THE DOMINO BOYS (a psychological thriller) (5 page)

‘A lot of people didn’t know that,’ said Donnie Craddick. ‘But I guess they’ll find out soon enough.’ He turned to Pete. ‘I want this room tonight.’

‘Tough,’ said Duncan, rising to his full, considerable height and facing the man. ‘It’s ours tonight. Find another room to play your kid games.’

The two men behind Donnie Craddick stiffened, their boozy smiles fading. He put out a hand, like he was waving at a pair of dogs. ‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘Leave this to me. This guy’s a washed-up old timer.’

Duncan’s face puckered up in anger. ‘Listen, you little gobshite, nothing gives you the right to come in here and throw your weight around, least of all being the son of Mickey Craddick. Go away and play with your Lego.’

Donnie Craddick had a handsome face, the beauty of his grandmother coming through, and the iciness of his father’s eyes stared out of a blemish-free complexion. He wore a short-cropped beard that emphasised his well-formed chin. He was dressed in a sharply tailored black suit, his tie open at the collar. He wasn’t particularly stocky, more on the slim side, but he made up for it with unfaltering confidence, like he’d inherited the quality direct from his father’s genes.

‘I don’t want any trouble…’ said Pete, passing Duncan an imploring gaze.

‘That’s right, we don’t want any trouble,’ said Donnie Craddick. ‘All we want is to sit in here away from the dross outside and have a drink or two. You don’t mind giving up the room, do you?’

Duncan put a meaty hand on Donnie’s chest and pushed him back. ‘Get your arses out of here,’ he snarled.

Donnie smiled. His two companions moved to stand on either side of him like a pair of malevolent bookends. ‘Nice place you have here, landlord,’ said Donnie. ‘If you want to keep it that way you’ll tell these gentlemen to vacate the premises so we can hunker down and release some of the grief we’re experiencing. I’ve just buried my father today. Got a lot of grief to drown, ain’t that right, guys?’

The men nodded, their fists balling.

‘I don’t want any trouble, Duncan…’ said Pete. He was wincing as if he suffered acute pain. ‘Maybe tonight you could give up the room, eh? Just the once?’

‘Just the once,’ said Donnie. ‘It’s not asking much.’

Barry’s insides were screwing up. He hadn’t got over the shock of seeing Donnie come in. Or the fact that his joy at knowing Mickey Craddick was laid in his grave had been so short-lived. He knew he really should stand up beside Duncan and face up to the young upstart, like he should have done a long time ago with Mickey. But it was as if he’d been chained to his chair.

Duncan Winslade’s fists were also hard balls, ready to strike if he had to. But the look on Pete’s terrified face told its own story. The hold that Craddick had on people was profound and long-reaching. Stretched even from the grave. Duncan cleared his throat. Pushed hard on the young man, bundled him across the room so that he came up sharp against the wall. A picture hanging there threatened to bounce of its hook. Duncan had him grasped by the collar, so tight it was constricting Donnie Craddick’s breathing.

‘I told you; get your arses out of here or I’ll ram my fist down your neck and rip out your black heart, Craddick!’

He felt a sharp punch to his side as one of Donnie’s henchmen laid into him. He gasped in pain and let go of the young man.

Just as the other man was about to join in the fray they heard a sharp smashing of glass and everyone turned in the direction of the noise. Alfie Parker was standing there with a broken pint glass in his outstretched hand, pointing it at the men.

‘You don’t want to do that!’ he said.

The men eyed the sharp shards of the dripping glass, and backed off Duncan. Donnie shrugged his jacket into place, adjusted his tie, his face glowering. For a second or two the atmosphere grew increasingly tense. Then the young man spoke.

‘You’re going to regret doing that,’ he said to Duncan.

‘If you don’t want me to put you over my knee and give you a spanking then you’d better scarper, Craddick.’

‘Sure, the big cop, aren’t you, Winslade?’ He smiled thinly. ‘Yeah, sure I know who you are. I know who you all are. I know all there is to know about you.’ He pushed by Duncan. ‘Fine, you can keep the place, for tonight. This place is a dive anyway. ’ His composure returned in a flood and there was no indication of the struggle in his bright eyes. ‘C’mon, guys; there are other pubs.’ He brushed by Pete, who visibly shuddered as he passed him. Donnie Craddick paused in the doorway. ‘It’s not over,’ he said. Then he grinned. ‘It’s just beginning!’ He waltzed away, whistling.

Pete shook his head in silent apology, closed the door softly after the men had filed out.

‘Jesus!’ breathed Barry. ‘Where did that come from, Alfie? Didn’t know you had it in you.’

Alfie collapsed onto his seat, pushing the broken glass away from him. ‘I saws it in a movie once,’ he said, his voice shaky.

‘God bless all luvvies!’ said Duncan, but his face was set and hard. He was massaging the spot where he’d been hit.

Everyone was thinking the same thing, but no one voiced it.

They’d all thought it was over.

But the chilling words of Donnie Craddick were haunting all of them.

Because they knew it wasn’t.

*  *  *  *

‘Sit still and behave yourself while we get on with things, eh, Dickie?’ said Alfie Parker. He sat Dickie Sugden down in a chair facing the stage, opened a bag of crisps and handed it to him. ‘Eat these and just watch things, eh? If you’re good maybe I’ll let you do a bit of painting.’

Dickie’s eyes were aflame with excitement, at the prospects of eating the crisps and at seeing the set for the latest Overthorpe Amateur Players’ production of
An Inspector Calls
. There were people wandering around in old-fashioned clothes, looking at sheets of paper, a set painted like a drawing room, the bright lights turned on and flooding the stage. The scarlet curtains at either side of the stage looked like giant lips, he thought, stuffing crisps into his mouth. A snowstorm of crumbs dropped onto his trousers.

‘You’re going to have to clean that up,’ Alfie chastised the man gently. ‘Maybe we can go to the allotment afterwards, eh? Would you like that, Dickie?’

‘Yeah!’ he said.

‘Right. Be good.’ And he went up onto the stage.

Alfie was the producer. He also saw to creating and decorating the sets. Everyone knew he was the powerhouse behind the small company. Had been for three years now. Without him it would have folded long ago. But he managed to keep it afloat, and their pantomimes had been the highlight of many a family Christmas. He’d even managed to put on a production of
Calendar Girls
last year, and that went down a storm, what with it being set in Yorkshire, and the thrill of seeing a bunch of local women naked – well, partially, hidden behind buns and the like – and the fact that it was a bloody great feel-good play. He was proud of that. Overthorpe needed any injection of feel-good it could get. Things had been looking up, and they were on the cusp of making the company pay its way when the council decided to cut their arts budget and now it looked like the OAPs would finally bite the dust. That cut him up real bad.

When he was about to leave school Alfie managed to get a place in art college because of his recognised creative skills, but had to decline because his mam and dad needed the money, pure and simple. Couldn’t afford for him not to work, and they didn’t really grasp the concept that he wanted to go into the arts, so he left school and worked in a shop, then another, and another. And his dreams and ambitions were left behind, like he was on some kind of ship headed out to foreign shores and seeing the last of England. Eventually he gave up the idea of ever doing anything creative. Until he heard about the plight of the OAPs and said he’d like to help. He ended up running the thing. Not that he regretted that. He was in his element. Like that first, faraway glimpse of England after a long period away, he thought.

He chatted to a man and a woman who stood on the stage rehearsing their lines. Alfie felt chuffed that the OAPs were at last starting to attract people with talent. He then went through the lighting cues with one of the older members of the OAPs who used to be an electrician and had helped create a rather impressive bank of stage lights. Next he moved on to makeup, props, ticket sales, checked how the finishing touches to the sets were coming along and then went into one of the dressing rooms to sort through accounts.

Through the open door he heard a commotion; heard Dickie squealing in distress and one of the actors on stage raising their voice. He dashed out immediately.

‘You leave the poor man alone!’ said the man, waving his rolled-up script like it was a cudgel. He turned to Alfie as he came rushing onto the stage. ‘They’re bothering Dickie,’ he said.

Dickie Sugden was scrunched up on his chair as small as he could make himself, his hands on his head, whimpering. Two men stood on either side of him. One of them was Donnie Craddick. He was just finishing the last of Dickie’s crisps and tossed the empty bag at the stricken man. Dickie flinched as it floated down to his lap, and he brushed it away as if a rat had landed on him.

Donnie slapped Dickie across the head. ‘Stop your blubbering, you retard,’ he said, and Dickie began to sob.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ said Alfie. ‘Leave the man alone! Can’t you see you’re upsetting him?’

‘Well, well, well,’ said Donnie, strolling up to the foot of the stage, ‘if it isn’t Laurence Olivier…’

‘What are you doing here?’ said Alfie. ‘Get out.’

‘Last time I heard this was a public building,’ he said. Craddick smiled. ‘I like what you’ve done with the place, Alfie, old boy.’ He looked back to where Dickie was snivelling noisily. ‘Tell your pet monkey to shut up, eh, Alfie? He’s beginning to get on my nerves.’

‘It’s OK, Dickie,’ Alfie called out. ‘The nasty man’s leaving.’ He looked down at the young Craddick, his stomach turning as the young man looked straight on back with his father’s cruel eyes. ‘We don’t want any trouble here, Donnie.’

‘No trouble,’ said Donnie, mounting the steps to the stage, the other man following at his heels. He sauntered towards Alfie, his shoes clicking hollowly on the wooden boards. He turned to face an imaginary audience, held out his hands. ‘
What a piece of work is a man! How noble in reason! How infinite in faculty! In action how like an angel! In apprehension how like God!
’ He took a mock bow and faced Alfie, his smile disappearing. ‘Does it surprise you, Alfie? Surprise you that I know a bit of Shakespeare? I’m no lumbering ignoramus like my father. He gave me a good education; the best other people’s money can buy.’

‘A parrot can repeat words, Donnie. You have to have a human heart to give them real emotion.’

He clapped. ‘Fine riposte, Alfie.’ He looked about him. ‘Fine work. Fine work. Almost professional.’

‘What are you doing here, Donnie?’ said Alfie, giving a nod of assurance to the two rehearsing actors.

‘Social visit.’ He nodded at Dickie. ‘You spend a lot of time with the retard, don’t you?’

‘Don’t call him that. It’s cruel and you’ll upset him.’

‘Guess we don’t want to upset the chimp, do we?’ He laughed. The other guy laughed with him, like an echo.

‘You should know all about chimps,’ said Alfie glancing at Donnie’s companion, whose grin faded instantly.

Donnie’s features darkened. ‘That was a fine stunt you pulled the other day, with the smashed glass. You wouldn’t have used it, of course. I know you. You’re as weak as witch piss.’

‘You don’t know anything about me.’

‘Really?’ He came closer, put his mouth near Alfie’s ear and whispered, ‘I know why you drag the retard around with you. Want me to tell you in front of your actor friends here? No? Then get rid of them.’

Alfie swallowed, but his mouth was dry. ‘Can you leave us alone a minute, please?’ he asked the clearly anxious script holders.

‘Shall we call the police?’ said the woman, instinctively rolling her script into a flimsy baton.

‘No, no, there isn’t a problem. Give me ten minutes, eh?’ Alfie waited till the pair went off the stage. ‘You leave Dickie out of this,’ he said.

‘Or what? You’ll glass me?’ He gave a chuckle. He put his hands behind his back, sauntered over to the painted canvas set, ran a finger over the rough material. ‘What I want is to renew acquaintances that my father let lapse, after making some kind of sanctimonious, deathbed pact with the God he was hoping to see – doubtful, given his black heart, of course. I suppose I can forgive his newfound, misplaced piety, given the bastard was about to kick the bucket. But I say why let a good opportunity go to waste? Also, thing is, I don’t take too kindly to being humiliated in front of others, so the good old Domino Boys go straight up my list of acquaintances to renew. Starting with you.’

‘Is that a threat?’

He grinned. ‘God, how astute of you!’ He nodded at Dickie, who was sitting quiet but fretful on his chair, staring at them. ‘Let me take you back a good many years. Cast your mind back to when you were aged about nine or ten, shall we? Yes, I know it’s a long time ago now, you being so ancient, but bear with me.’

‘What’s this got to do with anything, Donnie?’ he asked, but inside he was like a jelly cube melting in hot water.

‘My father asked you if you wanted to be in his gang, didn’t he? What was it called now? Ah, yes, the Slag Gang. See, no finesse there with my father, no imagination. He was a bully, right? Beat you up many times. But when he asked you to be in his gang you thought, if you can’t beat them, join them. So he takes you out down by the slag heaps – is any of this coming back to you, Alfie?’

Alfie Parker’s breathing became quicker. Yes, it was all coming back to him. In truth it had never left him.

It was a bright summer’s day, bang in the middle of the seemingly endless school holidays. There were four of them – Mickey Craddick, two of his sidekicks, and Alfie. They’d hung about town for an hour or two, watched the pitmen coming off their shift, their faces black with coal as they trooped to the pit baths, sat by a stream by the slag heaps and hunted for sticklebacks, then decided to mount the largest of the heaps known to everyone as Black Dolly, for reasons nobody ever knew. Nobody was allowed up there because it was dangerous, and there were signs everywhere warning them they’d die, which made kids want to go there all the more. Up there on the plateau-like top of that black, blasted wasteland they came across Dickie Sugden. He’d been bird-nesting, and carried a small cloth bag with a couple of blackbird eggs in it to add to his collection.

‘If you want to be in this gang,’ said Mickey to Alfie, ‘then you’ve got to be initiated.’

Alfie didn’t know what initiated meant, but he nodded in agreement all the same. ‘Sure, Mickey, anything you say,’ he said eagerly. It had been an uneasy few hours with them, because right away he knew he didn’t fit in with the Slag Gang and didn’t want to be part of any gang with Mickey Craddick in it, but he’d gone so far he couldn’t back out just yet, not without inviting a beating.

Mickey picked up a long piece of wood, indicated for others to do the same. Dickie Sugden had seen them and was staring at them with trepidation. He knew he had to pass the gang to get off Black Dolly.

Alfie did as he was told and bent down to seek out a stick. ‘What do you want me to do, Mickey?’ he said.

‘You’ve got to get Dickie to give us his eggs. He’s bound to have some in that bag. He’s good at bird-nesting. You do that and you can be in the gang.’

He didn’t want to. He liked Dickie. But he called out all the same. ‘Hi, Dickie, what have you got in that bag?’

Dickie Sugden came closer, trying to avoid eye contact with the group of bigger boys. ‘Nothing.’

‘Sure you have. You’ve got eggs,’ said Mickey. ‘Hand them over.’

‘No!’ said Dickie defiantly. ‘They’re mine. I found them.’

‘Make him,’ said Mickey to Alfie. ‘Make him give them to us.’ He pushed him towards Dickie.

‘Give us the bag, Dickie,’ he said quietly. ‘Please.’

‘No,’ said Dickie, attempting to push by them, but they cut him off, encircled him. ‘Let me go.’

‘Give us the eggs, Sugden,’ snarled Mickey.

‘Sod off, Craddick!’ he fired back, and made as if to run away.

Mickey Craddick grabbed him, and the other two boys pounced onto the boy with wolf-like howls of laughter. ‘Hit him, Alfie!’ Mickey cried, holding onto the struggling Dickie.

Alfie lifted his stick, paused for a second or two as he stared deep into Dickie’s terrified eyes. Then he struck him on the arm with his stick and Dickie yelped in pain, dropping the bag of eggs.

It was as if a switch flicked, because, led by Mickey Craddick, the three captors started to lay into Dickie’s unprotected body with their sticks, driving the yelling boy to his knees. He cowered there with his hands over his head.

‘Leave him alone!’ said Alfie, dropping his stick. ‘Leave him alone!’

But they didn’t listen. The blows came down harder, Dickie collapsing to lie on the ground. Mickey Craddick’s face was a twisted, puce-coloured mask of rage and delight as he raised his hefty stick and sent it crashing against Dickie’s unprotected head. Blood splashed up onto Alfie’s face and he screamed, tossed away his stick and ran away. Ran till his chest was afire and he could run no more. He threw himself under the cover of a towering hawthorn, hiding in a thick bed of weeds and grasses, the buzzing of the bees in the tall grasses coalescing with the buzzing of the blood that pumped through his ears. He wailed softly and wished he’d never agreed to being a member of the horrible Slag Gang.

‘So you’ve felt guilty ever since, haven’t you, Alfie?’ said Donnie Craddick. ‘That’s why you’ve looked out for the retard all this time. Trying to make amends. Ever thought about what people would say if they ever found out? What would old Ma Sugden say if she knew you were involved in beating up her little Richard, turning him into Thickie Dickie?’

‘It was your father that did it,’ he said, but his legs were threatening to give way beneath him.

‘You really want it to come out, after all these years?’

‘Your father held that over me, I’m not letting you do the same.’

‘No? You haven’t got a choice.’ He nodded at his companion and the man took a knife from out of his pocket.

‘What are you going to do, Donnie?’ he said uncertainly as the man advanced on him.