ll weigh the same. Brothers, eh?” He laughed. “So how are we facially, let’s see.” They faced the mirror together. Side by side, the differences between the two had diminished. Arnie now had a neat, white trimmed beard which was almost identical to Brendan’s, when they met. If more neatly trimmed. Brendan’s beard had been carefully removed, revealing a face which was eerily similar to Arnie’s at that time. “Not bad,” he said. “I think I’m ready for the photo booth. What do you say?”
“I’m not …” Brendan said. “I’ll get – “
“Look here Sergeant! I told you and I told you, there’s no risk to you!”
“It’s not I’m ungrateful to you sir – “
“You are! You are! You’re fucking ungrateful!” Arnie grabbed a handful of shirt and forced Brendan back into the sitting room, where he roughly pushed him down onto the sofa. “You don’t get cold feet on me now, right? Who’s paid your rent?
“You, sir.”
“Who’s stopped you drinking?”
“You sir.”
“Who’s going to help you find your daughter?”
“…You are….”
“Yes I am.” He sat on the armchair facing Brendan. “SO, “ his tone changed instantly from threatening to concerned. “Where are we on that project?”
“I told you I found her on Facebook.”
“That’s an old page. Says she lives in Clapham. She doesn’t. My people checked. Don’t worry. We will find her.”
“I’m grateful sir. I was wondering, should I make a friend request?”
“On no account. I will find her.”
Brendan sighed. He had resolved to trust this man, this angel who had suddenly appeared in his life, apparently to make everything better. Apparently. Yet he knew there was a price to pay. And that made him feel distinctly uneasy.
“When we find her,” he said, “you’ll be ready to face her. Now make me tea,” Arnie commanded. “Got cake?”
Brendan rose, went to the grubby kitchen where a tired kettle sat on the gas hob, filled it with water, began the Squaddie’s holy tea ritual.
Every time he made tea, a spark from Afghanistan flared in his mind. He brushed it away.
Cake. Mr Kipling’s finest. Only the best for the Commander. “I’m not ready. No way am I ready,” he muttered.
“Aren’t you having one?” Arnie asked as tea and cake appeared on the table at his side.
“Had one at the Café. Enough. Or I pee all morning.”
Arnie laughed.
“Funny thing at the café,” Brendan said. “Chap comes up to me, calls me Chris – “
“What – ?” A drop of tea escaped from the mug and leapt to its death onto Arnie’s black trousers.
“Talked to me like he knew me. Warned me to get away. Said people were looking for me. I told him – “
“What. What did you tell him.” Arnie put the tea down next to him. “What did you tell him.” He repeated more slowly.
“I said, I’m not Chris. Mistaken identity. Finished my breakfast.”
“Then? Then what did he do?”
“He went away. I don’t know.”
“Jesus!” Arnie said. “What the fuck! What are you doing talking to strange people?”
“He talked to me – !” Brendan said defensively, cringing back.
“Describe him. Describe this chap.”
“Tall, Asian, dark. Big nose.”
“Fuckkkkkk…..” Arnie sank into thought for a moment. Then, with resolution, “Listen to me. That Chris chap is dangerous. I know him. If that chap thinks you’re Chris he’ll tell – “
“That wasn’t – “ Brendan was trying to say, the man had seemed to want to protect him. Or rather, to protect Chris, whoever he was.
“Trust me. Do you trust me – do you trust me???”
“Yes sir.”
“Now you listen to me carefully. From now on you’re not going out.”
“But sir – “
“No buts! Just for a while, just until this – Chris – is sorted out, clear? Too dangerous for you. I’ll get all your food, whatever you need, delivered, understand? You’re safe here. I’ll take care of you. Safely. Trust me.”
“But – “
“I said no buts! No argument! I know what I’m doing!”
Silence while each man swallowed, breathed, thought.
“Yes sir,” Brendan said at last.
“Now my lad, let’s get some paperwork done. Bank account. Insurance. Here we go!” He removed a sheaf of papers from a Waitrose carrier bag and dropped them on the sofa table. “Now – signature practise, eh?!”
Cabin fever. Solitary confinement. Dependency. A fifty-four year old ex para does not enjoy being trapped. Especially when he is not tied to earth by a bottle. Brendan had stepped out of planes, roamed over foreign lands, had sex with women whose names or language he would never know. His motto: what Megan don’t know don’t hurt her. He had caroused with brothers-in arms, he had held their heads on his lap as they died…blood and bone….
He had become used to being alone for ages. Alone, yes. Confined, no.
Now he was entirely reliant on food and supplies delivered by Spoletta or Arnie, unable to go to the launderette or the café, Brendan was gradually, as he expressed it, going nuts.
The computer was his only connection to the outside world. Luckily he had broadband. When he wasn’t staring at Sara’s Facebook page, his mind roamed Google world. He surfed his whims, starting with history. At what age did Alexander the Great die? Where was Caesar born? What happened at the Battle of Waterloo?
He read avidly, downloading books on Kindle. He read Xenophon, Herodotus.
But Brendan was going nuts.
The door knocked at him. Opened with a key. Spoletta, with groceries.
“I put in kitchen,” the man said. “Chris he say to tell you, he got news about Sara. He tell you.”
“Who’s Chris? What news?” Brendan asked.
“Chris. You know, Arnold. Huh? I put here. I think maybe address.” Spoletta heaved the two heavy Waitrose bags onto the work-surface of the kitchen.
Brendan’s mind slowly emerged from the depths of fourth-century Athens. What? And wandered back to the cafe and the sweaty Asian who had called him Chris. What?! Address? Chris? Sara?
Unravelling needed.
Priorities needed.
‘Chris’. Sara.
“No,” he said suddenly coming to a resolution. “Yes,” he said, changing his mind. “Tell me something – “ as the man started to disappear through the door. “So what did Chris say exactly?”
“I don’t know. Maybe address.” And like a spectre the man dissolved into the corridor, the door silently sneaking back into its frame.
So that was Arnie’s real name. Chris. Obvious! That was why – the whole café incident explained, so obvious. The man who thought he was Chris because he had shaved his beard off, because he had put on weight. ‘Chris’ is Arnie! Because he was looking more and more like ‘Arnie’ every day, or rather Arnie when they first met. Idiot! So who the hell was looking for him? “Armed”! Why? All that story about a divorce, a wife who wanted his money – all of that was a lie! Armed men were looking for him.
Who?
Two possible answers. Criminal gangs. Or police.
Jesus.
Now what.
‘Chris’ had Sara’s address, knew how to contact her. ‘Chris’ was most likely on the run from someone. Someone dangerous? Why? Now, with his name and identity, running around free as a bird while he was here, under house arrest, unable to go anywhere, now landed with the face and body of the man who had virtually saved his life and could give him what he most wanted and needed.
What if – what if ‘Chris’ had transformed him into the perfect copy of himself, so that when he was ready, he would be let out to get shot? So that whoever was searching for the real Chris would stop looking! And then he, as Brendan, would live a full and happy life on his millions?
Jeeeeezus. He had even mastered Brendan’s signature, as well as his voice! His whole look. The only thing left was his daughter….
Had he already contacted her? As Brendan?
Hand shaking, he went on to the DVLA website. Logged in. Went to “Change details”. “Change address”. There it was. Arnie’s address, under Brendan’s name.
Blast the man. If he’d been allowed a phone, he would have phoned him there and then to tell him he knew what he was up to!
He would go there. He would confront him. He would tell him to fuck off proper. Man to man. He would tell him to get out of his life. And my God, to leave Sara alone!
He would go armed.
- Blood and Bone
The Late Summer had finally taken refuge in some remote corner of the Shetlands and a Late Autumn had come out of hiding, bringing skies of a brash blue and a chilly wind. As he exited the tube at Baron’s Court, a vituperative blast presaging winter tickled its way into Brendan’s throat and chest, making him wish he’d brought a scarf.
He had planned out the short walk to Castletown Road on Google Maps at home, but he realised he didn’t know which road to take. So he popped into a shop to ask.
A branch of Oddbins.
Surrounded by alcohol.
He was shaking as approached the pretty assistant.
He didn’t know what to say.
He was shaking.
Only one thing could put that right.
“I need a bottle of Vodka,” he said.
Brendan sat on the bench outside Baron’s Court station and felt the good old warmth, the comforting refuge of Vodka, seep through him. The shaking steadied as the bottle grew lighter. At last. Slowly he began to realise what he would do, what he would say. He touched the knife in his pocket. He felt somewhat stupid to have brought it now. He would try to keep it all sensible. He would say, thank you but I want my life back. Please keep out of my life. Go take someone else’s life, or I’ll be going to the cops. I’ll be putting you in prison for what you’ve done to me, ‘Chris’, or whatever your name is. Identity theft is a crime, right?
Eventually, he stood up. He felt woozy, unsteady. He hadn’t had a drink for six weeks, he wasn’t used to it. He sat down again, stood up again. Right! Get this done. Get this over.
He vaguely remembered the Oddbins woman’s directions. Turn right. Second left. Easy. Not easy. Easy.
Such a smart neighbourhood this. The houses all tarted up, every blade of grass in place, every smart shrub cosy in its terracotta pot, every car worth more money than all the cars he had ever owned, added together. The contrast with his miserable street and his grubby flat was horrible. He felt his resentment rising again. There he was, stuck like a prisoner with his grime and his tat, so that ‘Chris’ could live here!
21 Castletown Road had three flats, three door buzzers. One had his name on it. B. Leahy First Floor. He pushed the button. No reply.
The one thing he hadn’t calculated – that ‘Chris’ would be out.
“Hello Brendan,” a smart elderly woman came towards him up the short path. “Forgotten your key have you?” She smiled, easily. “My word you look better without that beard. Here you are – “ and she unlocked the door, ushered him in.
“Thanks” he muttered as she let herself into her ground floor flat.
“Have a nice day” she said and he mounted the stairs to the first floor.
Now what.
He pushed the door. Locked, of course.
Bastard. Now what. Wait?
No! He didn’t want to wait. The door had two locks, a Chubb, and a Yale. Idly, he took the knife out of his pocket and slipped it between door and frame, where the Yale lock was. Idly, he slipped and pushed. He had seen a locksmith doing this once, when he had lost his key ages ago. The locksmith had used a stiff plastic card, like a credit card. He didn’t have a credit card. The lock yielded. The door opened. The Chubb hadn’t been used. Shit! Did that mean ‘Chris’ had just slipped out, for milk or fags or something, not bothering to lock properly? That he’d be back any minute?
The living room, onto which the door had opened was pristine, except for a coat lying carelessly on the sofa. A mug of cold half-drunk coffee was on the sofa table.
He’d wait.
Bloody surprise the guy! He’s come in expecting nothing! Then what would he see?
Brendan pulled the bottle from his voluminous pocket, took a deep draft. Don’t need you no more interfering with my life! From now I do what I fucking want! You bastard. Give me my life back.
He drank more.
Woozy. Woozy, not seeing straight.
Sara.
Her name came to him with a massive sigh of self-pity, which turned into a sob. Fuck him! It just didn’t matter any more. Yes it did. Look what he’s done. Stole my life.
He stood, angrily, dropped the bottle onto the table. Toilet. Must piss. Toilet.
A door, a bedroom. On the bed was a suitcase, open, overflowing with bank notes. On the bed, two guns: a Walther pistol and a semi-automatic rifle, with a silencer.
What!
Piss first, think second.
The bathroom en suite. He whipped it out, splashed piss more-or less into the toilet.
An arm was around his neck, choking. Chris. “You fucking half wit!” the man shouted, pulling him backwards onto the bed, piss spraying everywhere. What the HELL are you doing here! What the FUCK – “
“Leaveme…” Brendan tried to say “Chris! Leaveme!”
“What the – what do you know – AND you’re DRUNK! I don’t believe it! You are such a damned loser. How did you – “
The two men like entwined twins, writhing on the bed like lovers, between guns and money, like wrestlers in some dreadfully unfair contest, the one with the beard obviously with the advantage.
“You stole my life! I want it back!” Brendan said. “I want it back…”
“What do you know. Tell me what you know, idiot. Damn it sergeant!”
“I know what I see! You took my life so you could live like a king! Let me go! Let me go! I’m going to get the police – ”
“You are NOT going to do that! Understand? You are not going to do that!
“Let me go!” Brendan tries to writhe free, takes the knife from his pocket.
They writhe, they struggle. Finally Chris twists the knife out of Brendan’s hand. It falls to the soft carpet without a sound.
Exhausted, Brendan collapses onto the bed. He has lost the will to fight. He is shaking with sobs.
Chris sits next to him.
“All right, sergeant?” he asks, putting a comforting arm around him.
“Not good, Commander.” Brendan answers.
They are side-by side, facing the dressing-table mirror.
“Look at us,” Chris says, “Two sides of the same coin.”
“Only it’s me, all fucked up. And you, with everything.”
“You know what has to happen now, sergeant.”
“Yes Commander. I know. It’s all right. Just promise me one thing.”
“I promise.”
The Commander reaches his arm around Brendan’s head and with one swift twist, breaks his neck.
The Commander’s eyes stream with tears.
- Flying Shard
One Tree Hill. A bench with a superb view of the City of London. Once again the sun shines on the scene, completely oblivious of the teeming creatures desperately fighting, fucking and fretting below. It is midday and a beautiful well-groomed young lady sits nervously, fiddling with her mobile phone, glancing now and then at the Shard and its acolytes clustered below.
A man approaches. He is in his fifties, also very well groomed. He is not nervous. “Sara?”
She stands. “Father?”
They embrace.
END
This story was inspired by the true story of Boston gangster Whitey Buldger, as told to me by Gavin Daniel.
Have a look at this: https://youtu.be/Q9wCA1ST53w
And thanks to Patricia Highsmith too! I wonder if Ripley’s story was in the slightest way imaginable indebted to Whitey?
