Revenge (43 page)

Chapter One Hundred
and Thirty-Five

White Farm was a smallholding, and it had been a rental property for over two years. There were no animals there any more, but the barns and the outbuildings were still in a very good state of repair. The old couple who had lived there since before the War had died within a few days of each other. Their only son, a grammar-school boy they had both doted on, had emigrated to Canada in the early sixties. His education had eventually alienated him from the people who had happily bankrolled him through university, and who had eventually paid his fare out to Toronto. They had never seen him again – or met his wife, or his children, or their great-grandchildren – but they had been very proud of him, and they had cherished the Christmas cards and photos he had sent to them sporadically. When they died he had arranged his parents’ burials, and he had then arranged for the farm he had grown up on to be rented out until property prices started to rise in the UK once again. It had all been done over the phone, and, like all absentee landlords, he had no idea of who might be occupying his old homestead. The rental agents had even less interest and, for someone like Steven Golding, that was a situation he could exploit without fear of anyone ever bothering to chase him up, or even having to meet with anyone face to face. As long as the rent was paid promptly and, in his case, three months in advance, no one could give the proverbial flying fuck.

He had found all the old couple’s belongings stored in the attic; their whole lives were packed into a few boxes. A life of occasional letters and greetings cards, the haphazard affection of a son who had left them both behind as soon as he could. He had hated the son who had walked away from parents who had loved him dearly.

Steven Golding sat at the kitchen table, a big scrubbed-pine monstrosity, that was very old and very scarred. It had seen a lot of use over its lifetime, that was evident. There were people who would pay a lot of money for it, he knew that. People who had to buy other people’s lives, other people’s possessions, because they didn’t have anything of such value in their own families. It was a sad fact, but it was true.

The rain had stopped, but the wind was gathering momentum. It was early October, and autumn was already settling in. Steven Golding stood up quickly, and glanced around him, pleased that the kitchen looked so clean and tidy. He looked at his watch – it was after eight, and he made his way down into the cellar, locking the heavy door behind him carefully. No one was ever getting past that door, it was like Fort Knox. The smell assailed his nostrils, and he smiled at the discomfort he knew it must be causing Jessie Flynn. He stepped carefully down the stairs, and walked to where she was still lying on her bed.

She looked terrible. Her legs were swollen and they looked so painful. Her face was porcelain white, the skin tight on her skull, and her eyes had sunk back into their sockets. She was dying, and she knew that as well as he did. Her breathing was laboured – every breath she took was a long and drawn out wheeze, loud in the quiet of the basement.

‘Jessie, Jessie, wake up, lovely.’ He was shaking her roughly and, as she opened her eyes, he bent over her. ‘I need to talk to you, Jessie. You’re dying, but I think you’ve worked that out for yourself, haven’t you? Your dad should have been here by now. I really thought he would have found you a lot quicker than this.’

She didn’t say anything; she was still trying to focus on him, trying to pull herself into the real world.

Steven Golding could see that Jessie Flynn was too far gone for him to have any kind of meaningful conversation with her; she had deteriorated rapidly in the last twelve hours. Her condition shocked him – he had thought she was a much stronger person, and thought she would have fought much harder than she had done. In the beginning she had been so cocky, so arrogant, threatening him with her dad. She had been convinced that he would help her. She had assumed this was about money – money was all people like the Flynns understood. When she had finally realised that it wasn’t about him getting a ransom, that she was
never
going to be rescued, never going to leave this basement, she seemed to have succumbed to the inevitable. It was not what he had expected – he was not pleased about this turn of events.

He walked over to the tap by the stairs, and filled a bucket with cold water. Walking back over to her, he threw the contents into her face, drenching her. But, other than trying to catch her breath, which was a natural reaction, the shock of the cold water did nothing to revive her. He could see her trying to focus on him, on her surroundings, and he felt a sudden, fleeting moment of sorrow for her. He had quite liked her, and that wasn’t something he had been prepared for – had certainly never expected.

He looked down at her; she was clearly unable to understand what was happening around her. It occurred to him that the infection from her ankles had probably entered her bloodstream, and she was likely suffering from blood poisoning. Even with the stench of faeces in the room, he could still detect the underlying odour of her rotting flesh. It was a sour smell, a heavy, cloying stench that seemed to rise up from her skin, and envelop the very air around her body. It was sharp in the nostrils, made your eyes water, and it smelt like imminent death.

He grabbed her hand, and held it gently between his palms. She was in a sorry state all right. But what could he do? This was what he had intended to happen. He had been left with nobody, all because Patrick Costello had held a grudge against his father. Costello had a perfect alibi for that night, and Steven had finally worked out that Michael Flynn, Costello’s up-and-coming young wannabe, had done the dirty deed in his name. He had poured the petrol through the letterbox, and he had wiped out a whole family to better
himself
. All that so he could become Patrick Costello’s blue-eyed boy. Well, as the Bible said, be sure your sins will find you out.

Chapter One Hundred
and Thirty-Six

Michael and Declan had made their way around the property, carefully and quietly creeping towards the back of the house. It wasn’t a large property – a pre-war, two-storey, red-brick house, with no aesthetic value. It was still in possession of its old-style Crittall windows – there was nothing of any beauty to give the house its own identity. It was very well built, but it needed a lot of work on it if anyone was going to live there for any length of time. It had been neglected, and that showed.

Michael looked through the kitchen window; other than this room, the house was in utter darkness. There were no outside lights either, and that was something both Michael and Declan were glad about. It made their life much easier. The kitchen was fairly large, and it looked like something from the Discovery Channel. It had faded yellow linoleum and hand-made wooden cupboards, the cooker was an old gas model, with an eye-level grill pan, and only three burners. The oven didn’t look large enough to cook anything bigger than a family-sized chicken. Other than a modern electric kettle, the place could have been a museum.

Michael Flynn looked inside, and whispered to his friend, ‘Fucking hell, Declan, this place is like something from fucking
Z Cars
!’

He moved quickly to the back door and, turning the handle slowly, he was relieved to find that it wasn’t even locked. This fucker obviously didn’t think anyone was going to find him. Stepping into the room, he held his breath, and listened carefully. The place smelt of neglect and poverty.

Declan followed him in, and he shut the door carefully behind him. The place felt totally empty, as if it hadn’t been occupied for a long time.

Michael whispered huskily, ‘Listen, Declan, can you hear that?’

Declan Costello listened to the house, straining his ears for any sound whatsoever. He shook his head slowly. ‘No.’

Michael rolled his eyes in annoyance. He walked slowly across the kitchen. There was a door that was open which led into the hallway and, to the side of it, there was another door. Michael guessed that it led to a cellar. These old places were built to last, and they were also built with farmers in mind – a cellar was essential, an important storage facility, especially in the winter months.

Suddenly the two men heard music. It was very loud, and out of place in the grand scheme of things. It threw them both for a few seconds. Michael recognised the melody – it was ‘Almaz’ by Randy Crawford. The whole thing was getting more bizarre by the second and, when they heard the basement door being unbolted, they both slipped into the darkness of the hallway.

Michael could feel the thrumming of his heart as he waited for the man to emerge from the basement. He was holding his breath, frightened to even breathe in case he gave himself away. All he wanted was to find his Jessie, his baby, and to finally prove to her that he loved her no matter what. Then he wanted to destroy this cunt, this man who had somehow snuck past him, had somehow got the better of him, had threatened his family, his life.

The door opened slowly. It was obviously a very heavy door, and it wasn’t easy to negotiate. Declan and Michael waited with bated breath for Steven Golding to come into the kitchen, and to finally enter their orbit.

He did so slowly and, as he turned to face the men he knew would be waiting for him, he grinned amiably, saying cheerfully, ‘I’ve been waiting for you, and so has Jessie.’

Chapter One Hundred
and Thirty-Seven

Steven Golding looked so much smaller than Michael had expected. He was almost puny. It was hard to believe that this was the man who had caused him so much grief, who had been so fucking elusive. It was a joke, surely?

Golding laughed. ‘You’re too late, Mr Flynn. We waited for you, but you never came. Now your little Jessie is dying, I’m afraid.’

Michael stepped towards the man, intent on murder, and Declan grabbed him. ‘Stop it, Michael. That’s what he wants. Let’s find Jessie first. I wouldn’t believe a word this slippery fucker says.’

Michael knew that Declan was right, he couldn’t do anything until he had found his daughter.

Steven Golding shrugged. ‘Be my guest, she’s down there.’ He gestured towards the basement door. ‘She’s been down there since day one.’

Declan grabbed the man by his throat, and dragged him unceremoniously down the basement stairs behind Michael. The music was much louder inside the room, and it added to the surreal feeling that was enveloping them.

Declan was unsure for a few moments if he was actually seeing what was before his eyes. The stench alone was bad enough, but Jessie, if that really
was
Jessie, was like something from a horror film.

She was so bloated, and her feet, her lovely little feet, were almost devoid of skin. He looked at Michael; he could see the man’s disbelief at what he was witnessing. He too was wondering if this was some kind of joke, even though they both knew that wasn’t possible.

The photo Michael had been sent had been bad enough but, in the hours since then, it was obvious that Jessie had deteriorated. She looked dead already.

Declan went to the CD player and, kicking it with all his might, he watched as it rose up into the air, and then hit the wall. The ensuing silence was almost deafening.

Michael looked at his daughter, at the condition she was in. It was like a fucking nightmare, beyond anything he could ever have imagined. This was his baby girl – no matter what had happened in the past, she was his only child, and he loved her with a passion.

‘Oh my fucking God. Oh dear God. Please don’t do this to me . . .’ Michael was trying to pick his daughter up in his arms, trying to comfort her. But she was unresponsive, her eyes were closed. Michael was openly crying, sobbing in despair.

Declan punched Golding in the side of his head, and he watched as the man skidded through the shit that was everywhere, and sprawled on the floor. Then grabbing him back up, he bellowed into his face, ‘Where’s the fucking keys, you fucking piece of shit!’

He was already pulling the man’s jacket off him, and searching his trouser pockets. He finally found a set of keys in the man’s jacket and, calling out Michael’s name, he threw them to him.

As he did so, Jessie let out a long slow breath and opened her eyes. She tried to follow the sound of her father’s voice, as he shouted loudly, ‘Jessie darling, Jessie, it’s me, your dad. Stay with me, love. Please . . .’

Declan screamed at his friend with annoyance, ‘Will you unlock her, Michael? For fuck’s sake! We need to phone a fucking ambulance! Get her some help! Pull yourself together, man. She needs you!’

Michael seemed suddenly to understand what was needed from him. He was visibly shaking as he picked up the keys from the floor and, taking out his mobile phone, he called for an ambulance. He was as coherent as possible, and he gave the address of White Farm, quickly and succinctly. He also explained the seriousness of his daughter’s condition. Then he turned to Declan. ‘It’s not a key we need. He’s fucking screwed these fuckers into place. We need a spanner.’

He turned on Steven Golding then, and, after kicking and punching him to the floor, he grabbed him by his prematurely grey hair and, pulling him back on to his feet, he pushed his face into his and demanded, ‘You shackled her, so you can fucking get her loose.’

Both Michael and Declan watched as Golding dropped to the floor. He then crawled through the filth and, pulling himself up with difficulty, he took a spanner from the windowsill, and he held it out to the men like an offering.

‘It’s too tight, I can’t undo it. Her blood has dried all over it. Now it’s like fucking glue.’

He was still taunting them. Declan moved quickly to stop Michael from attacking him once more. ‘This is like suicide by cop, Michael, but the ambulance will be here soon, remember? Get her free, get her help, and I will keep this cunt on ice, OK? I’ll take him to the scrapyard. You’ve got Branch to smooth your path with the hospital et cetera. He will make sure this doesn’t bite anyone’s arse. All you need to do is get her help, OK?’

Declan watched as Michael did as he was told and, leaving him to it, he dragged Steven Golding out of basement, walked him down the lane, and forced him into the boot of Michael’s Mercedes.

He sat in the car and waited until the ambulance had arrived before he drove sedately though the London traffic to the scrapyard. Declan guessed that the nut case wanted Michael to kill him. He had done what he had set out to do, and now he wanted to die. It was all so fucking mental. His punishment could be arranged, only at a later date. He wasn’t getting away with this that easily, not by a long chalk.