Brock Steele Sphere Page 8

  Brock jerked his head. “What did he say?”

  “He was weird, the way he looked at me. Asking after your friends, where you would most likely be now.

  “Did you tell him anything?”

  “Nothing. Whatever you’ve done is your business. He wrote his number down.”

  “Grab it for me, I want it. I take it Sergei isn’t in?”

  Gunner shook his head and wandered in the direction of reception. The gym floor would have been deserted had it not been for two guys clanging their weights on the chest and ab equipment. Brock headed towards the back, passing the empty free weights section, and memories of both good and bad flooded his head. Overall, he was relieved to be able to let the fiasco of the gym and his old life go. Standing outside the women’s changing room door, he waited. The door started to creak open. Lacy’s face peered around the door.

  “Brock, you startled me!” she said. “I heard you were on the run … I always knew there was something about you.”

  She stepped lightly through the door as it eased shut cleanly behind her. Brock stared right into her face. “Where is Sarah? I want to speak to her.”

  “I haven’t a clue where she is. She didn’t turn up to work today and I’ve been trying to call her all day.”

  “Liar, she’s in the changing rooms. Gunner saw her earlier.”

  “Go in there if you don’t believe me. She’s disappeared.”

  Brock elbowed her out of the way and pushed the door open.

  “Get off me! She’s not in there. I told you. I don’t know where she is.”

  Brock headed past the changing benches through to rusty grey lockers and to two fully dressed woman in beige dresses standing over a mirror stuck to the wall, smearing their mouths with red lipstick. Both stared right at him. One of them dropped her lipstick onto the floor, her face flushed.

  “The men’s changing rooms are opposite. Can you leave now please?”

  A woman in a navy blue dress stepped from behind the grey lockers.

  “It’s OK, ladies. Don’t worry about him. He works here.”

  He didn’t recognise her, and Lacy appeared in the doorway.

  “Men shouldn’t be in here full stop. Either he leaves or I’m complaining to management,” said one of the women with the lipstick.

  “I’m looking for Sarah. Has anyone seen her?”

  Lacy stepped towards him. “As I said, she didn’t come here today.” She glanced at the woman in the blue dress. “Tell him, Helen.”

  “She’s right. She never popped in today.”

  He hurried past them towards a wooden sauna that had seen better days, yanking at the door. A gust of heat hit him directly in the face; there was nobody in and he slammed it shut. The showers were empty too. He stormed out of the changing rooms. Lacy followed him into the gym floor and something vibrated in his pocket.

  “Are you not going to answer it?” said Lacy.

  “I don’t have a phone,” said Brock.

  “Well, there is no one else around, and it’s coming from your jacket pocket.”

  He dug into his jacket pocket and felt some hard plastic within. He pulled out a small mobile phone. “Is this another one of your jokes? What’s wrong with you?”

  “Yeah, right, I’d give you a free phone,” snorted Lacy.

  He pressed to accept the call, placing the mobile to his ear. “Hello.”

  A woman’s clipped voice came over it. “You are in serious danger. Get out. A tall man with a gun is approaching the gym. Leave by the fire exit immediately. Get out!”

  The line went dead and a continuous beep erupted.

  “Hello, hello? Who is this? I recognised that voice, but where from?”

  He glanced at Lacy. The voice was nagging at him. She wiped her nose.

  “Listen to me,” she said. “There is something really important I need to tell you.”

  “Something to do with the spiking?”

  “I’m sorry about that. It wasn’t my fault.”

  Brock’s whole body tensed; he scrunched his face, aware of every movement in the gym. Two guys hard at it pumping and clanking the iron weights. Gunner holding a phone to his ear, peeking through the reception doors. Then the entire gym went black. All the lights went out, and Brock strained to see in the gloom.

  “What’s happening?” shouted Lacy. She looked frantically around the room, and Gunner disappeared from the doorway. The reception doors flung open. The tall man, Sighrus, sucking on his cigar, and two men in black suits appeared in the doorway. They were all pointing Glock 17s into the gym. Sighrus caught sight of Brock and aimed towards him.

  “Grab him.”

  He cracked the trigger with his finger and a deafening roar ripped through the atmosphere, shattering a window above Brock. Tiny fragments of glass fell across the floor like snow, and Lacy yelled, throwing herself across Brock to try to get to safety. The three men darted towards him, aiming their guns high in the air, and another deafening bang thundered through the air. Lacy smashed into Brock’s chest, her body limp as she slumped to the floor, blood oozing from her stomach, her eyes still.

  Sighrus shouted across at Brock but he couldn’t hear a thing. It was as though his ears were malfunctioning. Everything turned into slow motion as he dived towards the emergency exits.

  Pushing his body to the limit, he sped up, his heart beating faster, sweat pouring over his brow. Another loud vibration shattered the lightbulb above him, the tiny pieces showering him. Picking up a loose weight, he threw it towards them. They ducked and Brock smashed through the emergency exit like a tornado. His body was numb; he felt nothing falling into the street. He sprinted across the road and disappeared into a nearby alley.

  Chapter 14

  The night was dark and spots of rain hit the pavement in front of him as he headed aimlessly towards the old derelict building in the distance. He switched off the small mobile phone he had mysteriously acquired at the gym, worried it could be monitoring his location somehow. Forward-thinking on his part, but it was his only clock.

  The visit to Sarah’s apartment in central London proved futile: cold, empty, and no sign of her. With no sense of time, only knowing it was late, Brock stepped across the road, street lamps spaced further apart and the road a little darker, droplets of rain a little heavier and trees in the road swaying in the late evening wind. The voice on the mobile nagged at him. He was unable to put a face to it, and wherever Sarah was, something wasn’t right. He could sense it.

  Approaching the derelict building, he caught a moving shadow between the street lamps. His head shot up, but he could see nothing. Slowly, he stepped forward, deliberately passing the overgrown garden and continuing on the pavement, discreetly scanning around. The moving shadow appeared to the side of him. he was ready to make a run for it until a faint Irish voice broke the silence.

  “Is that you?”

  Brock took stock of the man now standing directly in front of him, wearing a dazzling bright red top. It was Ty, the lad he had met in Leicester Square the other day, and again at the bus stop.

  “You again. Are you following me?” said Brock. He looked around, anticipating others, but saw nothing except some bright headlamps in the distance. Ty nudged him, breaking his concentration.

  “Thought this would be the last place you would want to come. What are you doing around here?”

  “Could ask you the same question about you. Where are you from anyway?”

  “Where do you t’ink? Ireland originally,” said Ty.

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “You’ve really lost it, haven’t you?”

  The headlamps brightened in the distance, moving closer, and Ty’s hands shook. He glared right at Brock.

  “I think that’s the rozzers. You know, a police car. Quick, dive into this garden and get down. If they see me
, I’m done for.”

  Ty grabbed Brock’s shoulder, pushing him into the garden. Both crouched in the long grass as the headlamps grew nearer. The car passed directly in front of them and continued up the street. Ty wiped his hand across his brow and let out a big breath. Rain came out of the sky heavier like a monsoon, bouncing from the trees onto the overgrown grass.

  “That was close. Sorry, I have a problem with ’em at the minute.”

  “How did you know it was the police? And more to the point, how did you know I’d be running from them too?”

  “Saw ’em earlier. It said on the news it was going to rain this evening, storms in fact. All the pubs are shut now. Where are you staying?”

  The rain poured down Brock’s face and he nodded towards the building and at the loose light wooden board across the window downstairs.

  “You’ve been kipping here? You’re kidding me. Brave of you, I must say.”

  “Why? Is it haunted?” asked Brock.

  “Haunted? Probably.”

  Brock stretched his arms in the air, giving out a huge yawn, and stepped towards the building and the loose board on the window.

  Darkness filled the interior, and the smell of rotting wood hit them in the face. Water was gushing down the various nooks and crannies, and a coldness blew around them. Ty pulled out some paper from his pockets, throwing some rotted wood in an old fireplace grate. He scoured his bag, pulling out a lighter and wandering over to the smashed ceramic fireplace with the painting above.

  “Why this particular room?” said Brock.

  Ty shot him a smile and flicked the lighter to set fire to the paper. The painting creaked and suddenly gave way from the wall, flipping over and crashing to the floor, the frame smashing open. A photograph blew onto the floor and Brock bent to pick it up. He angled it into the glare of a street lamp through a crack in the wall. It was a black-and-white photo of a young boy standing in the middle of a couple at the seaside. He chucked the photo back on the floor and reached into his rucksack, digging around for some biscuits.

  “That painting’s a right old monstrosity,” said Ty, pulling himself up and stamping on it. “I understand why they left it.”

  Brock munched on his biscuit, sliding the packet across to Ty.

  “As I said, thought this would be the last place you’d want to visit. Taken me years before I would even walk on this street, let alone crash in this hellhole.”

  “I needed somewhere to kip earlier, had a rough night. The rain ended up bringing me in here.”

  “When we last met, I was under the impression you had a good job and a home.”

  “Lost both. Can’t go back now.”

  “We’re jinxed … same as me. I was staying with this beautiful Argentinian girl. She’s a great girl. After a big bust-up, here I am needing somewhere to kip.”

  Ty reached out his hand towards the photograph on the floor and looked at it. Brock watched as he laughed.

  “This picture … it’s you!”

  Brock stared and furrowed his brow; Ty held the picture up.

  “It’s well old. I remember the day you stashed it here, out of the prying eyes of the scummy staff. Look, there’s writing on the back. I’m surprised it’s still here.”

  He lobbed it towards Brock, who examined the writing.

  “I gather this is the care home I’m searching for. Doesn’t seem real somehow. Did I really spend my childhood days here?”

  Ty nodded. The writing was only Brock’s name; surely if someone wrote on a photograph, all the people would be mentioned. Ty pulled himself up, yanking some loose wood and throwing it on the fire. As he stepped away, his foot slipped into a loose floorboard, and he nearly went through the ceiling.

  “Be careful,” Brock said. “This place isn’t exactly safe. The photo doesn’t resemble me …”

  “It’s you. I remember. Any more biscuits?”

  Brock threw Ty another packet and scrunched his forehead as he took in more of the photo of little Brock and a young couple, racking his tired brains for anything that sprang to mind. Nothing did.

  “You remember the fun in the attic?” said Ty, stuffing a whole biscuit into his mouth.

  Brock shook his head and a tingle ran down his spine. He glanced up in the direction of the dark dreary loft.

  “Used to hide up there, out the way of the staff at the hellhole.”

  “Someone put a baseball bat to my head and put me in a coma for three months. I cannot remember a damn thing. And now the police are after me and I’ve no idea why.”

  “Wow, I didn’t know it was that serious. I honestly thought you were joking. Surely this lot aren’t out for revenge.”

  Brock jerked his head up. “What lot? What do you mean revenge?”

  “The people here were complete scum, probably running criminal rackets and the likes. It was bad, but we looked out for each other and ended up becoming best buddies. Until you disappeared.”

  Brock grabbed a couple of bags of salted crisps from his rucksack, throwing one at Ty. “Disappeared?”

  “Kids here called it the hellhole. Ironic, we spent our childhoods here and now we’re back. Thank heavens this place got shut down.”

  “Why would they be out for revenge?”

  “I’ll save you the gory details. Can I have another bag of crisps?”

  “Have you eaten at all today?” Brock dug his hand into the rucksack and chucked the last bag of salted crisps at Ty. The rain eased on the building and the leaks turned to mere drips.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t recognise you before. This attack has taken everything away from me, and I’m pretty desperate to know a few things. A girl I’ve been acquainted could very well be in some serious trouble. She might need my help.”

  “Sure, what do you want to know?”

  “Tell me why the police are after you.”

  “Do the police need a reason? Cool, though, two fugitives together. We had some fun in this place, drinking all night in pubs, dares, nicking cars, pissing the police off, alcohol hangovers,” said Ty.

  “So, you’re not going to tell me?”

  “You were like a big brother to me, even though we’re about the same age. I’ve been a bit down and depressed since you buggered off. Haven’t been able to get on with my life until I met that Argentinian girl. Us, we finally got out of this hole when we turned sixteen, and trust me, we were counting down the days. We both moved into this dirty hostel run by this madam—”

  “A whorehouse, you mean.”

  “Nah, a cheap hostel. Freedom, Brock, it was our freedom. We hung on there for months, and it was a palace compared to here. You started talking about joining the army, and I popped off to Ireland one day, tracking family. You could say we decided to go our separate ways.

  “I returned a few weeks later and that madam said you packed up one day and disappeared. No note, not a message, just gone. I blamed myself. I should have called the hostel. I was too busy wheeling and dealing in cars over there, made a bit of money. Jetted back and shortly after shacked up with this bird. It never lasted long, and I ended up in another hostel.”

  “All I remember was waking up in hospital nine months ago severely battered and bruised and shoved into this place in Camden,” said Brock.

  “Sounds nasty, like the crap old days.” He laughed. “Not a joke, sorry. Least you got your own pad. I’ve got nowhere.”

  “Not quite. I was put there … it isn’t my place.”

  “What do you mean? You have a flat. Where is it then?”

  “Good question, but it’s not the one in Camden. I checked out the tenancy—it started nine months ago.”

  Ty shot him a glance.

  “I reckon a good part of the last nine months has been fixed up for me. Thing is, it doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Like deliberately?”
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br />   “You could say that. Everything was fine until I was invited to this party and some bitch spiked my drink. After that, all hell broke loose.”

  Brock rubbed his eyes and Ty reached into his empty bag of crisps, stretching his shirt up to reveal the bottom part of a dagger tattoo.

  “What’s that on your arm?” Brock asked.

  “Everyone had ’em burned on, way back, they’re our identifier for the brotherhood club. The B.H. stood for brotherhood. Me, Gary, Baz-alcoholic, Sedgy, Preston, and the rest of the lads. Do you remember the brotherhood? Rites of passage and all?

  “The staff at the hellhole went ape shit when we kept getting ’em done and tried to stop us. It brought loads of trouble for them because we all stuck together. A group of kids trying to save themselves from this hellhole. But the truth is, it went much further.

  “It was funny, though. To join, everyone underwent some forfeit or other for the rites of passage into the gang. And did we have some adventures …”

  Brock’s body was aching with exhaustion and he knew he needed to get his head down for the night; his determination to continue was taking its toll.

  “I met someone calling himself Preston the other day. The same tattoo was etched on his arm, but it appeared prestige, like new. Hard work to talk to I must say. In the end, he made for the pub door, running off like some teenager. I’d say he’s in some kind of trouble.”

  “The boring old Preston, aye. Last I heard he emigrated to some far-off land. He was always in trouble; he must have resurfaced.”

  Ty slipped his sleeve up, revealing the full tattoo of a dagger, pointing his arm towards Brock.

  “Preston brings trouble on himself, mind. He was screwed up a bit. Not sturdy like us, always moving around and poking his nose into other people’s dirt. Can you remember the time we climbed out of the window and made it up to the Shack Bar? Of course, we got caught, police called and we paid the price. That was one thing about the brotherhood, us kids stuck together in our pack. We’d meet up in the Shack and have the night of our lives like a pack of wolves.”