A Short Story: Transference by Frank Sonderborg ( Part 2 )

An original Crime Story on Steemit. So here is Part 2 - the concluding episode of Transference:

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Transference by Frank Sonderborg ( Part 2 )

Maria took it like any mother would, hysterically, only person to blame was me.
Then she would stop and make believe it was all OK, just a dream.
“Why are you saying this?”

Then she started to call Helen and broke down when there was no answer.

We got the official news via the local Cops. Then it was just another cascading item on the news.
Another senseless killing in London.
The name my daughter used was my wife’s maiden name. Part of the sacrifice of living with a working Cop. So I was not immediately associated with the victims.
Though a few Fleet Street scandal pigs were running their snouts through my affairs.
These got swiftly slapped down so I was left alone.

Neighbors and friends and Maria’s sister called.
Maria was pumped with tranquilizers and had taken to bed.
I left her with her sister and went back on the hunt.
I went to see a man I had dealings with many years before.
Went by the name of Cal.
I had run into him while cracking coke heads.
The Colombians and Chechnya’s had arrived in London.
And moved the goal posts with the level of violence they were capable of.
Cal moved amongst them as an equal.

I arrived at London Road, in Kingston. One of the spookiest areas in London. From the toppled red post boxes, like a deranged memory to the fallen MPs massacred in Iraq.
To the Little Russia restaurant run by God knows who.
On down to, ‘Failing Kentucky’ a mecca music bar for hard ass rocking punk bands.
Run by Morry and ex-band members of ‘Failing Kentucky.’
Cal was at the bar as usual.
Dressed all in black with long black hair.
He looked the part of a dark side ex Jesuit monk.
There was a distinct whiff, of the Bram Stoker, about him.

He didn’t turn, just stared into his glass of untouched whiskey.
“Jeff, comrade,” he said, “I heard. You have my commiserations.”

“I don’t need commiserations I need that bastard found and dealt with.”

He turned to look at me and smiled a smile of the dead.
“So Jeff, now we are Judge and Jury. What happened, due process? Innocent until executed.”

“Fuck it," I said, “I just want that piece of shit extinguished.”

“You will owe,” he said, “and I will collect my pound of flesh."

“OK,” I said and finished my pact with Bram Stoker. I passed him the information he needed and left.

Maria still wouldn’t face the fact, her daughter and grandson where gone. I should have felt something. Had some peace.
But I felt nothing. Just a black hole of emptiness.

We had the funeral. This should’ve been a closing.
But it just made it worse.
Grant was still missing.
I was put on extended sick leave.
Sitting day after day staring at the wall.
Everything was shutting down.
Every time Maria looked at me. I could see hate in her eyes.

Then my partner Crossly called to say Cal was looking for me.

I arrived in the 'Failing Kentucky,' there was a band doing a heavy metal version of ‘The Green Manalishi’ which set the scene.
As my darkness was hitting boiling point.
I sat beside Cal and ordered two whiskeys.
He pushed a slip of paper in my direction.
The address was a place somewhere in Kent.
All I knew about Kent was they grew apples and it was a hangout for retired London Mobsters.
I decided to let Crossly, filter the information to Smyth and the murder squad working the case.

Of course, it was all over the news the next day. Murder suspect found dead in Kent farmhouse. Seemingly he had shoot himself with the same shotgun used in murder of his girlfriend and her son.
Maria had lost it and was gone from this world. Every time she came anywhere near normal she would just spit on me.
Maybe I deserved it. I was just numb to everything.
I started to see the local Metropolitan police shrink. To see how she could get me back to work or give me the boot.
Her aim was to get me to function again.
Transference, she said it was called and she believed it was the key to getting me back on track.
Simply put, I needed to transfer my hate for Grant to another object or thing and gradually we could eliminate it totally.
Crossly called and said Cal was looking for me again.

“Jeff you’re not involved with that dark twisted soul.”

“Nicely put,” I said and then lied, “No, just catching up on old times.”

The case, as such was nicely wrapped up.
Lover kills girlfriend along with her kid then tops himself.
Done and dusted. Pack it away and move along, nothing to see here.

I was back in the ‘Failing Kentucky,' Cal was on his usual perch.
Untouched whiskey in front. I realized I had never seen him actually drink. Maybe he was a teetotaller.
Sitting here in punishment for his Jesuit black sins.
And this man had a bucket list of sins to repent.

“Happy now, are we Jeff.”

“No,” I said, “No I’m not. I’d rather have my daughter and grandson back. What do I owe you?”

“Here is another piece of the puzzle,” and passed me a piece of paper.
Then he looked at me and his eyes where a black sclera of the damned.
“Transference, have you ever heard the term.”

“Yes,” I said feeling a cold chasm opening up under me, “Oddly enough, I have.”

“The information on that paper is all about transference.”

I left the bar to the screeching pounding sounds of ‘Pretty Vacant.’
Which just about summed me up.

The address on the paper was the Kent farm house along with a name.
“Trevor Whitehead,” who the fuck was Trevor Dick-head and why did Cal give me his name.
How had Grant ended up at the farmhouse?
I ran the name and the farm house by Crossly and got Zilch. I was still on extended sick leave and spent the time just staring at the wall.
Crossly got in touch again. Grant went, it seemed, to the farmhouse for his interviews.
There was a connection with the farmhouse and this guy Whitehead. It’s was alias for a con artist called "Dan Mills".
Now residing somewhere in Malaga, Spain. We had nothing to pin him with the Credit Card scam or the suicide.
Crossly wanted to know where I had got the information.

“Never mind,” I said and cut the call.

I had another appointment with the shrink. So I headed in to see her.
It was all very informal.
I checked her out. Short hair. Sensible sharp bankers outfit. Looking serious and very professional. Still looked hot.
I knew I was recovering when I noticed her scent.
She was going on about transference again.

Yes I agreed it was working. As I was getting very horny just looking at her.
This ruffled her feathers a shade. But she was used to it, so moved on.

“So you believe you can return to work.”

“Yes,” I said, “I am reborn, reformed, rebuilt.”
She smiled at this and signed me off. I was back in business.

I went straight down to London Road and waited for Cal to show up. He glided in the door moving like a boxer trained ballerina.
As always, dressed head to toe in black.
He looked at me and smiled. “So Jeff is back on the horse.”
Was all he said before sitting and nodding to Morry, for his drink.
He reached into his pocket and handed me a piece of paper.
Then he looked me in the eye and said,
“Now go and finish it.”

I headed back to the office and started chasing information out of the Yards databases.
He had given me an address in Malaga. The beach house was registered to a 'Trevor Blanc.'
A South African who had drawn the attention of the local Spanish Drug Squad.
The house was down as a meeting place for local hoods and retired ex Brit cons.
Then it was suddenly dropped as, 'Trevor Blanc' started getting high level protection from various Intelligence organizations. MI6, TFI, CNI.
But now I had a picture of 'Trevor Blanc.'
And my transference was complete.
My wife blamed me totally for the death of her daughter and grandson.
The murdering fucker had cheated me by blowing his head off. But now, now I had at last, someone to blame.
Totally ridiculous and nonsensical. But I could feel the hurt seeping away, as I started to make my plans.

Crossly was pissed off. As I was not pulling my weight on our assigned investigation. Some dumb ass luxury carjacking operation to Serbia and beyond.

“It’s that fucker Cal. He’s pulling your chain, setting you up. You dumb fucker.”
I just smiled and said, “don’t be silly.” And continued to get my stuff ready for the flight to Spain.

I never said goodbye to Maria. She was still away with the fairies.
Waiting for her daughter to call. Her Grandson to come and spend the weekend. When she saw me it would all come crashing down and she was back screaming bile at me.
So better to leave her be.

I flew into Madrid and hired a car and drove to Malaga. Booked a room at a local hotel and went looking for Fred the Blacksmith.

Fred was another refugee to the sun. Ex-British army. A life spent killing for his King & Country and then tossed out on the streets.
He took his trade skills and like any good conservative, he went into business on his own.
I liked him and understood how he ended up somehow as a bad guy.
He still saw himself as being on the side of the righteous. He was killing scum. So he was in effect doing our job. I had explained, yes, they were just scum.
But it was against the law.
He never touched civilians, so I told him to get out of town, as he would get nailed if he hung around.

He settled in Malaga and made a living supplying tools of the trade to the various low lifers who swam in these waters.
I turned up at his garage and gave him my list.

“Business,” was all he asked.
“Family business,” was all I replied.

I headed back to the hotel. And sat and brooded in my room. The anger was returning.
I needed to control this or it will not go well.
Trevor Whitehead, alias Dan Mills alias Trevor Blanc was married with one kid.
Lived just out of town in an expensive beach front villa.
Had house protection. Not very serious stuff.
He was meshed into the Intelligence community.
So the word was he was well covered.
He came into town every Tuesday with the family like clockwork.
Ate at his favourite restaurant, La Bamba.
Wednesdays and Saturday night he came alone with his bodyguards to eat at the Tropicana restaurant run by a Brazilian trans-gender called Sally.
Lots of dancing girlie boys.
Food was good so it was booked out all week.
On Tuesday’s he was of guard, relaxed. This was the day I would make my move.
I gathered my stuff from the hotel room. A very heavy Kevlar lookalike vest, copied by some underpaid gunsmith in the Pakistani tribal lands.
A Glock 17. The real deal. I insisted on a good working gun.
Spare ammo in case I ended up in a war zone.
I was getting angry calls and messages on my smart phone from Crossly.
I sent a text to say I was taking a break, away from it all and would be in touch.

On Tuesday’s they usually came in to eat by Taxi around 9pm and then left around 11.30pm so I needed to be out by the Villa by at least 8pm.

I drove out in my hired car and enjoyed the rich man’s view of the world. Lots of smart Villas by the beach.
Most of these where probably dodgy accountants from Eastern Europe and a few Irish Bankers enjoying their bailed out retirement package.
While the rest of Europe when down the sinkhole.

I parked down from the Villa, stepped out and waited for the Taxi to arrive.
Standing for an hour watching the house had stiffened my limbs.
The weight of the Kevlar Vest was a killer and the damp humid heat was causing me to wish I had never put it on.
Thought, tonight would be his last. Bastard.
Smug cocky bastard. All smiles and white teeth. Designer suits and shirts.
I was getting bitter.
Eaten up with hate as the black dog started to engulf me again.
I started to walk towards the villa. The cab will be on its way.
There was a security gate and then a driveway up to the indulgent white villa.
Very expensive. Very Sheik.
All paid for, out of other people's Credit Cards.

The cab arrived and the gates opened and I walked on in.
I followed it, right to the door.
Pulled a gun and told the cabbie to scram-moose. He was driving away in a hurry when I rang the doorbell.
This was a one way mission.
Not really thought through. But fuck it, I was here and now was the time.

He open the door and looked at me oddly. He was wearing an open necked snow white designer shirt. A heavy gold medallion around his neck.
Gave me a big white teeth smile. As he brushed his short manicured hair. Flashing the Rolex on his left wrist. A healthy glowing tan from a life by the Villa pool.
Looked fit, but not overdone.
You’re typical successful ex-pat British businessman.

I ruined the look by pumping two quick bullets through his immaculate set of teeth. Two more through his white shirt now a bloody mess. I kept firing as he went down. His wife standing behind him was spattered with his brains and blood. Engulfed with the burning fever of revenge, she got two in the chest and one in the head. Mercy was not my middle name that night.

A large overweight Samoan Odd Job, type of guy, had arrived and was standing away to my right firing away with a hand gun.
I felt a jolt as the rounds smacked of the Kelvar Vest. Then a burst of of pain. As one of the shots slipped in between the plates.
Thought, cheap fucking Pakistani shit.
I reloaded and emptied the lot into Odd Job.
He went down in a bloody mess. I turned and noticed the kid.
He was standing by the body of his Mummy. Splattered in blood.
Just staring at me.
I could see him in 10yrs time, coming after me, with a meat cleaver.
I reloaded again as his head disintegrated from the flying hot metal of an Uzi out of control.
Another wannabe bodyguard had arrived.
A jumped up punk-head with a weapon gone wild.
He stood, eyes closed and kept his finger on the trigger until it just stopped.
Thought, another fucking amateur. I emptied my last rounds into him.
And then all was still.
Until the dog howling started.
In the distance I could hear the sirens.
Spanish police on the way.
Looked at the kid splattered on the ground.
Then felt the pain as I started to leave by the back door.
The house was eerily empty. The cooks and servants must have done a runner.
I made it outside. And headed for the beach.
The gun and plastic gloves went as far as I could throw them into the heavy surf. The pain was excruciating.
Then I fell on my knees and ended up face down in the salty brine.
I started to crawl along the water’s edge but the vest was weighing me down.
Much use that fucking thing turned out to be.
A large ball of flame suddenly lit the night. Followed by the thunderous sound of an explosion as the Blanc Villa went south.
Bits of flaming wood and bricks and mortar came showering down on me.

As I lay gasping for air, the waves continued to crash over my prone body.
Listening to howling dogs and police sirens waking the dead.
While my mouth filled with wet sand.
"OK, I’ll talk, I’ll talk. I did it, it was me."
But nobody was there to give a fuck. I was on my own.
Then suddenly I was being lifted and carried along the beach.
Cal had my arm over his shoulder and we were heading towards his car.

“OK, Jeff, it’s finished. I’ll take you to a doctor. You were hit by a stray bullet from some gangland shoot out. It happens a lot around here. Not good for the tourist trade Senor.”
I couldn’t argue the point with a mouth full of wet sand.
Later, I asked about the Spanish Police.
“You done them a favor. Nobody liked that piece of shit. Leave a statement with them and it will all just disappear.”
I was sent home after I was patched up.
Back to the UK. Back to my crazy wife.

I would be suspended again for going AWOL.
No sympathy this time when they heard about the carnage in Malaga.

I let myself back into my house and sat again at our happy families table.
Maria came down from upstairs.
“So, you're back.”
“Yes," I said,"I’m home.”
She didn’t smile just said, “Has Helen called. Have you seen her?”
“No I said I hadn’t seen her. Maybe she was just too busy to call.”
“OK then,” she said as she went back upstairs.
I felt OK again. More normal than I should. A circle had been squared and as Cal said, the transference was now complete.
But every night when I close my eyes. I can still see a blond kid coming at me with a meat cleaver.