CHAPTER TEN
Reaching Essex, I quickly find a space and dump the car, or rather park it legally in a busy street. In the hope some other thief may steal it and take it away, I leave it unlocked with the keys in the ignition. Dusk is moving in. I’ve a good four mile hike to my father’s house. If anything can empty my mind, it is exercise. I pace away. When the streets are empty of people I will run, when they are not, I will walk.
My father lives on the edge of town, on a small estate of newly built houses. A place for non-professionals who are swimming well with the tide. All the houses are detached and have either three or four bedrooms. None has a front garden, just the largest tarmac driveway possible. I approach his house. All looks well and respectable. A BMW 3 series is parked on the drive. A light behind closed curtains hints at someone’s presence. I either walk on by or walk to the door and knock. On an estate like this, a loitering stranger is quickly sussed.
I walk to the door and ring the bell. The door is solid, UPVC and so conceals all action behind it. I ring the bell again. Seconds pass. The door opens aggressively as if releasing a pent-up wave of confrontation. There in front of me stands my father. His eyes dance with surprise, but his body remains firm and unmoved. He is smartly dressed, as he always was, wearing an open neck shirt and tailored black trousers. Physically, he is obviously older but still well-built and unafraid. His face reveals little of his past; it reveals no pain or shame. His stare gives nothing away; he could slam the door shut or welcome me in. Silence binds us. As I stare at him, my hate for him refreshes itself. Finally, with a flick of the head, he grants me permission to enter. I step inside, into a poorly lighted, cold, narrow hallway. As I pass him, my body instinctively twists to prevent our bodies touching. He pushes the door shut. I turn to face him. The muffled sound from what I assume is a television eases our continued silence. Finally, he speaks:
‘You talkin’?’
I shake my head. He steps in close and fixes his stare onto mine. On his breath, I smell whisky.
‘Did yer do it?’
I shake my head.
‘But you still need to run from it.’
Silence. I match his stare, which for the first time in my life seems easy.
‘You think I believe yer?
I shake my head. He can believe whatever he wants.
‘I can’t believe yer, can I? I can’t believe yer, cos I don’t know yer. It’s been too long. And anyway, you’re my son, who knows what a fuck-up you are.’
He laughs, genuinely amused, his stare still fixed on mine. For a second or so he stands, literally laughing in my face until his laugh cuts as suddenly as it began.
‘Follow me.’
He steps past me and again my body quietly recoils to avoid having to touch him. He opens a door and disappears into another room. I stand still and silent. The television is turned off. I hesitate, but then step forward and follow. I enter the living room. It is gently lit by two wall lights. The décor and furniture surprise me. New, modern, coordinated furniture and the latest home entertainment gadgets style the room. It all seems rather nice, comfortable and pleasant. I guess he bought the look, an entire page, from some mid-range catalogue. An over-sized plasma television steals the show. There are several framed pictures hanging on the walls, all depicting rural landscapes. I look for photos of people, family or other but see none. He is sitting in an armchair, holding a glass of whiskey and cigar. His posture is proud and arrogant. In front of the armchair, stands a glass surface coffee table on which an ashtray, a packet of cigars, a packet of cigarettes, a nearly full bottle of whiskey, a cigarette lighter and two remote controls all stand. He has seen me looking at the room and is pleased I have done so.
‘What do yer think? Alright, innit? What yer think, I’d be livin’ in some shit hole? No fuckin’ style…Fifty five year old man livin’ on his own, can’t function. Can’t use a fuckin’ washing machine. It’s all a piece of piss really. I mean, I don’t care for any of this, telly excluded obviously, but yer gotta have a certain pride, and as I say, it’s all a piece of piss. Buy quality, put it all together with neutral colours and hey fuckin’ presto, you have a fuckin’ nice room to get pissed in…I should tell yer to take your shoes off, but once in a lifetime, hey? Take your coat off. Sit down.’
I do as he says. Rucksack first then coat, placing them both on a small, decorative chair. He gestures to the second armchair and again, I do as he wishes.
‘Well, well, fuck me, my son. Come to visit his old man, hey? But why? This the last refuge of the fuckin' desperate? You think they won’t look for you here? Well yer wrong. To them you’re a killer, a twisted piece of shit who smashes life out of sweet, old ladies. They’ll look for you every fuckin’ where….Nice to see you though, hey? Every cloud has a silver linin’.’
He laughs, mildly amused, raises his glass and tips it towards me. His stare constantly sticks to mine. He doesn’t trust me. He thinks he knows my motive but can’t be sure.
‘So, you’re here for what? Food, money, drink. Hey? What? My fuckin’ support?’
I have no answer, only stillness.
‘Jesus Christ, my son. What’s it been, fifteen years? What yer been up to, hey? What you achieved? Get a glass. Get a drink.’
I shake my head. The two of us pissed would not be a pretty sight.
‘Still not talkin’. What the fuck is the point of that?! Never understood it. Didn’t yer wanna shout at me? Hey? Call me a cunt?!’
I am calling you a cunt.
‘Or take a swing? That would’ve been better. Or something worse? Maybe that’s why yer here. Come to do your old man, take some revenge. On a fuckin’ spree, are yer?’
He forces a laugh. Is he worried?
‘Here you are, my only son, and I don’t know yer…Who are yer, hey? What have yer become since the last time?...Me? Your father, I ain’t done too badly. In fact, been thinking who the fuck am I gonna leave all this to? Y’see, I own this house, every last brick, every last spec of fuckin’ dust, it’s all mine. Plus money, cash. There’s a fair old sum stashed in the bank. Well, banks, actually, seventy five gees max, if you know what I mean? Got shares, too. I’ve done alright, ain’t I? Army, builder, prison, builder, inherit a few quid, buy to let, sell at the right time, retire! Fifteen grand, that’s all I inherited and y’know somethin’, that’s what you’re gonna get, from me. Fifteen plus inflation. See how you do, hey? See if you’re better then me. Fancy yer chances, do yer? See if yer beat me.’
I already have and it wasn’t difficult. Well, maybe until tonight.
‘If yer can of course. If you have the opportunity on the outside that is. Gettin’ carried away with a bitch of a wife.’
That hurts. It was meant to.
‘Ain’t the same as what you did, or didn’t do. I got out, you, who knows. Fuck, you’re in some shit, ain’t yer!
He sips his whiskey through a smug little grin.
‘Fuck knows where the rest’s gonna go, I mean once you’ve had your fifteen. I got no one else. Couple of ex-wives but y’know, fuck ‘em. They’ve had enough already. No one else special in my life. What about you, got anyone special in your life? Papers say you’re a loner, or loser, both I think.’
I remain calm, exterior view anyway, and I keep my body still. Still, silent and passive. It may sound weak, but I know he hates it. It gives him nothing to feed off.
‘For fuck’s sake, can’t you get a computer voice or something? Y’know, type the words in and let it speak for yer? Cos like this, you might as well be a fuckin’ post or somethin’. A fuckin’ slab of concrete. It’s like, yer not even a man.’
Silence. He fills his glass with whiskey then takes the cigarette lighter and re-ignites the dying cigar.
‘I’m smokin’ again. Y’know why? Cos I know what death is. I’ve seen it. Seen it quick and seen it slow, and frankly, when it comes to me, I want it quick. I ain’t gonna be one of them silly bastards on the slow train in some old twats home, if y’know what I mean?
And what, you gonna care for me?’
Silence. A pause. He looks at me. I sense he actually wants an answer. Is he ill? He doesn’t look it. He always had the constitution of an incinerator.
‘Wouldn’t want it, son. Wouldn’t want it. Do me one thing though, promise me this, if I ever go do-lally, y’know senile, or for that matter some sort of fuckin’ cabbage, you have my permission to shoot me.’
He laughs loudly.
‘Betcha can’t wait? I’ll give you the fuckin’ gun if yer want? Nah, you’d prefer to see me senile, a dribblin’ wreck, hey?’
In my time, I’ve harnessed a fair amount of self control but even I can’t silence an ever-so-slight smile that accompanies the thought of my father as a full senile wreck. He sees this smile, and it fuels his hate.
‘What’s in yer head, hey? What the fuck is in your head? Gotta be somethin’ in there. Y’know, you could be a fuckin’ psycho! Yeah, a fuckin’ psycho! That’s all I need. They’ll probably blame me. Well fuck you, I’ll blame yer mother! I’ll sell ‘em the truth and you can fuckin’ read it.’
My mother, for the record was blameless. We, me and him, are the guilty ones.
‘Your wonderful fuckin’ mother! You might romanticize her but here’s the truth, I didn’t mean to kill her, I just wanted to hurt her, and why? I’ll tell yer why! Cos she was a dirty fuckin’ whore!
The ejector button is pressed. I fly towards him. He stands ready to fight, but in less than a second I have him pinned to the floor with my right hand gripping his throat. I am strangling him, my father, and for the first time I witness in him the fear that he once inspired in me. His struggle is futile. His strength has gone. The physical presence that he once waged so effectively is now barren and old. The only force he has left is his words. Suddenly, I pull my hand from his throat.
‘Hurt me! Fuckin’ c’mon, yer cunt!’
‘No,’ I speak.
We pause, looking at each until rage, unable to force its way out through his body comes rushing out through words. I reach for my rucksack. I will tie him up, gag him of course. I will then use any useful resource I can find in his house. Once I finished, I will leave him, alive and alone. I am innocent and have the world to tell.
Even my father has Wi-Fi. I never feel left behind, but now, just for a second, I do. With the laptop booted, I connect to the Internet. The Inbox delivers an email from an unfamiliar address, but one I know has come from Oakley. It reads:
‘Thank you, for being both simple and obvious. You made it so easy. Now you are guilty. Enjoy life while you can.’
A reply comes rushing to mind, but nothing virtual, one he will have to feel and physically touch.
I close the email and navigate to ccg.com. The site is down. Only a blank, white page is visible. The site before was a fake. Uploaded with the sole intent of fooling me, which it did with ease.
I Google "cgg" but find nothing of any importance. I add related words, but again, find nothing. Finally, I try "ccg gordon morkot" but still, find nothing. What sort of business is this silent and invisible, this closed to the public? Not one desperate for new customers, or with shareholders to please.
I search "ast", the bank who issued the credit card. The results show them to be a private bank registered in a country called Lichtenstein, a small county in Europe where money goes to loose itself, a no-questions-asked tax haven.
I need a connection. All I have is a fake website. Mind you, fake or not a website still needs to be bought and built. Their virtual fingerprints must soil it somewhere, so I Google "find out who owns website". Selecting the top result, I am taken to a site called whois.net. In a text field labeled "Look up registration details for domain" I type in ccg.com then click a button labelled search. A page opens up. The following information is revealed: the registrant is listed as a company called CV Designs. The administrative contact is Philippe Veirea. An address and phone number is also listed. I Google the phone number; an address in Paris, which matches the one listed, is returned.
I have a name and a destination. Of course, both will be several degrees removed from Oakley, and anyone else who matters, but at least the whiff of a scent has been caught.
I must hunt with caution in fact paranoia. I must assume they know in fact can manipulate the moves I am making to get to them.
Next, I Google the list of phone numbers I took from the South African’s phone. Most are mobile numbers and reveal nothing. The one landline number, which was a number called not received, shows itself to be prefixed with the international dialing code for Malta. Further investigation reveals the number to be for the headquarters of a charity called Reach, a charity offering help and advice to mainly African migrants who illegally find their way into Malta. A news article that mentions them reads:
"A migrant flood has overwhelmed the tiny sun-splashed island nation of Malta over the past five years, stirring charges of human-rights violations, taxing the nation’s tiny navy and fueling xenophobia.
The rocky archipelago, about 55 miles off the coast of Sicily, is best known as a tourist destination. But the start of summer brings mostly African migrants, crossing the Mediterranean in rickety overcrowded boats, on their way to seeking a better life in Europe. Boatloads appear almost daily.
‘All of a sudden we saw quite a phenomenon; hundreds and hundreds of migrants started appearing in our waters,’ said Lt. Col. George Frendo, the officer in charge of Malta's air, land and sea operations.
Malta's embattled government made a fresh plea last week for EU assistance after the military detained another 28 illegal migrants and Interior Minister Tonio Abela warned that hundreds of others were dying trying to reach Europe.
‘The situation right now is a complete mess, it’s a free for all,’ he told his EU counterparts, days after immigrants whose boat capsized were left clinging to a fishing net for three days while Mediterranean nations argued over who was responsible for them.
‘For migrants who reach this 122-square-mile outcropping of limestone and medieval fortifications, where more than 1,900 people reside per square-mile and jobs are scarce, the relief of survival is quickly followed by the realization that the journey is over.
Upon arrival, migrants deemed to be from "safe" countries like Egypt or Morocco are immediately deported, but the rest spend up to a year and a half locked in detention centers while their cases are assessed. A controversial charity, called Reach, which has been set-up to offer help and legal advice to the migrants, has claimed treatment of the migrants has contravened European human rights legislation."
Is this connected? Can it bring me as close as the website can? For now, I think no.
Who is Henry Brockhurst, why did Oakley want him dead? I search the London news and find the story breaking. A headline reads "Hedge fund manager murdered at home". The motive for the killing is reported as theft. I Google "henry brockhurst hedge fund" but quickly draw a blank. Not a problem, as surely the press will investigate for me.
Decision made, I must get to Paris. After printing a map of the Paris address, I search the house for extra resources - cash and food. I find and take £450, two tins of tuna and two tins of beef stew.
I leave the house, sneak silently out. Dad, I leave; I don’t even grab a final look. I’ve had my fill. It’s business now. If he sees me gone, he’ll do his best to free himself. I need time, a good few hours before the police are told of my visit. As I walk away, I conclude to tell no one of his situation, never, ever. He can sit and wait, wait for someone to come. Maybe no one ever will, but then, maybe he needs to witness that.
The sharp night air snaps at my senses. The sky is free of cloud. The moon is full, but the stars barely shine, dimmed by the fog civilization.
How do I get to France? First step Dover, or the surrounding coast. My plan is simple, stupid even, steal a boat and sail there. First though, first I must steal a car.