Reclaim

By Mike O'Donnell

Evil reigns when good men do nothing, and Nick Finnister's thugs have taken over the city.
Millionaire Sean Carpenter, mistaken for social worker Tod Fontwell, is beaten and stripped. When Tod is murdered and Sean discovers Finnister's evil trade in young bodies, he decides to dedicate his time and money in a campaign to reclaim the city for its residents.
He needs a man who can focus his moral crusade.
Charismatic singer Joshua Cross seems to fit the bill.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mike O'Donnell
• Release date: Jan 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9798215898833

Mike O'Donnell

Mike was a slow starter at the writing game. For the first two years of his life he seemed intent on eating and sleeping. Once these skills were mastered he did begin to make his mark, mostly with dirty fingers, lumps of mud and soft crayon. His father was in the RAF (as was his Sergeant Mum during the war) which meant that every so often the family moved on. He was therefore very nearly educated at a lot of schools; two weeks and three days at one lucky establishment. He did eventually learn to wield a pen, but mostly for activities other than writing. As all his forebears, he entered the Armed Forces. Three grandparents in the Army, both parents in the RAF, so he joined the RN. (Historical note: Great uncle George Rowe survived the Titanic and surprisingly he wasn't to blame. He was ex-RN.) The RN was extremely educational. Mike learned how to get blisters on his feet from marching and tabbing across Dartmoor, the Brecon Beacons, and a variety of parade grounds; and on his hands from sawing, chipping and filing cast iron and lumps of steel. He was professionally sick in the Atlantic, the North Sea, and up in the ice during the contretemps with Icelandic fishermen. And, because he was young he wasn't too well in a couple of ports like Hamburg and Amsterdam - water wasn't involved. He left the Navy, tried as many jobs as possible to see what made the world work, and sold a few pathetic stories. After four years servicing the Sultan of Oman's Navy and ten years trying to keep some of the Royal Army of Oman's radio equipment going he had a BA(Hons) and an MBA and sold about fifty stories.

Book preview

RECLAIM

Mike O'Donnell

Published in 2012 by FeedARead Publishing

Copyright © Michael O’Donnell

First Edition

The author asserts the moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

British Library C.I.P.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

www.antonygloster.com

1

The secret dark crawl space between the hull plates and the rusty deck of the Tallin’s after hold reeked of damp blankets, unwashed bodies, and vomit. The foetid air was separated from the cold North Sea by two centimetres of steel. The only sounds above the distant thud of the engines were the rasp of breathing, an occasional whimper and the rush of water beneath the ship.

Above decks the cold night presented a similar dark aspect under the low starless sky but unlike the black cavity below, the air blew crisp and sea-fresh as the freighter pitched and rolled towards the British coast.

Captain Chudskoy stiff-legged his pudgy body onto the swaying starboard bridge wing and hunched his head into his duffel coat. The characteristic occulting light at the end of the harbour breakwater signalled that a rich pre-Christmas payday was only a matter of hours away. He rubbed his hands as if his thick fingers itched to count the bundles of euros. The Tallin steamed to and from the Baltic regularly, but it only carried a lucrative human cargo every tenth trip.

Chudskoy returned to the bridge and called for a reduction in revs and a course correction. Regulations insisted he pick up a pilot although he could have steered the familiar passage up the wide river himself without reference to charts.

The overworked pilot was late coming aboard because three of his shift were off work from eating dubious chicken vindaloo, and so for the first time, dawn light seeped into the sky before the Tallin had been cleared by Customs and reached her mooring opposite the power station. As always on a special trip, a sheaf of banknotes had ensured that only the right Customs’ officers poked and probed their token amount. None was aware of the misery in the narrow black slot beneath their feet.

With the watery sun appearing behind the power station and lighting the glistening, deserted mud flats, Captain Chudskoy’s nervousness increased. The delay had caused a change in schedule and his Zeiss binoculars scanned the distant channel seeking the approaching substitute pick-up boat. He ordered his cargo up in rapid shifts to the space behind the warm engine-room entrance. The soiled clothes were stripped off and the journey’s dirt swabbed away with buckets of warm water from the boilers. The trembling pale, naked bodies were very young and very afraid.

*

A week later the cold had deepened, flurries of sleet came in off the river. The freeze bothered neither of the men standing in the leafless shadows away from the feeble street lights on the tree-lined bank. Their home was north of the border where driving winter snow is common. They made no attempt to remain unseen. Their watchful eyes centred on the shabby parked car, but were drawn to the warm yellow glow around the back entrance of the Augustus Hotel. Although they had been standing in the same cold position for half an hour neither man shuffled his feet nor huddled his shoulders deeper into his coat. They were big hard men, made larger by their substantial overcoats and taller by their solid, thick-soled winter boots. Both men wore gloves.

A group of Yuletide revellers stumbled out the glass door of the hotel held open by the uniformed commissionaire. Two wore paper hats, and a swaying third attempted to muster enough breath to extend a feathered party blower. The group clambered into a waiting taxi. Both men under the black tree watched expressionless. Their faces were not Christmas Eve faces.

Sean Carpenter waited in the hotel lobby until the weaving festive trio bundled themselves and their coattails inside the taxi.

Not one of your favourite nights, Denny, I shouldn’t think, he observed to the back door commissionaire returning out of the cold.

The doorman touched his top hat with a respectful finger to the elderly but elegant man. I wouldn’t say that, Mr Carpenter. Some people are very grateful that there’s a body still capable of opening doors for them. He shovelled the coins into his capacious pocket to join the others. You need a taxi, Sir?

No, thanks. I’ve only a short walk along the river from here. I’m not going on, I’m going home.

"Well, here’s a group who won’t be thinking of home for a while. Looks like you’ll have company for your walk, Sir. My guess is they’ll be heading up a few doors, to the Cockatoo Club."

Sean Carpenter nodded. The Cockatoo nightclub was next to a community centre catering for the poorer, battered members of the borough’s population. Many of the group surrounding him in the hotel lobby looked battered, but their team blazers and presence in the hotel showed they were not financially disadvantaged.

Do us a favour, Granddad, a thick Welsh voice asked. Give us a hand with this coat, won’t you? One of us seems to have lost our arms.

It was the season of goodwill to all men, and Sean found himself attempting to turn the sleeve the right way out while on the move, as his new companion tottered to keep up with the rest of his group. Sean recognised the famous badge on the pockets and guessed the rugby team were on the spree.

Outside, the two silent men watched the emergence of the swirling group of Welshmen, some of whom seemed set on practising for the Boxing Day game. An expensive cushion filched from the Augustus Hotel lobby flickered across the short line.

By the time they’d skirted the ornamental shrubbery and reached the side road, Sean’s companion had finally jerked his flailing arm into his coat sleeve after twice flapping the musty cashmere in Sean’s face.

Ta, mate. Come and ‘ave a Christmas pint with the lads, won’t you?

The man didn’t wait for a reply but surged into the ruck ambling towards the beckoning yellow and white neon sign of the Cockatoo Club.

Sean blinked after them. A mote of dust from the flying sleeve had settled in his eye. The hard contact lens was unhappy at sharing the space. The scratchy discomfort caused tears to flood the reddening eyeball.

Damn. Sean closed his eye. The lens would have to come out. His eye smarted and watered. He knew the only solution was to eject the circle of thin plastic, then tempor-arily hold it on his tongue for safekeeping. It wasn’t worth reinserting with saliva. He would be home in a few minutes.

The snowy breeze blowing off the river caused him to duck into the lee of a Mini parked beside the cobbled road. He’d lost other lenses to minor puffs of wind before now. It was the work of a second to expel the little lens and put it carefully on the tip of his tongue. The relief from the irritated cornea was immediate. He stood, hand on the Mini door handle to steady himself, head bent, as he rubbed his watery eye.

The sudden smashing punch in the kidneys sent the lens spitting into the darkness, and Sean’s legs buckled. The second blow on his right temple slammed his head into the side of the Mini roof. A series of follow-up thumps preceded a scything strike from a heel that expertly whisked his legs away. Sean’s brain registered the fact that the door of the Mini was a different colour to the roof as he bounced from the side of the car to the cobbles. Luckily, his thick overcoat and the scarf, which muffled his lower face, protected him  As he hit the ground, Sean thought of muggers, and he expected rough hands to haul him to his feet and rummage through his pockets. The attackers would be disappointed, he only carried a few banknotes, and a solitary credit card.

The first painful kick in his ribs came as a surprise. He was quite willing to yield up the contents of his pockets without more violence. The next numbing kicks to his back, thighs, and calves were barely felt as red and black waves heaved and roiled behind his closed eyes. He felt a distant sense of outrage; didn’t they know he was seventy? You just didn’t do this sort of thing to pension-age citizens.

He passed out for a moment and when he was next aware, breathing was an agony. His cheek lay on the freezing, wet cobbles. For a second he thought his attackers had left, then he felt the cold touch of the knife on the back of his neck as his scarf was ripped away. Involuntarily his body clenched, which sent a wave of pain blasting in all directions. His chest hurt so much he couldn’t cry out in protest. He felt the blade as it ran down his back, but there was no accompanying burning sensation of slicing skin. The blade tugged sharply at his belt and he felt the prick of the point as it was temporarily halted in its passage. The icy wind lanced across his back as it funnelled under the car. Savage jerks were accompanied by ripping sounds. His clothes were being torn off. His head bounced painfully on the round stones. The skin over one eyebrow split, and the rush of blood was warm.

Where’s his fuckin’ keys at? The Glasgow voice sounded distant and foggy. We’ll shove this heap in the water, after.

They’re no’ here. Here’s his wallet though. We’ll have the cash. Wee bugger’s got a platinum card, how does he manage that on...oh shite!

There was a pause in activity above him.

It’s no’ bleedin’ him. Bastart!

The expletive was repeated and accompanied by a fierce kick. Sean passed out.

He awoke to an insistent hissing in his ear. He knew he hadn’t been unconscious for long because the icy cold hadn’t penetrated deep into his body. He wanted to stop the irritating noise in his ear, but as he moved his head, a shooting pain lanced up from the base of his skull. He groaned. A bright light flashed with sharp jagged edges, expanding and contracting in his skull.

Don’t try to move. The man’s soft voice was gentle. It was so much in contrast with the cruel beating and stripping that Sean felt a surge of gratitude. He heard a rustle, and then the welcome warmth as the man’s coat was spread over him. I’ll get help. Lie still. I’ll be back in a sec.

I’m not going anywhere, thought Sean. He wished the high-pitched hiss would go away.

The man must have read his mind. The tyres have been punctured. The noise’ll stop soon.

The whistle of escaping air diminished into the background. Sean heard feet hurrying away towards the Augustus Hotel. Doorman Denny would have an ambulance here in minutes, he knew the phone number of every service a guest could possibly require; some weren’t in Yellow Pages. In the distance, he caught the short burst of a Christmas carol from a car radio, or through a rapidly opening and closing house door. It must be after midnight by now. What kind of thugs would set on a person on Christmas Day? Was nothing sacred?

The man with the comforting voice seemed to have been gone a long time. The door of the Augustus couldn’t be more than a hundred metres away. Normally there would have been more people about along this waterside stretch, but the weather and the fact that it was late on a partying night accounted for the emptiness.

Maybe the man wasn’t coming back

You didn’t need a degree in social awareness to realise that the modern philosophy in this city was, Don’t get involved. The newspapers carried reports of passers-by hastening away from prostrate bodies on the pavement. Had the man reconsidered about being a Good Samaritan? No. He’d left his coat, and judging by its weight and warmth it was expensive.

Sean had begun minuscule movements of his left hand and forearm when he heard the sound of running feet. Relief coursed through him and his gratitude was immense.

There’s an ambulance on the way. The voice wasn’t the gentle one of his rescuer. We don’t want to risk moving you, but we’ll try and get you warm. Competent fingers ran down his body checking for obvious damage. My name’s Tod. We’ll soon have you out of here. He kept up a reassuring commentary. The coat was lifted off and was replaced by a fluffy, thick blanket that enveloped his freezing calves and toes. Do you feel bleeding anywhere other than the head? Tod asked.

Sean managed to begin saying, No, but the movement of his chest brought the stabbing pain again and he passed out.

*

Sean lay warm and comfortable, a tight bandage constricting his lower chest. A dull ache inhabited most of his body. The soft rub under his chin told of a neck restraint, and the merest sideways head movement brought warning dark fringes to his vision. He breathed feather lightly.

He was aware of distant voices, squeaky footsteps, clatter, and the sound of running machinery. He couldn’t turn his head to discover the sources. A large aluminium framed window was visible in the corner of his vision. It was a grey day.

The limited view of his surroundings held his attention for several minutes before he was aware of the rubber bulb in his right hand. He concluded it was for summoning a nurse. He squeezed.

Within a count of thirty the nurse appeared. Her shoes squealed faintly on the polished floor before her face appeared above him.

Hullo, so you’re back in the land of the living.

He attempted a nod and grimaced against the hurt.

You’re going to have to remember to move carefully for a day or two. There was surprisingly little sympathy in her voice. The only thing broken is one of your ribs. Everything else is just bruises. Do you want a drink?

Sean nearly nodded. A single malt with the tiniest drop of water would be a good idea, but the tube he found in front of his mouth only yielded up thin orange juice. A flame of pain played against the rib bandage as he drank.

I’ll send someone along to get your details. We’ll get you out into the ward later. Mr Fontwell said he’d visit. He’s the one who had you brought in.

Sean wondered whether her perfunctory manner was due to the fact that she was working on Christmas Day. He could understand her being miffed, but he wasn’t delighted about having been beaten up for a holiday treat either.

A brighter grey through the window suggested that he had fallen asleep again. He was feeling hungry. Was hospital food as bad as reported? Surely not on Christmas Day? He had been invited to the Congreve’s for the traditional turkey feast. He should give them a call. And phone Jodie. She could arrange for a private room, papers, television and suchlike until he was able to leave. How long would they keep him here? At least it was the holidays, no meetings were planned for a few days. Jodie could see to details if it were longer.

He was about to give the rubber bulb another squeeze when he heard the approaching footsteps. This was no nurse. This person had leather soles and wasn’t frightened to let you know they were coming. It was reminiscent of his private secretary’s confident step.

Ah, you’re awake again. I came by earlier and you’d fallen asleep. Somehow she made it sound like an accusation.

The woman who came into view at the foot of his bed wore a charcoal grey suit that almost matched her hair. She was clearly in her late fifties but her face was unlined. If she had been in the appropriate dress she could have been taken for a Matron or a Mother Superior.

You had no papers on you when you were admitted. There was a short pause. In fact there was precious little on you when you were admitted.

Sean had the suspicion that this comment on his missing clothes was as near to a joke as the woman would attempt. She lifted a zipped folder, unzipped it, folded it back and readjusted the clipped papers. A pen appeared in her hand.

I’ll stand here, you won’t be able to see me if I sit in a chair. We need to fill in the forms. There’s no need to worry. This is a hospital, not a police station.

Sean wasn’t sure what she meant. I need a phone. His voice sounded husky and forced.

The woman frowned. What we need first are a few details. Like name, age, and where you’ve been staying. Are you an alcoholic? Do you need medication? How...

Before she was able to finish, she was interrupted. Sean had heard no footsteps.

He’s not off the streets, Madge. Can’t you tell?

But he had no clothes, he was...

He had shoes and socks, Madge. The shoes were six hundred pound a pair at least. Handmade.

Seven-fifty, thought Sean. So that’s why the nurse was so brusque. She thought he was a vagrant.

He was mugged. The man explained.

Bashed-up more like. Bashed up and stripped. The suit was two thousand pounds, and was nearly new.

A young face joined the older Madge in Sean’s field of vision. The hair was straw coloured and flopped over a high forehead, the faded blue eyes had a weary look.

Hi, I’m Tod Fontwell. I brought you here. Your wallet and everything was gone. I had a good look round in case, but I think they chucked your clothes in the river.

Sean found talking came a lot easier with practice. Madge and Tod leaned forward on either side so he could see them both without moving his head. Madge made notes when she thought it appropriate.

We’ll get a policeman down here to take a statement, Tod said, when Sean had explained what had happened. Why did they cut your clothes off? Judging by the shoes, I could imagine them nicking quality goods, but slitting them up the back?

They got the wrong chap, I think. They were expecting the owner of the car.

What d’you mean? The Mini? They thought you owned the Mini? Tod’s face quickly came closer.

I suppose when I leant on the door handle they thought it was mine. I was just taking out my contact lens. They obviously thought I was going to open the car door, that I was the owner, and it was him they wanted. He recalled dimly heard words. Yes, they saw the name on my credit card and found they’d got the wrong man.

Sean remembered he had to cancel the credit card. Another job for Jodie.

But the car’s mine. I park it there because it’s convenient for the Community Centre. There’s double yellows opposite that.

Who were they then, Tod? Madge asked. We need the police on this. She pulled out a mobile.

*

Sean thought the police sergeant could have been the inspiration for a plain clothes Dixon of Dock Green. Detective Sergeant Tim Rudge was plump, cheerful, and approaching the end of a not-very-exciting career. His nickname of Trudge didn’t stem from his name and initial alone. Nevertheless, his notebook looked well thumbed.

So you’d never seen either of the two assailants previously, Sir? The sergeant’s pencil was poised.

I have no idea. I didn’t see them tonight either, only felt them, and their boots. I’m only assuming there were two.

They were wearing boots then?

Sean closed his eyes. It was a figure of speech, Sergeant. They felt like great big football boots, but I doubt they were.

Ah, got you, Sir. Gave you a good kicking.

Sean thought it wiser not to argue about the adjective; he didn’t have the energy. They made a mistake. They weren’t after me. It looks like they were after Mr Fontwell, here.

The sergeant turned to Tod, who had been sitting at the back of the room. Sean wasn’t sure if the sergeant had even noticed him. Even Sean had forgotten that he was there. Tod had that effect.

Mistake? Really? And what makes you think that, Sir?

The explanation regarding the motley painted car was noted.

The Inspector will want to have a natter with you about that, later, Sir, he said to Tod. But for the moment you’ll find a young Constable outside. He’ll take a statement. That’ll speed things up. Tod nodded, and left. The sergeant turned back to Sean.

And they took your wallet?

And overcoat, suit, shirt, tie, and underpants.

We’ll get round to those, Sir. What exactly did the wallet look like, and what was in it?

The sergeant was a painstaking writer, and by the time Sean had described everything that took place, he felt exhausted. His aches and pains were raising their heads above the parapets and he needed a strong painkiller fired off in their direction. The nurse hadn’t shown her face since the arrival of the Law.

Sean was fumbling once more for the squeeze bulb nurse-fetcher, when Jodie Cartwright strode into the room as if she owned the hospital. The sergeant instantly recognised authority, and would have taken his helmet off if he’d been wearing one. Nevertheless he braced up and noted the time.

Sean! What on earth happened? Her tone demanded an explanation. Things rarely happened unplanned around Jodie Cartwright. And you are? she asked the policeman, once she’d been assured that her boss wasn’t on the point of death.

Detective Sarn’t Rudge, Ma-am. ‘A’ division.

Anything further can be noted when Mr Carpenter is rested and recovered from the trauma, Sergeant.

Trudge went gratefully from her commanding presence.

Jodie listened while Sean went over the events of the night. She was horrified when he came to the stripping.

Why did they do that?

Sean shook his head, or would have done but he remembered not to. He contented himself with, No idea.

That was your Knightley & Ritter suit, she said, with regret. And what about the chap who first found you? The one who fetched Mr Fontwell? Did he see the attackers?

Do you know, I didn’t tell the sergeant. I’d forgotten about him. He recalled the gentle voice and soft relieving hand on his forehead. God knows what would have happened if he hadn’t turned up. His coat kept me warm. I might have frozen to death. He was bright enough to get that chap Tod Fontwell from the Community place instead of the Augustus. You can imagine the media circus that would have brought. He felt a profound gratitude towards the person with the soothing voice for not having made his naked humiliation public property.

It’s possible he saw the attack, Jodie reflected. He turned up immediately after, you said?

Well, I’m not entirely sure about that. I may have passed out again, but it’s possible he saw something. Anyway, I’d rather like to thank him. I felt much better when he found me.

Then we’ll have to get hold of him.

2

––––––––

Tod Fontwell left the hospital after talking to the fresh-faced constable. The policeman may have been young but he asked good questions, none of which made Tod feel more settled.

Any chance the villains picked your car by mistake, Sir?

Not unless they were seriously vision-impaired, Constable. Every panel’s a different colour.

Tod’s friend, Sammy, had salvaged Mini body parts as insurance wrecks came through his garage. Tod’s car sported one yellow door, one blue one, a grey bonnet, and a mustard coloured boot. The original colour was red. Sammy promised a repaint as soon as the remaining battered body panels had been renewed from cannibalised sources. Tod’s car was as individual as his DNA.

So they were definitely after you then. Why would that be, Sir?

Tod had no idea why the batterers of Sean Carpenter should be after him. And this filled him with near panic. In his social work, he had seen countless results of domestic violence, but rarely encountered it at first hand. He was a pacifist, he hated violence. Besides, why would anyone want to attack him? He had no money, no enemies that he knew about; there was nothing remotely significant about his drab existence. His life was spent trying to help those who were incapable of helping themselves: he filled out forms, made applications, sorted out problems between wives, husbands and children, gave out information, talked to the poor, soothed the elderly, advised where he could. He tried not to take sides in any of the family disputes. Why would someone want to do to him what they’d done to Sean Carpenter? Tod shuddered at the thought. It didn’t make sense.

He came down the hospital steps, pushed his floppy straw-coloured hair out of his eyes and looked round as if expecting attackers to appear in the busy street. He’d chained his bike to the hospital car park railings. He’d had to pedal round the inner city while Sammy put new tyres on his Mini.

The thought that made Tod’s insides turn to water was that having got the wrong man, the assailants would come looking to make up for their mistake. Tod’s eyes flickered at every nearby movement. They could come from anywhere, and he would not be able to identify them before they’d grabbed him. He wore trainers, and could run like the devil, but who from? And where to? Tod had spent the last half-dozen years since University giving advice, or pointing out sources of it. Now he desperately needed some himself, and had no idea where to get it.

He pedalled out onto the main road feeling some comfort from the fact that he was surrounded by people, although he was not naïve enough to believe he was totally safe on the crowded streets of the city, even in daylight. He needed to find out who hated him. It was all a hideous mistake, but he had to know who was making it in order to point that out. As he pedalled, he mulled over recent events in his routine life. He constantly looked over his shoulder.

*

With his visitors gone, Sean Carpenter was left with his thoughts. He recalled his helplessness, as well as the controlled fury of the kicking. It was the calculated, cold-blooded precision of the kicks and the humiliating ripping off of his clothes that chilled him. This was not the frantic, unplanned attack of the financially desperate, or a dope-driven need for money for the next fix. The only human reaction had been when they realised they had the wrong man, and then it had been irritation and anger at the mistake. Sean shuddered. To be considered so utterly worthless and beneath consideration was devastating. They had shucked him out of his clothes, as bored warehousemen would empty a sackful of routine stores. He recalled the relief when the rescuer with the gentle voice turned up. He had to find the man and thank him. He could so easily have died lying naked in the road.

Sean had experienced seventy years of living and he felt like a newcomer. Brutal callousness was not part of the world he had grown up in. His privileged childhood had been sheltered, and later his wealth had protected him from the vulgar and the crude. He had always been at a cosy distance from the nasty, brutish, and short nature of the majority of city life. It was not a pleasant experience to have his nose rubbed in it in such a sadistic fashion. He had a deep sense of his frailty. He guessed he was suffering from delayed shock, but nevertheless, only unfamiliarity with tears prevented his eyes moistening with emotion.

Eventually he fell asleep; his dreams filled with dark shadows and unnamed fears.

*

Jodie Cartwright had made the best arrangements possible regarding Sean Carpenter’s welfare, despite it being Christmas holidays. She had organised a private room with a view, brought in a decent set of silk pyjamas, made sure the food was edible, the orange juice was organic and fresh, and provided a bottle of drinkable Bordeaux despite being politely informed that medication and alcohol, beyond a small bottle of fortifying stout, were not good mixers. She felt no resentment at working on a holiday. Normally she would have attended the clan gathering at the family