Face Book: A disturbing novel full of shocking twists Read online

  Patients had come and gone, but Michael was still there, to Jack’s great disappointment. Much as Michael bugged him, he felt sorry for the guy. He was only thirty-two and he’d had a heart attack. Lucky to be alive, the doc had told him. Jack didn’t feel lucky. Half of him wished that the thugs had done a proper job. Finished him off. At least then he would never have to look in a mirror and behold the monstrosity that was his face.

  There was a carton of grapes on the bedside table. Reaching out, Jack grabbed one. Popped it in his mouth. He let it rest on his tongue, savouring the juices. Then he bit into it and chewed around the pips.

  His mother and father had brought the grapes with them on their last visit. When Brenda had first seen her son, she had nearly fainted. Cupping her hands over her mouth, she would have toppled sideways if Richard hadn’t caught her. They stayed for hours, constantly asking Jack if he was all right and if they could get him anything. Each time they left, Jack was glad to see the back of them. He loved them, but he just wanted to be on his own. Except, well, that wasn’t strictly true.

  The one person Jack wanted and needed was Eleanor. He had expected her to be at his bedside, day in and day out, yet she had only visited once. He’d rang their home. Got nothing. Tried her mobile. It’d gone to answer phone, every time. Eventually, he’d managed to get hold of her mother. Camilla had told him she hadn’t heard from Eleanor in over a week. Jack had thought there was a distinct whiff of bullshit in the air and been tempted to say, ‘Can you just put her on the phone, please!’ Instead, he had said, ‘If you talk to her, can you get her to call me on my mobile? Or, better still, tell her to come and see me. I’m still in hospital, just in case she’s wondering.’ And that was that. No ‘How are you feeling, Jack?’ or ‘Hope you get better soon’. Not that he had expected much sympathy from the miserable old trout; he was sure that she thought her daughter could do better than him. Something about the way she looked at him. Like he was some tenacious stain she couldn’t clean off her underwear. There was the way she spoke to him, too. As if he was a child or an idiot. He imagined Camilla poisoning Eleanor against him, telling her that he had most likely caused the trouble at the pub. Had he been the sort of bloke to beat on women, he could quite happily have popped the fat bloater with a left hook.

  Why had Eleanor visited once and not come back? Had she seen his face and been so horrified she couldn’t bear to clap eyes on him again? Now the scars were healing, he didn’t look so bad. Oh, who was he trying to kid – he looked awful. He was avoiding mirrors and didn’t want to see his reflection in the big, long windows that lined the ward. But last night the temptation had been too strong. He’d sloped off to the bathroom. Whimpered when he’d seen himself. ‘Frankenstein,’ he had muttered. ‘I look like Frankenstein’s monster.’ No wonder she never came back, he thought. Back in bed, with the covers over his head, he had run his fingers over the cuts. Felt the ridges and raised contours of his face. Michael had whispered, ‘Are you all right, buddy? Everything okay?’ Jack had ignored him. Stayed motionless under the covers.

  One good bit of news. The doctor was confident Jack would be well enough to be discharged in a few days, so that was something. Although the prospect of leaving filled him with dread. People stared at him in hospital. What would it be like in public?

  The doctor had tried to ease Jack’s concerns about his appearance, stating that a cosmetic surgeon could help. Which was all good and well, but Jack couldn’t afford to have work done privately. According to the doctor, there was a two year wait on the NHS. Also, Jack was never going to look like he did before. ‘Your wounds are very deep,’ the doc had said, ‘and there’s only so much they can do.’ Hardly words to brighten Jack’s day.

  Days and nights were long in the ward. Worried as Jack was about leaving, he was eager to get back to the comfort of home. He wanted to find Eleanor. He wanted to tell her how much he loved her. And he wanted to do it now.

  ####

  The cell measured nine feet by six. Fixtures and fittings were minimal. Basic. There was a stainless steel toilet and matching sink. A bunk bed. Posters on the white-washed walls of semi-naked women: eye candy for jacking off. If James Ward stood in the centre of the room and spread his arms he could touch the walls with his fingertips. The thought of staying confined in this place for a life sentence made him want to punch something. Or someone. Hours and hours sat around with nothing to do but stare into space. There was never a moment’s peace, never any quiet. Even at night, the corridors echoed with footsteps and chatter of guards, the sound of inmates talking to each other. Ward missed his freedom. He hated not being able to come and go as he pleased. He Longed for a woman’s touch. Yearned to see and hold his Face Book again – to fill another page.

  Edgemont Prison was fifty miles south of Boxford. Ward's stay here had been comfortable enough. Everyone knew who he was. They were careful not to cross him. Even the guards were wary of him, pampering to his every need. If he wanted something – cigarettes, booze, credit for his mobile phone – one of the prisoners or guards would get it for him. Fear and notoriety brought Ward luxuries, but it could not bring him what he truly wanted.

  Freedom.

  Sitting on his bunk, looking vacantly towards the barred window, Ward snapped to as he heard someone approaching in the corridor. Getting closer. He heard voices outside his cell, the metallic clink of a key being inserted into a lock. The door opened. Three guards entered. One was holding handcuffs. He gestured Ward to get up.

  ‘About time, fellas,’ Ward said. ‘I thought you were never going to come.’

  ‘Up!’ another guard blurted, clicking his fingers. ‘Get up! NOW!’

  Ward hadn’t seen this skinny streak of piss before, so he assumed he must be a rookie. Had Ward not been transferring out, he would have made sure this officious prick knew who he was dealing with.

  ‘Talking to me like that,’ he whispered, seething. ‘I’ve killed for less.’

  Propping himself up on one elbow, the guy on the top bunk said,‘Wish I was coming with you. I’d give anything to get out of this hell hole. Anywhere’s gotta be better than here. Good luck to you, chap.’

  The guards led Ward out of the cell. Prisoners called to him as he was chaperoned through the corridor. Some wished him luck. Others said how much they would miss him. But he was sure they were glad to see him going. Inmates would feel safer without him around.

  Especially one of them. Ward was being transferred because he had threatened to cut off a prisoner's face. The Pretty Boy, a newbie at Edgemont, had declined Ward's advances in the shower room. Ward hadn't taken kindly to this; especially since no one else had been denied. Keeping the two men apart was next to impossible. Eventually, Ward would have caught up with Pretty Boy. The governor new this. Didn't want to risk a scandal. Easier to get rid. Transfer the Face Book weirdo out.

  After being handcuffed and checked out, Ward was taken to an armoured van in the courtyard. The sun was shining, playing peek-a-boo through the clouds. He tilted his chubby face skywards. Relished the warmth on his skin, the breeze dappling his cheeks. A guard gave him a few seconds, then opened the rear door. Told him to climb in. When Ward was seated, the guard secured his ankles with leg chains that were bolted to the floor.

  A short while later another prisoner was bundled into the van. Luke Armstrong: a gangster from the town of Chippenham, which was twenty miles west of Boxford. Armstrong was being transferred so he could be closer to his family. He sat across from Ward, who watched as the man's legs were shackled.

  Once the truck was through the gates, four police cars provided an escort. Two at the front, two at the rear. The officers were heavily armed. They had been briefed well. They were alert and ready.

  ####

  Derek and Chris had cleaned the mess up as best they could. They had replaced the red carpet tiles with ones that were a reasonable match. They’d scrubbed the entrance door. Painted over the charred black wood. It didn’t look great (anyone taking a cl
ose gander would see what had happened), but it would have to do. They just didn’t have the money. Paying for on-sale tiles and a pot of paint was a stretch.

  The brothers were playing snooker again. It was Chris’s turn to be snookered. The white was close behind the pink and there were three reds to aim at. His only saving grace was that the cue ball would have to come off just one cushion to hit its target. Easier said than done. Chris chalked his cue. Bent over to take his shot.

  ‘You’re thirty points behind already,’ Derek said, ‘so if you miss this then you’re pretty much screwed, bro.’

  ‘Thanks for stating the obvious.’

  Chris missed the red by a good foot. The white disappeared into a corner pocket with a clunk.

  ‘Nice one,’ Derek said.

  ‘Ahh, shurrup!’ Chris replied, retrieving the white. ‘I s’ppose you want me to take that shot again?’

  ‘You suppose key-rect. And make sure you put it back exactly where it was; I know your crafty tricks.’

  Derek was desperate to take his mind off things, which was why he had asked Chris for a game. Anything to occupy his thoughts so he didn’t have to think about the trouble that was coming. When the white boys realised they weren’t going to get paid, what then? Would they try and rough one of them up? Break a few bones? Or would they deliver another Molotov? A full-sized one through the window this time? Derek envisaged many sleepless nights ahead, under his duvet, listening out for every sound.

  Retrieving the cue ball from the pocket, Chris placed it back behind the pink, as close as he could to its original position. He was re-analysing the shot when the door opened and three men entered.

  ‘Woo-hoo!’ one of them said. ‘This is a nice place you’ve got here, my man. Rack ‘em up ‘cause I’m in the mood to administer a serious arse beat down. Never played snooker before, but you all know how good I am at pool. How different can it be?’

  The other two took in the place as they made their way through the hall.

  ‘You’ve done well for yourselves,’ one of them said.

  ‘Really well,’ the other agreed.

  Derek could never tell the twins apart. But one thing was for sure: he had never been so glad to see them. They were as tall as basketball players, lean and muscular. Both had huge afros. Walked with a swagger. Chris had once said that they were the only people he knew who should have to get planning permission for their hairdos.

  Derek greeted one twin with a brother’s handshake. ‘Willis?’

  He looked offended. ‘Ah, c’mon, how can you insult me like this?’ He nodded towards his brother. ‘I’m much more handsome than Willis … Uh-huh?’

  Glancing from one twin to the other, Derek wasn’t sure if he was having his crank yanked.

  ‘He’s winding you up,’ Chris said, grinning.

  Chris hugged the twin’s younger brother, Nelson. ‘Glad to see you. How’s it hanging, man?’

  ‘To the left,’ Nelson said, grabbing his crotch. ‘The Beast is always hanging to the left; it’s more comfortable that way.’

  Willis said, ‘I’m sure they wanted to know that.’

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ Derek said.

  ‘It’s good to see you,’ Jevon said, sitting himself on a snooker table. ‘Wow! What I’d give to own a place like this.’

  ‘You wouldn’t want to own this place right now,’ Derek said. ‘Buying this snooker hall could be the worst decision we’ve ever made. In fact, it is the worst decision we’ve ever made. And that’s saying something. No wonder it was so fucking cheap. Why oh why did I not suspect something?’

  Derek inwardly cursed himself for his and Chris’s hasty purchase. Chris was impulsive and would have gone along with anything his big brother suggested. He looked up to Derek. Idolised him. Derek knew this and it was eating him up inside that he had put him in danger.

  Sitting himself next to Jevon, Willis said, ‘So what’s up, you pair? How can we be of assistance?’

  When Derek had phoned Jevon, he hadn’t disclosed details. All he had said was that he and Chris were in trouble – deep trouble – and they needed help. They had helped the twins and Nelson out in the past (during Saturday night bar-room scuffles, usually), but there had never been anything like this.

  Derek told his friends about the guys that had paid them a visit. He told them about their demand for protection money (don’t pay ‘em anything, Nelson said, not a penny!) and their threat to torch 147 if they didn’t pay up. He told them about the Molotov and how Byron was the most feared man in Boxford, who had an affection for burying people under by-passes (erm … maybe you should pay ‘em, Nelson said).

  ‘Jesus!’ Willis said, craning his neck to look back towards the entrance door. ‘These shitheads really mean business.’

  ‘We’re in deep,’ Derek said. ‘This is asking a lot, so if you wanna walk away, I won’t blame you.’

  Jevon and Willis said in unison, ‘No way! We’re not walking away!’

  ‘Scary as these fuckers sound,’ Nelson added, ‘we’ve got your back on this one. No matter what.’

  ‘If at any point you want no part of this,’ Derek said, ‘it's cool with me.’

  ‘We’re with you,’ Jevon said.

  Slapping the palm of his hand to his forehead, Chris said, ‘Where’s our manners! You guys have been here nearly five minutes and we haven’t offered you a drink yet!’

  ‘Bet you’ve been getting hammered every night since you’ve been here, haven’t you?’ Nelson said. ‘I know I would.’

  ‘I’d love to get blasted every night,’ Chris said, ‘but the old man over there,’ – he nodded towards Derek – ‘says we can’t drink the profits. Especially since we ain’t made no profits yet.’

  ‘And you never will with those leeches demanding money from you,’ Willis commented.

  ‘So whadja want?’ Chris said, looking at the twins and Nelson. ‘Beers or shots? Or beer then shots?’ He grinned mischievously.

  Derek said, ‘They didn’t come here to get drunk, bro.’

  ‘A coke will be fine with me,’ Jevon said.

  ‘Me, too,’ Willis said. ‘We need to keep clear heads for what’s coming.’

  ‘Wha’! Screw that, man!’ Nelson said. He made a clicking noise in the back of his throat. ‘Coke! Key-riyst! Poor me a pint and make it a strong ‘un. If I’m gonna be taking on some Don Corleone wannabe and his posse of mobsters then I need alcohol pulsing t’rough my veins and a lot of it.’

  Chris and Nelson went to the bar. While Chris poured the drinks, Nelson oohed and ahhhed over the optics, beer taps, and fridges full of bottles.

  He muttered, ‘Man, I’d be wasted all the time – way-sted!’

  ‘So what’s the plan?’ Jevon said to Derek.

  Derek threw his hands up. ‘You tell me?’

  ‘I think we should have a word with this guy,’ Willis said. ‘What’s his name? Brian?’

  ‘Byron,’ Derek corrected. ‘As in like the poet. Look, I don’t think this is the sort of bloke who’s gonna take kindly to us knocking on his door, getting rowdy. We could end up in body bags.’

  ‘Who said anything about getting rowdy,’ Willis said. ‘I’m just suggesting that we have a nice, civil talk with him, see if we can work something out. You got any other ideas?’

  Derek said nothing; he knew Willis was right. Talk first, always first. That was the best way to do things. When diplomacy failed – as Derek was almost certain it would – then it would time to get rough. There would be no other option.

  ‘This really is asking a lot of you,’ Derek repeated. ‘If you wanna walk away at any point, just say the word. I’ll understand.’

  ‘You’d be there for us if the situation was reversed,’ Jevon said. ‘Wouldn’t you?’

  ‘That goes without saying,’ Derek replied.

  ‘Well that’s that then,’ Willis said. ‘In it to the end.’

  He slid off the snooker table. Gave Derek a high-five and a big hug. Jevon did the same. />
  ‘In it to the end,’ Derek said in a low voice. He had a bad feeling in his guts.

  Chris returned with the drinks on a tray. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘let’s rack ‘em up and have a game. Who’s for a beat down?’

  ####

  Awkward questions: the last thing Jack was in the mood for. He had known the police would turn up at some point. But that didn’t stop the sinking feeling in his belly when he saw two officers coming towards his bed, both looking resplendent in their uniforms.

  Sat up, with a mountain of pillows behind his back for comfort, Jack was listening to Elton John sing about a Rocket Man through the bedside headphones. He pulled them off with a snap and said, ‘Before you ask, I can’t remember much – hardly anything at all, really.’

  ‘We just need five minutes of your time, Mr. Williams,’ one of the officers said. ‘I’m PC Weathers and this,’ – he gestured towards his partner, who was pulling a notepad and pen out of his pocket – ‘is PC Garfield.’

  Jack flipped them a tired salute. ‘Pleased to meet you, both.’ Seeing the way Garfield was staring at him, he said, ‘I know I look awful but it really doesn’t help when people goggle.’

  Garfield busied himself scribbling in his pad.

  ‘With your assistance, I’m sure we can help catch whoever did this to you,’ Weathers said, clearly trying hard not to let his gaze linger on Jack’s scars. ‘So, if you can tell us what happened? Everything you recollect.’

  Wanting to get things over and done with, Jack gave them an abridged version of events: ‘Three blokes came into the pub. They were giving the landlord a hard time, demanding protection money from him. So … I made the mistake of getting involved. I told them to take a hike, basically. And I know what you’re going to say, that I should have called you lot. But I never got a chance. Big guys, picking on an old bloke like that. I mean, what would you have done? I couldn’t just sit there and watch. All three of them came at me at once. I didn’t stand a chance. Shit, I must have really pissed them off to do what they did.’