Payback



  Payback

  Peter Barns

  Copyright 2013 Peter Barns

  This novel is a work of fiction. The names, characters and events portrayed are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  To Karla

  for her inspiration

  and

  Tom and Adrian

  at the Cafe Odean

  Lagos, Portugal

  whose steady stream of pancakes

  tea and coffee

  set me up to write each day

  Chapter 1

  “Mandy is dead!”

  The bald statement stunned Frank Collins and everything moved out of focus. The room shimmered through a shifting mist. His knife slipped from his fingers, crashing to the plate, making every head in the café to turn in his direction. Crushing the mobile against his ear, he hoped the painful pressure might somehow negate the words he’d just heard. It didn’t.

  “What?” he managed around a mouthful of half-chewed bacon.

  “I said, Mandy is dead. She killed herself,” the voice repeated.

  His face grew cold and the world smash back into his consciousness with a frightening intensity: Lady Gaga extolling the virtues of giving birth; the over-loud chink of cutlery on china; footsteps passing outside the large steamed-up window.

  A pain throbbed behind his left eye.

  “Frank, you there?” The voice had a muted quality, muffled - as though speaking from the end of a fur-lined tunnel. It was a voice from a past he thought long dead.

  Trying his best to stop the memories from flooding his mind, Frank screwed his eyes shut, but the complex patterns of constantly changing colours, shapes and sounds still bled through, dredging up feelings of deep guilt - along with an even deeper feeling of rage.

  Mandy is dead!

  He had pushed the memories so deep down in the past that he thought they would never return. Now here they were, bubbling back, lingering just out of reach, merging unbidden with those truly awful words.

  She killed herself!

  “Frank?”

  “Huh?”

  “Frank, what’s the matter? You look terrible.” the waitress stared down at him, concern widening her pale blue eyes. The overhead lights glinted from her flame-coloured hair, and for one terrible moment Frank thought he was looking into the fires of hell.

  Shaking the image away, he spoke into the mobile, his words quick and thick with anger. “What the hell? How could you let that happen?” Then realising how he must sound, he took a deep breath, fighting to keep his temper in check. “There must have been some signs that something was wrong. How could you let her do that to herself?”

  Frank’s eyes stung, his fingers numbed by the tight grip he had on the mobile. Swapping it to his other ear, he wriggled his fingers, hearing a sharp sob from the phone, followed by the rustle of someone taking over the call.

  “Frank, this is Duncan.” A deep voice, laced with concern. “I understand that this must be a terrible shock for you, but upsetting Marcia this way isn’t on. It’s unreasonable. Can’t you forget your ego this once and appreciate just how hard this is for all of us?”

  His rising temper almost getting the better of him, Frank clenched his teeth, nostrils flaring. All he wanted to do right now was scream at Marcia’s pompous ass of a husband. Get right in his face. Tell him just how bloody unreasonable they’d both been in keeping Mandy from him all these years. Now it was too late to ever get to know her - ever.

  This was their fault - not his. No way his.

  Instead, Frank unconsciously flipped the knife back and forth on the plate with trembling fingers. He nodded, even though the caller couldn’t see him. “Yes, you’re right. I’m sorry.” He glanced across the table as Karla settled herself into the opposite seat, blinking back unshed tears.

  “We’ll let you know when the funeral is going to be as soon as we’ve settled it. Goodbye Frank.”

  He sat for a long moment, replaying the conversation back in his mind. Then, without a word, thrust the mobile into his pocket, scraped back the chair, snatched his crash helmet from the floor and left.

  *

  Frank pulled the big bike onto its stand, tossing the ignition keys back and forth between his hands as he strode up the overgrown path towards the low front door of his cottage.

  It had been a long hot summer and the garden was a riot of colour, choked here and there with clumps of couch grass. A tightness choked his own throat - he knew just how those bloody flowers felt!

  Banging the door shut, he entered the cool interior, dropping his crash helmet onto a small side table before stalking through to the kitchen.

  The interior of the cottage was immaculate, but there were few personal possessions on show. Whilst functional, it had a comfortable, if manly, feel about it.

  The small lounge was low ceilinged, with thick beams, and Frank had gained quite a few thumps on the head before learning to walk with a slight stoop when using the room. A large kitchen extension was built on the back of the cottage, giving it a good view over the fields leading up to the wood above the property.

  Picking up the kettle, Frank paused, then changed his mind, going back to the lounge where he slumped into a leather chair. Eyes closed, thumb and forefinger rubbing the bridge of his nose, he sighed as a feeling of deep hunger unexpectedly swept over him.

  Somewhere in the distance a dog barked and he sat forward, elbows on knees, face cupped in hands, staring at the floor. He felt numb, disconnected, adrift amid emotions he couldn’t deal with.

  Muttering a thick, “Fuck it,” he crossed to a cupboard alongside the big brick fireplace and tugged on the door. It caught, as it always did when it wasn’t opened just the right way. In his impatience to get in the cupboard, Frank almost pulled the handle right off.

  Grabbing a bottle of Vodka from inside, he returned to the chair and half-filled a tumbler. Holding it aloft, he turned the glass back and forth, studying the clear liquid. It had been a long, long time.

  The alcohol burnt its way down his throat, the sharp odour making his nose wrinkle. The first sip was quickly followed by another, then another - then a series of large gulps.

  *

  Karla drove her Jeep off the track and onto the grass verge alongside Frank’s garden hedge. She eased herself from the driver’s seat and stretched her back with a quiet sigh. It had been a long, hard day at the coffee shop and her feet hurt like hell.

  Dusk was making itself felt and the sky was overcast. She noticed Frank’s bike parked outside the garage, which was unusual. The garden gate was ajar - also unusual.

  Closing the gate behind her to keep out the rabbits that would make short work of anything edible in the garden, she walked up the path, low heels clicking against the uneven concrete. A smile touched her lips when she saw how untidy the flower beds had become. Frank wasn’t one for gardening. He preferred hiring a villager to do the work for him.

  She knocked on the cottage door, then again when she got no response. Opening the door, she stuck her head inside and called. The interior was cool, subdued, the small lobby dark.

  “Frank,” she tried again.

  Her voice rebounded off the white-painted, panelled walls. Closing the door behind her, Karla walked through to the lounge and turned on the lights.

  Frank lay slumped on the couch, an empty glass clutched in his hand, a bottle at his feet. She stopped on the threshold, disappointment clouding her face as she took in the scene. “Oh Frank,” she whispered.

  *

  Karla had met Frank three years earlier when he’d turned up at her coffee shop one lunch-time, looking for something to eat. The village had been abuzz with gossip for weeks on end about the man who had bought the old cottage
below Thatcher’s Wood, and now here he was, dressed in black leathers and big boots, a blue-tinted helmet cradled under one arm.

  She’d smiled to herself when he joined the short queue at the counter, noticing the way the tip of his tongue flicked back and forth over a small scar on his upper lip. His hair was thin, brown, cut short. A small stud glinted in his left ear. He’d seemed friendly enough, if a bit reserved. She’d felt herself flush when his blue eyes turned her way, wondering why she suddenly felt like a school-girl.

  After he’d left, a few discreet questions helped her discover that his name was Frank Collins and that he ran his own motor-bike courier service. One advantage of living in such a small community was that everybody knew everything about everyone - although it also had disadvantages, as Karla had found out to her cost in the past.

  It seemed that Frank Collins liked Brambles Coffee Shop, because from that day on, he appeared every lunchtime, staying to eat-in instead of buying a take-away sandwich or roll, as he had for the first few days. Or perhaps, Karla thought, it was the slim, red-headed owner that kept him coming back? She certainly hoped so.

  During the following three years, that first meeting had blossomed into a friendship that, although deep, had left Karla feeling very dissatisfied. Frank didn’t, or couldn’t, take things to the next level - something she wanted with a growing impatience.

  *

  Karla picked up the empty bottle, standing it on the thick wooden mantelpiece. Then she shook Frank’s shoulder, catching the glass as it rolled from his hand.

  “Frank. Hey, Frank.”

  She leant closer, smelling the alcohol on his breath, saw the glint of his eyes between loosely closed lids. He groaned slightly and turned his head. “Wha . . .?”

  “Hey, it’s me. Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

  She was strong, but found it a struggle to get Frank out of his clothes and stretched out on the couch. His skin was firm, his muscles well defined and she loved running her finger-tips over them. She knew his body well, they’d made love many times. He was a considerate lover but always seemed to hold something back, as though he were afraid of giving himself completely.

  Karla tucked a cover over him and sat down in one of the armchairs, head tilted, watching him sleep. He’d begun to snore quietly and she smiled as she studied his craggy face.

  What secrets lay hidden away within this man?

  She knew she was falling in love. Hell had fallen in love. What she did not know was how he felt, what emotions lay behind the words he used when they lay in bed together. Pushing such thoughts from her mind, she picked up the glass and bottle and made her way into the kitchen, flicking on the kettle as she passed.

  Karla had ceased being amazed at how neat and tidy the cottage was a long time ago, but couldn’t help admiring the sparkle on the worktop surfaces as she waited for the kettle to boil. It seemed almost a crime to dirty them by making a cup of coffee. She had taken the opportunity to peek inside a couple of the kitchen cupboards when he’d first invited her over and had been impressed at how tidy they all were.

  Back in the lounge, Karla sat down again, the mug beside her on the arm of the chair. He hated when she did that, but he was asleep, so who was to know? More like unconscious, if he’d drunk the whole bottle, as she suspected he had. She’d propped him on his side, one knee drawn up, cheek resting on the palm of one hand, so he wouldn’t come to any harm.

  As she drank her coffee, her eye caught the glint of something under the edge of the couch. Retrieving the old photo album, she sat with it on her knee for a moment.

  It was small, two pictures to a page. The yellow plastic covers dirty and worn. Idly turning the pages, Karla studied the photos inside.

  They were all of the same blond-haired girl at different ages. Some had obviously been taken at birthday and Christmas parties, others showed her on holiday. For the next twenty minutes the room was quiet, except for the occasion brush of page on page as she worked her way through the album.

  As Karla reached the last page, a letter slipped out onto her lap. It was written on lined notepaper, torn from a spiral notebook. Picking up the folded pages, she slid them back inside the album, then hesitated, torn by curiosity about who this girl might be and why Frank had so many photos of her.

  He was so close-mouthed about his past, irritated if anyone probed too deeply. Here perhaps was an opportunity to find out more.

  Karla hesitated, glancing over at him. He was in a deep sleep. Already feeling guilty, she pulled the letter from the album, smoothing it open on the cover.

  The writing was child-like, the contents anything but.

  Karla bent over the pages, hand rising occasionally to flick her hair behind her ear as she read. Finished, she carefully refolded the sheets, slipping them back where she’d found them, before closing the album with a thoughtful frown. It felt as though she were closing a cover on the life she’d hoped one day to share with this man.

  How could he have kept such a secret from her!

  Chapter 2

  Frank opened his eyes with a groan. Sunlight streamed through the lounge window, hitting him full in the face. It took a moment to realise that he was lying on the couch, a cover tucked around his body. Sitting up, rubbing a stubbly chin, he worked his tongue around his mouth, trying to wash away the terrible taste. His clothes were neatly piled on the arm of a chair.

  After untangling himself from the cover, he stood for a moment, trying not to throw-up. Finally in control of his stomach, he headed for the kitchen, where he got himself a mug of water. Another two mugs followed in quick succession before he was forced to stop for a breath. Fifteen minutes later he was back in the lounge, showered, shaved and dressed; if not exactly on top form, then at least a little more functional.

  It had been years since he’d drunk so much - back when drinking had been a part of his job, when it was the macho thing to do, when holding your own won respect.

  Sitting down, Frank looked at the pile of clothes he’d worn last night. He hadn’t undressed himself, which meant someone else must have done it for him. Face breaking into a knowing grin, he nodded.

  Karla, but why hadn’t she stayed the night like she usually did? Pushing the conundrum aside for the present, he decided to pop over and see her later, when he felt a little more civilised, meanwhile—

  Digging his mobile from the pocket of his neatly folded jeans, Frank called his message service, making a list of the pick-ups and deliveries for the day, quickly realising that he’d already missed the first two.

  Not feeling up to riding his bike in his present state, Frank rang a local courier he sometimes swapped work with and gave them his delivery list. Then picking up the pile of clothes, he headed towards the bedroom, but stopped mid-stride when he realised what he had just uncovered beneath them.

  Jesus! The album of Mandy’s pictures.

  Had Karla seen it? Christ, of course she had. She must have left it there when she’d folded his things up.

  The last time Frank remembered seeing the album was in the cupboard by the fireplace. Tossing his clothes into a chair, he grabbed the album and opened it, his fingers almost refusing to work as they eased the cover upwards.

  Then he was staring at the first picture, his eyes misting. There she was, bundled up against the cold, asleep in her buggy - his baby daughter, Mandy.

  Slumping back on the couch, Frank turned to the next page, realising that these images were all that he had left of his daughter now. And with that realisation came an almost overwhelming sense of loneliness, despair and shame.

  Frank’s eyes filled with tears. He let them come, unheeding as they splashed down on the plastic envelopes holding the last testimony of his little girl’s short life. No shame in crying now that there was nobody there to see.

  Jerking each wallet over, he stared at the photographs, page by page, age by age, until he had reached the last one, where he was confronted by the letter.

  Hands trembling, Frank re
ached out, carefully opening the letter, just as Karla must have done last night.

  Dropping the album and letter to the floor, guts heaving, he ran to the bathroom, where he vomited into the toilet, flushing away any hopes of ever being able to make up with his daughter again.

  *

  Sweat glazed Frank’s face, his breaths came in deep, measured inhalations, and his arms and legs moved in smooth, measured union as he pounded his way through Thatcher’s Wood.

  Thatcher’s Wood was a mixture of broad leaf and pine trees, planted years ago for tax purposes by a landowner now long forgotten. It spread out along the top of a ridge know locally as The Mound. Hidden in its centre was a loch formed back in the early 1950’s by a mining company that had extracted gravel for the building trade, before moving on to more ambitious projects. It had been closed for decades now, the fences long rotted away, the tracks surrounding its big maw, long overgrown with vegetation.

  Frank had discovered its existence while out jogging along the wood’s half-hidden paths two years ago. He’d emerged from the undergrowth onto the edge of the deep water - a magical moment he still remembered, as clearly as though it had happened only yesterday. He had stood staring wide eyed at the view.

  It had snowed the previous night and the trees were coated with white feathery fingers. The surface of the water was slicked with thin ice, broken here and there by dark patches. Across the loch a series of waterfalls led down from a shear bluff. It was magical.

  Since that day it had become part of his daily run.

  Frank stopped beside the bank and began a series of exercises that he’d built up over the years - a mixture of self-defence and heavy stretch workouts that now came naturally. He worked at a steady pace, muscles prominent beneath a sweat-soaked skin that reflected the bright sunlight.

  Some time later, he took a break and opened his backpack, pulling out a bottle of water. Taking a long drink, he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. Then, thirst sated, began a series of balanced power moves - a prelude to the harder exercises to come.