Mike sensed his brother was getting anxious about the violent battle they were planning to have, and he rolled his eyes. ‘No, Eric. Your moody face is pissing me off, and I don’t want her feeling uncomfortable, so just do as I say. Now, move over. I’m driving. Willie, you help her in the back and keep her sweet.’
Eric did as he was told, still with the strops. Mike turned the car around and parked directly outside the Harmans’ house. When Mrs Harman came into view, Willie jumped out, opened the door, and bowed. ‘Your carriage awaits.’
Doris smiled and hurried inside. She took one last look at the house that she’d grown to detest and made herself comfortable, whilst Willie took her suitcase and placed it in the boot.
‘All set, Mrs Harman?’ asked Mike, looking in his rear-view mirror.
‘Please, love, call me Doris.’
‘Okay, Doris. Now, I’m just gonna drop off these two, and we’ll be on our way.’
Once Mike had left Willie and Eric back at his house, Doris joined him in the front, and they headed to Rye. He thought about his own mum. She would never in a million years have sided with the enemy. What had those boys of Doris’s done to her that was so awful? He could only guess she’d been bullied. The house itself spoke volumes: the tired old kitchen that hadn’t been updated since the seventies; the woodchip wallpaper painted time and time again; even the kettle was a bargain-basement one. He would never have let his mum live like that. No, not while he had a penny would his mother live like a pauper.
* * *
Harry had stopped sweating by the time he reached Broadstairs. Paris was asleep, her head tilted to the side and her open mouth dribbling. He was pleased she’d dozed off; he needed to get his thoughts together. He glanced at his phone in the holder and felt anxious. Vinnie was supposed to contact Scottie and make sure his father had got their mother out of the house. Impatiently, he pressed redial, the last call he’d made to his father’s phone. It rang four times and then went over to voicemail. Paris stirred before settling down against the sumptuous leather interior. He then tried Vinnie’s number; luckily, within two rings, it was answered.
‘Harry, what the fuck’s happening? I ain’t heard a word from any of ya. What’s going on?’
Vinnie, a year younger than Harry, was more laid-back. He walked and talked more slowly than Harry. ‘I can’t find Farver. He ain’t at the old slag’s house, and he ain’t in the boozer either. Scottie’s on the missing list. So, I’m now on me way to Muvver’s.’
Harry bashed the steering wheel. ‘For fuck’s sake, what’s the matter with ’em all? Christ, when I get hold of Scottie, I’m gonna wring his scrawny neck. I left a message for him to call me.’
There was a pause before Vinnie muttered, ‘Ya don’t think the Regans have got him, do ya?’
Sweat again trickled down Harry’s nose and he was breathing quite deeply. ‘Nah … I dunno. Look, Vinnie, check Muvver’s okay, will ya? Do whatever it takes to get her outta that house and then try and find Scottie. Call me and let me know what’s going on … Oh, and watch yaself. The Regans may have someone plotted up.’
The phone went dead, and Harry took another deep breath. The vision of Travis popped back into his head, and he shuddered. He just hoped to God they hadn’t captured his youngest brother. He would never forgive Vinnie if they had.
* * *
It wasn’t until Vinnie pulled up outside his mother’s home that he began to have sinister thoughts and dread filled his veins. What he’d done to Staffie’s dog was wrong, and Harry had nearly throttled him when he’d heard. However, Vinnie had believed at the time that it was a smart move. Spotting the dog in the garden, an idea had popped into his head; he would show the Regans what the Harmans were capable of. Reality then kicked him in the teeth when Harry pointed out that if any of the Regans found him, they would no doubt do the same to him as he’d done to the dog.
He stared at his parents’ home and bit down on his bottom lip, drawing blood. Up until now, all he knew about the Regans was what his family had told him. Every member of the Regan firm had a price on their heads – a hefty sum payable to any member of the Harmans who brought a Regan – or anyone else from their firm – to their knees. At the secret family gathering, it was rammed home to them that the Regans and their firm were the enemy.
Vinnie had wanted to impress his uncle and to be the number one son in his father’s eyes. So, high on cocaine, he’d seized the opportunity to make his mark. Now he wished he hadn’t. After all, he couldn’t put the genie back in the bottle. He bit his lip again. This time he winced and shook his head. Every nerve in his body seemed to be on edge. He decided to drive up and down the street to see if there were any unusual cars in the area. Confident there were none, he parked down the road away from the house and hurried back.
As he entered the front garden, his hand gripped the Stanley knife inside his bomber jacket – his old faithful tool and one that he’d used many times to leave a mark on the offending opponent. On high alert, he snuck around to the rear garden and noticed the back door was open.
Without going inside, he scanned the kitchen and clocked the tray of cakes on the side, the smell of baking still lingering. He assumed his mother was still at home, and so he relaxed his shoulders and stepped inside. There was an eerie silence. Entering the kitchen, he suddenly stopped. His nerves spiked his senses, and he heard the faint tick-tock of a clock. Then, as he listened, he realized it wasn’t a clock but a dripping tap from upstairs.
‘Muvver!’ he called out. There was no answer. He called her again and waited. In nervous frustration, he screamed, ‘Doris.’ He often called her Doris – or more cruelly ‘Boris’. Assuming she was ignoring him, as she often did, he marched along the hallway and sharply poked his head into the living room, before he stomped up the stairs. ‘For fuck’s sake, Muvver, are you bleedin’ deaf or what? Answer me, will ya!’
There was silence except for the sound of the dripping tap; it was now really grating on his pricked nerves. In a flash of anger, instead of politely knocking at the bathroom door, he aggressively pushed it open.
Shit! A sudden gasp left his mouth, and he quickly stumbled back as if an invisible hand had pushed him.
‘Oh my God!’ he shouted.
His head was spinning, his stomach automatically heaved, and vomit shot through his mouth and nose. He choked and tried to take deep breaths, but it was impossible. The puke rose again, without giving him a chance to breathe. As he fell to his knees, his hands caked in yellow sick, he heaved again. His mind became so overloaded with images of what he’d just seen that he couldn’t stay in this house of horrors any longer. Yet still, he couldn’t breathe; his legs were now unable to move and his whole body felt an intense tingling sensation like an electric shock. He blinked furiously and shook his head, trying to pull himself together.
There, lying in the bath, with the tap still dripping, lay the mutilated remains of his father. His eyes still wide open, his mouth gaping in a twisted shape. It was an abomination. Large chunks of flesh had been hideously removed. His ears and his nose were missing, and strips of skin lay floating in the shallow pool of water that was not quite red, but obviously filled with blood. His eyes couldn’t take it all in at first. He wondered if he was dreaming or whether this must be a sick joke. For, there, lying neatly on the white cistern was not just the offending weapon – the family’s carving knife – but his father’s finger with the wedding ring still
