Acid Bubbles (30 page)

I might have known she was seeing Dave in my previous life, and I might not have cared, staying with her to be near Samantha. She was correct in her assumption, I was a boy. Vicky wouldn't understand it was only forty-eight hours since I was a seventeen-year-old virgin. A boy was leaving the house and I knew that Samantha could see it. I wasn't ashamed of being caught in wild passion and I wasn't bothered Vicky loathed me. The realisation I loved Samantha made me sad, I could have done more, I didn't, and in that moment returned to being a seventeen-year-old virgin.

I was not the person my lover thought, I was who I was. Each step on the stairs was taking me down physically and mentally. I was moving into a very dark unknown. Even if the money was hidden here I would never have the opportunity to find it. I placed my keys on the telephone table below the alarm box. I knew I wouldn't return for Monday morning coffee, Tuesday morning tea, Wednesday morning scones, or any other morning. I could have been wallowing in infinite sadness over my stupidity, but today I didn't have time to wallow.

“Goodbye!” Samantha said, looking down from the top of the stairs, a tiredness creasing her face.

The pebbles crunching under my feet on the long walk to the front gate seemed to be shouting four letter words at me in cold repetition, crunch, crunch, cunt, cunt, and on. That quiet afternoon filled only by the mocking sound of age-old rock beneath my feet, the crunching sounding out a broken retreat from some kind of manhood. Would I ever find the guts to turn and fight my way back?

I'd only walked a few yards with each mocking step driving me back towards childhood. A few yards later each step was bringing me back to a very adult and harshly real world.

John Smith was waiting in his car. He leaned out of the window with a radiant smile across his face, and he waved a joyful greeting, happy to see his friend again?

“Let's talk!” John Smith said.

Feet of lead, my legs didn't want to move. How do you describe my short walk over to John Smith's car? Reluctant, very reluctant! I don't know to this day how he knew where I was. That was the kind of guy you were dealing with. He was so smart it was scary, holding a magic power when it came to pre-empting actions. The other thing about this immaculate thug was he always gave the impression of being cheerful. Smiling, his bright boyish smile in every situation. This was far more sinister than any hard man's face twisted and distorted by anger.

“All going to plan then? You haven't been searching, you've been shagging.” He roared with laughter as he said this. He thought I had some master plan leading us both towards creating a power vacuum which we would fill, with profit.

In a couple of hours or so we were all going to be in The Cauldron, and I had this heavy dread my next journey in John Smith's car would be in the boot. I didn't know what to say to him. Telling the truth was the foolish idea beginning to hold credence in my muddled head. The truth, if he believed me, might give him the full picture, but his reaction could be anything including my death sentence? Silence filled the car with an uneasy friction, or it did from where I was sitting. John put his arm around my shoulder like a loving older brother, squeezing me a little bit too much, a little bit too matey.

“I bet it was fun in there, what with the girl coming at the same time as you.” He was still laughing.

Between his belly laughs he continued, “I need your help and you have no choice. I've got a little present in the boot.” The laughter had stopped his tone flat and filled with stone cold menace.

“A… what?” I asked. I shouldn't have.

“It's all right. He's still alive!” John said. His tone brightened by the thought of the fun to come.

“He's still alive! The present is a person?” I said, and I could hear the trembling tone to my voice. I hoped John couldn't. This oscillation may have only been inside my head, but I doubt it.

“It's not a present for you, Pete. This is much more fun. It's for Harry the Pocket,” He started the car, driving off through the housing estate, and to my surprise turning out towards open countryside, a move that had me instantly concerned. Had he been twisting the truth, winding me in to his web. I was convinced he'd been talking rhetorically and I was going to be the present in the boot.

Our journey was down familiar roads, the same twisty country roads I'd enjoyed so much as a boy, free and out on my bike. I knew the area well and only minutes into our journey I realised John hadn't lied in some of what he'd told me. We were on the way to Harry's little place in the country, his water bounded hunting lodge. No matter how I thought about this, the sensation was one of being delivered like a parcel. Brought back into the fold, a deluded relation with Alzheimer's who's forgotten where the family jewels were hidden.

John chatted about girls, his plans to have a week's holiday and learn sub-aqua. He fancied diving in an exotic location because it reminded him of James Bond. With John this gave me an image of
Thunderball,
and all those men underwater killing each other with spear guns. This might be the piece of equipment he desired more than the air tanks and exotic locations. I could see him using a spear gun with a cord attached to attract people's attention and pull them into his circle of confidence.

The whirlwind of scared, crazy thoughts rushing around in my head drowned out most of what my Nazi twin was saying. I don't even know if I was thinking. The noise in my head was everything from the last two days shouting at me giving me every clue at once, and the only answer white noise. My eyes were fixed on the road. Somewhere on another level I was imagining cycling on a quiet Sunday morning on these very peaceful roads. I was thousands of miles and hundreds of days away from the now. I'd been cycling last Sunday. Of course that was now two years ago, though not as I remember it. I decided this void inside my head couldn't be the result of a stroke or small brain haemorrhage. I was functioning okay, if that's what I was doing.

We swung in through the big gates onto the crunchy gravel drive towards the big manor house. John settled back in the seat of his Rover looking smug.

“I own four of those flats and rent them out. All under different names of course, the same as you with your bank accounts all opened with different passport identities. One day I'm going to own them all, then this will be my drive. Harry gave me the idea. Investment in the future, that's what he called it. This is what we're doing right now,” John said, all the while leaning back into the thick leather seats enjoying the drive along his road.

We pulled to a halt in front of the not so modest hunting lodge, and my companion wasted no time in leaving the car. The ignition was off, but with the keys were hanging in it. The temptation to slide across the seat, start the car and make my escape to God knows where was almost magnetic. The pull towards the driver's seat was almost irresistible. Then the thought of somebody or a body in the boot gave me the idea this was John Smith's intention. He wanted me to take the car and the blame. The running option disappeared, so I climbed out and walked towards the front door, joining my companion as he tapped very politely on the woodwork.

“Rang the bell, didn't seem to work,” John said.

Knocking on the door was having a similar effect until John suggested we walk round the back. He tried the bell again. I was sure I could hear it inside. With the noise in my head I could have heard laughter on the moon. We walked around to the back of the lodge and were both surprised at finding a small fishermen on the jetty.

“Hello, where can I find Harry Graves?” John asked.

The fishermen had all the kit, green clothes, silly hat with flies stuck into the rim, and an assortment of nets and rods. He turned unsurprised by the request. This was Smiggy on his day off, or guarding the place with a diligence. He was taking full advantage of Harry's fishing rights. The boss never went near the water, couldn't stand the stuff, owned a boat, and owned a house surrounded by water, all of this was a statement. Harry himself liked whiskey, never went near the wet stuff.

“Wadda yous two want?” Smiggy enquired in his usual happy way.

“We've got some stuff for Harry. My friend here has found the goods. Come and look!” John said, with a definite upbeat sound. I was starting to wonder what he did have stashed away in his black Rover. Smiggy walked into the lodge through the open French windows. We followed. All the while he was muttering about having his day off interrupted, about can't a bloke have a bit of peace and quiet for once. I had a feeling he was here without permission and should have been following me. Now the boot was on the other foot and we were pursuing him.

John didn't waste any time. He felled Smiggy with one forceful blow to the side of the head. The active cold brutality took me by surprise. John Smith had knocked his victim cold with the brutal full power swing of the cosh, all delivered without a moment's thought. He may have even killed him. I was dumbstruck and worse, I had become part of this aberration. I didn't want to be part of anything to do with this man. With John Smith once you were involved, you're always involved. The other option was permanent retirement.

John Smith smiled at me swinging the weapon he'd used on Smiggy. It was a very well-constructed small cosh. This was a ten inch long double thickness leather strap with a small lead ball sewn between the leather at one end, and the wide strap spread the load giving a knockout blow without too many fractures.

“Wait here. If he comes round kick him!” John commanded. He left the room in the direction of the front door. I looked at the victim who was twitching, small spasms moving through is almost inert body. I had the impression he wasn't going to wake up. This would be the truth because Smiggy, the little weasel, wasn't going to steal any more eggs from other people's baskets.

John Smith returned wearing the most curious garb. He had his smart suit on with the trousers rolled up to the knees, and above everything was the same as before. It was the lower bare legs grabbing my attention. He was wearing a pair of huge steel toe capped boots, much too large for John's feet. They must have been size fourteen or more.

John walked over and looked down at Smiggy. He enquired if he'd said anything. The answer was obvious. He was unconscious three minutes ago and he was unconscious now. This was about to change. John kicked him hard with the boot in the same spot on the head he'd put the cosh in. John stamped with tremendous force on Smiggy's sinewy neck, then he drove his right foot down for a second time, it was nauseating.

The crack from the breaking vertebrae was audible with a crunching sound like crushing large popcorn. This sickening sound had me retching. The wave of revulsion was forcing anything in my stomach up. John smiled at me, and followed this up by putting the boot in again, this time stamping hard on Smiggy's ribs. The crunching sound echoed around the room. I had my hand over my mouth fighting to keep my stomach.

“Go and spew in the river you soft git, and don't come back smelling like it,” John said. He wasn't examining the body. He didn't have to. As calm as someone out for an afternoon stroll John left the house and returned to the car wearing the murder weapons.

“Like I said, just like crushing an earwig!” John shouted these words as he retreated, laughing.

I thought about diving in the river and making a swim for it. I looked in hope at the boat, but it had a lock and chain fastening it to the mooring point. The questions in my head all concerned John Smith who I assumed could swim far faster than me and for much longer. If he didn't bother to pursue me I knew in my heart he would track me down. I wiped my mouth with some of the foul tasting river water. It tasted appropriate for what I'd just witnessed. After my moments of hesitation I returned to the lodge and found an outside gardening tap to wash my face. I wasn't going to walk through the French windows past the broken and death soiled body of Smiggy. He'd been a little weasel but surely he didn't deserve this. I walked round the outside and out onto the drive.

“Come on, Pete, I've got to show you my present,” John said.

He was leaning against the boot of his car, one leg crossed over the other in a casual stance. The boots he'd worn for the murder were now placed beside him. His trousers were rolled down and he was wearing a pair of beautiful black leather loafers. I was standing a few feet away, something inside holding me back. I didn't want to be too close to my monstrous twin. John was smiling at me with amusement flickering across his lips. Casually he turned away and pulled the release for the car boot. Slowly and with a dramatic hand gesture he pulled it upwards. It was similar to a stage magician revealing his assistant moved by magic from one box to another. I expected him to say “Da… Da.”

Inside the boot was a huge blob of a man, very powerfully muscled and very fat with it. He had large feet clad only in socks. John Smith had used this man's boots to stamp on poor Smiggy's neck. The boots had left a vivid, easily identifiable bruising on the victim's neck. The problem for the victim in the car was he didn't know he'd just murdered somebody, and who would believe him. He was an aggressive angry man looking for the killer of his brother. This was Walter Nice whose brother Raymond disappeared a few days before. Despite cries of innocence from Mr Smith, this man knew who the killer was.

“Walter didn't get on with big brother Raymond because he used him purely for muscle, never letting him in on the deal. Walt thought he deserved more. You know, thought he was underused. He's a dumb arse. So I turn up and get in on the deal, and he gets really angry, ‘not even family, I get no respect' is what he shouted at me!” John laughed, “Didn't get respect from me either.”

The man in the boot remained unconscious. He had a huge bruise across the side of his head. John Smith leaned into the boot and prodded the man hard in the stomach. Other than the wobbling of fat nothing happened. My evil twin carefully fitted the boots back onto the huge feet taking great care in tying them just so. It was as if he was putting booties on a baby such was the care he took.

“The big lug hasn't got to know he's had his boots off. If something goes wrong with the plan I don't want him to know about this until the police arrive. Anonymous tip off, you know the kind of thing!” John said.

I was about to ask him “How?” but I didn't have to. He explained he'd been expecting Walter Nice ever since the other night. He was ready, and the big idiot thought John would be easy meat. He was very wrong! John explained how Walter had cornered him as he was coming back to his car. The big man was convinced he could use brute force to grab and then bludgeon the truth out of John before he killed him. He wouldn't get his brother back but he'd give out retribution to this smiling little prick.

“That's what he said to me. ‘Stop smiling you little prick. I'm going to wipe that grin off your pretty face forever,'” John told me. He continued, “I twatted the pillock about a second later. Then he was asleep. Fat git took a lot of moving.” John slammed the boot of the car hard down, locking it for good measure. He climbed into the driver's seat giving me a nod to join him. I was moving around like a zombie following instructions and unable to think for myself. I was fighting an internal battle and the only question was do I run? Or do I run faster? The only problem was I seemed incapable of getting my legs to move, because I was totally unaware as to where they should take me. Did a hiding place exist where John couldn't find me?

John was lying back luxuriating in the leather seats as the car cruised slowly across his gravel drive leaving the big country mansion. I was watching him, and he was playing the country squire, the landowner who'd purchased everything through the miseries of others. John would justify his source of income as nothing more than nature's justice, the strong against the weak.