Whipped Up

Chapter 5

FIVE

A nondescript street with a row of terraced houses on either side. Each had a red brick wall enclosing a tiny garden, a narrow path running up to the door, and a single bay window on the ground floor. Above, two more windows, one frosted. Every house the same, except for the front doors. Here, the residents exhibited some individuality by having the paintwork applied in different colours.

The one Ryan Chaise approached was blue. He looked down both ends of the street then pressed the bell.

At this time in the early evening, the sunlight bathed the houses with a honey glow, which made them appear almost welcoming. Chaise might have hoped some of this ambiance would permeate inside too, but when the door opened and a surly looking teenager stood before him with limp greasy hair and down-turned lips, hopes faded.

“Yeah?”

Chaise did his best imitation of a caring, sharing family member. “Is your mum home?”

“Who wants to know?”

“Tell her it’s Uncle Richard, come to bring a little sunshine into her life.”

The kid frowned, clicked his tongue, and disappeared down the hall. “Mum, some weirdo’s here saying he’s your uncle.”

After a moment, she emerged from the kitchen at the end of the hallway, drying her hands on a brightly coloured pinny.

Emma Bennet, Chaise’s stepsister, had been stunning once, auburn hair tumbling to her slim shoulders, dimple-cheeked, smooth-skinned. Before he drifted off to the Forces he had often fantasised over her. Now, standing with her waist thickened, her hips broad, he had to concentrate hard to find any hints of her past loveliness. Vestiges lingered still in her eyes, sparkling gold, sprinkled with flecks of green, and his stomach lurched as a wave of nostalgia hit him, making him go weak.

Her mouth dropped. “Oh, my God,” she gasped. A brief moment of shocked surprise before her face split, and she rushed towards him, tears mixing with whoops of joy.

He caught her in mid-charge and spun her round as he used to, all those decades ago. She was lighter then, and younger. Not yet a woman. As she kissed him full on the mouth, Chaise realised the child had gone, and he held her close, the years disappearing in a breath. He prised himself free of her lips and grinned. “Hi, Emma.”

She stepped away and reached inside the pocket of her pinny. She pulled out a shredded tissue and dabbed her weeping eyes. “Oh, my God,” she repeated, then laughed and sniffed loudly. “Richard. I ... I had no idea. Why didn’t you phone?”

“It was all a bit spontaneous. Sorry. Is it a bad time?”

“Bad time?” She punched him playfully in the chest. With an exaggerated wince, he made as if the blow hurt. “God, you look amazing,” and she threw herself into his arms again and he held her for a long time.

When at last she extracted herself, she took him by the hand and led him down the hallway into the front room.

The television was on, and the same teenager who had opened the door lay sprawled out on the carpet, back against the sofa, pressing the buttons of a game console. The sound of squealing tyres and crashing vehicles erupted from the screen, so loud and convincing it seemed real. “Reece, will you switch that off, please?”

Reece glared at them both, and blew out his cheeks. For a moment, Chaise thought the teenager would ignore his mother’s request, but after another loud sigh, the youth threw down the console and busied himself with pulling out various leads from the back of the television. He stomped out, face grim, eyes downcast, unhappy. Emma smiled self-consciously as she brushed off some crumbs from the sofa. “Sorry, it’s a bit of a mess.”

The room was tiny, barely big enough to contain the matching sofa and armchair crammed inside. A single radiator running along the wall beneath the window served as the only heat source. Above the television, which stood on a well-worn cabinet, hung a large painting of a Lancaster bomber flying through thin clouds, the one attempt to break up an otherwise drab and soulless interior. Chaise sat down.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” Emma said, pressing herself into him again, kissing his cheeks and mouth. More tears came, taking her by surprise. She looked embarrassed, face reddening as she untied her pinny and twisted it around in her hands. “I’m such a mess, Richard. You should have warned me.”

“Sorry. Like I said, everything was a little rushed.”

“Well,” she said, then stopped as a sudden thought came to mind and her eyes widened. “Oh God, I’m so b****y rude. That was Reece by the way. My son. He’s off sick from school. He’s a bit, you know ...” her voice faded away, “… a teenager.”

Explanation enough thought Chaise and nodded. He put his hands on his knees and gave the room another scan, a rueful smile on his face. “I’ve never had that pleasure, but I can empathise ...”

“Not sure if ‘pleasure’ is the right word.” She leaned across, clutched his hand in both of hers. “I can’t believe you’re here! My God ...” She laughed, clearly not knowing what more to say.

“I called on Great Aunt Doris, but ...” he shrugged, “… she died. I didn’t know.”

“Well, not to worry, I didn’t know either.” She sat back, squeezed the tissue in her fist. “I’ve lost touch with almost everyone. She was your dad’s sister wasn’t she?”

“His mum’s sister.”

Emma had never had many dealings with any of Chaise’s family. Her mother, and his father, had been married only briefly. It was something of a disaster. But she had remained close to Chaise, always loved him. He could see that she still did. “It’s lovely to see you again, Emma. I just wish I’d had the chance to get in touch, give you some sort of warning, but things sort of ran away from me.”

She frowned. “It’s all right, really. I’m so thrilled you’re here.”

“I, er, I’m in a bit of a fix. My plan was to stay with Doris, but now that’s ... you know, what with her dying, it’s ...”

“Please,” she squeezed his hand, “don’t worry. If it’s somewhere you need to stay, Richard, I’ll—”

“It’s Ryan, Emma.” She stopped, blinked, not understanding. “That’s the name I use now. I’m no longer Richard.” Her bemused expression brought a lump to his throat and it was his turn to hold her hand. “I’ll explain later. I promise. Can I, er, use your bathroom?”

“Of course! I’ll make us a cup of tea. Darren will be home soon, then we’ll ... Yes. A cup of tea. That’s what we need. I’ll go and do it right now.”

At the top of the stairs, he went through into the tiny bathroom and locked the door. The overwhelming smell of soap and disinfectant brought him a curious feeling of comfort. A waft of childhood. He stood in front of the mirror and studied his face. Tanned, lean, hard. A face he knew well, but rarely took notice of. The face Linny so often held, kissed, but never truly knew. What the scars and granite jaw didn’t reveal was the real man underneath. The killer.

From below came the sound of sugar stirred in cups and saucers clinking, Emma’s voice raised to scold Reece. Reece replying with a grunt. Normal, everyday. Chaise leaned his forehead against the cold of the glass, closed his eyes, thought back to the days when he and Linny had a taste of peace living in Spain, selling property to the Brits. A good life, free from anxiety and after a few years the nightmares stopped, things became normal and settled into a mundane and contented sort of existence.

And now this.

The normality of Emma’s life was in such sharp contrast to his own, to what he had allowed it to become. He tried to escape, put everything behind him, to find a new path in the foothills of the Axarquia in southern Spain. It hadn’t worked. The old ways refused to go away, and when he came face to face with threats and intimidation, he’d resorted to type, to the things which came so naturally. He was who he was, no matter how hard he tried to shake off the shackles.

They’d approached him whilst stationed in Iraq, the memory seared into his brain. Three men, white shirts, ties pulled down, dark jackets thrown over their shoulders. One suffered badly with the heat, his face awash with sweat, a developing patch of grey running around his collar. All three wore sunglasses as they stood behind Major Clifford’s desk like statues.

Called a ‘command tent’, the interior resembled something more akin to a well-furnished mobile home, with all the comforts found in any affluent house in the UK. Clifford relished it. Drinks on a glass-topped table, television, music system, books, numerous framed photographs of family arranged across an oak display cabinet. Inside this impressive piece of furniture resided a host of awards, citations, and a collection of beautifully painted model soldiers, which followed the history of the regiment from Blenheim to the present day. A ‘Persian’ rug broke up the drab floor, and despite the hard-packed n***d earth, the place gave off a certain warmth that made it feel cosy and welcoming.

But it wasn’t a home at all. It was a war zone and outside, in the heat, men were dying. Chaise had been in the thick of the operations, mainly at night. In one of Saddam’s many palaces, he’d painted the walls and sent the Intel. As soon as the dictator showed signs of becoming suspicious of the group of Liverpudlian interior decorators, Kuwait having fallen and the Arab coalition mobilising, Chaise had disappeared into the desert.

Soon afterwards, an old man had shouted at him near a crossroads and Chaise had killed him, the knife sinking deep and easily into the carotid artery. He’d watched the light go out of the old man’s eyes and from that moment something inside changed for Ryan Chaise.

To live so simply, herding goats, getting up every morning, each one the same as the last; to have fathered sons, daughters; to have laughed and cried. A life without ever thinking, even for a nano-second, it all would end on a deserted dirt track, with an Englishman’s knife in his throat. The more Chaise thought about it, the more he wished it had never happened because from the moment he’d killed the old man, he’d set out on a path impossible to deviate from.

They’d listened and liked the story, those men in sunglasses. They smiled and said he was a ‘valuable asset’ and they wanted him to work for the government.

“You should be honoured,” said Clifford, sitting back in his swivel chair, hands interlaced across his stomach. If it wasn’t for his immaculately pressed camo-jacket he could have been a financial director in a prestigious business rather than what he was: brigadier, British army, veteran of the ‘troubles’ in Northern Ireland. A career soldier, efficient, cold-blooded, and as distant as the Malvern Hills were to the men fighting in the arid death-hole that was Iraq.

“Can I have time to think about it, sir?”

Clifford’s brows furrowed, and the others exchanged looks. Tension rose, tangible within the canvas walls, and Chaise knew he was close to overstepping the mark. This was not so much an invitation, as a demand. There would be no question of him refusing, so he’d better get used to his new role. He had no choice, except to say ‘yes’, or find himself face down in a lonely wadi, his own throat cut this time.

Men like Ryan Chaise only ever received one option, usually a permanent one – a ‘job for life’ – but without any of the usual company benefits. No, he was who he was. A killer. It would never go away, never leave him entirely. He knew stories of men like him, who had ‘retired’. Those nameless, stoic men in suits reminded him. “People like you don’t ‘retire’,” said the one in the middle, the tallest, expression hidden behind mirrored black glass, “they simply go away. Nobody knows where the gravestones are. Nobody cares.”

Chaise had paid scant attention to such tales in the past, never believing they would apply to him. Not until now, with those men patiently waiting for his reply.

Clifford gave him twenty-four hours, but ended the interview with, “You had best make the right decision, Chaise. These gentlemen have come a long way. They don’t take kindly to having their requests ignored.”

Recently, images of the dead old man at the crossroads had faded, but they returned that night as he lay on his barrack-room bed, and when he stepped back inside the command tent and told Clifford, his commanding officer put his chin in his hands and listened. Nightmares. A nightly ritual of the old man’s craggy face coming towards him out of the darkness, eye sockets filled with writhing worms and maggots, mouth toothless, open, a putrid stench trailing from withered, pale gums.

He explained and Clifford listened. “I want to go away, sir, start a new life.” Clifford raised a single eyebrow. He lifted his phone, told his secretary to send for the men in black suits. They trooped in and stood in stony silence whilst Chaise said what he had to say. None of them appeared happy, mouths downturned. Perhaps they didn’t believe him; perhaps they thought he was too great a risk, a threat to their meticulous plans for the future.

“A new life? That’s not really what we’re offering you, Chaise. A different one, perhaps.”

He looked at the tall one again. No use of rank. These were civilian personnel. Security. The silent, invisible guardians of the sovereignty of the United Kingdom.

So, reluctantly, Chaise agreed. He underwent prolonged psychological tests, and afterwards everything went into slow motion, a sort of delaying tactic for what they had in store for him. He fought men twice his size, used weapons of every kind, and sat through endless interviews, tests, role-plays.

“You’ll get over it, Chaise,” said a grey-suited administrator as Chaise put his face in his hands and released a loud breath. “I know it is long, probably boring, but it is essential you are tested to the very limits of your endurance. It happens to many men such as yourself who have seen combat. You feel that nothing can get worse, like being on a conveyer belt to nowhere and you can’t get off. Give it time.”

Time, however, proved too much of a luxury. He arrived back from one particularly dirty, mismanaged mission one morning some years later, packed his bags, sold his car, and went to Spain. There he met Linny, and a life, a real life actually seemed more than a possibility.

“Richard, your tea’s here.”

He snapped open his eyes and stared into the face of the man in the mirror, the man he had become. No longer Richard Parry. They’d taken away even that.