Davie thought about what Damien had said about his brother’s time in prison and felt violently sick. Frankie was strong, respected, and feared. The thought of him being….being helplessly abused just did not mesh with the image that Davie had of him. It made his brain hurt just trying to consider the notion.
Even if it is true, what difference does it make? Frankie is broken and I don’t think there’s any way to fix him. Understanding a monster doesn’t change the fact that it’s still a monster.
Davie had looked into his brother’s eyes earlier and saw that there was something missing – a key piece of the puzzle that most people had. Compassion.
Does that mean he’s evil?
No, Davie told himself, he’s my brother and he doesn’t deserve the existence he was given. His whole life he’s looked out for me. He’s not evil. He’s just hurting.
Hurting bad.
And I just turned my back on him. Just like his own mother did before I was even out of nappies. What chance do I have either. I’m not going to end up any better. Eventually I’ll end up banged up, just like Frankie.
Davie felt a tear fall from his cheek.
He needs me.
Another tear and Davie was done feeling sorry. He wiped it away and nodded his head,
It’s time for me to look out for him now. Whatever happens, I’m the only family Frankie’s got. He needs me to look out for him the way he’s always looked out for me. I need to stop him before he gets himself into any deeper trouble. I owe him that much.
Davie rolled off of his bed and took a deep breath. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the revolver Frankie had given to him and examined it.
“Time to help my brother,” he said out loud. “Whatever it takes.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The Trumpet bar and lounge was located in a rough housing estate opposite a rundown supermarket and a failing video store. Andrew had never been here before but had heard enough stories to suggest that drinking here was only for a certain kind of individual.
Andrew took the first of the crumbling stone steps leading up to the pub’s entrance and prepared himself to go inside. The lights were on inside and a flickering glow gave away the presence of a natural fire. The thought of all that warmth welcomed Andrew as the evening’s icy rain continued to drench him. He took the remaining steps and approached the entrance to the pub. He stood at the windowless wooden door for a few moments, questioning himself about whether he really wanted to do this and whether he was really willing to walk inside and commit cold-blooded murder?
Andrew took a deep breath and told himself, yes. He pulled open the door and stepped inside.
The pub was almost empty and it took several seconds for Andrew to even spot a single soul. There was a slender brunette restocking crisps behind the bar and a dishevelled old man sitting opposite with a half-empty pint of bitter in front of him. Andrew moved up beside the old man and took an adjacent stool.
“A new face,” said the barmaid, noticing him. “Don’t get many of those around here. I’m Steph, and this wrinkly fart we call Old Graham.”
“You cheeky mare,” the old man replied but was laughing.
“Pleased to meet you,” said Andrew. He slid a ten-pound note across the counter. “Top the fella up and one for yourself. Mine’s a lager.”
Steph smiled. “Very generous of you.”
“Yes,” said Old Graham. “You’re my kind of man.”
“Then perhaps you could help me with something.” said Andrew.
The old man received his pint from the barmaid and took a sip of it. Then, as the barmaid went off to pour the next one, he turned to Andrew. “Okay. What do you need?”
“Kid called Dom.”
The old man raised his greying eyebrows in a look of understanding. “Black guy. A twin, yes?”
“Not anymore,” Andrew replied, “but, yeah. Do you know him?”
“Not really but I’ve seen him and his brother in here on the few odd occasions. Played a game of pool with him once before the old table got smashed up in a fight.
“Has he been here tonight?”