The Hunted - Kerry Barnes

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he winced and shook his head. Every nerve in his body seemed to be on edge. He decided to drive up and down the street to see if there were any unusual cars in the area. Confident there were none, he parked down the road away from the house and hurried back.

      As he entered the front garden, his hand gripped the Stanley knife inside his bomber jacket – his old faithful tool and one that he’d used many times to leave a mark on the offending opponent. On high alert, he snuck around to the rear garden and noticed the back door was open.

      Without going inside, he scanned the kitchen and clocked the tray of cakes on the side, the smell of baking still lingering. He assumed his mother was still at home, and so he relaxed his shoulders and stepped inside. There was an eerie silence. Entering the kitchen, he suddenly stopped. His nerves spiked his senses, and he heard the faint tick-tock of a clock. Then, as he listened, he realized it wasn’t a clock but a dripping tap from upstairs.

      ‘Muvver!’ he called out. There was no answer. He called her again and waited. In nervous frustration, he screamed, ‘Doris.’ He often called her Doris – or more cruelly ‘Boris’. Assuming she was ignoring him, as she often did, he marched along the hallway and sharply poked his head into the living room, before he stomped up the stairs. ‘For fuck’s sake, Muvver, are you bleedin’ deaf or what? Answer me, will ya!’

      There was silence except for the sound of the dripping tap; it was now really grating on his pricked nerves. In a flash of anger, instead of politely knocking at the bathroom door, he aggressively pushed it open.

      Shit! A sudden gasp left his mouth, and he quickly stumbled back as if an invisible hand had pushed him.

      ‘Oh my God!’ he shouted.

      His head was spinning, his stomach automatically heaved, and vomit shot through his mouth and nose. He choked and tried to take deep breaths, but it was impossible. The puke rose again, without giving him a chance to breathe. As he fell to his knees, his hands caked in yellow sick, he heaved again. His mind became so overloaded with images of what he’d just seen that he couldn’t stay in this house of horrors any longer. Yet still, he couldn’t breathe; his legs were now unable to move and his whole body felt an intense tingling sensation like an electric shock. He blinked furiously and shook his head, trying to pull himself together.

      There, lying in the bath, with the tap still dripping, lay the mutilated remains of his father. His eyes still wide open, his mouth gaping in a twisted shape. It was an abomination. Large chunks of flesh had been hideously removed. His ears and his nose were missing, and strips of skin lay floating in the shallow pool of water that was not quite red, but obviously filled with blood. His eyes couldn’t take it all in at first. He wondered if he was dreaming or whether this must be a sick joke. For, there, lying neatly on the white cistern was not just the offending weapon – the family’s carving knife – but his father’s finger with the wedding ring still attached, the blood from which was trickling down the side of the cistern, forming a tiny pool on the toilet seat.

      The walls around him darkened. Knowing he was going to faint, he tried desperately to hold it together. He kneeled on the floor, away from the grim scene behind him, as he sucked in an enormous lungful of air. He tried to steady himself, but before he’d even reached the top of the stairs, the light-headed feeling got the better of him. Down he tumbled, crashing his forehead against the wall, and there he lay on the bottom tread of the staircase.

      Stunned and dazed, he remained motionless; for a split second, he thought all of this had been a bad dream. That was until he heard the tap dripping again and he knew it was for real. Still in a blind panic, and with a lump on his forehead now swelling to the size of a golf ball, he managed to get to his feet and run.

      He left the house, knowing that he would never return. Eventually, he reached his car and almost ripped the door handle off trying to get inside. As he drove away like a man possessed, he tried to process the events he’d just witnessed and plan what to do next. His first thought was to phone Harry.

      As soon as Harry took the call, he heard the terror in Vinnie’s voice.

      ‘Jesus, Harry, I’ve just left Muvver’s … Oh my God, Harry.’

      ‘Slow down, Vinnie. What’s happened?’ Harry heard his brother’s harsh breathing and held his own breath.

      ‘It’s Farver! Fuck me, he’s dead. He’s fucking dead. They’ve killed him. Jesus, Harry, they’ve fucking cut him up. In the bath, for Christ’s sake. Blood’s everywhere … It’s disgusting …’

      Paris stirred, snorted, and fell back to sleep.

      ‘Are you there, Harry?’ He sounded desperate to keep his older brother on the line.

      ‘Yes, Vinnie. Christ … they fucking killed our ol’ man? I swear to God, I’ll have every single one of ’em.’

      ‘Harry, what shall I do?’

      Harry was in shock, but then sudden anger surged inside him, working its way up to his head. He felt as though he was ready to explode.

      ‘You, Vinnie, you can do what the fuck you like. This is all your fault! I knew they wouldn’t let killing the fucking mutt go, and now look what’s happened. You are one useless prick!’

      Ignoring Harry’s accusation, Vinnie begged for help. ‘Please, Harry, tell me what to do. They’re gonna come for me. I just know it.’

      It was the final straw. This shit-for-brains brother of his had acted recklessly without his say-so, and now Harry hated the pathetic sound of his brother’s voice. ‘Where’s Scottie?’ he growled through clenched teeth.

      ‘I dunno. I came straight over to Muvver’s, like you said, and I ain’t heard from Scottie. Harry—’

      Harry had had enough of his brother. ‘Just find fucking Scottie. Then, once you’ve got him, call me. Don’t fucking call me unless you have anything useful to tell me.’

      Harry wiped the gathered beads of sweat before they ran into his eyes and stung him.

      He was so focused on what had happened to his father, he hadn’t even contemplated his mother’s safety. He looked in his rear-view mirror and wondered how he was going to break the news to his sister. She loved her father more than anyone. He just hoped she would stay asleep until they reached Broadstairs.

      * * *

      Doris felt content soaking up the country views. Mike reminded her so much of Arthur that she felt at ease in his company. If he was only half the man Arthur was, then he was all right in her books. There were so many ‘if onlys’ in her life. The biggest regret was not waiting for Arthur when he went to prison. She’d received a message from Teddy Stafford senior that Arthur didn’t want any visitors or letters. She should have known, back then, that Arthur didn’t want her traipsing up to a grotty prison. Unaware that Frank had set him up, and was worming his way into her life, she succumbed to his affections. He got her drunk, had his way, and she was left walking up the aisle with her first-born due in six months.

      She remembered seeing Mike as a baby. Arthur had met a woman, married her within the year, and they’d had their first child within eighteen months. There was no need for a newspaper in Bermondsey – the news travelled even faster than the new Eurostar service into London.

      She recalled seeing Gloria proudly pushing her son around in a beautiful pram. Doris had been dragging her two sons to the shops, both with wilful minds of their own. Gloria looked like she’d stepped out of a magazine. She was wearing a red swing coat, with her hair immaculately bobbed and she’d even put on false eyelashes. With a spring in her step and her head held high, she strolled by, much to the admiration of Doris. Despite the small age gap, she knew Gloria actually looked ten years younger.

      Gripped by sadness, Doris knew that if it hadn’t been for the lie Frank told her, she would have waited for Arthur. She loved him so much, and still did, even though he was married to Gloria. There were no hateful feelings towards her though; after all, she had done nothing wrong. They knew each other from the estate, but they weren’t on such friendly

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