Balls by Tommy Dakar
Paul sat down at his allotted position, a little nervous about helping himself to Daphne's well presented goodies for fear of dropping crumbs onto the expensive carpet or spilling tea into his saucer and so having to worry about the drops every time he took a sip. The lounge was so tidy, so clean, so stage set perfect that he was glad he had decided to wear socks with his sandals. Somehow he felt the sight of unclipped toenails would upset Daphne, and probably enrage big brother.
Ron declined the offer of a seat. He needed to strut, to pose, to turn away dramatically with a sweep of his dossier only to creep back in towards his prey with a devastating last question. His wife implored him with her eyebrows, but he pretended not to have understood the subliminal message.
‘I hope you don't believe any of this.......tosh. Eh?’
Paul was about to reply when Ron ploughed on.
‘I've never read so much,’
he wanted to say 'tosh' again, as he felt it was the very word, but,
‘twaddle in all my life. Never! That bloody Quigley. Well let me tell you something, this, this, is just a load of.....’
Oh, what the hell,
‘bollocks!’
Daphne drew in air through her nostrils and straightened her back. That will be quite enough of that, thank you. We will have nothing of the sort in here. Not in my, our, own lounge. Please don't force me to remind you again.
It was subliminally clear this time, and Ron made an apology of sorts by tightening his mouth and quivering visibly.
‘Yes, yes, anyway, as I was saying, don't you believe a word of it, Paul, not a word. You probably don't remember Dad, being so young, but let me tell you that this,’
he waved the dossier about as if it were a rat he'd caught by the neck and was about to dash to the ground,
‘this is poison, venom of the worst kind. It is slander, it speaks ill of the dead, it is not to be trusted, believe me. It is trash.’
And he hurled it towards the fireplace. Not in the fireplace as Daphne had arranged a vase of flowers there, but near enough for the gesture to be understood.
Paul had been thrown off by the word trash. He had expected rubbish. Trash was like garbage, you only really heard it on TV or at the cinema. Or maybe in music, too, come to think of it, but not from Ron's mouth. It sounded odd. But of course he couldn't admit that, couldn't ask 'did you say trash?'. This was serious stuff. So he said
‘Is Dad dead, then, do you think?’
Which stopped big brother Ron in his tracks. Had he said that? Why? Was it a Freudian slip? Oh dear, he really hadn't thought about that, at least not recently, and he naturally had no idea if his father was still alive somewhere or other or not. Reason said that he was no longer amongst us. He would be an old man now, and surely he would have got in touch, especially when Mum had died, or when Susie and Robbie were born. Or now, now that they were in the papers every day, his son in prison, his grandson in danger, his son with his balls cut off. He had better be dead.
He bent down and picked up the dossier to gain time.
‘Eh? Dead? Well, what do you think?’
‘No, it's just that you said it was talking badly about the dead. I don't know, I thought maybe you knew something I didn't. I didn't mean to say anything really. It's just that as you said that, I thought maybe....’
‘I'm sure, like all of us, he hasn't the foggiest idea, have you dear?’
No doubt this interruption was meant to help, was intended to lend a hand to her ailing husband, to give him a little more time to gather his thoughts and resume his role, but it fell flat on its face. It sounded as if Ronald had been caught unawares and had been unable to answer the question, and therefore needed his wife's help. It sounded as if, due to Sam's irresponsible behaviour, it was anyone's guess as to what had happened to him. It sounded as if, after so many years, who could give a monkey's anyway?
‘That's not the point. That is not the point, is it? I mean, we didn't come here to discuss the possibilities of his being alive or not, did we? We are here to clear his name of this f.. pucking slandering. I don't know if he's still out there somewhere, do I? Who knows? Does it matter at this stage in the game? Maybe he's alive and living a life of luxury in the Bahamas, or living in a hut in the Punjab. Or maybe he's long dead. We'll never know now, will we? Eh? We'll never know, Paul. Never. Not now.’
He let that sink in, both for Paul's sake and his own, before carrying on.
‘What matters, what really matters, is how we remember him, not if he's alive or dead. But how we remember him. Was he a wife beater? No. I swear he was not. Not once did he raise a hand to Mum. Ever. Believe me, he never laid a finger on her.’
Paul and Daphne nodded. Ron was being sincere, genuine, and he would have to have his say.
‘OK, so he drank. So what? So what? Is that so bad, is it such a sin? He's not the only one. Anyway it's all been exaggerated out of proportion. It was the done thing in those days, like smoking or going to the cinema. We shouldn't judge that by today's standards.’
‘And he did have a Catholic upbringing,’
explained Daphne with a wise nod.
Ron didn't understand the relevance of the comment but acknowledged it nonetheless.
‘But the worst, the vilest, the most..., most... cruel of all is that terrible accusation. Dad didn't do that. I know it. I just know it!’
‘Mum lied.’
There, he had said it. He had waited for his cue, he had let Ron have his little speech, but at last he had said it. He felt exhilarated.
‘I know, of course she did. Christ you've had that stuck in your head for so many fucking years. Of course she lied, she'd just been ditched, dumped, abandoned. With three kids to look after. What do you think she'd say? She lied. Is that what you want to hear? She lied about what had happened, to protect us, can't you see that? It doesn't make Dad a fucking rapist.’
Two swear words in quick succession, this was getting out of hand. Ron was flustered, Paul was being shouted down. A time out was in order, but how could she interrupt now? How could she blithely ask 'another biscuit?'
Paul could not let his brother convert a gut feeling about his father's innocence into historical truth. Because Paul was convinced of the exact opposite. Hence the self mutilation, the belated act of atonement, the attempt at an apology through sacrifice. Ron could never see that, he realised. Ron would cling to his version of events despite the overwhelming evidence, despite the uncomfortable coincidences, despite the dossiers. To him, Sam Kavanagh would always be innocent, innocent even if proven guilty. There is no-one blinder that he who refuses to see. He decided to put his brother to the test.
‘If I could prove, I mean prove, that Dad, yes, our own flesh and blood, had really done.... was truly responsible...’
Ron's face distorted into hatred.
‘You little shit! You fucking mad hippy little shit! Prove it? Prove it? How? By cutting your fucking balls off? By dragging us all down through the shit? The shit? Have you ever stopped for one fucking minute to ask yourself why? Why Ken's in prison? Why Robbie is god knows where? Why we have a security guard in here at this very minute? Eh? Why my wife feels she has to get that bastard Quigley to put this, that together? I wonder why. It wouldn't be because you thought, in your drugged up state, that it would be best for all of us if you cut off your balls? You fucking nutter. All this is your fucking fault, and all because Mum lied. Mum lied therefore my Dad's a rapist. For fuck's sake.’
An excellent performance, full of facial expressions, intonation and menacing gestures. Daphne stood up abruptly, enough is enough.
‘Well shouting and swearing and being at each other's throats will get us nowhere. You two obviously do not see eye to eye on this matter, and far be it from me to cast judgement, but I do feel we ought to try and do something. Let us not forget that poor Robbie is out there somewhere in the hands of some highly dangerous types and.....’
Carlton popped his head round the door. Any trouble?
<
She looked at the two of them with her best, stern teacher's glare.
‘Well? Shall we leave our differences to one side and do something constructive? Calm down a little? Action instead of words?’
Ron was panting heavily, half turned away but reluctant to show his back to his wife, especially now she had adopted her favourite role. Paul sat apparently unruffled, wriggling his toes in silence. Daphne spotted her opportunity.
‘More tea?’
Credit where credit is due. The Burton Police and their colleagues across the nation were the only ones, apart from those directly involved, whose sole concern was the release of an unharmed Robbie Kavanagh. The cynical would claim that this was because they feared that their already long track record of unsolved crimes would be extended even further, but the truth of the matter is that they unselfishly strove to discover the whereabouts of young Robbie and return him safe and sound to his parents, or rather parent. It is true that there were also thousands of well-wishers writing letters and lighting candles from coast to coast, emotionally borne on the trade winds of television news reports, but these were the same types who bought wreaths for princesses they had never met, or who signed petitions for change in countries they had only ever visited in colour supplements or seen from the balconies of their holiday hotels. Motives unclear.
The Police Station no longer resembled the provincial constabulary where Kenneth Kavanagh, K., had been so humiliatingly interrogated. The whole area had been cordoned off, and huge vehicles with imposing antennae lined the adjacent streets. There was a constant coming and going of uniformed men and women, accompanied by others in clothes best described as civilian, and obtaining entry to this improvised HQ was virtually impossible, as Dr. Flynch had already found out. It was difficult to say if this display of strength and materials would be sufficient to unearth young Robbie, but nobody could accuse them of not trying.
The problem was they had so little to go on. The kidnappers were clearly professionals, as they had as yet committed no mistakes. Jill's home had undergone the most up to date forensic examination, but nothing conclusive had been found. The stolen van had been burnt to a crisp, and all of the gang and their prey had vanished into thin air. No ransom note had been received, no threatening phone call. Nothing. Unless a nationwide house by house search was launched there seemed little more the police force could do other than wait for a lucky break.
Or listen to Dr. Flynch, who was, after all, a prominent figure who had had personal contact with the victim's mother. But it was not to be. Without specific permission and a special pass no-one was to enter the building, let alone have access to superior officers. They didn't care what his name was, they didn't care if he was the queen's lover, he wasn't getting in without a pass and that was that. Good day, sir. Same to you.
So he was forced to take an alternative route. He phoned up some of his journalist contacts and told him his news and views. He insinuated names and spelt out his fears and hunches. It was the rumour mill, he knew, but it was all he could do to help. To make it all more attractive he decided to spice it up a bit. Somebody, he insinuated, needed to go poking their nose into the unhealthy behaviour of certain community members, because that someone would then possibly get a big surprise, and maybe even a huge reward. Because this could even go political if played right. That's right. Political.
The following day various newspapers 'discovered' the extreme environment of much of Burton's neighbourhoods. Could this help explain the mindless attacks suffered by prominent citizens, had this anything to do with the unfolding of recent events? Fertile ground indeed. Now that ideology had raised its shaven head, the Kavanagh Saga could be used to explain, prove, justify, or underline just about any theory imaginable. It became the moral in everybody's tale. To those on the left of the spectrum it represented the drastic consequences of intolerance, ignorance and violence. Those who had inherited the Right talked of moral decay, of illegal immigration, of the loss of traditional values. Those caught in the middle or at the edges spoke of second languages, urban design, public transport or high protein diets. All of them would drive home their point with an example from the Kavanagh cases.
Bobby Hornsby wass playing with his knife, the very knife that would mark his destiny. He showed it to Robbie. Look. A real bone handle. Unique. He couldn't speak in case Robbie was one day miraculously freed and able to recognise his voice, but in his head he was telling him a story. He was telling him how his uncle had made the knife while doing national service in Gibraltar. It was not true, his uncle had bought it from a Moroccan, but Bobby didn't know that, or even want to know that. He twirled it slowly so the blade gleamed in the faint light. Now he was stalking Mr. Swan. He knew his routines, his favourite haunts, his way home. He rounded the van and...Swift, deft, deadly. A very special knife, held up for your mother to see, her eyes full of fear and respect. He put it back into its sheath and into his back pocket, his cruel smile hidden under his balaclava. He found the look of horror on his victim's face immensely satisfying and decided to leave him alone for the time being.
Robbie was taking a crash course in fear and suffering. He had already understood that, like intelligence and love, they come in varying degrees. The boss, or leader, or whoever, and the thin one with military boots were ok. They treated him with disdain, as if he didn't really exist, they were rough and insensitive, but they avoided all personal contact. To them Robbie seemed to be no more than a character in a video game. They were menacing, no nonsense types but somehow their business like manner made Robbie feel he knew what was coming next, and therefore less afraid.
The hairy one, the big, burly one was weird. He sat on a chair and stared at Robbie for ages, his eyes flitting around the room, toying with his knife. Wa he going to kill him or release him? Neither. He just rolled it over and over in his hand. Odd.
But it was the shortest one he feared most, the one with pale lashes and icy blue eyes. He was evil, he was a torturer, he was the one who racked it all up to its maximum. He appeared to enjoy striking unexpected blows, or making him kneel for hours on the cold concrete floor, or not letting him go to the toilet then flying into a rage when he wet himself again. He spat in the drinks and coughed all over the food. Luckily he wasn't there as much as the others, but his stints were by far the worse.
A helicopter was heard in the distance, and footsteps mix with muffled voices outside the warehouse. A machine started up, as it did most days, and he thought he could even make out the sound of music, a radio probably, but he couldn't be sure. He wanted to cry, to sleep, to shower, to see his Mum and Dad and sister and friends and all of them again, please It was a nightmare, an endless exhausting nightmare, and he longed so much to wake up.
Another victim rolled of the production line....
….as a long, grey car, with visible scratches running from bonnet to boot, pulled up outside the Morton's home in Burton's Badlands. A suited, pot-bellied man with a goatee beard emerged, rounded the car and opened the passenger door. A woman appeared, dressed as if she were about to give a speech at the vicarage tea party. They simultaneously smoothed themselves down and re-placed their hairdos. A hippy, or drop-out of sorts scrambled out onto the pavement, did a few yoga like stretches, and fell into line behind the couple.
Miss Catherine Prior, alone at home, watched them from an upstairs window. She did not recognise them. (That had been Daphne's brainwave – leave Carlton back at home). Who could they be? What could they possibly want? Were they campaigning, or selling something? If so, why the misfit? The police? Undercover agents? Unlikely, she thought, in a car like that, but you never know. She decided not to answer the door, let them knock to their heart's content, there is no-one home. They would soon tire and move on. She was about to take a step back from the window when Daphne spotted her, full in the eyes. She reeled back in panic. What could she do now? Wait for them to go away? But they now knew she was
Ron pressed the bell, but heard no electronic melody. Typical. So he rapped on the door, hoping to find a half way house somewhere between the polite knock of Mormons and the insistent battering of bailiffs. He pulled himself up to his full height and adopted his best politician's stance, unsure what to expect, as he had been warned of Mrs. Morton and her brusque manner. He felt up to the challenge. She did not know who she was dealing with. He had a few tricks to put people like that in their place. He would say, 'now look here my good woman', or 'I feel it only fair to warn you that..'. Some legal jargon would often help to tip the balance, too.