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Authors: J Jackson Bentley
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it to the chair beneath.
“That wasn’t terribly hospitable, Dad,” Ben said through gritted teeth. “Your son comes to see you and you try to shoot him. Anyone would think you were an impotent sociopath with mummy issues.” Ben picked up the gun by placing a pen in the barrel and laid it on the windowsill, well out of Den’s reach. Then, not very gently, he wiped the knife handle to obscure his prints as it still stood protruding grotesquely from Den Grierson’s leg.
The blood was soon flowing freely from Den’s thigh, but not as freely as it would have been flowing had Ben clipped the femoral artery. No, Den would live, would be imprisoned and would die alone in a cell. Ben looked in on Barty, who was sitting upright in the kitchen, his ba ck against the washing machine.
“Call an ambulance!” he pleaded weakly. Ben said he would send Mikey up on his way out. As Ben took one final look at the old and broken figure that was once the fearsome Dennis Psycho Grierson, the old man spoke to his tormentor.
“I’ll come after you! I’ll kill you and I’ll kill your sister an d anyone else you care about.”
Ben shook his head sl owly.
“Do you really think I care about some half bred, feral female offspring you might have produced? You probably fathered half the kids in this block with young girls who didn’t know that the great Dennis Grierson was just a sicko who wasn’t man enough for a grown woman, who couldn’t satisfy anyone over thirteen.” Ben knew he needed to leave. He was beginning to lose it now.
“The girl I’m talking about isn’t any half breed; she’s your sister, good and proper. She’s your twin!” Den laughed a sneering and dirty laugh, which was only silenced by Ben’s fist dislocating his jaw.
***
“You weren’t up there long,” Mikey commented as Ben passed him, wholly unaware of what had happened upstairs in the flat whilst h e had been on patrol down here.
“No. Den isn’t feeling well. He wants you to go up and see him. No hurry, though.” Ben smiled and waved at Mikey as he departed. Mikey raised his hand and waved back. ‘That Aussie bloke is all right’, he thought to himself.
Chapter 11
Vastrick Security Offices, Nr 1 Poultry, London.
Monday 15 th August 2011; 11:30am.
Dee Hammond squirmed around uncomfortably in her office chair. At seven months pregnant, there no longer seemed to be any such thing as a comfortable sitting position. Dee had seen her friends at seven months and they had seemed quaintly rounded, but her own stomach was so extended that she felt as though there might be two or three babies in there. She typed onto her Facebook status page: “Top three things I miss being pregnant; spicy food, lying face down and bladder control.”
She closed down her computer and began wading through the office expense accounts. Heading up the Vastrick London office was a nightmare of administration and form filling, but fieldwork was out of the question for the time being. As well as being heavily pregnant, she was still recovering from her latest bullet wound; that made three in eighteen months. No wonder Josh wanted her to be desk bound for a while.
The telephone rang and Angie on reception told her that they had a visitor, a Mr Ben Fogarty. Dee asked Angie to send him along to her office and in the interim she closed the admin files and retrieved the Fogarty file from her desk. Patrick Fogarty had warned her that his son was likely to c all in whilst he was in London.
Despite knowing that Ben Fogarty was tall and a rugby player, Dee was still surprised by his size. He filled her doorframe. Dee rose from her chair, with difficulty, to shake his outstretched hand. He was quite attractive and relatively undamaged for a rugby player. His smile was genuine and disarming, and Dee could imagine women warming to the dark floppy hair a nd the startlingly bright eyes.
“You are rather larger than I’d imagined,” Dee blustered, blaming
“That wasn’t terribly hospitable, Dad,” Ben said through gritted teeth. “Your son comes to see you and you try to shoot him. Anyone would think you were an impotent sociopath with mummy issues.” Ben picked up the gun by placing a pen in the barrel and laid it on the windowsill, well out of Den’s reach. Then, not very gently, he wiped the knife handle to obscure his prints as it still stood protruding grotesquely from Den Grierson’s leg.
The blood was soon flowing freely from Den’s thigh, but not as freely as it would have been flowing had Ben clipped the femoral artery. No, Den would live, would be imprisoned and would die alone in a cell. Ben looked in on Barty, who was sitting upright in the kitchen, his ba ck against the washing machine.
“Call an ambulance!” he pleaded weakly. Ben said he would send Mikey up on his way out. As Ben took one final look at the old and broken figure that was once the fearsome Dennis Psycho Grierson, the old man spoke to his tormentor.
“I’ll come after you! I’ll kill you and I’ll kill your sister an d anyone else you care about.”
Ben shook his head sl owly.
“Do you really think I care about some half bred, feral female offspring you might have produced? You probably fathered half the kids in this block with young girls who didn’t know that the great Dennis Grierson was just a sicko who wasn’t man enough for a grown woman, who couldn’t satisfy anyone over thirteen.” Ben knew he needed to leave. He was beginning to lose it now.
“The girl I’m talking about isn’t any half breed; she’s your sister, good and proper. She’s your twin!” Den laughed a sneering and dirty laugh, which was only silenced by Ben’s fist dislocating his jaw.
***
“You weren’t up there long,” Mikey commented as Ben passed him, wholly unaware of what had happened upstairs in the flat whilst h e had been on patrol down here.
“No. Den isn’t feeling well. He wants you to go up and see him. No hurry, though.” Ben smiled and waved at Mikey as he departed. Mikey raised his hand and waved back. ‘That Aussie bloke is all right’, he thought to himself.
Chapter 11
Vastrick Security Offices, Nr 1 Poultry, London.
Monday 15 th August 2011; 11:30am.
Dee Hammond squirmed around uncomfortably in her office chair. At seven months pregnant, there no longer seemed to be any such thing as a comfortable sitting position. Dee had seen her friends at seven months and they had seemed quaintly rounded, but her own stomach was so extended that she felt as though there might be two or three babies in there. She typed onto her Facebook status page: “Top three things I miss being pregnant; spicy food, lying face down and bladder control.”
She closed down her computer and began wading through the office expense accounts. Heading up the Vastrick London office was a nightmare of administration and form filling, but fieldwork was out of the question for the time being. As well as being heavily pregnant, she was still recovering from her latest bullet wound; that made three in eighteen months. No wonder Josh wanted her to be desk bound for a while.
The telephone rang and Angie on reception told her that they had a visitor, a Mr Ben Fogarty. Dee asked Angie to send him along to her office and in the interim she closed the admin files and retrieved the Fogarty file from her desk. Patrick Fogarty had warned her that his son was likely to c all in whilst he was in London.
Despite knowing that Ben Fogarty was tall and a rugby player, Dee was still surprised by his size. He filled her doorframe. Dee rose from her chair, with difficulty, to shake his outstretched hand. He was quite attractive and relatively undamaged for a rugby player. His smile was genuine and disarming, and Dee could imagine women warming to the dark floppy hair a nd the startlingly bright eyes.
“You are rather larger than I’d imagined,” Dee blustered, blaming
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