No. 17 by Tom Maxwell

He'd done it ever since he was a kid. Whether he was taking exams or hitting on girls, anytime he got nervous, he gnawed on his thumb.

  But Dave and his brother Andy weren’t kids anymore . . . life was suddenly, serious.

‘I’m a dead man,’ said Dave, pacing frantically around the kitchen. ‘I’m a fucking dead man.’

Andy took another draw on his cigarette. He was having difficulty taking everything in. One minute he'd been watching telly, the next Dave was in the doorway, white as a sheet, and babbling about how he owed money to a gang in the city that no-one, least of all his kid brother, should be stupid enough to run up a debt with. It was all too much. Andy hadn't seen Dave for – what was it? Two, three years now.

Not exactly an average Tuesday night.

Andy stubbed out his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray. Immediately lit another.

He looked up at Dave, that fucking thumb, it was starting to bleed now.

‘How much is it?’ he said.

‘Five gees,’ said Dave. ‘Five fucking grand . . . you’ve got to get me out of this, Andy. They’re gonna gut me like a fish.’

Andy shook his head, ‘I don’t have that kind of money. Jesus fuck, I don’t know anybody that has that kind of money. What the hell can I do?’

Dave grabbed his brother by the collars, ‘Help me disappear.’

Andy shook his head again, threw off Dave's hold, ‘I can’t deal with this,’ he spat.

‘What?’

Andy shouted: ‘I said, I can’t deal with this!’ He stood up, banged his fist on the table. Dave took a step back, the thumb took another hit.

‘You could've done anything with your life, Dave. You’re not fucking stupid. You’ve got brains. Least I thought you had. You could've gone to university, got married, kids, all the stuff normal people do. But you disappear out of my life for three years and then you turn up on my doorstep . . . to dump this shit on me. Look at you. You’re fucking pathetic!’

Dave looked like he was about to argue, dropped the thumb and made an 'O' of his mouth, but Andy continued to shout.

‘I can’t help you, Dave. I’m happy with my life. All right I’m not rich and I’m not married but at least I’m not on the fucking run. You got yourself into this shit, now get yourself out!’

Dave took another step back, collapsed into the corner chair and began to sob. Andy’s heart raced so fast he felt it would burst out his chest at any moment. His head throbbed. He looked down at his kid brother, placed a hand on his shoulder, ‘You’re a dead man, bro.’

Dave looked up and brushed his long hair out of his eyes. Eyes stung red with tears. His brow furrowed.

* * * *

BANG! Andy laughed as the football burst like a balloon on the school railings. Dave was in tears, it was his tenth birthday - double figures now, a big deal - but his present had been ruined.

‘Don’t be such a baby, Dave,’ sneered Andy.

Dave’s wailing grew louder.

‘I said, don’t be such a fucking ba . . .’

He couldn’t finish the sentence. Dave was on him, pounding his fists into his face. He tried to shield himself as blow after blow rained down. Then Dave’s face started to change.

His hair grew longer, his puppy fat disappeared and his features became more defined as Andy realised it wasn't an old memory, they were back in the present. Back in his flat.

Dave’s crying turned to laughter as he smashed fists into Andy’s face. He was smiling, and grinning, as he belted fuck out his own brother. Andy could feel his bones begin to crack, his eyes and cheeks turning to jelly. He began to scream.

* * * *

The pain was unbearable. Searing. Grinding. Aching. He felt like he had been carved open like a Christmas turkey. Andy tried to open his eyes but it was no good. Putrid gunk welded them shut.

Bright light shone through his eyelids, rendering his vision a sea of blood. The smell of disinfectant crawled up his nostrils and into his brain.

He thought he heard a scuffling sound nearby. ‘Who’s there?’ he croaked.

Silence.

He tried to rub his eyes but his arms felt numb, heavy. With some effort, he managed to drag his hand up to his eyes and ripped away the crusts.

He squinted into the light as dark spots danced around the room. Everything seemed white. Soulless.

It was a hospital. He knew that now.

‘Hello!’ he called out, feebly.

Nothing.

His chest felt like a JCB had driven over it. He lifted up the thin bed sheets. He had swathes of bandages around his torso.

The door burst open and a woman dressed in a long white coat rushed in. She was smallish. Pretty. Brown hair with hazel eyes. Andy liked hazel eyes. She looked oddly familiar. He suddenly felt embarrassed by his appearance and gripped the top of the bed-sheets tightly.

‘What’s going on?’ he said. ‘What happened?’

‘It’s okay, Mr Vaughan,’ said the woman, as she adjusted his drip. ‘Everything’s okay.’

She smiled at him kindly. ‘Do you remember anything about the accident?’

‘What accident?’

‘I think that’s a no. It was a bad smash, Mr Vaughan. You’ve been drifting in and out of consciousness for almost a week since the operation.’

‘Operation?’ His chest throbbed as he as repeated the word.

‘Like I said, Mr Vaughan, it was a bad smash. You’re lucky to be here at all. There’s someone outside who’d like to see you. He’s been waiting all day.’

‘Dave?’

The woman’s smile faded. ‘Just sit tight.’

She walked out, leaving Andy with a million unanswered questions. Before long the door opened again and in strode a tall man in a dark suit. He pulled up a chair next to the bed.

  ‘Mr Vaughan?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Mr Andrew Vaughan?’

‘Er, yeah . . . look, what is this?’

‘I'm Detective Inspector Mark McLean.’

‘This is about my brother isn’t it? It’s about Dave. Where is he?’

‘Mr Vaughan, I’m afraid your brother . . . is dead.’

* * * *

Andy felt his eyes well up. Sorrow or guilt? He wasn’t sure.

‘So the bastards got him,’ he spluttered. ‘The fucking bastards got him.’

‘It’s about these ‘bastards’ that I need to talk to you, Mr Vaughan. What exactly do you know about your brother’s dealings? We can only assume that he made some dangerous people . . . angry.’

Andy stared at McLean. ‘What did they do to him?’ he hissed.

McLean shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘I think that’s a conversation for a later date, Mr Vaughan, I’m not sure that you’re . . .’

‘Tell me!’ yelled Andy, the outburst made him lunge forward and topple over with pain. ‘What did they do to him?’ he said, spluttering now.

McLean sighed, ‘I’m afraid it’s very difficult to say. You see . . . there wasn’t much to go on.’

A vile, cold chill spread through Andy’s body, it made him forget his own agony, ‘What do you mean?’

‘Approximately one week ago, we received an anonymous tip-off about a violent disturbance at a house - your brother’s house - on the outskirts of town. A patrol car was dispatched to the address immediately . . . when it got there, the officers discovered that the front door had been forced. They called your brother’s name but there was no answer. Accordingly, they began a search of the house. Everything appeared to be normal, except in the main bedroom, where they discovered . . .’

‘What?’

Another sigh. ‘They discovered an inordinate amount of blood, Mr Vaughan . . .' The detective looked to his shoes, then to the window beyond the bed, 'And, er, bones.’

Andy felt bile rise into his mouth, he gasped for air, 'Bones?’

'Are you all right? Should I call the nurse?'

'Fuck the nurse, what bones?'

‘Ribs to be precise,’ said McLean.

Andy couldn’t speak.

‘The call was anonymous, but it’s highly likely that whoever made it was, in someway, involved in your brother’s death.’

‘What?’ Andy’s voice was barely a whisper.

‘It’s a warning, Mr Vaughan. A warning to anyone else that might dare to cross these people. Whoever they might be.’

Andy exploded: ‘What do you mean ‘whoever they might be’? You’re the fucking police. You must have some idea!’

McLean looked offended. ‘Investigations are ongoing, Mr Vaughan. The reason I’m here is to try to see if you can help us get to the bottom of this. Look, I appreciate all of this must be very difficult for you to take in, particularly after your accident.’

‘Why did they have to cut him up like that?’

The detective rose, started to button his coat, ‘There are some very sick people out there . . . with very sick minds. The more vile the murder, the more the press leap on it. These people want to be known . . . seen for what they are.’

* * * *

Andy couldn’t sleep. Dave’s tears were raining down on his conscience. He tried to think back to the last time he'd seen him. In his flat, begging for help. How had that evening ended? He couldn’t even remember.

‘Andy.’ A voice came from the darkness. Andy gripped his sheets, thought he must be dreaming.

‘Andy.’

Quick as a flash, Andy flicked on his bedside lamp. For what seemed like an eternity, his tired eyes fought to adjust to the light. Then, slowly, the black spots faded to reveal a young man sitting by his bed. His head was shaved but the face was unmistakable.

‘Dave?’ he croaked. ‘I thought you were . . . ’

His brother smiled. ‘That’s the point . . . of faking your own death.’

‘But, why?’

‘Only way to get them off my back.’

‘But, the blood . . . the ribs?’

‘Too much! I know, I thought it seemed a bit over the top myself at first. It wasn’t easy either. Had to pull in a quite a few favours for that one! Figured the grosser the better, though. I’ve managed to piss off so many folk in this town they’ll all assume that it was the other ones got to me first.’

‘But . . .’

‘I’ve come to say goodbye, Andy . . . I’ve got to leave. It’s only a matter of time before the Filth work out it wasn’t me they had to shampoo out of that carpet.’

‘But . . . who the fuck was it, Dave?’ Andy sat up, painfully, ‘Who had to die just to save your worthless skin?’

Dave smiled, ‘I’m not a killer, Andy. It’s like you told me - I’m a dead man.’

‘Then how the fu . . .’ Andy couldn’t finish his sentence. Dave was leaning on his brother's chest. Andy wanted to scream but the pain was too great. Dave whispered into his ear. ‘Thanks for helping me out bro, I owe you one.’

He frowned and moved his hand further down Andy’s torso. ‘Or is it two?’

© Tom Maxwell 2007 All Rights Reserved