Brutal Retribution

  Brutal Retribution

  by

  CLIVE BARRY

  Copyright Disclaimer

  This edition published by Kindle Direct Publishing (KDP).

  Copyright © Clive Barry 2017

  The author asserts the right to be identified as the author of this work.

  The right of Clive Barry to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this eBook/book may be produced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronical, or mechanical including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trader or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Names and persons in this eBook/book are entirely fictional. They bear no resemblance to anyone either living or dead.

  This is a work of fiction, any names or characters, business or places, events or incidents, are fictitious.

  Any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, or actual events are purely coincidental.

  ISBN 9781973521983

  IMPRINT: Independently Published

  www.clive-barry.com

  This book is dedicated to my darling wife,

  Debbie Sue.

  With all my love, now and forever.

  ‘Unaquivicably’ of course.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Sally would never have believed what happened that morning. Everything was surreal, in slow motion, with a background of white sound.

  The whole world had gone still as she stood up from the little pine bench in the kitchen. There was, or at least there had seemed to be a mist covering her eyes as she slowly walked to the draining board and picked up the old four inch Sabatier paring knife, last used the night before to peel potatoes for making chips for the bairn’s tea.

  Silently, she walked the seven paces from the kitchen sink to where her husband was sitting in the living room. Then just as silently and with all the strength she possessed, she plunged the knife up to the handle, deep into the back of his neck.

  Charlie had been sat with his left leg tucked up underneath him in his favourite armchair facing away from the kitchen, leaving his large naked back fully exposed. The knife entered above shoulder level, midway to the base of his skull, completely severing his spinal cord.

  Charlie screamed. He had no idea of what had just happened, nor why there was such a sharp pain. Further to that, why he could neither turn nor move either his arms or his legs anymore.

  Sally on the other hand had not finished. She was not functioning as Sally the mother of two small children, or even Sally the oppressed housewife. At this moment in time she hated Charlie with a passion she would never have believed possible. Seemingly she had finally found both her inner strength and determination.

  She pulled with all her reserve and the slim bladed knife slowly sucked loose. She then stepped unhurriedly around to the front of him and while staring directly into his piggy little eyes, she plunged the knife deep into his throat.

  It could be said that Sally was out of control. She was definitely in a state of total confusion and just couldn’t understand why Charlie hadn’t raised a hand to stop her.

  She plunged the knife for the second, the third, the fourth and many, many, more times after. Severing skin, muscle, sinew, veins and arteries. Charlie’s head eventually tilted back. He gurgled, he choked, he bled profusely, then whilst sat in his favourite armchair, watching one of his favourite programmes on the television, Charlie died.

  CHAPTER TWO

  This day, like far too many days before it, hadn’t really started out too well. Earlier that morning, Sally Oldfield had woken up from a very sporadic sleep clutching her torn pyjamas and fleecy bathrobe tightly round her slim body. She was cold and shivering from an extremely uncomfortable night spent in the foetal position on the hard bedroom floor.

  She’d been roused by the overpowering stench of sour beer, vomit and blood. The blood was hers, it was up her nose, it was in her mouth, it had congealed on her teeth, it was smeared across her face and it was splattered down the front of her pyjamas.

  The sour beer, vomit together with the distinctive odour of shit on the other hand belonged to Charlie her husband. He was laid fast asleep on his back, snoring loudly while sprawled across the big soft bed. Far too drunk the night before to remove the remainder of his clothes when he’d came upstairs. First making sure of course, that the unreasonable demands he’d bestowed upon Sally his young wife were fulfilled, thus satisfying any animal cravings he might have had. Sally lay still on the floor, she didn’t dare move, Charlie had told her not to.

  It was nearly time for the kids to wake up and she desperately needed to get through the bathroom and clean herself before they saw the state of her face. She quietly rose and looked into the small magnifying mirror sat on the bathroom windowsill, realising at the time there was no way on this God’s earth could she possibly conceal the black eye, or the bruised and swollen torn lips. She also noted the throbbing pain in her rear passage as a result of being held face down by the neck across the back of Charlie’s chair. Thankfully he was so pissed when he came in, it only lasted seconds. It didn’t stop the good hiding she got after though, that lasted a lot longer than the buggering did.

  Sally showered quickly, whilst noting that the discolouration against the pale white skin covering her ribs was rapidly turning into dark bruises. She dressed as fast as she could, grabbing a pair of worn tracky bottoms and a baggy sweatshirt out of the dirty wash basket.

  Charlie had made it quite obvious during previous good hidings that he didn’t like her wearing t-shirts or tight fitting tops. He said it drew far too much attention to her from other men. Her old pink Converse shoes were still in the corner of the bathroom where she’d kicked them off the night before, so she just slipped them back on without any socks.

  Sally towel dried her hair and combed it straight back off her face with a simple side parting. There was no way she was going to chance using the hair dryer and disturbing her snoring husband this morning. She didn’t dare wake him before he’d had a chance to sleep off the painful thumping hangover she really hoped he was going to have when he eventually surfaced.

  Little Charlie, named after his dad, was seven years old and tiny Georgia, named after Sally’s dad was four. They were both already downstairs in the living room, sat in their pyjamas watching cbeebies on the telly when Sally came down from the bathroom.

  The room was a mess from the night before. The table lamp was over on its side and the heavy wooden coffee table which it normally stood on, lay upside down.

  There were remnants of half smoked, hand rolled cigarette butts scattered about the floor, having fallen from the upturned ashtray. These together with the empty beer cans that were strewn across the room as Charlie single handedly devoured the six pack he’d brought home. This after an already long afternoon, come evening session with his mates in the pub. The cans were all crumpled by Charlie showing off his so called vast masculine strength, missing the waste basket on the other side of the room with every throw whilst shouting in his best television announcers voice, ‘one hundred and eighty.’ He laughed thinking it was a huge joke, he was the only one in the room that found it even remotely funny.

  Sally quickly tidied up while the kids got dressed out of pyjamas and into school uniforms. She then gav
e them their Weetabix and cups of sweet milky tea at the pine kitchen table with the bench seats, whilst whispering softly for them both to be as quick as possible and not to wake their daddy. He was still sleeping and would be very angry with them if they woke him.

  The children both nodded their heads in understanding. They’d received the wrath of Daddy many times in the past when he’d been roused too early and they really didn’t want to go to school crying again.

  Neither of them mentioned the distorted appearance, bruising and swelling of their mam’s face. They were far too used to that. It was sad, but they’d seen it all too many times before.

  Sally now twenty four years old, had short brown hair, highlighted throughout with hints of blond. A fair complexion, hazel coloured eyes, with a small straight, slightly freckled nose and soft full lips that could produce the deadliest of smiles. Under normal circumstances this completed an extremely pretty face. She stood five feet seven inches tall in her size six bare feet and was a petite ten in a dress size.

  Once regarded as ‘well fit’ by all the local lads, Sally had played on the school netball team throughout her high school years, but had given it all up when she’d met Charlie at the ripe old age of sixteen.

  She was not quite as busty around the top as she had been in those earlier days, having lost quite a bit of the remaining youthful puppy fat that filled her out. What with running about after two small children and a fat idle husband who enjoyed nothing better than to sit watching daytime television, resulted in what could only be described as ‘norra pickin’ on ‘er,’ by the let’s say, well covered, black legging adorned, fat arsed lasses of the same age group. This may have been fact, but more than likely it was just plain jealousy on their behalf.

  Sally didn’t wear much jewellery, in reality she couldn’t afford any, however she did have a large pair of gold hoop earrings she wore in pierced ears that had been carried out at the Claires accessory shop in town when she’d turned thirteen. This had been part of a birthday present from Mam and Dad. She also had a pair of small gold sleepers put in at the same time, it was all part of the same deal.

  Sally wore her cheap engagement ring of cut glass, real diamonds were totally out of the question. That together with a thin gold wedding band which had apparently once belonged to Charlies’ now deceased gran. Charlie told Sally it had been a family heirloom and therefore very precious to him. In fact he’d stolen it along with some spare cash when he’d visited the old lady just prior to her death.

  She wore no watch and told the time by the Samsung Galaxy S4 that her older brother Mike had given her after he’d upgraded to a two year contract with Vodafone. Sally thought she was very posh.

  The family lived on the Westernside council housing estate, Eastscar by the Sea. It was a poor rundown area where the local council funding never seemed to reach the area, nor the people who voted for them.

  Councillors were all there in their droves when it came to election time. Shaking hands with the out of work dads, made redundant years before from the local rolling mills and never been able to find any kind of work since. The tired, weary, downtrodden mams. Whilst from arm’s length, they gently stroked the heads of the constantly crying, snot nosed little baby’s, whilst trying desperately to keep a distance from their greasy pasty covered, grubby little fingers, for fear they might get their bonny posh Marks and Sparks suits soiled.

  There were always permanent smiles on their condescending bureaucratic faces, however after the elections win or lose, they were nowhere to be seen. Or at least not around this estate and certainly not before the next election when votes would once again be required to keep them safe, up in their comfortable little ivory towers.

  Sally and her family had lived here all their lives. In reality, Sally had hardly ever been outside of the town limits except to go clothes shopping in the city of Seaborough eight miles away and before meeting Charlie, with friends every now and again for the occasional day trip.

  The distance to the school was only a short one and Sally always insisted on walking the kids there and back herself. They both stayed for free school dinners, so it was only a short walk twice a day.

  Little Charlie met up with his mates and walked half a dozen paces in front, laughing and joking about the latest episode of whatever it was they’d been watching on the telly the night before.

  Sally, holding tiny Georgia’s hand walked with her head down trying her hardest to become as small and inconspicuous as she possible could, while desperately hoping nobody would notice her. It was all futile, Jenny one of the older mams and a good friend of Sally’s bustled directly over to her, reaching out and lifting Sally’s chin to look her straight in the eye.

  ‘Again!’ She exclaimed, ‘how many bloody times now? And how many more bloody times are yeh gonna lerrit happen wi’ out doing summit about it? When he finally kills yeh, who d’yeh think’s gonna look after them poor bloody bairns man?’

  It was the same conversation as the one they shared after each and every one of Charlie’s drunken bouts. The truth was, he wasn’t always drunk, but Sally had decided a long time ago that it was better if they all believed he was. Who would understand a husband that could belt his wife for no reason at all? It was embarrassing, but it was also much easier all round to let them believe he just couldn’t hold his ale.

  The other mothers at the school smiled condescendingly as she walked past. It was a standing joke in the schoolyard on the morning after the local football team lost. All the mothers watching and looking to see who it was going to be wearing the proverbial black eyes.

  Husbands, partners, boyfriends, they’d all congregated in the Ship and Anchor the day before to watch the live match on the big LCD wide screen in the back room. All the lads had been drinking heavily. Swearing and shouting at the millionaire Prima Donna’s on the box who got paid far too much money to run about and kick a ball. Then roll about on the grass in agony only to jump up and sprint away after the referee had issued his red card to a totally somewhat bewildered opponent. It didn’t really matter if they won or lost, the players were all multimillionaires either way. So who were the daft twats paying hard earned money to watch them?

  The lads would all get one another pumped up and rattled, taking the piss out of each other and some could take it and others couldn’t. Those that couldn’t, were generally the ones that handed it out when they got home to the wife and bairns, Charlie fell into that second category.

  Sally left the schoolyard, but rather than going directly home, she decided to call into the little convenience store around the corner and pick up a litre of milk. The kids hadn’t left very much after their breakfast.

  She was going to require an instant coffee fix when she got home and knew that Charlie would be waking soon. Needing at least two bowls of cornflakes and tea in his big, ‘Best Dad in The World’ mug that Sally had hypocritically bought on behalf of the kids last Father’s Day. Better to be ready than to have Charlie going off on another one, she thought.

  Mr. Patel the shop owner was his usual concerned self as she entered.

  ‘What has happened to you this time Sally dear? Have you been falling down the stairs? Or have you been banged on your head by the cupboard door again? Or maybe you just have another excuse that I haven’t yet heard.’

  He wasn’t really asking, he was just voicing an open observation.

  Sally looked up at him and smiled meekly, she didn’t answer. Instead she paid for the milk and left without saying anything other than, ‘thank you Mr Patel.’

  Balraj Patel was an elderly, gentle speaking Hindi of seventy two years. He’d been born in Bombay (now Mumbai), India in 1944 whereby he, together with his parents and two older brothers had left not long after India’s partition in 1947. His father strongly believed and had said on more than one occasion.

  ‘India is doomed and will crumble quickly downhill once our beautiful and very strict departing British government leave.’

  Maybe he was
right, there again, maybe not.

  Mr Patel was married by arrangement to the very pretty Aanya in 1967 and soon became besotted with her. She in turn presented him with five beautiful children, two girls and three boys. Aanya was now riddled with arthritis in both knees and far too old to be climbing up and down the stairs to serve in the shop from their small flat above. However, all their children and grandchildren took it in turns to come around on a daily basis to help out while catching up on all the local gossip.

  Mr Patel had always been very kind and considerate to Sally, allowing her to pay later if she didn’t have the readies available. He’d known her and her family since she was just a small girl living at home with Mam, Dad and her two older brothers Paul and Mike.

  He was also aware of what the score was with Charlie and Sally knew that he knew, so there didn’t really seem to be any point in arguing or trying to defend her husband. It always seemed as though the more she wanted to keep her home life private, the more everyone ended up knowing about it.

  When Sally eventually arrived home, she went straight into the kitchen filled the electric kettle and switched it on. As it was coming to the boil, she could hear Charlie start to move about upstairs and her stomach began to churn. It felt as though a nest of spiders had just hatched and woken up inside her. Her legs started to give way and her hands began to sweat and tremble as she leaned against the draining board for support.

  What was she going to do? More to the point, what was Charlie going to do? Or even say for that matter?

  Downstairs, Sally was made aware of the loud revolting noises coming from the upstairs bathroom, as Charlie raked up last night’s smoke filled phlegm from the back of his throat, coughed, spit, belched and farted. Then there was the inevitable tumultuous water fall as Niagara burst its banks into the toilet bowl.