5
Keith Mullins sat on his sun terrace reading the online edition of The Sun newspaper. The terrace was situated at the rear of the two-floor apartment above the pub he and his wife, Michelle, had bought last year in the little town of Almacena, Cadiz.
A fly buzzed around and landed on Keith’s face. He slapped his face, but missed the fly. It flew away. Keith picked up the plastic fly swatter that lay next to his laptop and waited. A few seconds passed and the fly returned. Keith grinned, watching it as it crawled around on his empty breakfast plate. Then he struck – the swatter mashing the fly into bacon grease and egg yolk. ‘Yesss!’ Keith put down the swatter and returned to the newspaper.
He had wanted to call their new pub, The Queen of Hearts, in memory of the late Princess of Wales; he’d had a vision of Diana’s face on the pub sign, smiling angelically down at the punters as they supped their pints on the front terrace. A beautiful image perhaps, but Michelle had reminded him that if he wanted to keep their presence discreet, perhaps it wasn’t the best choice. She was right of course – though Keith at least got part of his wish after they translated The Queen of Hearts into Spanish and christened the pub La Reina de Corazones. He’d had to give up the pub sign idea too. The sign they finally agreed on wasn’t the saintly visage of the dead princess, but the Queen of Hearts from the playing card pack. Keith hadn’t been happy, but he’d been able to see the logic.
It was eight-thirty in the morning, and from the kitchen he could hear the voices of Michelle and their daughter Melanie as they went through their usual morning mixture of instructions and rebuttals. Then came the sound of a chair being abruptly pushed back; Michelle shouting; a slammed door, and then Michelle emerging onto the terrace looking flustered. ‘Little madam,’ she said, ‘she gets it from you, you know.’
‘Gets what? Good looks, animal magnetism?’ Keith looked up over the screen of his laptop computer and grinned. ‘Balls?’
‘Yes, balls. She’s got your balls. I don’t know where they are exactly, but they got into the ingredients somehow.’
Keith chuckled. ‘That’s a good thing, girl. A woman needs balls in this world.’
‘Not when she’s talking to her mother, she doesn’t.’ Michelle pulled out one of the plastic chairs opposite him and sat down.
‘Aw, leave it, Chelle. She’s just at that age. It’s a phase. She’ll grow out of it.’
‘That’s easy for you to say, you don’t have to feed her. Now she’s saying she doesn’t want milk anymore. She wants soy milk. She not eating her bloody corn flakes.’
‘What’s that then?’ said Keith, returning his interest to the screen, the back of which was facing Michelle. He clicked to see the day’s Page Three girl.
‘She says it’s from a bean or something, a soy bean.’
Keith’s brow furrowed. He looked up from admiring Amii from Birmingham. ‘A bean that’s got milk in it? What? Like a coconut?’
‘Well, I don’t know, do I? She says Teresa drinks it and it’s better for you than what milk is. Apparently you can make shepherd’s pie and everything out of it.’
‘What? Bean milk?’
‘No, not the milk, the bean; it’s a meat alternative. Vegetarians eat them.’
‘Don’t tell me she wants to become a bloody veggie.’
‘Well if she does, I’m not cooking for her. Bloody bean pies; she can do it herself. Either that or you can. After all,’ she smiled sarcastically, ‘It’s just a phase, isn’t it? You won’t have to do it for long.’
Keith laughed and returned to admiring Amii from Birmingham.
‘Anyway,’ said Michelle. ‘What’re you looking at? Page three?’
Keith closed Amii’s window and returned to the newspaper. ‘No,’ he said, feigning offence. ‘Actually, I’m reading about women’s problems. I’m reading about the G-spot in Dear Deirdre.’ He nodded to the screen. ‘It says here that some women feel it’s the greatest turn-on ever while others hate it. Some feel it’s a pleasurable variation, while others find it irritating.’ He looked up. ‘How’s your G-spot then, Chelle?’
‘How should I know?’
‘Well, who else is gonna know if you don’t?’
‘That’s your job, that is. Does it say where it is?’
Keith read on then looked up with a smile. ‘Yeah.’
She smiled and opened her dressing gown a little at the chest. ‘Fancy having a look for it then do you?’
Melanie’s voice came from inside the apartment, ‘I’m going to school.’
Michelle pulled her gown closed. Keith leaned sideways and called, ‘Not without kissing your old man goodbye you ain’t, young lady.’
Footsteps approached through the kitchen, and then Melanie, clutching the mobile phone they had bought her for her fourteenth birthday, stepped out into the sunshine. She said nothing, moving quickly to her father and planting a kiss on his cheek before turning and heading back the way she had come.
‘Oi!’ said Keith. Melanie stopped in the doorway, her back to him. ‘What was that?’
Melanie turned. ‘A goodbye kiss. That’s what you asked for isn’t it?’
‘A goodbye kiss without saying goodbye is only half the deal, girl. And what about your mother?’
‘What about her?’
‘Don’t she get a kiss?’
Melanie looked at her mother. ‘She didn’t ask for one.’
‘She doesn’t have to,’ said Keith, ‘she’s your mother; she gets one anyway.’
Melanie sighed and walked back to Keith, kissing him again on the cheek and saying, pointedly, ‘Bye Dad.’
‘Much better.’
Melanie looked at Michelle. Michelle met her eyes and raised her finely-plucked eyebrows. Melanie bent and pecked her on the cheek. ‘Bye Mum.’
‘Good girl,’ said Keith to Melanie’s back as she disappeared back into the shadows of the apartment.
‘I’ll get your bean milk later, love,’ Michelle called after her.
‘Thanks, Mum.’
A moment later, they heard the front door bang shut.
‘There, you see?’ said Keith serenely. ‘All it takes is a bit of fatherly guidance.’
Michelle smiled and stroked her neck suggestively. ‘Hmm. I think I might need a bit of fatherly guidance an’ all.’
‘Oh? How can I help you, then?’
‘I can’t seem to find my G-spot.’
Keith grinned and looked back to the computer screen, quickly reading and memorizing the directions. ‘Fortunately for you girl, I happen to know the way to that particular pleasurable variation.’ He got up, his arousal already conspicuous from the front of his shorts.
Michelle pulled her gown open. There was no need for modesty; they were not overlooked by any of their neighbours. ‘I hope I’m not one of them women that reckon it’s all just an irritation.’
‘Don’t worry, girl,’ said Keith tugging his shorts down. ‘It won’t be.’
Candlelight flickered on the white stucco ceiling, the black beams with their nails and hooks, the small boy kept his eyes diverted upwards, not wanting to look at the black-robed figures that were focused on him, staring, their faces shadowed by the hoods they wore. His mother’s hand squeezed his and encouraged him to take a step forward. Afraid to do so, but even more fearful of being left behind should she choose to let go, the boy followed. The man he had been told to call “father” stood beside the coffin. At his left hand stood a robed figure holding a silver bowl that contained the blood of the cockerel they had just killed. His father beckoned to him then turned to dip his fingers in the blood.
The boy faltered at the sight of the blood. His mother pulled at his hand but he refused to budge. He began to cry. Then he felt himself lifted up, he turned and saw the face of Martin, the man he had been told to call “brother”.
Martin whispered in his ear, ‘Shhh, David, it’s all right. It won’t hurt you; it’ll make you strong.’
The boy, David, cried and twisted but he felt himself carried forwards to the dripping red fingers of his father. The old man smiled and spoke in a language he didn’t understand, words that made no sense. The other people in the room began to repeat the words. David struggled as the fingers reached for his forehead. He turned his face away. And then he saw the lid of the coffin beginning to tremble, rising slowly as if it were being lifted from within.
Then Martin was trying to turn his face back to the old man’s fingers that were reaching for him, dripping with blood. David was struggling now, fighting to get away, because he could see other fingers, long-nailed, yellow fingers curling around the edge of the coffin lid.
David screamed –
The Ryanair 737 hit the tarmac with a bump that jolted David from his dream. The youth in the aisle seat next to him was already texting someone. He looked at David and smiled. ‘Alright mate?’
‘Sorry?’
‘You alright? Sounded like you were having a bit of a nightmare, there.’
‘Yes,’ David rubbed his face. ‘Yes, I was.’
‘Still,’ said the youth. ‘We’re here now, eh?’
‘Yeah,’ David nodded. He looked out of the window as the aircraft taxied into its resting place. He squinted at the brightness outside; under a sky of brilliant blue, the world was drenched in dazzling sunshine. David sat and waited for the seatbelt light to go out. When it did, the usual chaos ensued: the sound of hundreds of buckles clattering open and being flung aside was followed by the wriggling stampede of passengers into the aisle, all of them struggling to pull bags from overhead lockers and turn mobile phones on at the same time. David looked out of the window at the ground crews in their short-sleeved shirts and sunglasses. Despite everything, in that moment he felt strangely happy to be here. He turned back to where the mass of his fellow passengers had now coagulated in the aisle; cramped and entangled, waiting for the cabin door to open. Then it did open and a warm breeze drifted through the cabin. Then the passengers began to slowly shuffle and nudge their way forwards to freedom.
David yawned and looked out of the window. The bags were being off-loaded and those passengers that had already disembarked were now being herded towards the bus that had been sent to pick them up to transport them to the terminal building. He turned to see that the aisle was now almost empty. He got to his feet, pulled his bag from the overhead locker and strolled towards the exit. Someone had left a newspaper on a seat; he picked it up and slipped it under his arm, then with a parting smile at the stewardess, he stepped out into the heat.
On the tarmac, the first bus was already pulling away and a second was now filling up. He trotted down the steps and made his way over to join the struggling crowd, glancing as he did to where the first bus now pulled up about a hundred yards away at the terminal building. He resisted the urge to walk the short distance and risk the wrath of the ground crews, and instead stepped onto the bus and turned to the back pages of the newspaper to see how Arsenal had got on the night before.
Fifteen minutes later, having reclaimed his bags, David pushed a luggage trolley into the arrivals lounge where an array of expectant faces waited for persons other than him. Dozens of pairs of eyes simultaneously noticed and dismissed him, but one pair of eyes remained fixed on him: they belonged to an attractive woman in her late thirties wearing a white blouse and beige skirt. At first glance, her tanned skin and long dark hair gave her a Latin appearance, but he recognised her – just as she evidently recognised him. In her hands she held a sign with one word written in black marker: “Flinch”. A pair of young men just ahead of David obeyed the sign and flinched comically from her. She scowled at them and David read the words ‘fuck off’ on her lips. The young men swaggered away, and David rolled his trolley up and stopped before her.
‘Hello Lydia.’
She smiled. ‘David.’ They embraced and she kissed him, first on one cheek, then the other.
‘It’s been a while.’
‘Yes, it has,’ she looked him up and down. ‘You’re looking very well.’
‘So are you. I wasn’t sure if I’d recognise you. How long have you been here now?’
‘Since I was twenty-one, I moved out for good after I finished university.’
‘Well it certainly seems to suit you.’
‘Thank you.’ She ran her hand through his hair. ‘I see you’ve lost the long hair. I like it.’
He smiled, slightly embarrassed. ‘It’s been that way since the army.’
‘Yes, so you joined in the end then?’ She stepped aside and indicated the corridor behind her. ‘Come, my car’s this way.’
David pushed his luggage trolley forwards and they began to walk. ‘Yeah. I did it to keep my mum happy. She felt it would be best – for everyone – if I followed the family tradition.’
‘I always knew you were a good boy deep down. I was sorry to hear about your mother.’
He looked at her. ‘Oh? You know about that?’
She nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘Of course you do. You found me, didn’t you? It stands to reason you’d have found out about my mother’s suicide. Tell me, how did you find me?’
‘John hired a detective.’
‘A member of the Sect, I suppose?’
‘Naturally. A retired police detective.’
He nodded, searching his memory for the thousands of faces that blurred in his background for one who he might have noticed again and again looking at him from the shadows. But no suspicious characters arose: he’d never seen nor suspected anyone. ‘Well, he did a good job.’
‘Within reason. Of course he couldn’t tell us why you chose to ... distance yourself.’
David smiled. ‘Oh come on, Lydia. I think you know why.’
She shook her head. ‘No, I don’t. Tell me.’
He glanced around the arrivals lounge, looking for a distraction. He fixed on a queue of people at a car rental place. There were signs by the sales window announcing the disappearance of a young man. ‘Let’s just say it was a combination of factors.’
‘Like?’
David saw another sign for the missing young man at the next car rental place. He turned back to Lydia. She was waiting patiently for an answer. ‘You really don’t know?’
‘If I knew I wouldn’t be asking.’
David shook his head in disbelief. ‘Well, there was you for one thing.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes, you. Don’t sound so surprised. I felt it best if we didn’t spend so much time around each other.’
‘Oh? Why?’
‘Oh don’t come the innocent, Lydia. You know why.’
For a moment they walked on in silence, neither looking at the other. Then Lydia said. ‘I see. I always thought it might have had something to do with Lord Underwood.’
‘Well yes, there was him too. But mostly it was you.’
‘Oh. Well, I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Yeah, well, anyway, it’s all ancient history now. Let’s just put it behind us and get on with the present, shall we?’
‘Yes. I suppose that would be the sensible thing to do.’
‘So tell me about John, how bad is he?’
‘About as bad as it gets I’m afraid. He’s not expected to last much longer.’
‘I see. Was it him or you who decided to contact me?’
‘Him.’
‘How long did it take to find me?’
‘Oh we found you years ago. John hired Feltham – that’s the detective – to track you down about five years ago. He’s been keeping tabs on you ever since, sending John little updates, you know.’
David stopped. ‘Really?’
Lydia nodded. ‘Of course. Why? Does that surprise you?’
He resumed pushing his trolley, ‘No, I suppose not. I suppose now that I think of it I’m surprised he left it so long. Why five years ago?’
‘For a long time John was happy to just let you do your thing. He had hoped that you’d make your own way back to us, but I suppose he eventually came to realise that you weren’t going to and so he contracted Feltham. He wanted to know where you were, if you were happy, if you were okay. Just normal family stuff.’
‘Yeah, like we’re a normal family.’
‘We’re the only family you’ve got, David. Normal or otherwise.’
‘Oh I’d say it’s definitely a case of “otherwise”, Lydia.’
She smiled. ‘So how does it feel, coming home to your “otherwise” family after so long?’
He gave a short dismissive laugh. ‘Weird. I mean, I’m happy on some levels but obviously very sad – and terrified – on others.’
She laughed. ‘Terrified?’
‘Yes. Why’s that so funny? Although it wasn’t stated in the letter, I presume that now John is going to die the role of Underwood’s Guardian is going to fall to me?’
‘Yes, but surely you’re not afraid of Underwood? He’s our family’s great benefactor, you’ve nothing to fear from him.’
‘Well, that’s easy for you to say, you’re not the one in line for the job, are you?’
‘No, more’s the pity. As soon as the midwife saw I lacked a penis I was out of the running.’
‘Count yourself lucky.’
‘Lucky? To be prejudiced against because of my gender?’
‘In this case, yes, I would say so.’
‘Well you’d say wrongly. You’ve been given an amazing opportunity that I can never have, and frankly it makes me sick. I’d give anything to be in your shoes.’
‘Well as far as I’m concerned you can have my shoes. I don’t want this bloody job.’
She smiled. ‘Yes, I suspected as much. But you forget David, what we want is irrelevant. Tradition dictates that this is a boy’s job: only male Flinches need apply for it.’
‘Bollocks to tradition, Lydia: if you want the job, you can have it. We’ll work it out between us.’
She put her hand on his, stopping the trolley. ‘Really?’
He turned to her. Suddenly her face was very serious. He nodded. ‘Sure. Like I said, I don’t want the job. I’ve got my own life, you know? It’s not much, but I’m happy. This Guardian thing is ...’, he sought for the right word; he didn’t want to offend her.
‘What?’
‘I dunno ... horrific?’
She laughed. ‘Yes, it is rather. But surely John – and Underwood himself – they’d never accept me, a woman, in the role.’
‘Well, they might, times have changed, haven’t they?’ He felt lighter, relieved that Lydia was willing to take the job off his hands. He chuckled. ‘Hey, maybe we should threaten to report Underwood to the Spanish board of equal opportunities? They’d soon sort him out.’
Lydia smiled but she wasn’t amused. ‘I’m serious David, and so should you be. This isn’t a subject I see as having a particularly funny side.’
They approached the glass doors that opened onto the road outside. Warm air, rich with exhaust fumes and the cigarette smoke from a group of taxi drivers in highly animated discussion rolled over them. ‘Yeah,’ said David, reaching into his breast pocket and taking out his sunglasses. ‘I have a feeling you may be right about that.’
About thirty minutes after embarking on what turned out to be a fruitless but enjoyable quest for Michelle’s G-spot, Keith returned to his daily perusal of the online British press. Michelle was in the shower and he had made himself another mug of coffee. He was just about to take a sip when somewhere in the apartment his mobile phone started ringing.
‘Oh bollocks,’ he muttered.
‘Your phone’s ringing!’ Michelle shouted from the bathroom.
‘I know, I’m not deaf!’ he shouted back as he got up and followed the sound of the ringtone, a tinny version of The Final Countdown by Europe.
‘I’m only saying,’ said Michelle defensively, a towel wrapped around her body as she passed him on her way to the kitchen.
Keith ignored her and picked up the phone from the dining room table. He looked at the caller display: it was Hodge, his best friend and member of his team for five years. Keith answered the call. ‘Hodge! Alright mate?’
‘Alright Keith. Are you okay to talk?’
Keith looked back to the kitchen. Michelle had put the kettle on and was now returning through the apartment. He smiled at her.
‘Who is it?’ she asked.
‘It’s Hodge.’
‘Oh,’ she said brightly. ‘Say hello for me.’ She went off to the bedroom. A moment later, Keith heard the sound of her hairdryer.
‘Yeah, it’s okay. Chelle says hello.’
‘Oh right, say hello back,’ said Hodge. ‘Listen, have you heard about that pill-head Mark Coleman?’
‘No. What about him?’
‘It’s in all the papers, mate. And it’s flipping gruesome stuff, an’ all.’
‘What is? Whatchoo on about?’
‘He’s been decapitated.’
‘Decapsitated? What? You mean someone’s cut his head off?’
‘Yeah. They found it on a bench on an Ibiza seafront.’
Keith’s legs felt weak. He sat down. ‘Fucking hell. Who do they think done it?’
‘They’re not saying, but I don’t reckon it was bloody Al-Qaeda, do you?’
‘Well, you never know. Maybe he was selling pills in the wrong neighbourhood.’
‘He was in Ibiza, not Baghdad.’
‘Well maybe they were on holiday.’
‘I don’t think so, mate.’
‘You never know.’
‘Yeah. I think we do though, don’t we?’
‘What?’
‘Know.’
Keith’s jaw tensed. ‘Know what? What are you tryin’ to say, Hodge?’
There was a moment of hesitation from Hodge’s end, then he said, ‘I reckon it’s Sergei. I reckon it’s like ... some sort of warning.’
‘Warning? Who to?’
‘Who to? To us, mate. I reckon Sergei caught up with Mark and got all medieval on his arse. And most likely he tried to get him to say where we are an’ all.’
Keith was silent.
‘Keith?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What do you think?’
‘I dunno. I bloody hope not, but it could be, couldn’t it. Did he know anything?’
‘Mark? No, he only knew the lies what we told him about us going to Portugal to play golf for the rest of our days.’
‘Nothing more?’
‘No chance. That’s the story we told him, the same story we told everyone down in Benidorm. You can’t be too careful, can you.’
‘Yeah, well tell me about it, H. That’s why I put this pub in Chelle’s name, innit? In case they ever started looking for me in the Yellow Pages.’
‘I know, mate. Smart move, that.’
‘Yeah, still, cost me a nice pub sign though, giving her all that clout.’
‘Well if I’m right about Coleman and Sergei, maybe it’s just as well eh?’
Keith nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yeah. ‘Ere, but hang on, what about Damo?’
‘What about him?’
‘He wouldn’t have said nothing to no-one, would he?’
‘Course not! He knows the score.’
‘Yeah, course he does.’
‘Anyway, check it out, it’s front page news on El Pais online.’
‘I can’t read that, it’s in Spanish.’
‘Well you can look at the pictures can’t you? Either that or get your kid to translate it.’
‘Oh yeah, good idea: draw her attention to it – an article which might make daddy shit his pants. Oh, I know, I can get her to read it to me through the bathroom door, that way I can be ready on the bog when it gets to the bit about how the bad men are going to come and cut daddy’s fuckin’ head off.’
‘All right Keith, no need to be sarcastic.’
‘I’m sorry, mate, but you’ve gone and got me all nervous now,’ Keith heard the hairdryer cut out in the bedroom. ‘Listen, I have to go, I’ll have a butcher’s at it meself in a minute.’ He lowered his voice as he heard Michelle approaching.
‘Have a butcher’s at what?’ she asked as she walked past.
Keith ignored her. ‘I’ll see you later, mate,’ he said to Hodge before disconnecting the call and putting the phone back on the table. With a long sigh he sat down and lowered his face into his hands. His mind went back to the night of the shooting…
The dark interior of the van as it pulls out and speeds across the car park. Through the partly-open rear door he can see again the ground blurring; he’s holding the shotgun in both hands, ready to fire; his footing unsteady, he staggers against Hodge. Then Damo is shouting in the driver’s seat followed by a massive thump as the van hits one of the Russians. Keith falls to one knee, a shooting pain, forgotten immediately as guns open fire outside, the thin panels of the van afford no protection at all; bullets rip through the walls, whizzing through the air behind him. Then Damo brakes hard and again, Keith staggers against Hodge, swearing, trying to keep the shotgun steady.
Damo screams from the cab: ‘For fuck’s sake shoot the bastards!’
Hodge’s boot rises and kicks open the door, his gun goes up: two men outside, bringing their guns to bear on them. Then the flash and boom as Hodge fires. Keith raises the shotgun, feels his fingers tightening on the triggers, then both barrels, one after the other belch fire and smoke. He sees one of the Russians falling backwards, his pistol falling from his hand. Then Hodge’s second barrel booms and the other Russian, the only one still standing, flies back in a red mist.
Michelle stepped into the kitchen doorway. ‘Have a butcher’s at what?’
Keith blinked and the dining room returned. ‘What?’
‘What is it you’re going to have a look at?’
‘Oh, something in El Pais online. Hodge said he saw something interesting.’
‘What was that then?’
‘Some ... druggie geezer’s been murdered.’
‘Oh. No great loss there then,’ said Michelle as the toaster popped behind her. ‘I’ll tell you what that is. It’s them bloody East European mafias that’s what that is, same as in Benidorm.’
‘It wasn’t in Benidorm, Chelle. It was in Ibiza.’
‘Oh right?’ said Michelle, surprised. ‘I thought that was supposed to be Love Island.’
‘Yeah. Well, not any more it ain’t.’
‘No, not by the sound of it.’ She went back into the kitchen to butter the toast. ‘Thank God we moved away from the coast, eh?’
‘Yeah,’ said Keith quietly. ‘Thank God.’
David sat in the passenger seat of Lydia’s white Land Rover Discovery and looked out of the windows at the scenery as they drove up into the high country. He listened with interest as Lydia told him about how, after finishing studying Spanish and German at University, she’d returned to Spain in the early 90’s. Initially she’d stayed with John at Casa Underwood – which is what they’d called the family’s house since they were teenagers – but she soon moved out and got a job and an apartment down in Malaga.
Her job had been with a firm of estate agents that specialised in selling property to foreigners, mostly British, Irish, German and Dutch. She learned fast. Four years later, with a loan from John, she went into business for herself. By the end of the 90’s, she was rich. She had two offices on the Costa del Sol and in recent years had begun to move into the inland property market. She’d opened an office in Almacena, four kilometres from Casa Underwood, and business had been booming.
‘Inland is the new coast, David. Lots of cheap property and lots of Brits keen to buy it all up.’
‘Why?’ He asked, turning back to her. ‘I mean, what do they see in it?’
She smiled. ‘Oh, pretty much the opposite to England, I suppose: good weather, safe streets, happy children.’ She looked at him over her the rims of her sunglasses. ‘England’s not a happy country any more David, or hadn’t you noticed?’
‘I like it,’ he said without enthusiasm.
‘Oh come on! You can’t tell me you don’t miss it here. We always had so much fun.’
‘Did we?’
‘Of course we did. I hated having to leave when our school holidays were over. Leaving Dad and all my brothers and going back to rainy old England. Yeuch. I couldn’t wait until I was old enough to get back here permanently.’
‘Well, that’s good for you then. You got what you wanted.’
‘Yes,’ she turned to him. ‘Mostly. Still, it’s not for you, eh?’
‘No.’
‘So, why are you back here if you don’t want the job?’
‘Because I have to be.’
‘For John?’
‘Yeah. He’s my brother. He’s always been good to me.’
‘Yet you turned your back on him all these years?’
David took out his cigarettes. ‘Do you mind?’
‘No, actually can I have one?’
He lit two and handed her one. ‘Look, I didn’t turn my back on John personally.’
‘No, you turned your back on all of us, the whole family.’
‘Yes, because, frankly Lydia, the family is evil.’
‘Oh rubbish! John’s not evil. Martin wasn’t evil.’
‘Dad was evil.’
‘Dad was eccentric.’
David turned to her, his face unbelieving. ‘Black mass rituals aren’t eccentricities, Lydia. Daubing inverted crucifixes on your own kids’ foreheads with chicken’s blood, getting them to kneel before coffins with fucking vampires in them, these aren’t fucking eccentricities.’
‘Oh, it was all just part of the normalisation process, to prepare us for what we had to do in later life.’
‘Namely?’
She shrugged. ‘To serve the Lord Underwood.’
‘By serve you mean what? Ring the bell at four o’clock to say tea is ready?’
She chuckled. ‘I don’t think His Lordship drinks tea.’
‘You know that whoever “serves the Lord Underwood” as you put it, is going to have to kill people, don’t you Lydia? Are you capable, seriously capable, of murder?’
‘Are you?’
‘No.’
She laughed. ‘So what did they teach you in the army? Flower arranging?’
‘I trained as a medic. I saved lives, Lydia, I didn’t take them.’
‘Ah, but I read Feltham’s files on you, David. You didn’t start as a medic, you were in Bosnia. Surely you killed a few people there?’
‘Obviously you didn’t read very closely. If you had you’d know I was there as part of a United Nations peacekeeping force. Our job was to protect people.’
‘Oh, I see,’ she nodded with mock gravity. ‘And then you went on to more life-saving larks when you became an ambulance man; a paramedic, isn’t that what they call it these days?’
‘Yes.’
‘But you then you left that and became a drunkard. Interesting career choice.’
David said nothing.
‘So why did you leave the ambulance service?’
‘Didn’t your Mr Feltham tell you?’
‘He told us about your girlfriend’s accident.’
‘She was more than my girlfriend; we were going to be married.’
‘Oh,’ Lydia was surprised. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know that.’
‘Yeah, well, now you do. So let’s leave it at that, shall we?’
They drove in silence for a while. Then, David turned to her. ‘Lydia, about this Guardian business.’
‘Yes, what about it?’
‘I’m not going to do it.’
‘I know, you said that.’
‘Yes, but, neither should you.’
‘What?’
‘Be Guardian.’
She laughed. ‘Oh David, don’t be ridiculous. If you don’t do it and I don’t do it, who will?’
‘No one does.’
She frowned. ‘No one?’
‘Yes. Listen, I’ve been thinking about it, about the role of Guardian. Not just since yesterday, but for years.’
She smiled wistfully. ‘Yes, haven’t we all?’
‘No Lydia, not in a good way, because it’s not a good thing. It’s diabolical. Though to hear you talking about it now, talking about Dad as if he were just some loveable old eccentric ...’
‘He was.’
‘He wasn’t! Jesus, Lydia. Arthur Flinch, our father, was a murderer in the service of a vampire.’
‘And?’
‘And? Underwood is vampire. A real one! Not like something off the television but a real creature that rises every night and kills people for food.’
Lydia flicked her cigarette out of the window. ‘Why don’t you finish your cigarette so we can close the windows and put the air conditioning on?’
‘Lydia, when Underwood wakes up, he’s going to start killing people again.’
‘Unless of course you prefer the windows open.’
‘Fuck the windows! Listen to me! Whoever becomes Guardian will become an accomplice to murder. Not to one, but hundreds, maybe thousands of murders.’
‘Oh, so what?’ she shouted. ‘I know that! You know that! We’ve always known that!’
‘And you can do that, can you? You can kill innocent people?’
‘If necessary.’
‘But don’t you see?’ David appealed with open hands. ‘It’s not necessary. We don’t have to resurrect him. We can just kill him; you and me. This whole resurrection thing just doesn’t need to happen.’ He laughed. ‘Underwood’s been rotting in his coffin for fifty bloody years. All we need to do is bang a stake in his heart and then it’s all over. We can both get to go back to our lives and live happily ever after.’
Lydia was silent, her eyes on the winding road ahead.
‘Lydia?’
‘Oh, I heard you, David.’
‘So? What do you think?’
‘You know, I said to John you weren’t up to the role of Guardian, but he said you were. I said you were a wimp, but he said you had guts. I said you’d let him down – and I was right. But even I had no idea just how far away from us you’d gone. And what a complete fucking coward you are.’
She pulled off to the side of the road and braked in a cloud of dust.
‘Lydia, for Christ’s sake.’
‘Don’t talk to me about Christ, David. There is no Christ! There is only Underwood. He is our God. He is our sole purpose and always has been. That you don’t want to be Guardian comes as no surprise. Fine. Fuck off! Run away and hide under your bed with a bottle of Jack Daniels. But if you think you’re going to stop the resurrection of my Messiah, you’ve got another think coming, because in my heart, I accepted the role of Guardian long ago. And I can, and will, kill anyone who would do him harm. And trust me, David: that includes you.’
David looked at her and suddenly knew beyond any doubt that she was deadly serious. He smiled, his mouth was dry. He nodded, slowly. ‘Good. That’s good. I was just checking, see, ’cause you’d have to be, you know? Prepared to kill. I wasn’t really serious.’
Lydia’s face remained grave for a few moments then she began to laugh. ‘Oh, you should see your face. I really had you going there, didn’t I?’
David blinked. He tried to laugh but a strange sound came out instead. ‘Uh, oh yeah. Yeah. Nice one.’
‘Still the same old David.’ She put her hand on his thigh and gave it a squeeze. ‘Still afraid of your own sister.’ She laughed as she eased the car back out onto the road. ‘Oh, that was priceless.’