Retribution chapter two

I know what you’re thinking, hell it’s probably what I’m thinking. Why did I not call the police? I tried to tell myself it was because they’d think it was me, but I knew that was a load of crap. Do you want to know why I really did it? Why I’d burnt my home and cremated my mother’s corpse in its walls?
I was really angry.
Not at my mother, or the apartment, but at the bastard that had killed my mum cold blooded and made my life collapse around me. I’m not talking about the gun-for-hire, I’m talking about the brute that is probably sitting on a leather chair right now without a care in the world. Now, tell me, is it so strange to want revenge at a time like that?
The problem is, I’m a smart guy, I know what the police would think if I suddenly disappeared from town and the bodies of my mum and another man were found in my own home. The evidence had to go. Hell, if I’m lucky maybe they’ll think they both died in the fire.
The only problem is, now I’m wandering the streets aimlessly with a hoard of money and ‘mug me’ written all over my face. Of course I didn’t get far, I’m usually confronted every other day even without anything on me, so you can guess what the chav’s thought when they saw me with a backpack.
Three acne riddled, tracksuit wearing and IQ 40 guys laundered over to me, and I immediately felt the weight of the gun in my trousers.
“What’s that?” one of them spat, “Looks like mine,” he laughed, and his two goons guffawed alongside him. “Gives’ here,” he went to grab it, and I took a step back, letting my hand slip around the handle of the gun.
“I don’t think he heard yer,” one of the said, and the first one smiled, then looked at me. “I’ll count to two,” he warned.
“Can you manage?” I said, the gun feeling reassuring in my hand. Now the guy was pretty dumb, but even he could figure out that was an insult. “Come on then!” he yelled, and threw a quick punch, hitting me square in the jaw and sending me stumbling back a few steps.
The three strode towards me, and the guy raised his fist again. But this time I was ready. I pulled the gun out my waistband and placed it on his forehead.
“What the f-” he began but I cut him off with a shove of the gun.
“Get back,” I warned, cocking the gun. They backed off. One of them lost his nerve and ran, and in a few moments the other two followed suit.
I sighed, sliding down the wall and letting the gun sag in my hand. My life was ruined, I’d be looking at life in jail before I hit seventeen and then that would be it, game over.
So what did I do?
I went to see the one person who could start me off on my hunt for retribution. What was his name?
Pick-up.

My heart was thumping in my chest, sweat running down my forehead. I know I claimed I’d become a bit of a hard man, but this was still a step up on the ladder of crime from what I was used to dealing with. The guy I was about to burst in on undoubtedly had a gun, and I was sure as hell he’d probably used it, given his reputation.
Then again, so did I.
After two buses and a half hour walk, I found myself outside the door to an average apartment, you know, simple block building and 10 by 10 metre apartments. But still, the place seemed like a slice of heaven compared to what I was used to. Loud music pumped through the doorframe, some band screaming and playing their instruments so hard they sounded like they’d break. I’d probably like them, if I’d ever come close to music other than in the corridors of my school.
Gulping back my nerves, I tried my best to put on a tough looking face and raised my hand to the knocker. I rapped three times then stood and waited. No one came.
I rapped again, louder this time, adding a bang of my fist. After another minute, I was about to hit the knocker again, when I heard an aggravated grunt and the door was flung open.
I couldn’t help but be taken aback.
Before me stood a scrawny man a good few inches shorter than me, with slicked back hair and a small pointy goatee. Unfortunately, I’d obviously caught him when he was relaxed, because from the waist down he only had a pair of dirty grey briefs and a single white sports sock on. He wore a musty old white vest top that sagged around his scrawny arms and had a thin gold chain around his neck.
Now there’s something you need to know about Pick-up, he’s the local dealer. You name it, he has it. No one knows why he’s called Pick-up, not for certain anyway, but there are plenty of ideas, like some people say that’s the only thing people do after they meet him, pick themselves up from the ground. Yeah I know, sounds a bit stupid right?
I’ve heard kids going on about him, trying to look hard in front of their mates, saying how they buy all their weed from him. There are even a few rumours about him, how he once shot a man’s knee out when he didn’t pay out, and some other stories that had led me to expect to find a beastly man you didn’t want to mess with.
You what my opinion is?
The guy’s a runt. With a scrunched up face and a permanent scowl, the guy reminded me of the pet dog that’s always left at the bottom of the box. However, that still didn’t stop my nerves, seems as though the guy had just put a gun to my forehead.
“What the hell are you doing here?” his voice was hoarse, and from the amount of smoke billowing out the room it was no wonder why. I gulped, lost for words, images of the assassin spilling back into my head. After a moment I pushed them aside and raised a fifty pound note.
“Well, well,” he said, “thank you very much for the tip,” he snatched the note out my hand and let the gun fall to his side. I stood there, realising I really should have thought it through a bit better. After a moment I realised Pick-up was staring at me.
“Well, what are you bloody waiting for!” he yelled, “Piss off!” and with that he slammed the door shut.
I blinked, amazed at how bad that had gone. I sat against the wall opposite the door, trying to think of something to say. I thought of getting the gun out, but that wouldn’t help because I could risk getting shot in the head by the lunatic on the other side of the door.
Finally, I got up and knocked again.
“What the bloody hell do you want kid,” he moaned, reaching for his gun, “I’ve got half a mind to blow you fu-” he stopped, as I’d just picked out another couple of notes. He smiled, then reached out to grab them, but this time I pulled them back.
“I want information,” I said, trying to sound serious but realising my voice was so shaky I probably just sounded like a twat that had watched too many gangsta films. If only.
Pick-up covered his mouth, covering an uneven set of teeth with a couple of gold covers. After a moment he roared with laughter and I began to get angry. This scrawny low life was acting like I was twelve, and let’s just say not allot of twelve year olds find out where to find important people who hire other men for assassination.
“I’m offering you a peaceful way, I’ll give you a couple of these fifty pound notes and you’ll start talking, but I only offering this once,” my voice was dead set now, this freak was nothing to worry about, he was all talk. However, that still didn’t stop him grabbing me by the collar and bundling me against the wall.
“Listen here punk,” he spat, “I’m not messing around. Get your arse down that goddamn corridor before I put a bullet in your head,”
That was it. I grabbed the gun out of my belt and shoved it hard in his stomach. He stepped back, surprised. Taking the moment, I reached over and pulled his gun out too, then aimed both at his head.
“Woah, take it easy man, I thought you were just a-”
“Shut it,” I ordered, then flicked my gun, motioning him to get inside. I didn’t have time to look around, I just got him to sit on a chair and chucked his gun on the floor. I leant in close, putting my gun right in his face.
“Now you listen to me, I’ve just witnessed my own mother’s death by the hands on some murderer, and I really want to go have a word with the guy that ordered it,” I growled, amazing myself at my sudden aggression.
“Look man, I’m sorry, but I don’t get into that kind of thing,” He said, trying to put on an innocent face. I scowled, trying my hardest to look mean.
“We both know that’s bull. Now you’re going to give me some names, or some people that can give me some names, and you’re going to do it now.” I stepped back, still training the gun on him, hoping he wasn’t noticing the fact it was shaking in my hands.
“Look, if you still want to give us the money we can quite this whole, you know,” he waved his hands, “deal with the guns,” he looked at me pleadingly, and I let the gun drop. Pick-up breathed a sigh of relief.
“Here,” he said, more confident now, “I’ll get you a beer,” and he hurried into the kitchen to our left.
I was still tense, Pick-up seemed like the type of guy to burst out of the kitchen with a machine gun or something, especially after I, a teenager, had overcome him. But I still took a seat on the settee and had a look around the room, or what of it I could see. The whole room looked like it had been hit by an exploding launderette, and I’m not talking a few piles of clothes, there were clothes hanging from the ceiling fan, pictures on the wall, everywhere. And they weren’t all male clothing as well, which surprised me as from the look of Pick-up, he couldn’t get a girl if his life depended on it.
But that wasn’t the worst of it.
Smoke billowed from piles of cigarettes half smoked and chucked into ash trays, glasses and, in a few places, even shoes. Not to mention the crudely rolled pieces of paper smouldering and giving off the sweet smell of weed.
In the corner of the room sat a pile of boxes, towering above the rest of the piles of rubbish lying around. They had lines written on them in Chinese or simple print English, and logos with dragons and the like on them. Pick-up obviously had a few contacts in China or something.
The only part of the room however, that was actually clean, was the small coffee table in front of me. On it were four and a half single cut lines of a white powder and a razor lying next to them. Cocaine. Pick-up had obviously been mid-snort as the straw had been chucked on the floor and one of the lines had already been half snorted. A sudden thought came to mind, and I began to feel curious about what all the guys at school were raving about. My hand crept forward, and I pinched a little pile of the powder.
“Hey!” I jumped, and Pick-up marched round the side of the sofa. “What do you think you’re doing?” he slapped the powder out my hand and put a finger in my face, “That’ll cost you,” he let loose an uneven grin and patted me on the back. I forced a smile, which was difficult, trust me, and took the coke can he was offering me.
I took a sip, and forced myself not to spit it out. It had gone flat. Putting the can down next to the cocaine, I looked hard at Pick-up, who had just dug out a lime coloured bean bag and collapsed onto it.
“So,” he said, entwining his fingers, “I suppose you know who I am then,” I gave nothing away, so he smiled and spread his hands, “Pick-ups the name, drugs are the game!” he twitched, waiting for a smile or something, but I just leant forward on the settee and looked him dead in the eye.
“Look, I’m not a kid, so you don’t need to treat me like one. I’m here for business, not a laugh. Now, I need some names, some important people that can help me find-”
“Woah! Steady on,” he let his hands drop onto his chest, “How the hell do you think I’m supposed to know who you need to contact if don’t even explain your bleeding situation?”
He had a point, but then again, could I trust him? It looked like I didn’t have much of a choice, so I told him what had happened. I didn’t go into too much detail about my life, he’d think I was weak, pathetic, a nobody. But I did tell him pretty much everything that happened that night. At the end of it the guy closed his eyes a faint smile played on his lips. I felt offended, having just told him my mother was dead and he decided to smile? But after a moment I realised it was a self satisfied smile.
“You know what I think mate?” he leant in closer, “I think you need to let your daddy into this here problem don’t you?” he clapped his hands together and sat back.
I was gob smacked. How could I have forgotten my own father? Oh right, I know why, maybe it’s as he’s never home and I’ve seen him for like, eighteen hours of my life? But still, I suppose I had to give him a call.
Pick-up told me were the phone was, and after digging through two shirts, a bra and a couple of condoms I found it.
Beep! Beep!
After a moment a women’s voice buzzed through.
“Hello, ‘Randle’s Mechanics’, how may I help you?” I told her I wanted to speak to my dad, and she politely asked me to “Please wait a moment,”
An annoying jingle came through the phone, and after a couple of minutes someone picked up.
“Joe, is that you? Oh thank god you alive! I’ve only seen the news but, I’m so sorry about your mother,” he paused, and I heard him sniffing over the phone, “But at least you’re ok. How did you escape anyway, they said Mary,” he paused again, and I felt a pang of guilt for forgetting him, “they said she had been shot. The murderer was in their too, but he had no gun. Their- their saying it was you Joe. But don’t worry, I know your innocent,”
“What!” I yelled, slamming my fist into the wall, “look dad, I didn’t do it. Things are just, their just a bit confusing at the moment,” I slumped against the wall, and shut my eyes tight.
“Hey,” he soothed on the other end, “let’s meet up, the only reason I’ve stayed at work this long is because, you know,” he paused for a couple of seconds, “I didn’t want to see the apartment empty,”
“Ok dad, I’m at a,” my eyes flicked to Pick-up, who had just lined up his straw over another line of cocaine, “a friend’s house right now, but we should sort this out, together,” a tear welled in the corner of my eye, and my breathing became a little shaky. I hoped Pick-up wouldn’t notice, but then again, the guy was already off his head now.
“Let’s go back to the apartment aye? I’m sure the police are done there now, so we can probably clean up the, you know. It’ll be just like home again in no time, you’ll see!”
My heart missed a beat. The apartment...
How does he not know it’s been burnt? I was about to say as much, when it hit me. For a man who has just lost everything, his wife, his home, almost his son, the guy on the other end of the phone doesn’t sound all too upset. He obviously hadn’t watched the news or he’d know that the apartment he claimed would ‘be just like home again’ was burnt to the ground, and how did he know there were any guns involved?
No my dad couldn’t have done it, why would he want to? It’s not as if he would be gaining anything from it, the apartment and all its contents probably came to under three hundred pounds worth, and from what I could tell killing your own family wasn’t a recommended ‘pick-me-up’.
Oh god, the safe.
Who else could have known the code for the safe under my dad’s bed? Other than himself.
“Are you alright Joe?” No, I’m not.
“Yeah, I’m fine dad,” I lied, my brain working at a hundred miles per hour. All of a sudden I realised I couldn’t let on my suspicions, and before I knew it I was talking again, and luckily my brain works better at a hundred miles per hour.
“Hey, uh, dad,” I flinched, “you know, I think we should uh, meet somewhere else, you know, the apartments just too- too much to handle right now...”
Score one to Joe on acting!
“That’s fine, kid,” he said, and I thought he sounded for a minute like Pick-up did when I first met him, like I was unimportant, just a little kid. “Hey, how about we go and meet up at the park near the hairdressers? About nine o really get’s my inner clock seriously messed up,”
“Alright dad,” I said shakily, and then hung up the phone.
I let the phone fall from my hands, staring dumbly at a Japanese peace lily smothered underneath mount Everest’s little brother of clothing.
My brain felt like it had just shifted gear.
Suddenly I began to see my dad in a different light, well not light really. Blackness. If I was right then I had no idea if the guy that claimed to be my father was. He’s out twenty-four-seven usually and I have no idea what he does for a living, where he goes or, hell his name might even be wrong.
“No,” I said aloud. Pick-up grunted his deluded agreement form the settee, and I squeezed my eyes hard, blocking out thought.
It was stupid making assumptions. Hell, he’s probably just so upset he’s made a mental block of it, and the rest of the stuffs explainable, I suppose. Still...
“Pick-up,” I called.
“Weee!” he screamed, and I flinched, spinning around. The small man was spinning in circles, arms outstretched in front of him and a look of childish glee on his face.
“Just bloody well come here,” I said, grabbing him by the cuff of his neck and picking his gun up off the floor as I went.

“Why am I here again?”
I looked at Pick-up, in his dirty white shirt and pyjama bottoms, he looked, well like a twat basically. But he didn’t care. We’d been on the bus to the local shops for almost half hour now, and the effects of the powder he’d snorted were only just wearing off.
“Your here,” I said irritably, as he’d asked me the same question every other minute in his drugged up state, “because I’m going to give you three hundred pounds to do one thing for me for less than an hour, got it?”
“Yeah, I suppose I that would be nice,” he murmured dreamily, then put on a stern face, “but I hope nobody’s gonna see me hanging out with a kid, it’s bad for business,”
“Good,” I said. Eugh, I sounded like my-
Mother...
My eyes screwed shut tight, and I prepared myself for the improbable torrent of memories that would flood into my mind and cloud my thoughts.
A second passed, then two. Nothing.
I slowly opened my eyes, wondering why I couldn’t bring myself to even mourn for my own mother. But I was hauled back into reality by an angry Pick-up shoving me and saying something stupid like “Our chariot has arrived!”
I peered through the dirty pane of glass, my gaze settling instantly on the park opposite the road. Before I could spot my dad, Pick-up started out of the door, and I quickly followed.
Pick-up immediately plonked down on the nearest bench and folded his arms. Apparently, my last mention of money had dried him out a bit, as he had since took on the sneer he’d had before he’d snorted up a line of ‘the good stuff’.
I didn’t join him, instead I did a three-sixty and ensured nobody was watching, before handing him his gun back that I’d swiped at his house.
“Keep an eye on me, make sure nobody’s sneaking up on me or anything. Can you handle that?” he nodded stiffly, then shoved the gun down his trousers and folded his arms across his chest.
“Chav,” I muttered, as I headed across the park to the path cutting through the middle. I couldn’t see properly, but there was a man sitting alone on one of the numerous benches placed about the park as though someone had covered their eyes and drawn the plan for the site.
As I drew nearer, the man’s head became more familiar, until I was close enough to recognise my father’s tightly cropped grey black hair, and his usual old black leather jacket. All of a sudden my suspicions of him were lost to me, and I found myself running the last part of the way and rounding on the bench.
My dad gave me a crinkly smile, gesturing me to hug him. Normally I would have felt awkward, but I felt that the situation called for it, and I gave my dad a bear hug. A tear formed in the corner of my eye, and I was about to start pouring tears and giving my dad the ‘I miss my mum’ speech, when I heard a loud clink and felt icy cold metal on my wrists.
Shoving myself back, I looked quizzically at my dad, and gasped. To my horror, the sweet man that had just embraced his child, was now sneering at me, and in a swift movement he yanked his head out of my embrace and jumped up as if I were a toxic spill.
Three men in police uniform hauled me to my feet, the cuffs around my wrists leaving me incapable of putting up a struggle. I turned desperately behind me, but the bench Pick-up had been sat on was now empty. The damn chav had abandoned me.
Still shocked, I watched as my father stood before me and pointed a finger square in my face. He then said the words I dreaded to hear from the last person I had left in the world.
“You killed her,” the words cut through me like ice, “your dead to me,”
To my dismay, he turned and walked away, leaving me to be dragged along the litter strewn path and bundled into a police car, and let’s just say they weren’t shy about giving my head a good smack on the door frame.
Now I know, that’s pretty harsh, for my own father, but hell I’m used to having life did me in deeper and deeper. Pretty soon having one of my parents dead and the other disown me would probably seem like a walk in a pretty messed up park.