The Baby And The Brandy (Ben Bracken 1) Read online

  © Robert Parker

  The Baby And The Brandy

  Copyright: Robert Parker

  Published: 13th January 2014

  Publisher: Kindle Direct Publishing

  Cover image: Original image URL: http://www.flickr.com/photos/16210667@N02/6993295819/

  Title: Manchester

  Photo credit: Click*64 / Foter.com / CC BY

  Used with Creative Commons Attribution License

  The right of Robert Parker to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Author, except where permitted by law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Other books by Robert Parker:

  Ben Bracken Series

  The Deansgate Deadline (Origins 1)

  The Baroness (Origins 2)

  Catch 23 (Origins 3)

  The Things We Can’t Undo (Origins 4)

  From Steel (Origins 5)

  Ben Bracken: Origins (Contains Origins 1-5)

  Praise for the Ben Bracken stories

  ‘Really enjoyed this. A compelling, heart-stopping thriller with a really interesting and provocative central character. I certainly want to see what Ben Bracken gets up to next.’ Glyn Williams - Author & Marketing Specialist

  ‘By the end we're both amazed and appalled, but always wanting more.’ TJPGrey - Amazon Customer

  ‘I loved the darkness and mystery surrounding the main character, Ben Bracken. I hope to see more from this author, following Bracken's back story. There are lots of questions about this mysterious man that I'd love to have answered. This read was immediately intriguing’ ILOVEBOOKS

  Praise for ‘The Baby And The Brandy’

  ‘The Baby and The Brandy is a wonderful suspense-filled thriller by Robert Parker. He expertly unfolds the story of a character who has been pushed into a dark place, yet still has hope. This tale will entice adult readers, along with others who love stories of mysteries, thrillers, and crime novels.

  Though packed with action, Robert Parker is a skillful writer, and so the pacing is easy to follow, and the dialogue is brilliant. The descriptions are rich with detail and stand to enhance the reader’s imagination. Robert Parker goes far beyond expectations with The Baby and The Brandy. This is a strong introduction to the characters, and leaves a wonderful trail to follow for the next in the series. This is a book well worth a purchase, as Robert Parker continues to utilize his brilliant story telling and compelling characters in a way that will leave audiences picking up this book, and others by him, time and time again.’ GoodbooksToday.com Reviews

  ‘All the action, twists and turns you could hope for, set in a shady side of Manchester which you hope you'll never see - even if you know the city as well as Robert Parker obviously does.

  If you like to hit the ground running and not stop until you've turned the final page - then you just might have come to the right place. It's a good story and I read it in a couple of sittings, keen to know how it would work out.’ TheBookbag.com

  For Becky, the girl of my dreams,

  and Ava, the apple of my eye.

  THE BABY AND

  THE BRANDY

  1

  I take a deep breath, and remind myself of the mantra that I all too often have to repeat. My subconscious whispers it into the corners of my frantic mind, flushing the gathering doubts down figurative cerebral drains.

  I am not a bad man.

  Conversely, I feel that I am a good man. My motives are, on the whole, morally sound. But I genuinely do not know what to make of myself. I have to believe that what I am doing is right. Or for me, there is truly nothing left to live for.

  In introspective moments, I have looked hard at myself, in trying to justify my actions. I come across absurd phrases that might suit: Am I a highly-trained idealist? Or a weaponized romanticist who is forced to embrace bad for the good I crave? When I rationalize in those terms, I sound ridiculous. Perhaps everything I’m setting out to achieve is indeed both absurd and ridiculous after all.

  But I have to try. I have a duty to Great Britain. My Great Britain.

  I am running. Not an all-out, lung-busting sprint, but certainly more than a casual jog. I’m trying to find that fine balance between covering as much ground as possible, whilst avoiding raising intrigue or suspicion. It is the middle of the day after all, and this is indeed a moderately busy street.

  I can feel it. It’s been so long since I was parted from it. I revel in it, my mind bathing in it’s electric warmth. Adrenaline.

  I can see people looking at me, from a bus waiting at the traffic lights. I try to reign my stride in a touch. If only they knew what I knew. Then they might understand why I can’t adopt a more leisurely pace. I need to keep moving, and make a good distance between myself and the chaos I left behind only moments earlier.

  Hello, Manchester, I am back. It’s nice to see you, my adopted home town. I’m just sorry it’s under such circumstances.

  I’m arrowing right into the heart of the city. I’m heading away from the outskirts, and into the bustling centre, with the sole intention of hiding in the urban congestion and it’s denizens. I’m familiar with the city, its quirks and crevices, and I know just what to do when I get in there.

  The last thirty minutes have been a blur, and arranging it for digestion will take quite some doing. Yet again, I am surprised at the depths I will sink to. Will the end justify the means? I hope so. I just arranged a murder as part of a blackmail plan to escape prison. That’s a hell of a lot of ‘means’ to justify.

  Well, I didn’t just arrange it. I planned it for quite some time, but the deed itself only happened about twenty minutes ago. Half a mile behind me, in the churning bowels of HM Prison Manchester, better known as Strangeways, a riot is blazing, entirely of my creation. A necessary by-product of my plan. The suit I wear, a gigantic, ill-fitting, grey behemoth of stinking, sweaty fabric, was the Chief Warden’s only moments earlier. As is the shirt, which will soon be dripping with both our sweat, at this rate. I took both from him as I left the prison - I couldn’t very well come out in my fairly obvious prison issue jump-suit - and left him there on the steps of the prison in his underpants and podgy belly. He is such a nasty, vile, shit of a man that I don’t care. He absolutely deserves it. I twisted him inside and out, moulded the variables of his little kingdom into a shape I could use, like fashioning a key to freedom out of pieces of seemingly random information. He shouldn’t be bothering me for a while.

  I cross the road, and head north towards the Printworks, an entertainment oasis from which I can easily head to my destination, the Northern Quarter. But first, I need to make a call. And the Printworks has a bank of pay phones. It’s only a couple of minutes away now.

  It is mid-afternoon, just about. 3.40 I think. Thursday. The city has that quiet throb about it - the long-lunchers have all gone back to work by now, hiding the boozy excesses on their breath with too much gum, and the early leavers haven’t quite summoned the courage to sneak for the door just yet.

  It feels so good to walk on these streets again, for so many reasons. It is a surrogate home now, one of the only places on the planet in which I feel comfortable
. Certainly not Iraq and Afghanistan, the only other places away from these shores that I have spent a considerable amount of time. They are indeed a million miles from home, or so it felt, but it was my job - my duty - to go to those places. After what I saw there, I’m not sure I’ll ever leave quaint little England again.

  I’m a soldier. Well, I was. I was one of Her Majesty’s loyal hounds who split heads overseas in the name of Blighty, setting right the wrongs others had perpetrated against human rights and democracy. That was, until I had to make a very difficult choice, which was my undoing. Since that very day, I have been a man riddled with anger, doing bad things for a purpose ever hazier, but always because it felt right. I loved my country, or at least the parts of it that I remember, and thought I was helping.

  I spent nearly ten years away, and made it to Captain. I was the pride and joy of my family, the ‘toast of Rawmarsh’, they used to call me back in my home village in Yorkshire. It’s a different story now, such memories vaguer all the time. I’m now an outcast, ripped of my purpose and duty, estranged from my family and viewed as a traitorous killer by my peers, dishonorably discharged and sent home in disgrace. I am hated by the society I gave everything to protect.

  That same society changed so much in the decade I was away fighting for it, and now I barely recognize it anymore. I certainly don’t see it as, what I used to call, My Great Britain. It is now a shell. An ideal which still dines out on its rich history.

  But somehow, my sense of duty still remains. I can’t help it. I don’t believe in My Great Britain anymore, or trust it to do the right thing by me.

  So, I’m going to save this country from itself, one piece at a time.

  I’ll be my own judge now, thank you very much. If I feel a course of action is necessary for the greater good, I will damn well do it. This nation can’t judge me anymore - it has proven that it can’t look after itself anyway. The United Kingdom trying to judge me is like a bad parent trying to discipline someone else’s kids. Fundamentally flawed. Hence my decision to break out of prison. I’m taking matters into my own hands.

  The Printworks is just ahead of me now. I cross the street again, bobbing between trundling cars navigating the one way system, and head in via a side entrance. The Printworks is a cavernous converted warehouse, now filled with bars, restaurants, cinemas and a bank of cash machines and pay phones. I head straight to the nearest pay phone. I check the pockets of the suit to see if there is any change, one last gift from its previous host. I know I can call the number reverse charge anyway, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting to get one over on Chief Warden Harry Tawtridge just one last time.

  There is a hanky in the left hand breast pocket, which I don’t fancy rummaging through, but it does feel heavier than it should. Barring some industrial-size mucus, I’m betting that’s change. I poke a finger into the hanky, and feel metal ridges. There are a few coins there for sure, which I pull out. Two twenty pence pieces and a ten. Perfect. Thanks, guv’nor.

  I pop a twenty pence in, and dial the number that is embossed on the wall of my brain, committed to memory for this very moment. Three rings, then the call is answered not with words, but with silence.

  ‘Hold the package, await further instruction. I’m grateful, and will cover it with you as agreed,’ I say.

  I hang up. Job done. The insurance policy is in place. The last strand of the escape plan executed to perfection. I am pleasantly surprised. I’m used to acting in a reactionary way, responding to instructions or a scenario, usually resulting in violence. No, this time I had used my brains and hadn’t laid a finger on anybody. I’ll let this smugness nestle in me for a short while. Besides, it’s a damn sight better than the bitterness and anger I was stuck with before.

  I see a bar opposite, Waxy O’Connors. An Irish bar. I would bloody love a pint - perhaps a cold pint of Guinness. I could easily pop in for one, and head into the Northern Quarter after. Timings at the other end may even work out better because of it. But no, my remaining thirty pence probably won’t get me much in there, save for a bag of pork scratchings. Plus, I’m almost gagging in this filthy suit, and I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol in twenty months now - the length of my stay in Strangeways. No, let’s keep moving. There may be time to explore such avenues later, but not yet.

  I head for the front exit of the Printworks, passing the Big Issue sellers, and head left up towards the Northern Quarter. Within a couple of moments, I’m running again, inhaling the cold, grey air that only Manchester ever really seems capable of providing. It feels like an elixir. I gulp down.

  I head between a couple of streets, and see the entrance to an alleyway that I recognize. Above the mostly garish shop fascias, the second floors of the buildings along the street are still all set perfectly in the 1940’s. It gives the Northern Quarter away immediately - Manchester’s little piece of NYC. So much so that movie crews actually come to shoot period-set New York films here. It is a nice little corner where you can always head to for a nice welcome, a cold beer, and a good atmosphere.

  Damn. The beer popping into my head again. I wasn’t expecting that - to only be out of the pen for 20 minutes and already be thinking about having a beer. But it signified freedom to me when I was inside, and I certainly have that freedom now. I’ll get my chance. Besides, I’m nearly there. Church Street.

  The street is very quiet and I walk straight over to the glass doors of the apartment complex nestled between the businesses. Using the intercom system, I call up to the 5th floor flat I have been to only once before, and hope that someone is in. A female voice answers.

  ‘Hello?’ the speaker hisses.

  ‘It’s an old friend. Last time I saw you, you were in your night-clothes,’ I say, keeping an eye on the street.

  The intercom is quiet for a moment, presumably while a decision is made. I hope she recognizes either my voice or the occasion I was alluding to. She should do.

  ‘Please come straight up,’ she says. I am relieved.

  The door buzzes open, and I enter, aiming straight for the lift. I am not expecting anyone to be looking for me, such was the manner of my exit from Strangeways. If they reveal I’ve escaped, I break out my insurance plan. The authorities would come crashing down on that place like an angry ton of bricks, the regime examined and the players all revealed to have acted disgracefully while entrusted to uphold justice. So I would imagine that for all intents and purposes, Ben Bracken is holed up in his cell, patiently waiting out the remaining fifteen years of his sentence.

  Fifteen years. That should be enough time to get more than a few things done. And it’s very heartening to know that nobody is looking for me. Or expecting me.

  I get out on five and make the short walk down to the flat at the end of the corridor - the door to which is ajar. I knock and push it open a touch.

  ‘Hello?’ I call out. The door is slowly pulled open, to reveal a rather beautiful woman staring at me, her eyes filling a little, her hand creeping up to cover her mouth. She has shoulder length brown hair, and when I see her I am taken back to the last time I saw her. Bruised, frightened - in a very bad way. Her name is Freya, and last time I saw her, I saved her life.

  ‘Ben...’ she whispers, and throws her arms around me. I must cut quite the figure in my oversized comedy suit, and this is as good a welcome as I could hope for.

  ‘I’m sorry for the smell. I will explain. It’s been quite a day,’ I tell her, hugging her back. I’m genuinely glad to see her. We both went through a lot that day, and we haven’t seen each other since I sent her scampering down an emergency staircase in her nighty.

  She let’s me go, and we enter the apartment. It is as nice as I remember, warm wood floorboards under an open living space, with bare brick walls and vast floor to ceiling windows, which overlook the quaint low rooftops unique to this end of town. If I ever were to settle down anywhere, it would be in a place like this.

  ‘Tell me to get stuffed, or whatever you like, but I wondered if I could t
rouble you for a change of clothes, fifteen minutes internet access and, if you are feeling especially generous, a shower?’ I ask.

  Freya smiles and dabs at the corner of her eyes with the sleeve of her dark jumper.

  ‘Of course,’ she replies, and smiles warmly. It makes everything that I had to do to save her worthwhile, seeing her well and safe like this. Then, my happiness meter takes another unexpected northward spike. I notice a glitter on her hand, that catches my breath.

  ‘The wedding ring...’ I stutter. ‘You... and Trev?’

  ‘Yes,’ she says, looking at the ring and making that soft grin that bears pride and love. ‘After what happened, we... didn’t see any reason to wait anymore.’

  I find myself beaming. Everything I did, and the reasons I did it, has been justified. I feel strength in my purpose, steel in my resolve. I feel reinvigorated.

  ‘No time like the present. I am delighted for you both. How is the man himself? And would he mind if I borrowed a couple of bits of clothing?’

  Her smile broadens.

  ‘I think that’s a better idea than one of my dresses or something,’ she says. ‘He is doing very well. We both are.’

  ‘I am delighted. I’m just so happy for you both. Were you OK after... what happened?’

  She sighs, her expression changing a little to more pensive, but she retains the slight fundament of a smile.

  ‘Yeah. It took some time, but we both got there.’

  ‘Freya, I would love to sit here all day and reminisce with you both. But I must come clean, and I don’t just mean the shower. I’ve just got out of prison, kind of. I don’t believe that anyone is after me at all, but I don’t want to put you in a difficult position, which I acknowledge I already have by just being here. But this time, I need someone to turn to, and yourself and Trev are my best bet. I am, most definitely, not supposed to be out of prison. But I am. And I don’t want it to come back to bite you.’