Father and Son

  FATHER AND SON

  by

  John Barlow

  People seldom do what they believe in. They do what is convenient, then repent.

  Bob Dylan

  CONTENTS

  PART ONE - FRIDAY

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  PART TWO - SATURDAY

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  PART THREE - SUNDAY

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Chapter Fifty-three

  Chapter Fifty-four

  Chapter Fifty-five

  Chapter Fifty-six

  Chapter Fifty-seven

  PART FOUR - AFTER

  Chapter Fifty-eight

  Chapter Fifty-nine

  Acknowledgements

  About the author

  The John Ray / LS9 series

  Praise for Hope Road (John Ray #1)

  Copyright

  PART ONE - FRIDAY

  Chapter One

  He feels her breath on the back of his neck. Senses her body, close to the contours of his own, but not quite touching.

  Opens his eyes.

  6.40 a.m.

  Shit.

  He can’t sleep through hangovers, not any more.

  Pushing his legs slowly out from under the duvet, he hoists himself vertical, trying not to wake her. Under his bare feet the gnarled floorboards feel like a scaled-up version of his own skin.

  A bottle of Jura Single Malt lies empty on the floor. It had been almost half-full when they got in last night. Didn’t even bother with glasses, diving onto the bed and swigging from the bottle, their mouths cool and slippery against each other, stinging with the whisky.

  Jesus, I feel bad.

  He turns and watches her sleep. A mass of auburn hair is spread out across the pillow like a cloak, the same colour as the whisky. She’s got a thin freckled nose and there’s a pout to her mouth, sarcastic but also slightly vulnerable, the kind of mouth you instinctively want to explore, knowing it’ll be hard and soft and that it’ll bite.

  Jane, Janet…?

  He grabs a pair of boxers from the floor and pulls them on. As he pads out into the open-plan living room, rolling his head on his neck and grimacing, he catches sight of himself in the enormous Victorian windows to his right. His thick black hair is sticking out at both sides, like a badly frayed flat cap, and his tall frame is hunched over, pivoting on a little pot belly that was definitely not there the last time he looked.

  But when was that? He runs a hand across the straining waistband of his boxers and finds a loose, pliable ledge of gut as thick as a motorbike tyre.

  Jeanette, he tells himself, glancing back through the open door of the bedroom. She’s called Jeanette.

  How the hell did I get like this?

  Five minutes later he’s slumped at the kitchen counter, a cup of horrifically strong black coffee in one hand, a fag in the other. And when did I start this again? he asks, looking at the burning cigarette between his fingers as if it got there by magic.

  High up on the wall are four framed boards, roll calls from the old school, long lists of names in gold letters on wax-darkened wood. His own name is there: John Ray, Head Boy, 1984–5. He yawns, throwing his head back and staring up at the high ceilings. The school’s old strip lighting has been replaced by two grand’s worth of adjustable spotlights and dimmable backlighting. Head boy? Here he is again, three decades later, a woman he doesn’t know in his bed, and a couple of bad habits back on his must-do list.

  What happened, John?

  The phone rings. For a second he hesitates, cigarette in one hand, coffee cup in the other. Who rings at this time? It’s not even seven. On a bloody Friday.

  He puts down the coffee and grabs the phone from the worktop behind him. Doesn’t recognise the number. Cellphone.

  “Hello?”

  “Is that John Ray?”

  He doesn’t know the voice. Male. Serious.

  “Depends. Who’s this?”

  As he speaks, he realises that his voice is little more than a croak.

  “What?”

  John clears his throat.

  “I said, who’s this?”

  “Are you John Ray?”

  “Yes. And you?”

  “You’re needed down the Park Lane. Soon as you can.”

  He draws on the cigarette, thinks.

  “Can you hear me?” the other bloke says.

  “Yes.” He lets smoke spill out over the receiver. “Who wants me down there?”

  “Your dad.”

  “Is that right? Speak to him yourself, did you?”

  “He would want you down there, is all I know.”

  John closes his eyes. Breathes slowly.

  “Do you want somebody to come and get you?”

  He takes another drag.

  “No. Give me ten minutes.”

  Chapter Two

  He slams the door of the Saab behind him and pushes the key into the ignition.

  Will this ever end?

  Throws the car into gear and guns it out of the car park way too fast. There’s already plenty of traffic on Armley Road. Shit, what time do people start work these days?

  He forces his eyes wide open as he drives, trying to wake himself up, to absorb the metallic grey of another dull Yorkshire morning. Up ahead is the spire of St Bart’s church, almost black against the skyline, and beyond it Armley Gaol, its massive square towers reaching up into the clouds like a never-ending fortress. That’s how it had seemed when he was growing up, no building bigger or more intimidating, an ever-present threat in the lives of the Ray family. But Dad had never set foot inside. They’d never managed to lock Tony Ray up.

  Is this ever going to stop?

  Church and jail pass out of sight, soot-darkened pinnacles of a forgotten world dwarfed by the modern city. There are so many tower blocks these days that nobody can imagine what goes on inside them all. Just when did Leeds start looking like a corner of Manhattan?

  He floors the accelerator as he pulls onto the ring road. There are speed cameras up ahead. So what? If he gets a ticket someone at the Park Lane’ll know how to get rid of it. He’s Tony Ray’s son, remember? He’ll never be allowed to forget. And he’s tri
ed. Year after year he’s tried. Look where it’s got him.

  He parks on a side street down behind the Grand Theatre and pulls himself out of the car, anger already replaced by dread. He lights up, takes a long drag. This is not good. Seven in the morning and he’s been called to Lanny Bride’s place. Whatever Lanny wants, it’s not hot croissants and coffee.

  Park Lane. The name is inscribed on a small brass plate above the door, which is a dull grey, like dried mud. The rest of the shop front is darker still, windows blacked out from the inside. To the right is a late-night sandwich bar and on the other side a Lebanese restaurant. Officially the Park Lane is a public bar, but it’s not the kind of place you’d wander uninvited. He’s been here a few times over the years, but never by choice.

  The door opens and a young man in a leather jacket and grey joggers appears. His face is pasty and he’s about thirty pounds overweight.

  “John Ray?” he says.

  John nods. He’s leaning against the Saab, jacket flapping in the wind, open necked shirt, mop of black hair falling into his eyes. John Ray’s name precedes him. Unconventional, bit of a maverick, the white sheep of the family. He doesn’t look too white now.

  The guy in the joggers disappears back inside without waiting for an answer. John flicks his cigarette into the gutter and rubs his face with both hands, so hard it feels like the flesh might split open.

  A couple of deep breaths. In he goes.

  The cleaners’ lights are on, but there’s still that wine-bar murkiness to the place, lending the room a muted, dream-like quality. The tables are low, surrounded by square leather seats with no backs, their exact colour hard to tell. The seats look way too big. The walls are an insipid, watery green in the fluorescent light. He hates it in here. Always has.

  At the back of the room, behind the bar, a glass cabinet has been smashed, bottles lying at odd angles, some of them looking as if they’re defying gravity, ready to topple to the floor. Off to one side of the room are three men, the one in jogging pants and two older guys. They’re looking down at something.

  They see John, and immediately turn their heads back to the floor in front of them. John knows who they are. Not their faces. Not their names. But he knows them. They’re the kind of men that used to work for his dad. That’s all he needs to know.

  Nobody is speaking. Why is that? There’s something in the air. He doesn’t know what, only that it’s making him gag. A fatty, metallic smell. He doesn’t want to know what it is.

  But it’s too late. He’s here now.

  Instinctively he breathes through his mouth, trying to keep the stench out of his nose. He walks over to the three men. They let him through.

  A body is slumped in a wooden chair. It’s a large man, head hanging forward, as if staring down at his own feet. His legs are bound to the chair with duct tape, and there’s more tape around his chest, lots of it, holding his torso up. The stink of blood is stronger now, but there’s something else. A sweet smell.

  The dead man’s head is about half the normal size. The crown has collapsed inwards, the skull smashed out of existence. Little pools of liquid sit in the irregular contours of the scalp, glistening.

  Lying beside the chair is a bottle of champagne, the thick end covered in a coat of congealed blood, making it look like a dumbbell. More bottles lie further off, some smashed, others uncorked, their contents emptied out onto the carpet, over the corpse as well, it looks like.

  “Show him,” the oldest of the three men says.

  John doesn’t move.

  The young guy carefully lifts what’s left of the dead man’s head. The nose is severed right the way down one side and hangs from the face by a single piece of skin. The lacerations across the rest of the face are so severe that the features have more or less disappeared.

  “Jesus,” he whispers, gulping back the vomit.

  And then, as waves of nausea hit him, building in his throat and making him gasp for air, he sees the gold medallion.

  “Roberto,” someone whispers before he has to ask.

  For the next five minutes he kneels over a toilet, the salt-sweet stink of piss and sick in his nostrils, and his stomach in hard, uncontrollable spasms, pumping everything out. He watches the light brown bile spatter the bowl and cries in huge, silent sobs, dizzy with pain and loathing.

  This is who I am: Tony Ray’s son.

  Chapter Three

  “Take your time,” the oldest one says, standing in the doorway as John gets to his feet, hawking the last traces of vomit from his throat.

  “Is there a back door?”

  “Through there. It’s open.”

  He washes his face, letting the ice-cold water run down his neck and soak into his shirt, more and more of it until he senses that he’s alone.

  By the time he’s out the back, lighting a cigarette, the shaking is under control and his mind has started to work again. The yard is small, crowded with crates of bottles and wheelie bins. The smell of old grease and spices is both sickening and welcome.

  Roberto. Didn’t even know his last name. Roberto Duran, they used to call him. A boxer from London. Brilliant amateur, but he got done for armed robbery. Couldn’t turn pro after that, so he came up north and worked for Tony Ray. Now he’s dead.

  John watches the tiny curls of smoke rise from the tip of his cigarette. He’ll have to go back inside. When he’s finished this, he’ll have to look at that head again. He takes a drag, not too deep, not too much. How long can he make it last?

  Roberto, big strong fella, always dressed in a black shirt and trousers, that ridiculous medallion on his hairy chest. The only decent one among ’em. How many men had worked for Dad over the years? Down at the old showroom there were always a few hanging about, thugs and chancers stinking of booze and diesel. Nasty bastards, the kind that pick fights in pubs just to prove a point, kick some lippy kid’s teeth out, or threaten blokes in front of their wives for a laugh. They were all wary of Roberto, though. He could’ve taken any of them, and they knew it. That easy way he had, never more than the wag of a finger, a raised eyebrow. Somebody wasn’t wary of him, though. Last night they took his face off with a bottle. God knows what else they did to him.

  He sucks on the cigarette. Thinks about lighting another, but it’d only make him throw up. Any case, he’s got no choice. He’ll have to go inside again sooner or later.

  “Right,” he says, steadying his voice, trying not to look at the chair as he walks back into the dimly lit bar. “What’s Lanny said?”

  The older guy holds up his hand, a cellphone pressed to his ear.

  “Yeah, he’s here,” he says into the phone, then passes it to John.

  “John?” says Lanny.

  “Yep.”

  “What d’you think?”

  “I just got here. Why you ask me to come, anyway?”

  “Who else am I gonna ask?”

  Lanny sounds nervous. This is the last thing he needs.

  “I assume you’re not getting the police in?” John asks.

  Stupid question. An hour from now, Roberto’ll be dumped in an incinerator, or a landfill, whatever it is Lanny Bride does with unwanted bodies these days.

  “Not a word, to anyone.”

  “So what have I got to go on?”

  “Just do your best. A name, a whisper. Anything.”

  John thinks about it, looks across at Roberto, at the horrific squalor of how his life ended. Uncle Rob, they used to call him when they were kids. He’d carry you on his shoulders all day long, scoop you up in his arms and throw you so high in the air you’d scream with fear, choking on your own giddiness, begging him to do it again. At the showroom he’d be the first person you’d look for. You could hide behind his legs. You were safe with Uncle Rob.

  “I’ll do what I can,” he says, reaching for his cigarettes.

  “One more thing,” Lanny says. “Who’s the redhead?”

  “A friend.”

  “Journalist, I heard. Don’t like the
sound of that.”

  “No one’s asking you to.” He lights a cigarette. “Any road, it’s only been four days.”

  “She’s been asking questions.”

  “You’re the man of the moment, Lanny. You think you can keep yourself out of the news forever? Anyway, it’s not about you. She wants to write Dad’s biography.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Wish I was.”

  “Make sure no one starts reminiscing about me, John.”

  “Like I said, I’ll do my best.”

  He hands the phone back, sick of Lanny’s voice. Sick of his own for that matter.

  He smokes in silence, lets the ash fall onto the carpet. Roberto. The name reminds him of his childhood, of growing up in Leeds and knowing he was Tony Ray’s son. Poor kid, he’d hear people say behind his back, friends’ parents, teachers, neighbours. It was as if being born with that surname was a handicap, an inescapable life sentence. But John had escaped. He’d made a clean break, the white sheep.

  Look at him now, taking orders from Lanny Bride.

  He swallows hard as he moves towards the dead man in the chair. I’ll do my best, he tells himself. But not for you, Lanny.

  He looks down at the mashed remains of Roberto’s head, the hair sticky where the blood and champagne is beginning to congeal. Then he picks up a cork from the floor in front of Rob’s feet, a fat champagne cork, spattered with blood.

  I’ll do my best, he tells himself. For Rob. And for me.

  Because after this, I’m finished with being John Ray.

  This is going to stop.

  Chapter Four

  He’s back in the Saab. They’d been keen to get rid of the body, and it wasn’t as if there was a forensics team waiting to take over. So he’d taken Rob’s keys and wallet, had a quick look round, and said goodbye to the big man for the last time.

  Roberto was the manager of the Park Lane. He would have been the last one there, early hours of the morning, ready to lock up. The metallic stink of the blood was still fresh. Couldn’t have been more than a few hours since he’d died. Three bullet wounds. A shot through the left shin, and one through each of his arms, just above the elbow.