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 attached, the blood from which was trickling down the side of the cistern, forming a tiny pool on the toilet seat.
The walls around him darkened. Knowing he was going to faint, he tried desperately to hold it together. He kneeled on the floor, away from the grim scene behind him, as he sucked in an enormous lungful of air. He tried to steady himself, but before he’d even reached the top of the stairs, the light-headed feeling got the better of him. Down he tumbled, crashing his forehead against the wall, and there he lay on the bottom tread of the staircase.
Stunned and dazed, he remained motionless; for a split second, he thought all of this had been a bad dream. That was until he heard the tap dripping again and he knew it was for real. Still in a blind panic, and with a lump on his forehead now swelling to the size of a golf ball, he managed to get to his feet and run.
He left the house, knowing that he would never return. Eventually, he reached his car and almost ripped the door handle off trying to get inside. As he drove away like a man possessed, he tried to process the events he’d just witnessed and plan what to do next. His first thought was to phone Harry.
As soon as Harry took the call, he heard the terror in Vinnie’s voice.
‘Jesus, Harry, I’ve just left Muvver’s … Oh my God, Harry.’
‘Slow down, Vinnie. What’s happened?’ Harry heard his brother’s harsh breathing and held his own breath.
‘It’s Farver! Fuck me, he’s dead. He’s fucking dead. They’ve killed him. Jesus, Harry, they’ve fucking cut him up. In the bath, for Christ’s sake. Blood’s everywhere … It’s disgusting …’
Paris stirred, snorted, and fell back to sleep.
‘Are you there, Harry?’ He sounded desperate to keep his older brother on the line.
‘Yes, Vinnie. Christ … they fucking killed our ol’ man? I swear to God, I’ll have every single one of ’em.’
‘Harry, what shall I do?’
Harry was in shock, but then sudden anger surged inside him, working its way up to his head. He felt as though he was ready to explode.
‘You, Vinnie, you can do what the fuck you like. This is all your fault! I knew they wouldn’t let killing the fucking mutt go, and now look what’s happened. You are one useless prick!’
Ignoring Harry’s accusation, Vinnie begged for help. ‘Please, Harry, tell me what to do. They’re gonna come for me. I just know it.’
It was the final straw. This shit-for-brains brother of his had acted recklessly without his say-so, and now Harry hated the pathetic sound of his brother’s voice. ‘Where’s Scottie?’ he growled through clenched teeth.
‘I dunno. I came straight over to Muvver’s, like you said, and I ain’t heard from Scottie. Harry—’
Harry had had enough of his brother. ‘Just find fucking Scottie. Then, once you’ve got him, call me. Don’t fucking call me unless you have anything useful to tell me.’
Harry wiped the gathered beads of sweat before they ran into his eyes and stung him.
He was so focused on what had happened to his father, he hadn’t even contemplated his mother’s safety. He looked in his rear-view mirror and wondered how he was going to break the news to his sister. She loved her father more than anyone. He just hoped she would stay asleep until they reached Broadstairs.
* * *
Doris felt content soaking up the country views. Mike reminded her so much of Arthur that she felt at ease in his company. If he was only half the man Arthur was, then he was all right in her books. There were so many ‘if onlys’ in her life. The biggest regret was not waiting for Arthur when he went to prison. She’d received a message from Teddy Stafford senior that Arthur didn’t want any visitors or letters. She should have known, back then, that Arthur didn’t want her traipsing up to a grotty prison. Unaware that Frank had set him up, and was worming his way into her life, she succumbed to his affections. He got her drunk, had his way, and she was left walking up the aisle with her first-born due in six months.
She remembered seeing Mike as a baby. Arthur had met a woman, married her within the year, and they’d had their first child within eighteen months. There was no need for a newspaper in Bermondsey – the news travelled even faster than the new Eurostar service into London.
She recalled seeing Gloria proudly pushing her son around in a beautiful pram. Doris had been dragging her two sons to the shops, both with wilful minds of their own. Gloria looked like she’d stepped out of a magazine. She was wearing a red swing coat, with her hair immaculately bobbed and she’d even put on false eyelashes. With a spring in her step and her head held high, she strolled by, much to the admiration of Doris. Despite the small age gap, she knew Gloria actually looked ten years younger.
Gripped by sadness, Doris knew that if it hadn’t been for the lie Frank told her, she would have waited for Arthur. She loved him so much, and still did, even though he was married to Gloria. There were no hateful feelings towards her though; after all, she had done nothing wrong. They knew each other from the estate, but they weren’t on such friendly terms that they would stand and have a chat. So, they would find themselves nodding politely when they encountered each other – which Gloria did as she passed Doris.
Doris remembered that day like it was yesterday because more shocking was what she noticed after the woman had walked by. Doris was admiring Gloria’s new coat and the expensive shoes, and just imagining herself wearing them and parading her son around. Just as Gloria passed the pub, Frank, who was idling in the doorway, pint in hand, stepped out and blatantly flirted with her. Doris watched in horror as Gloria began to walk away but Frank grabbed her arm. Doris saw how difficult it was for the woman to shrug him off. She knew what Frank was like when he’d had a few pints inside him. He was a forceful, won’t-take-no-for-an-answer man. She contemplated walking in the opposite direction to do the shopping, but she couldn’t leave the woman like that.
‘Frank!’ she called out. He responded by letting the woman go and then strolled towards her, veering from side to side. She held her breath; she knew he was pissed and he wasn’t nice when he was drunk. But then, he wasn’t nice anyway.
‘What d’ya fucking think you’re doing, woman? You ain’t no fucking fishwife, so don’t act like one. No wife of mine shouts their ugly mouth off in the street.’
She hurried away before he got really nasty. She didn’t want the boys to witness it – not that it would have made any difference to them. Each of them, like their father, didn’t have a generous soul. All three were like peas in a pod: obnoxious, rude, and unruly. After she’d been to the Co-op and collected her Green Shield stamp-book along with a loaf of bread and a bag of flour, she wandered back along the street towards the pub. But as she approached the building, she could see a couple of the locals gathered outside. A car was parked across the road. There he was: Arthur Regan. He almost towered over Frank. All she could hear was Frank hollering through stupid slurred speech. He was pathetic. Arthur, however, dressed impeccably in a black suit and with his hair neatly cut around his ears, said very little. With ease, he grabbed Frank around the throat with one hand and with the other he punched him square in the face, knocking him across the pavement and into the road. Two of the locals tried to pull Arthur back, but he flipped them
