Ben Bracken: Origins (Ben Bracken Books 1 - 5) (4 page)

Taking aim, Ben fired as carefully and as forcefully as he could at the group opposite him, while taking care to aim for trouser legs and not delicate female calves. The contrast in targets reminds him of his training and, somehow, 3 of the 6 shots fired hit trousers, with the other three hitting the wall behind. Poor tall guy, thinks Ben - didn’t even get a shot away. It strikes Ben that they really weren’t prepared for combat, or at least not the kind of highly trained combat and tactics that Ben would be bringing to proceedings. Ben ponders whether to show mercy and leave this scum to the authorities, then he remembers what was on the laptop. Mercy vanishes, and, as they hit the floor one at a time, bullet holes in their lower legs, he finishes them both off with the remaining two slugs in the clip. Freya is left standing over the two men, and again, shock permeates her features.

Ben’s eyes dart left, as Keith sprints for the door. Ben is firmly in command now, and he starts to sprint after him, and as he passes Freya, he grabs her hand. They run out of the apartment, hopping over the body of the key-slashed doorman, and down the corridor after Keith. Keith is running for his life, ragged and panicked - but his age slows him.

‘Take this right - opposite 3267 is a secret door in the wood panelling. Look for the keyhole. Trev is beyond it. Go with him - NOW’ Ben lets go of Freya, who slows to look at him.

‘Thank you’ she says with feeling.

‘GO.’ Ben says firmly.

Freya starts to continue running. People are emerging into the hallway, having heard the commotion. Ben wants to make sure she gets out but doesn’t really want to risk someone getting a great ID of him or losing Keith. He presses on, and, for Freya and Trev, hopes for the best.

After ten more strides, he is almost on Keith. It hits Ben how pathetic an adversary Keith is, but how awful his crimes are. The minute you turn your back in a town like this, it seems a vile puke with some awful ideas will regurgitate horrors on the unsuspecting. Keith will get everything he deserves.

Keith is running out of both breath and corridor - up ahead is a huge window. He slows to a canter, the window and the horizon beyond becoming a haunting reminder of the freedom he had only moments ago - before this vigilante do-gooder decided to concern himself with his dealings. He turns and walks the last couple of paces to the window backwards, so he can face Ben.

Ben has no bullets left in the gun, but knows he won’t need it. He knows Keith doesn’t have another, and Keith’s body-language betrays a submission that he is very unfamiliar with. Ben thinks of all the poor girls, of all ages, Keith has towered over. He stops himself, before the hate gets too much, ten feet from Keith, and checks behind him. A couple of faces peep around ajar front doors, too scared to come out fully, which is a relief to Ben.

He thinks about saying something to Keith - one last sign off, but he holds himself. He has said everything he needs to - Keith will go to Hell knowing it. He picks up a short, two stride sprint, and leaps into the air in a dropkick - two feet forward. At the point of impact, he kicks out both legs fully, kicking and stretching with as much brute power he can muster. One foot connects with Keith’s chest, the other with the point of his nose. The effect is devastating to Keith. Ben picked these points of impact for two reasons. Firstly, the pain of his boot shattering Keith’s nose will cause Keith’s body to stiffen rigid as a board. Secondly, the boot in the chest will shove the board-like body at high speed into the glass. Ben reasoned the combined effect would be just enough to fracture the enforced safety glass of the window - and it does just that, with a vile wet crack. Ben hears the soft whisper of wind, as Keith’s body crumples.

Ben knows the main problem with breaking the window was always going to be that first crack, but that’s no longer a problem. As Keith slumps, his nose at a disastrous and unfixable angle, Ben catches him.

‘The pain you’ve caused will never leave those girls, but all that pain you might cause in future is going with you to the pavement below.’

Keith gags angrily as if to tell Ben where to get off, but his busted nose and the blood flowing from it into his mouth won’t let him. Even to his last moment he is a gross depiction of defiance who fails to recognize a shred of evil in what he has done - which makes Ben’s next action all the easier. He swings Keith, with one hand on his lapel and one on his waistband, straight at the centre of the window. The glass gives with no resistance. The safety shield of the glass holds firm at the window edges, so the glass simply parts on the crack to allow Keith through, like a huge, jagged, transparent door. Keith slides through the widening crack, buffeted by the force, and suddenly, he is outside, howling and going down very fast. Gone.

Ben takes the tablespoon from his pocket, and throws it out after him, down to the waking street below. He waits to hear an impact, but none arrives. His eyes drift to the vista of the city, thinking of all the other hidden horrors this society might have to offer.

With the threat neutralised, his hangover comes back almost immediately, as if someone hoovered his adrenaline away to reveal his true ugly state beneath. No time yet for wallowing. He needs to get out - he doesn’t give a a damn about the police knowing it was him, but he doesn’t want them to find out when he’s in their custody. That would be no good at all. He picks up another explosive sprint, and heads back down the corridor, and takes the left turn back for the hidden door he sent Freya to. He hopes, above all else, that they made it - he has a feeling that they did, and he clings to it with resolve.

6

Trev has gone through the whole range of emotions today, and he feels it. His brain aches from what he has seen and felt - the horrors of watching Ben maim those women, the lows of losing Freya and the threat of her death, and the sheer spiraling high of having her back.

But he knows that precisely none of it compares to what Freya has been through. He looks at her, sitting next to him on the sofa back in their Northern Quarter apartment. The place is still pretty much destroyed, but they are safe and together. He pulls her close. She is holding a coffee. Trev didn’t have one - he’s still trying to lose the taste of the super coffee he hastily poured down his gullet earlier.

‘Do you think he got out?’ asks Freya, her knees bunching up under her.

‘Yes, I do’ Trev replies. Trev didn’t know if he was lying or not.

‘We’ll have to invite him over at Christmas’ says Freya. Trev smiles.

‘Yes we will’ he says. Out of the stillness, his phone beeps. He checks it, shifting Freya gently so he can reach into his pocket. It’s a text message from Ben.

‘YOU WON’T SEE ME FOR A WHILE. AFTER READING THIS, DELETE MY CONTACT DETAILS IN THE PHONE. GO TO THE POLICE. TELL THEM WHAT HAPPENED - GET THE HELP YOU NEED. REGARDING WHAT HAPPENED UP THERE, TELL THEM EVERYTHING. I HAVE A NAME TO CLEAR’

Trev reads the message twice. And smiles grimly. He shows Freya, who silently reads it and digests it. God knows what Ben did up there, but Trev knows it was in the name of good. He flicks through his contacts, and brings up Ben’s name, to which he clicks another button. The phone asks him:

DELETE CONTACT: BEN BRACKEN?

Trev pauses, then slowly presses the green affirmative command. And with that Ben Bracken was gone - his whereabouts unknown.

THE BARONESS

1

Something wakes Michael up. Not sharply, merely that soft tug of reality you experience when in the warm squeeze of a deep sleep. Consciousness won’t release it’s grip, as he tries to ignore it and slip back into the dark tranquility he was so happy in seconds before. His eyes crack open, and he knows that that’s it - he’s up.

Damn it, he thinks. He has a long overnight shift coming up, and he really can’t afford to be missing his rest - as the overnight security guard at Llechwedd Slate Caverns, it is hard enough at times in that inky abyss down there, without the threat of drowsiness. As he sits vaguely annoyed, his frustration is gradually overtaken by another nagging feeling - that something is not right.

He rolls over - the bed is empty, but that is exactly what he expected. Sharon hasn’t spent the night with him in far too long - he still loves her, but he barely ever sees her. She is away with her new man, that smarmy piece of gutter slime in Bangor, about 20 minutes away by car. For all intents and purposes, he is single now and he must get used to it. However hard that may be.

The room is dark, the curtains tight shut, but the soft light of dusk beyond permeates the fabric. His senses sharpen one at a time, search each other out and bond - he is coming round. And it’s as he comes round he realizes what woke him - a soft, high-pitched whistling. He is up straight away, tugging on the dirty jeans by his bed and hopping/buttoning them as he gets to the bedroom door.

When out into the hallway, the whistling is a touch louder but not by much. He marches down the hall, which doesn’t take long in his old bungalow - an old miners cottage on the edge of Llanberis, Snowdonia, North Wales. It is usually warm, with the faded carpets getting sparser every year, but somehow retaining a quaint cosiness. This evening, however, it is a little cold inside, which peaks Michaels concern a touch higher.

He knows he could shout for Sharon, but that would be too much like wishful thinking. It would be purely wasted energy, but Sharon isn’t his primary concern - his thoughts are with Matthew, his 3 month old son. Matthew’s room is back up the corridor next to the master bedroom, but he is such a light sleeper that Michael was hesitant firstly, to shout, and secondly, to disturb his boy. He knows if he disturbs him, his grandmother, Michael’s mother, will pay for it through the night. Sharon had decided within moments of Matthew’s birth, that she was unready for motherhood - and the effect on all of them had been both dramatic and traumatic. Michael’s job couldn’t bend to meet the burden of being a single father, so their routine had to accommodate his hours. He is relieved his son is such a good sleeper.

As Michael walks back down the corridor from whence he came, he notices the whistling again - and it’s increase in volume. And as he gets closer to Matthew’s door, it is clear that the whistling is beyond it. He pauses by the door and listens. Yes, he thinks, definitely whistling. He thinks for a second that it must be the baby monitor, that is running out of batteries, or going faulty for whatever reason. He holds his breath and creaks the door open.

As he opens the nursery door, and pokes his head around, he sees the familiar modest kids’ room - animal prints on the walls, stuffed animals on the floor, clothes folded loosely on the changing unit, the vast cot. The only thing that’s missing from the setting is the child itself - the cot is empty. Michael is struck by a wave of sick dizziness, the kind that only a parent will ever know when fear for their offspring kicks in. This dizziness becomes a full-on feverish panic when he sees the window open by an inch or two, the soft twilight breeze rattling against the old window frame, causing that eerie, haunting whistle as it enters the room.

Michael almost can’t even speak, his words clogging in his throat as panic for his boy surges. He searches the room desperately. He can’t really crawl, he can’t have gone far, thinks Michael, desperately. But he knows the worst has happened. Every parents nightmare. Unless Matthew stood up and reached out of his cot to open the window, then somehow climbed out, which seems desperately fantastical, his only son has been snatched.

Moments later, Michael is sprinting as fast as his jellied legs can carry him, into Llanberis - a quiet village which is part tourist-trap, part hikers’-retreat on the banks of Padarn Lake. Michael is mid-thirties, and not in the best shape, so as he rounds the road into the high street, he cuts a rather pudgy, wheezing figure. He knows where he is going though - in the quiet autumn months, when the tourists have all gone back to whence they came, the locals occupy the only pub that’s not an over-priced, faux-trendy, gastro-pub, love-in. And he can see it on the horizon. The Flapper and Firkin. A stone pub embodying every tradition that the pub trade seems to have forgotten in recent years - a warm welcome, with a tasty, locally-sourced pint. Perfection ordinarily, and on his nights off, Michael can often be seen in there shooting the breeze with whoever might be supping. Plus, with it being firmly a local haunt, the secrets of the village are laid bare within those four walls on a nightly basis - and if anyone knows anything, that would be the place to start.

As soon as he had caught his breath back at the cottage, he had called the police. Hopelessly, they had said, that if the mother is missing also, doesn’t that suggest that the child is out with her? Michael had no answer for that, only to argue blindly that Sharon is no longer active in the family home, let alone in the role of mother, and that the window was uncharacteristically open. The thought had occurred to him that Sharon might indeed have the boy, but, while selfish, she isn’t stupid. She wouldn’t dream of taking the boy without Michael knowing.

With a gasp, he starts ascending the stone steps of the pub, and slings the doors open. He is greeted by a dark mahogany-clad interior and five or six men, who slowly turn to face the exhausted arrival.

‘My son is gone!’ shouts Michael. ‘Someone snatched him from his cot!’

All the other men fall silent and look at each other, in shock at Michael’s words - except for one. A stranger at the bar, who Michael doesn’t recognize. He is younger than the others, but wears the same concern. He is wearing an old red shirt, black pants and a dark coat. He stands up from his barstool immediately.

The man walks over to Michael quickly, looking tired and down-trodden, but moving with a strength and alertness. His blue eyes fix on Michael and the urgency in them pins him to the spot.

‘Where was he last seen?’ asks Ben Bracken.

2

Ben was on the cusp of a deep reverie when the man burst in. He had just bought his 4th pint of Blackstoke Bitter, and was enjoying the familiar musty comfort blanket that only the fourth pint can bring. He has been in Wales for three weeks, keeping his head down and going about a quiet, self-indulgent wallow in seemingly the middle of nowhere. From the events of the last couple of minutes, Ben thought, the middle of nowhere sure has its own problems. And this one is a real nasty one.