Just a bloody accident, Frank. Just a bloody accident!
As the cell door banged shut behind him, Frank sat on the edge of his bunk, staring at the floor. Head in hands, he tried to shake off the feeling that he was drunk, maybe even having a bad dream, that he would wake up in the morning and laugh at the mad world he’d imagined himself to be in.
But all too soon, Frank found that his world was now restricted to a 3 by 2 metre cell that smelt like a urinal - that this was to be his home for the next ten years!
The first two years had been the hardest, and he’d only survived them by delving into the depths of his hatred for Jeffrey Hunter. Many a night, while listening to the shouts of the other prisoners, unable to sleep, he’d fantasize about how he would kill the big man when he got out. It would be a slow and painful death, a befitting payback for what Jeffrey Hunter had done to him.
During his first three months inside prison, Frank had been assaulted by a couple of prisoners from another floor. Both big men, with shaven heads and numerous tattoos. They shared a cell and, it was rumoured, a bunk.
They were waiting outside his cell, one either side of the door, as he left to take a shower. A hard punch to the stomach left him breathless, unable to defend himself. They dragged him back inside and threw him onto the bottom bunk.
Frank’s face smashed against the metal frame, splitting his upper lip, giving him a scar which he carried to this very day.
After stuffing a pair of dirty rolled-up socks into his mouth, they took turns, grunting foul-mouthed jokes at each other as they pounded into him.
Frank had no idea how long the attack had lasted, only that when it was over, he was left feeling debased and worthless. He dressed himself with trembling hands then staggered out of his cell, straight into a warden on the landing outside.
The warden smiled at him, taking his arm. “Perhaps we’d better get you along to the infirmary, old son,” was his only comment.
The medic who stitched up Frank’s lip made such a mess of it that he was left with a permanent scar. His lip they could treat, but his pride they could not.
Frank refused to say who had attacked him, putting his injury down to a fall on one of the landings. Of course everybody knew what had happened, which he found the most difficult thing to deal with.
Frank vowed that he would never suffer such a deeply humiliating experience again, and spent months in the gym, learning how to box and lift weights, along with some simple self-defence tricks that an ex-marine taught him.
After the assault, Frank had grown morose and full of bitterness, his self-hatred rising to the surface in attacks of rage, during which he sometimes smashed up his cell. These uncontrollable rages deeply frightened him, but he eventually found ways to contain them. However, he was never completely free from the disgust, guilt and anger that now drove him, and at times like these, would sit in isolation and wonder how his daughter was and what she might be doing.
The years passed slowly, the only relief from the overwhelming monopoly, the regular change of prisons the system imposed on him. Occasionally he would receive a picture of Mandy from Marcia, which would lighten his day and bring a short burst of happiness, before he would once more decended into the black hole that had now become his life.
Marcia had visited him only the once. It had been a strained visit. She’d told him she was pregnant and was about to move back with her parents, leaving him in no doubt that he would be allowed no contact with his daughter when she was born.
Ten years later, Frank finally walked out of prison into a world that he no longer knew. The weather was overcast, the streets covered with a light frosting of snow. He’d been given a new set of clothes and some money. In his pocket was the address of a half-way hostel at which he could spend the night and the business card of his new Social Worker. He was out on licence and would have to report in regularly.
Frank’s first surprise was the person who fell into step beside him as he walked along the slippery pavement away from the gates of the prison. ‘Pinky’ Bonner hadn’t worn well over the years. His eyes were rheumy and his stature stooped. He looked to be about twenty years older than Frank remembered him, rather than the ten that had passed.
“Fuck off Pinky,” Frank said to the bent old man.
Pinky kept pace with him, fumbling in his coat pocket for something. Finally, giving a grunt, he pulled out a piece of paper. Frank took it and watched him scurry away between two parked cars and across the road.
Pinky hadn’t said a word, hadn’t so much as acknowledged Frank’s existence. Frowning in concentration, Frank studied the paper. Written on it in a scrawl were the details of a bank account, and a Username and Password.
He’d never used a computer, but had read about them and seen programmes on the TV. He turned the paper over and was gripped by a sudden chill. Written on the back was a message from Jeffrey Hunter.
In the note his old boss explained how he knew Frank would probably never forgive him for what had happened, but that if he could bring himself to meet up, Jeff would explain everything. In any event, the bank details would give Frank access to two hundred thousand pounds - his payback for all the years he’d spent in prison.
Just a bloody accident, Frank. Just a bloody accident!
Frank felt the world close in, clamping his teeth together as the anger mounted inside his head. He pushed down the tide of rage that threatened to engulf him, taking deep, long breaths. He hadn’t had one of these attacks in years.
Finally in control of himself again, he unclenched his fists and tossed the scrunched up note onto the pavement, where it tumbled along in the breeze.
He had no intention of taking that bastard’s money, not after he’d fucked up his life so royally.
Chapter 11
As the sun caressed his face through the glass, Frank closed his eyes against the glare. It had turned into a hot day. He was sitting in Katie’s Café, mobile clutched in his hand, studying the photo Rachael had sent him, waiting for the school lunch-break. When it finally came, he almost missed the boy as he walked from the playground with a group of other pupils.
Leaving the café, Frank followed the youth down Haverstock Hill. They turned right at the Underground Station and up Adelaide Road. After a further five-minute walk the boy turned into a low block of flats and Frank followed him up the staircase. At the top landing the boy entered a flat.
After taking note of the number, Frank headed downstairs and made his way back to the café. Over another coffee, he considered his next move. Being a small-time drug dealer meant the boy would be suspicious, which would make getting him on his own difficult.
Frank felt drained. He hadn’t been taking his usual daily runs and was missing the wide open spaces of the Highlands. “Well, that’s easily taken care of,” he muttered.
Paying the bill, he walked out into the sunshine and caught a bus to Camden Town to look for a decent sports shop.
Camden Lock was busy, tourists flocking in from the surrounding areas to visit the outlandish tattoo bars and punk clothes shops lining the crowded pavements. He spent the next two hours wandering from shop to shop, until eventually, off Parkway, he found what he was looking for and slipped inside the brightly lit store.
Inspecting the large selection of trainers, Frank picked one up, weighing it in his hand. A slim shop assistant approached and they spent the next fifteen minutes discussing the merits of the different footwear before he made a choice.
Frank left the shop with a pair of expensive Nikes, some shorts and a running vest, all neatly packed into a new rucksack.
Looking around for somewhere to change, he spotted a bar fronting the Regent’s canal. Inside a lone customer sipped at a pint of beer. He was a small man in a flat-cap and had a half-eaten sandwich clasped in his hand.
The barmaid smiled as Frank entered, pleased to have something to do. He smiled back and ordered a sandwich and a coffee, then sat at the bar searching through the rest of Mandy’s p
hone numbers while he waited for his meal. None of the numbers meant anything to him.
After eating his sandwich, Frank walked through to the toilets, changed into his running gear and folded his clothes into the rucksack. Walking back into the bar, he paid his bill and made for the door. Just before he reached it, a low wolf-whistle sounded and Frank glanced back over his shoulder.
“Nice legs,” the man at the bar called with a salute of his half-empty glass.
Frank chuckled to himself and set out for an invigorating run along the nearby canal path.
His run took Frank passed seven or eight long-boats moored in a long line. The cabins were picked out in reds, yellows, blues and greens - swirling splashes of colour made vibrant under the sun that slanted down across the tops of the houses on the far bank. Spots of light danced on the dark green water swirling its lazy way around a slow bend ahead. It was a perfect day for a jog.
Frank ran at a steady pace, his new trainers hitting the path with satisfying slaps. Fifteen minutes later he passed under a road bridge, its cast-iron supports weeping brown stains down the brickwork, the patterns bringing to mind bloodstained tears.
Rounding a sharp bend in the towpath, Frank slowed, moving to one side as a bike approached from the rear. Two young boys cycled past, swerving their bikes around to face him. A couple more skidded to a stop behind.
Frank recognised Gary straight away. The other boy was older and a lot bigger. “This him?” the bigger youth asked.
Gary nodded. They all dismounted, circling Frank as he stood silently watching them.
“Why you been following him?” a tall black youth asked, tipping his chin at Gary, sucking air between his teeth to show his contempt.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about mate,” Frank said, leaning forward slightly as the four teenagers moved closer.
“You followed me home from school,” Gary said flatly.
“Fucking pervert,” another muttered.
Frank wasn’t frightened, he’d faced down bigger threats than this in prison, but he didn’t want to blow his chances of finding out what Gary knew by frightening them off if he could avoid it.
The teenagers bunched together, making a game of trying to intimidate him.
Frank kept calm, backing away step by step until he fetched up against the arch of the bridge. Now at least no one could attack him from behind.
His position gave the group more confidence. They thought they had him just where they wanted him. “So what you got in the rucksack then?” the black youth said.
This wasn’t working out quite as Frank had hoped when he’d followed Gary home from his school, but he’d have to make the best of it. He reckoned he had two choices - fight or give them what they wanted - or perhaps there just might be another way.
“Why don’t you come and find out?” he said.
The boy on his left threw a punch. It was slow and awkward. Frank saw it coming and turned with it. The punch hit him just under the eye and he dropped to one knee, catching the black youth’s foot as he kicked out, gasping loudly, jerking it into his side, doing his best to make it appear as though a powerful kick had been delivered, instead of the glancing blow it really was.
Careful not to make eye contact, Frank slipped the rucksack from his shoulders, tossing it on the ground at the youth’s feet, trying to appear frightened.
Picking it up the boy rummaged around inside for a few minutes.
“Sod all in here,” he said, throwing it into the canal. “Where’s your wallet then?”
“I don’t have one,” Frank said, holding onto his side where he’d been kicked, grimacing as though badly hurt. “Please don’t hurt me.”
Frank’s plea seemed to release any last restraint on the group’s behaviour and they attacked him again, punching and kicking until he fell onto his side, protecting his head with his arms.
The blows eased as one of the boys pulled Frank’s pockets inside out, then tore the trainers from his feet. Frank rode with the punches, not sure how much longer he could keep up the pretence without really getting hurt.
Fending off more blows, Frank managed to struggle back to his feet. He had to end this quickly. Deciding that his best bet would be to dive into the canal and make his get away, he stumbled towards the bank. The boys would never bother to follow him into the murky water, that much was certain.
“Oi! You lot!” The shout brought everyone to a standstill.
Glancing up, Frank saw two men looking down at them from the bridge parapet . The boys scattered, jumping on their bikes and riding back along the towpath the way they had come.
“You okay?”
Frank nodded, rubbing his cheek. “Yeah, thanks mate.”
“Little bastards deserve locking up. Long as you’re okay then,” the man shouted back.
The heads disappeared over the parapet again and Frank was left contemplating his half-submerged rucksack. Searching along the bank he found a suitable branch and used it to retrieve his sodden clothes.
After checking to make sure that the boys really had disappeared, he collected his wallet and mobile from under the stone where he’d hidden them as he fell to the ground, then headed up to the street level to find the nearest laundrette.
Ten minutes later Frank was bundling his wet clothes, shoes and rucksack into a dryer. Then, after asking the attendant to keep an eye on his stuff, he headed off to find somewhere to stay.
As he walked along in bare feet, trying to dodge any suspicious looking lumps on the pavement, Frank mulled over what had just taken place. He’d need to be a lot cleverer than he had been so far if he wanted to get the answers he was looking for.
Chapter 12
Gary Simpson was happy. If things went well, after he’d taken Jenny to the party tonight, he’d get his pay-off. Two hundred quid would go a long way towards the I-Pad he wanted.
The canal path was empty today, even the usual dog-walkers absent for a change. He smiled, recalling the pervert they’d beaten up here yesterday.
“What are you smiling at?” Jenny asked.
Gary shrugged as he looked at the thin girl holding his hand. She picked at her bottom lip, her braces dark against white teeth. She wasn’t pretty but that hardly mattered. It never did.
“Come on,” he said, pulling her along the path towards a large, overgrown bush where he kept his stash. “We haven’t got all day.”
He led her around to the back of the bush where its branches had been broken off to make an opening into a large interior space. Picking up a piece of wood, he dug into the soft earth, uncovering a small plastic bag, which he held up and shook.
“Party time,” he chortled.
Gary carefully opened the snap closer, picked up a discarded CD case and tapped out some of the pinkish powder. He chopped and bumped the cocaine with a plastic library card into lines, then pulled a tampon applicator from his pocket, holding it out to the girl. Her eyes - alight with anticipation - didn’t leave the CD case as she snatched the applicator from his hand. Holding the tip against her nose she sniffed deeply, then changed nostrils to take the second line. Finished, she sat back against the bush-trunk with half-closed eyes, waiting for the rush to hit.
Gary sneered at her and tapped out a small quantity of cocaine onto a cigarette paper. Twisting it tightly, he swallowed it with a gulp of water from a plastic bottle. He’d heard too many horror stories about people losing their noses to want to snort. He preferred snow bombs.
Sitting back, arms clasped around his knees, he waited, and as the first signs of euphoria came, stared hard at the girl.
Was she a virgin?
He took a deep breath, lowering his gaze, trying to remember her name. Whatever, he’d fuck her before taking her to the party later. Why should some rich old bastard have all the fun?
*
Frank was being extra careful this time, staying well back while he followed the boy from his school. He had no intention of getting caught twice in as many days.
r /> It was easier to follow the boy without being seen this time, because his companion – a plain looking girl, thin, with short brown hair - was holding his attention. The way she jerked her head at every step reminded Frank of a bird he’d once seen at London Zoo.
The couple made their way towards the canal where Frank had been attacked yesterday and he trailed them quietly, checking nobody else was nearby.
The boy took the girl by the hand and led her down a set of steep steps to the towpath below. Frank kept well back behind the staircase’s solid brickwork as he watched where they went. He cursed silently when he saw how straight the canal was at this point. If he stepped out from the buttress on to the path, he chanced one of them spotting him.
Taking quick peeks, he watched as they passed under a road bridge, where they unexpectedly disappeared from sight. He waited until he was sure they wouldn’t reappear, then set out after them.
Reaching the far side of the bridge, Frank slowed, his soft-soled trainers making no sound as he eased towards the edge of the abutment. The embankment beyond the bridge widened out. It was covered with large, thick bushes, set between clumps of high grass.
Spotting the disturbed undergrowth leading around to the far side of the thickest clump of bushes, he crept closer, straining to hear the smallest sound, but apart from the steady background hum of the overhead traffic, and the gentle lap of water, he heard nothing.
Feeling like some character out of a comic cartoon, he took long, high stepping strides towards the back of the bush so as not to make any sound. Nearing his target he heard someone speaking.
“Stop it. No!” A girl’s voice, high and panicky.
“You owe me, you stupid bitch!” This voice deeper, unmistakably the boy’s.
Frank eased himself closer.
“Leave off Gary!”
“So you got any money then? No, you don’t do you? You owe me for the stuff, so come on, just a quick suck. It won’t hurt you. You got to pay me somehow, you silly tart.”
Frank pushed his way into the bush.
The boy was sitting with his back against a large rock, legs splayed, trousers undone. One hand gripped the girl’s wrist, the other was bunched in her hair as he forced her head down over his lap. It was obvious what he was trying to do.