HUGE X2 (16 page)

“I don’t know what to say, Sam.
 
Maybe it is best that you stay away.
 
You don’t want to put yourself in danger or
risk your job.
 
You’ve worked so hard.”

“I know that’s the sensible thing to do.
 
I mean, we haven’t been in touch for fifteen
years and we only lived together for two.
 
But he really means something to me.
 
All the same attachment I had to him when we were kids is still there.”

“Really,” Holly says.
 
“You still feel like he’s your brother?”

I pause, wondering if I should tell her what happened
yesterday.
  
All those shivery feelings I
had when he cupped my breast roll over me again.
 
I can’t.
 
There is no way she’d understand and that’ll just make me feel a whole
lot worse about it all.
 
I don’t want her
memories of him to become tainted.
 

“I still love him,” I say quietly.
 
“It’s like time folded in on itself and the
decade and a half we were apart just disappeared.”

“If you feel like that then maybe you need to try
again.
 
Is there a way you could help
him?”

“Well, I have the investigator.
 
I could make it more of an investigatory
thing, gather evidence against others in the gang and weigh up if there is
anything that could be passed to the police.”

“And if Brandon is implicated too, what would you do
then?
 
You might be trying to help him
but it could end up hurting him badly.
 
He could go to prison.”

“It’s a risk, but that could happen anyway.
 
He might be under surveillance already. The
cops could have someone undercover or someone staking out the places he hangs
in.”
 
I think back to the long-haired man
who was smoking outside Jackson’s.
 
Could
he have been a cop?

“That’s true,” she says.

There is a part of me that thinks maybe I should leave
well alone.
 
If I stick my nose into
Brandon’s life and something goes wrong, I’d never be able to forgive
myself.
 
But then again, how much of a
risk is it to keep the private investigator on Brandon?
 
I could pay him to keep an eye on things for
a couple of days and find out a bit more about what my stepbrother had gotten
himself involved in.
 
In some ways I
don’t want to know.
 
Brandon was such a
good kid and I have a feeling that having the police’s suspicions confirmed
might just break my heart.
 

“If he’s involved in something bad he’s gonna be
putting himself in danger on a daily basis,” Holly says and that’s what tips it
for me.
 
If anything happened to him,
well, I don’t know what I would do, especially if I had the opportunity to do
something to prevent it and didn’t take it out of fear.

We chat for a bit longer about Holly’s planned trip
overseas and our other friend Nish’s new job that comes complete with a boss
that is sex on legs.
 
I can see that
whole situation becoming interesting in the coming weeks.

After I end the call with Holly, I wander into the
kitchen. It’s just after 8pm and I’m famished.
 
Then my intercom buzzer goes and I suddenly remember I’m supposed to be
having Dad over for dinner tonight.
 
And
I forgot to replace the steaks.
 
I rush
over to let him in, and then start frantically digging around in the fridge for
something I can throw together fast.
 
I
have pasta and some crème fraiche.
 
Throw
in some smoked salmon and lemon and it’ll be delicious and quick.

I put the pasta on to boil and start to shred the
salmon and grate the lemon rind, managing to get it mostly prepared before Dad
knocks at the door.
 
When I open it I’m
overwhelmed by a rush of emotion that I hadn’t been expecting.
 
He’s dressed up smarter than usual in a
crisply pressed button down shirt and slacks and he’s got something in his hair
to style it too.
 
He grins at me, proud
of himself, and I pull him into a big hug that he seems surprised to receive.
 
“Hey,” he says.
 
“You happy to see your old pop?”

“Yeah,” I say as he pats my back like he used to when
I was a kid.
 
“Of course I am.”
 
We draw apart and I tug him into the
apartment and close the door behind him.
 
“I was home a bit later than expected but the food won’t be long.”

“That’s fine,” he says, going to sit on my couch.
 
“I’ve had a busy day and I’m ready to just
relax.”

“What’s been going on?”

“Ah, just lots of papers and exams to mark,” he
says.
 
Dad’s work as a Professor of Legal
studies has always kept him very busy.
 
His enthusiasm for the law is what made me want to become an attorney,
and his passion for justice is what made me want to defend rather than
prosecute.
 

“Well, you can just rest now,” I say, giving the pasta
a stir in the pot.
 

“So, what’s been going on with you?” he asks and I
pause, not having had a chance to consider whether I should tell him about
Brandon. I know Pop loved Brandon very much and hearing what I’ve discovered
will most likely make him very sad.
 
And
worried too, for both of us.
 

It’s just been me and my dad for such a long time that
I can’t really comprehend keeping something so big from him.
 
When you don’t have a mother through your
teenage years, your father has to step into that role, buying sanitary products
when you start to menstruate, taking you to purchase your first bra.
 
I guess all that just made us closer.
 
We haven’t spoken about Brandon in a
while.
 
At first I would mention him all
the time and Pop would always listen and join in as I would churn through
memories to try and keep Brandon’s memory fresh.
 
Over time I just ran out of things to say and
I guess Pop did too.
 
He loved Brandon
like his own son and it had broken both our hearts to say goodbye.

“Pop, I ran into Brandon yesterday,” I say in my most
nonchalant voice.

He twists around quickly to look at me.
 
“Our Brandon?”

“Yeah,” I reply.

“Oh my goodness.
 
How is he?”

“He’s good.
 
He
looks good,” I say, feeling heat rising to my cheeks at the memory of my hand
gliding over his muscular abdominals.

“Wow.
 
It’s
been, what, fifteen years?”

“Something like that.”

“So what’s he been doing?”

I pause, wondering what to say to limit the shock
factor.
 
Pop always had high hopes for
his stepson and what he would achieve.
 
We had membership to the local zoo and a whole shelf of reference books
to feed Brandon’s interests.

“I think he’s gotten himself wrapped up in something
bad,” I say and my father’s expression darkens.
 
We talk for a while about what I’ve been told and what I know for
sure.
 
Pop is quiet for a while as I stir
the crème fraiche and other ingredients through the pasta and serve out into
wide bowls.
 
I take the food to where
he’s sitting and we eat on our knees.
 
After a few mouthfuls, Pop stops to talk again.
 

“Can your contact keep eyes on Brandon for a few days
without implicating you in anything?” he asks.

“I think so.
 
He’s on the firm’s books so it should all be fine.
 
But I’ll need to talk to my boss about using
him further.”

Pop looks really worried and it deepens the level of
concern I feel too.
 
“You’ll tell me
everything you find out?
 
I’ll want
updates every day.”

“Of course,” I say.

“And you’ll tell me what the bill is at the end?”

I shake my head, not wanting him to take on this
burden.
 
I know Brandon is his family too
but this feels like something I need to be doing.
 
Pop frowns.
 

“He was my son.
 
For two years.
 
Maybe that isn’t
very long but he will always be important to me, however many years pass.
 
He’s still in my will too.”

“He is?” I’m shocked but not unhappy.
 
I hadn’t realized just how connected my dad
still felt to Brandon.

“Of course.
 
I’m
glad he’s back in your life, Sam.
 
If
nothing else, we know he’s alive.
 
And if
the investigator can tell us more, we’ll have to consider what to do when the
time comes.”

I nod, thinking about how devastated we’d both be if
we find out Brandon has been doing anything truly horrific. I can’t believe it
of him, but then I’d never have thought him capable of anything the police
insinuated.
 

When Pop finally leaves, I change into my PJ’s and sit
in the dark on the love seat in front of the window.
 
The city lights twinkle and cars wind their
way like illuminated beetles.
 
Brandon is
out there somewhere, and I say a silent prayer that he’s safe, whatever he’s
doing.

Chapter 8

Brandon

Adam
is pissed with me from the moment I walk into Jackson’s. Maybe it’s because I’m
a few minutes late, or maybe because he can sense something is different.
 
He’s always had a nose for trouble and
tonight it’s focused on me. I have my usual beer and down it in one. That’s
probably my first mistake.
 
I look like a
man with a mind that is elsewhere, because I am.
 
I find myself rubbing my hand over my face agitatedly.
 
That’s probably my second mistake.
 
When I look up he’s watching me, his empty
blue eyes taking it all in.
 
I meet his
gaze because I might be terrible at hiding what’s going on in my head, but I’m
damned if I’m going to look shamefaced about it.
 
He doesn’t own me, although he’d like to
think he does.
 

“Brandon, you’re going to meet Leon tonight.
 
He’s changed the location for the drop.
 
Tom has the details.
 
You’ll be handling it together.”

I look across at Tom and he shrugs.
 
Connor and I usually handle the drops.
 
Tom does Sandra and the other cathouses.
 
Harrison handles the books; he’s some kind of
math genius who should have been a billionaire hedge fund manager, not a
backstreet bookie.
 
Jared and Cory, twins
who look like the love children of Goliath and Hulk Hogan, look after
protection and loan sharking.
 
There are
others but they’re not trusted enough yet to do anything important.
 

And Adam watches it all.
 

I look across at Connor and he stares at me as if I’ve
done something to influence Adam.
 
He
doesn’t like being taken off the high risk business to be sent round to gather
up the sweaty bills from the palms of desperate men.

Because Adam has willed it, Tom and I make our way
towards the deserted warehouse where we will be meeting Leon and his crew.
 
Something feels off but I blame it on myself
because I’m distracted with thoughts of Sammie instead of focusing on the
exchange.
 
I have my gun tucked in the back
of my jeans, hidden under my plaid shirt, and the money in a small backpack
that I’ve slung across my shoulder.
 
Tom’s parked the car in the shadows and is follows me around the
corner.
 
I turn to glance at him behind
me and catch him looking around, eyes darting more frantically than feels
natural.
 
We know these guys.
 
We’ve been doing business with them for years
so why’s he suddenly so on edge, so nervous?
 
This isn’t our usual meeting point, maybe that’s what it is.
 
But then I remember that Tom got the new
details from Leon. Why would Leon have trusted a man he’s only met once with a
change in our arrangements?

 
My uncertainty
makes the hairs on the back of my neck rise, and the sensation flows through my
shoulder and arms into my elbows in a rush. I flex my free hand, thinking about
my gun that I’ve never had to fire, mentally calculating how long it would take
me to pull it from my waistband and pull the trigger.
 
Shit.
 
Maybe I’m being stupid.
 
I’m
unsettled because of what happened last night.
 
This is paranoia.
 

I feel sweat gather under my arms as I slow, waiting
for Tom to pull up alongside me but he stays behind, lurking almost in my
shadow. We’ve known each other a long time, and to doubt him would risk our
long term working relationship but my instincts are telling me something stinks
and my life is worth more than the damage to our friendship that my suspicions
would cause if I’m wrong.
 

I scan the area in front of us.
 

The wall we are following is made of well-worn brick,
the ground covered in weeds and scrubby grass.
 
At the perimeter there are trees against a wire fence.
 
It’s so damn dark I squint my eyes to get a
view of the furthest corners.
 
I slow and
catch Tom purposefully shortening his steps as though he doesn’t want to get in
front of me, then he does something strange with his hand, a signal, and it’s
then I know.

This whole situation is rotten.

Fuck. My heart is pounding in my ears and the hand
that is clutching the bag shakes.
 
I
steal another glance at Tom and catch a movement in the trees to the left of
us.
 
In that split second I grab hold of
Tom around the neck and clutch him to me. He makes a protesting sound as I all
but throttle him, dragging him backwards and using him as a shield.
 

“Shut the fuck up,” I hiss in his ear, “or I’ll blow
your fucking brains out.”

He goes quiet, taking quick steps backwards to keep up
with me.
 
I just need to get back to the
car but I don’t have enough hands to carry the payment, hold onto Tom and reach
out for the gun to protect myself.
 
Something’s got to get left behind.

“What the fuck, man,” Tom mumbles.

We’re not far from the car now, but my eyes are still
on the trees.
 
As I feared, three men I
don’t recognize emerge and start running toward us fast.
 
I don’t see Leon with them and he’s always
present at the exchanges.
 
He doesn’t
trust anyone with the amount of cash I have in this bag. This whole thing has
been a set up.
 
Leon’s probably waiting
at the usual drop location right now, cursing me for being late.

We’re not far from the car now and I look over my
shoulder, checking there is no-one behind me.
 
The hood of the car is around ten yards behind me and I make a snap
decision in that moment that it’s going to be Tom that gets left behind.
 
I let go of his throat and push him forward,
grabbing for my gun with reflex speed.
 
I
stick to the wall, scrambling backwards as fast as I can, seeing the men
lifting guns of their own.
 
Tom has
turned now and is heading towards me, but I have my piece pointing right at
him. “What the fuck are you doing, Bran?” he asks and I want to gouge his piggy
eyes out for using Sammie’s nickname for me.
 

“Stay away from me,” I shout at him.
 
I’ve got less than five yards when the first
shot splits the quiet night in two.
 
There are two more before one hits Tom in the back of the arm and ricochets
off the bone.
 
He cries out and grabs at
his wound, trying to stem the blood.
 
More shots ring out and I fire my own gun, making the men scatter to try
and take cover against the wall and in the tree line again.

“I didn’t do nothing,” Tom shouts.

I turn and make a sprint for the car, keeping my head
down in a way that feels pathetic.
 
Three
inches aren’t going to save me if one of them takes a good aim.
 
I hear two more shots before I get to the car
door and yank it open.
 
The money goes in
first, and I shoot one more time at nothing in particular, hoping it will be
enough to keep the men distracted.
 
It’s
then I notice Tom is now kneeling on the ground, hand still clutched to his
punctured arm.
 
He has a frozen look on
his face that I realize is a death mask.
 
I don’t stay to watch him fall or to see the damage the bullets have
made to his back. The keys are in the ignition and I fire up the car and
screech away, the car door still half open, my gun still in my hand.
 
A wall of dust and grit rises behind me like
the trail of a stampede and my heart sounds like a drum between my ears. The
radio is playing something loud and upbeat that is totally at odds with the
situation.

I curse loudly as I hit the road, stashing the gun on
my knees and slamming my hands against the steering wheel as the adrenaline
hits a peak.
 
I almost fucking died. I
can’t believe Tom double-crossed us.
 
It
had to be Tom, I think. Could Adam have known?
 
My head feels like a spinning top.
 
Adam couldn’t be in on this.
 
What
would he gain from having me taken out? I’m his son and I’ve never done
anything to make him doubt my loyalty.
 
That has to count for something, doesn’t it?

I can’t go back to Jackson’s now with so much
uncertainty.
 
I don’t want anyone there
seeing the shaking mess that I am.
 
I
can’t risk going home either, and I don’t have any other place to go.
 
There’s a hotel about a mile from where I
am.
 
It’s a dive that I’ve only ever used
as a place to fuck but it’ll do for a few hours until I can pull myself together.

I pay in cash, something I find myself with a lot of,
and head straight to the room, locking and chaining the door.
 
My shirt is soaked through with sweat and
clings to me like a cold rag in the air-conditioning.
 
I unbutton it and throw it over a chair and
pace the room, unable to think clearly.
 
My hands throb with my racing blood.
 

My phone starts buzzing in my pocket.
 
It’s Adam and I don’t know what to do.
 
Do I answer and tell him what’s
happened?
 
Do I ignore it?
 
What would be my excuse for that later down
the line?

“Hello,” I say deciding to face things now, and my
voice sounds hoarse from all the shouting.

“Where are you?” Adam asks.

“It was a set up,” I say.
 

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Leon wasn’t there. It was Tom.
 
He turned.”

Adam is quiet and I can hear the seething anger he’s
feeling in the roughness of his breathing.
 

“Where’s Tom?” he barks.

“He’s gone.”

“For good?”

“Yeah.”

“And you?”

“I’m laying low for a bit.”

“You’ve got the money?”
 
I snort in exasperation.
 
With Adam it’s all about the money.

“Yeah, I’ve got it.”

“Good.
 
You stay
wherever you are.
 
I’ll talk to Leon and
set something up for tomorrow. And I’ll get Connor to start digging around
about tonight.
 
I have a feeling the sons
of bitches are the same that have been giving us trouble, and if they are we’ll
make them sorry they ever tried anything with us.”

“Okay.”

“We need to take a closer look at the crew,” he says
as an afterthought.
 
“Maybe Tom’s not the
only traitorous cunt in the group.”

“Who the fuck knows,” I say, finally feeling relaxed
enough that I can sit on the edge of the bed.

“Tomorrow,” Adam says, and that’s his way of saying
goodbye.

“Tomorrow.”

I lay down on the bed, the soft comforter cool against
my bare skin.
 
The ceiling is a maze of
cracks and stains.
 
It’s a fucking
horrible hotel but right now it feels as safe as anywhere.
 

I could have died tonight.
 
It’s like a flash of clarity through the
fog.
 

I could have died and what would I have done in my
life that was anything worth remembering?
 
Sammie has a little box of my achievements in her closet.
 
Nothing else I’ve done since then is worth
shit.
 

Sammie.

I think about what it would have been like for her to
see my picture in the newspapers, another statistic of the criminal underground.
 
Would she have cried?
 
I know she would.
 
She’d probably be the only person in the
whole world that would mourn the loss of me.
 
And what does that say about my life, that I could have spent so many
years and gathered so little that’s important or meaningful?

I know I shouldn’t contact her again but there’s a
burning desperation inside me, a crystal clear realization that I can’t go on
like this anymore.
 
Her card is tucked
deep inside my wallet, and I pull it out, holding my phone above me so I can dial
her number.
 
It’s late.
 
She might be sleeping. Her phone might be
turned off.
 

The tone sounds against my ear, one ring, and
two.
 
On the third she picks up.

“Hello,” she says, sounding sleepy and a little dazed.