For My Sins

CHAPTER 1

Docklands, London

As the speeding ambulance navigated potholed streets David Howard, hooked up to an intravenous drip, fell in and out of consciousness. A paramedic hovered over him, checking bindings and vital signs.

They were on their way to A&E, and once they sourced who he was, prison. No way could he let that happen, he wasn’t done yet, he had one more debt to collect. There was no going back,

As his head rocked from side-to-side, his hazy mind wandered back to a time in prison, the moment the debt came into play.

Surround by the cacophony of penitentiary life, and unfazed by admiring stares, David Howard leisurely lorded it along B-Section’s balcony, returning to his cell after a heavy gym session.

From an early age he was aware of his looks, of the evil they attracted, and how to use their power to his advantage. Tall, dark, muscled, with regal nose, hooded eyes, controlling stare, and a history of violence, he had a fascinating, predatory, quality. Prisoners scrambled out of his way in a mix of awe, lust, and fear.

He never did quite understand why men and women held such a fascination for what was, clearly, bad for them.

An older prisoner stood in a cell doorway, waiting for him to pass, giving a polite attention seeking cough.

‘Morning Howard how are we today?’ he barked, his crisp upper-crust British accent reeking of landed gentry, jarringly out of place in a prison.

David stopped a few feet from the man’s door and leaned back against the balcony railing. With tilted head, open legs, and hands crossed at his crutch, he stood in silence, taking his time to shamelessly survey the man’s body, head to toe.

The air’s bustle of prison life hushed, as inmates stopped what they were doing and looked up through railings. Showtime.

The man, enjoying the attention, puffed out his chest, ran a bejewelled hand through expensive, shaggy, salt and pepper hair. And jerked his chin, encouraging David to take a good look.

‘Hello Posh… do you ever give up?’ David spread his legs further and cupped his cock, giving it a playful squeeze.

Posh licked his lips in anticipation. ‘Like what you see?’ he asked, in low, breathy, tone. ‘Wanna come into my lair for a cup of tea, or something… hotter?’

David leaned his head to the other side, gave a raise of eyebrow, a questioning purse of his lips, and firmer squeeze of his growing cock.

Admittedly the man was in good shape for his age. Tall, strong, and bohemian handsome. The look of an aging British rock star, ridden hard, and put away wet.

He oozed money, with expensive tousled hair, sun crumpled skin, Hollywood bleached teeth, and glaringly understated wristwatch, and shoes.

Posh repeated the question, his voice almost a whisper.

‘Do you like what you see Howard?’

David released his hands from his crutch, dropped them to his side, and gave a quick jerk of his hips. The length of his waking appendage could clearly be seen nudging through material. An intake of breath filled the air. He was not small.

Posh raised an appreciative eyebrow. Trying not to show his excitement. The man was a god.

‘I see that you do,’ he smouldered, enjoying the tingle of his own cock coming to life.

David made him wait, grinding chiselled dimples, as if in deep thought, tossing the idea around his head. You could hear a pin drop.

Coming to a decision, he gave one of his cheekier grins.

‘Nah, not really, mate,’ shaking his head. ‘You’re not for me. You’re a good-looking sod, I’ll give you that, but you’re an evil bastard, and evil bastards tend to get on my tits. Oh, and of course there is your money and your copious supply of blow to consider. But I’ve got all the dosh I need thanks, and coke makes spunk taste like shit. So, no thanks mate, not today. Go pimp your button mushroom dick somewhere else,’ he smiled, with a cheerful, ‘okay?’

A collective intake of breath silenced the block.

Three inmates, who’d been up caught waiting behind David, decided it was time to move on. They squeezed past the two men, heads down, grinning from ear to ear, scurrying out of the way.

Posh was a powerful, evil, bullying bastard, the kind that you didn’t mess with. But it was time he had his comeuppance, and David certainly had the balls, or the stupidity, to dish it. This was gold.

David nodded a jolly ‘see ya’ at Posh, and stepped in line behind the three inmates, cheerfully whistling the tune, ‘You can’t always get what you want,’ by the Rolling Stones.

The three joined him, singing the lyrics, at first in a whisper.

‘… you can’t always get what you want.’

Then louder as they worked their way along the balcony. Then louder and louder. Posh watched them leave, his seething eyes staring into their backs.

A few more inmates joined, then a few more. Soon voices built throughout the block, as every prisoner sang out loud in beautiful harmony.

‘You can’t always get what you want… You can’t always get what you want…’

Wardens’ heads spun, trying to work out what was happening, where the chant had started from, and who it was directed at. With the echoing noise it was difficult to tell, until one noticed that Posh was the only one not singing.

He stood fuming, angry at the put down. Used to getting what he wanted, his philosophy of ‘just beat it, or throw money at it, and it’s yours’ had always worked for him. But not with the sought-after David Howard, obviously.

He stepped onto the balcony and shouted at David’s sauntering back, bellowing over the noise.

‘You didn’t used to be so fucking choosy, boy, or have you forgotten?’

David ignored him and continued down the corridor with an arrogant ‘you can’t touch this’ swagger.

Posh seethed.

‘You should’ve learnt by now, Howard, that I always get what I want,’ he sneered. ‘I’m getting out today. But don’t worry pretty boy, I’ve left a little keepsake under your pillow, so you won’t miss me. Oh, and I’ll say hello to that pretty woman of yours, Tara isn’t it? I’ll send her your love, I’ll deliver it in person. Bon voyage.’

He stepped back into his cell and slammed the heavy door shut. The violent sound sent a shockwave through the block, putting an abrupt end to the singing.

‘Oh dear, knickers in a twist,’ sing-songed David under his breath. ‘Good riddance Posh, don’t bother to write.’

He made his way along the balcony to his cell, high fiving a few inmates along the way. No one liked bullyboy Posh, few had the courage to stand up to him.

‘Conceited knob, he gets on my tits,’ David winked at a passing love-struck prisoner.

Closing his door behind him, he stretched out on his bunk, placed hands behind his head, and closed his eyes, letting out a sigh, enjoying the peace.

Turning to face the wall, he smiled adoringly at a photograph of Tara, stuck to the brickwork.

‘Now, you can get on my tits any time you want,’ he beamed.

A noise scrunched under his head, remembering Posh’s words, he delved beneath his pillow and pulled out a large brown envelope. David Howard was written in neat flowery blue ink across the front.

He looked back at the photograph, his face darkened, remembering the letter Tara had sent him all those years ago, the one he’d read alone on his school dorm bed, the one that politely rejected his outpouring of love, the one that broke his heart.

With a sense of foreboding, he jumped up and moved to the window. He turned the envelope in his hands, scrutinizing it in the daylight that crept through bars.

Summoning courage, he tore into it, and peered inside. It looked like old photographs.

Gingerly sliding the images out into the light, his eyes widened, and his heart slowed. They were grainy, black, and white photos, a little out of focus, but it was clear what was going on.

He squinted closer, not quite believing as he sifted through the first images, then more and more. He began to shake, scrunching eyes tight shut like a little boy, not wanting to see any more.

Throwing his head back, open mouthed, he sucked a lungful of air and let out an agonizing wail. The photographs fell to the floor, he tore at his clothes, and dropped to his knees, a second wail bellowed.

Outside, a warden, hearing the cries, ran the length of the balcony to David’s door, and pushed it open.

‘What’s going on in here?’ he demanded.

David was on the floor, surrounded with pictures, head in hands, sobbing, rocking backwards and forwards, smashing his forehead against stone, over and over again, welcoming the pain. Crimson blood splashed floor, walls, and clothing, and trickled his face and hands.

David was back in his school dorm the day his mother died, smashing his head against a bloodstained wall.

‘Nooooooooooo,’ he cried.

The warden stepped closer, unsure what to do. Hovering over him, he looked down at the photographs and winced.

A scared little boy, with a mop of dark curly hair stood naked, surrounded by four older boys in a semi-circle; laughing, cocks in hand, aroused.

David had met Posh before.

The warden felt a whoosh of air, and a rustling. He looked around the small cell… what the hell was that?

Nothing.

Shaking his head, mumbling it was time he took some leave, he scooped up the images, and shoved them back into the envelope, leaving it on David’s table.

He reached down and placed a consoling hand on David’s heaving shoulder. In that moment, he felt a foreboding, an energy had been set in motion, one of the two men would now die. He shook his head, secretly hoping that it would be Posh.

At least David’s victims deserved it. Whereas Posh was a cruel, entitled, narcissist, who had people killed for pleasure. Using his wealth and well-placed contacts to bend the system and get away with it. That wasn’t fair.

Panicked David threw his upper body forward, waking out of the memory, and coming back to the present. The strap across his hips prevented his falling from the stretcher. The paramedic eased him back down with calming words.

‘It’s okay, you had a bad dream, you’re in an ambulance, on your way to the hospital, lie back and try to relax.’

The ambulance trundled on through empty dark streets. Coming up to a junction, it turned on its siren.

CHAPTER 2

Heart pounding, clammy with sweat, a dark figure scurried to the end of an alleyway and peered out onto a road. Squinting his eyes, he searched for movement, lights, anything?

Nothing.

Holding his breath, he listened for footsteps, voices, a car engine.

Nothing.

With a relieved groan he fell back against the alley’s wall and started to breathe again… thank fuck, I haven’t been followed.

Wood-scorched air filled his lungs. Sweat trickled his lashes and stung his eyes, blurring vision. He wiped the back of his hand across his face, making it worse.

He noticed the white silk of his shirt cuff was stained in soot and blood. Nausea hit, his stomach lurched. He wasn’t cut out for this.

Spinning to lean on the wall, and he bent over and retched hard, hacking up ash-ridden phlegm, standing legs apart, trying to keep expensive shoes out of the splash zone… for fucks sake!

The heaving echoed the passageway, the stench made him gag some more, he purged again and again until empty, and the final dregs of bile spat to the ground.

He re-checked the street, cuff-wiping his mouth, no longer caring about his designer shirt.

He closed his eyes trying to calm. It was okay, he hadn’t been seen, no one knew he was there. They’d all been too busy containing the warehouse blaze, and hauling bodies, to notice him hiding, watching from a distance.

He’d seen ambulance crew haul three body bags… why three body bags?

He knew who two of them were, but who was the third?

It wasn’t David, he’d received a text from him, and could see he was being cared for by paramedics. Michael was standing with Tara, consoling her. The only one left was BiJou, Michael’s sister… could BiJou be dead?

The distant whoop-whoop of a siren pulled him out of his thoughts. He peered cautiously into the street; an angry orange glow burned in the distance, silhouetting the rooftops of derelict buildings against the night sky.

Fire-fighters were still struggling to get the fire under control, the whole area was a tinderbox nightmare, they’d be battling through the night.

The screeching siren grew louder, nearer, tearing into the silence, pumping his heart’s rhythm.

He knew what he had to do.

Looking around, he checked his position, the ambulance had to pass this way, it was the only exit route from the industrial estate… they wouldn’t be in a hurry if they were carrying dead, this has to be him.

Red brick walls lined both sides of the street, an overflowing builder’s skip sat abandoned in the gutter, taking up half the road, narrowing traffic access to one lane… perfect.

He positioned himself a short distance in front of the skip and stepped back into shadows, hidden from view.

His timing had to be spot-on, he had one chance. He pulled out a black baseball cap and put it on, tugging the peak low over his face, he tucked hands into pockets and waited.

Blue flashing lights licked the walls of buildings at a junction, the hurtling ambulance then came into view, turning sharply into his street, driving straight towards him. Its engine revving, picking up speed, intent on getting to A&E as soon as possible.

As the truck neared, it hurled to the right, ready to overtake the skip.

Taking a deep breath, his heart hammering, he stepped into the road, stood in the glare of the headlamps waving hands for a fraction of a second and stepped back into the darkness.

The driver, caught unawares, slammed on his brakes, and yanked hard on the steering wheel trying to avoid the pedestrian. Swerving into the wall he spun the wheel back, but over compensated, and crashed into the skip.

Unrelenting, the ambulance slid forward, scraping its side. Metal on metal screeched the air, sparks flew, brakes pumped, wheels turned.

Crashing off the skip, it rammed up the kerb, tried to crawl a wall, flipped to its side, skidded across tarmac, and smashed into the opposing wall, its siren whining to a halt, as petrol ignited.

He ran to the mangled mess; steaming, hissing, lights flashing, wheels spinning, flames building… shit, shit, shit, that wasn’t supposed to happen, I’ve killed him!

The back doors kicked open. David clambered out, dragging the unconscious paramedic,’ and hollered at him.

‘Get the driver out, then let’s get the fuck out of here.’

CHAPTER 3

Franco’s Penthouse, Chelsea, London

Numb with shock, Josie and Tara sat huddled in silence on one of Franco’s sumptuous cream sofas. Vacant-eyed, they stared through panoramic windows onto London’s vibrant nightlife. The city’s splendor wasted on them.

Josie reached out and gently squeezed Tara’s trembling hands.

‘You’re shaking hun, and look at you, covered in soot. We need to get you cleaned up.’

‘What the hell just happened Josie?’ whispered Tara, barely audible, gazing into the distance.

‘David Howard happened, that’s what, and it’s not over yet. For fucks sake when will he stop?’

‘I need to get away from here, I’m going back to Ireland for a while.’

‘You’ve been going there a lot recently, what is it with that place?’

‘Oonagh, she’s been supporting me until I get back into work. Her last words were to go sort it out or forget him and move to Ireland.’

‘Sort what out?’

‘Him, David. I thought I could mend us, make us a family. But now its fucked, he may be dead, and it’s my fault. We’re not even able to call the hospital, he’s supposed to be dead already.’

‘Your aunt is lovely, I’m sure, but she doesn’t know David. Besides, why would you want to be with him?’ Josie stared at her friend, not understanding. ‘Anyway, he won’t be dead, Michael said it was only a scalpel wound, painful, but not life threatening.’

‘I wanted us to be a family,’ tears welled in Tara’s eyes.

‘What family? What is his hold over you, girl? The bastard tried to kill you, he ruined your relationship with Franco, lost you your job, and now you’re a shadow of your former self,’ Josie sighed, her friend needed help, David was toxic.

They stared in silence out the window.

Tara nodded, Josie was right, but she didn’t know all the facts. No one did, except Oonagh.

London’s hypnotic twinkling lights lined highways, speckled buildings, adorned bridges, and reflected in the deep, fast flowing, waters of the Thames.

They watched as busy ant-like pedestrians, impatient traffic, and lycra-clad cyclists obediently stop-started at street corners; the capital’s rhythm conducted by red, amber, and green lights.

‘Look at them T,’ Josie nudged Tara. ‘All busy with places to go and people to see. All having fun, except us. They obviously don’t have a David in their lives, how did things get this bad?’

Snuggling closer, Josie scanned the opulent, spacious, room. The beautiful open plan seating area, and the elegant mahogany tabled dining area.

‘You know, I don’t envy Franco’s fame and fortune, not one little bit. Living the cushioned life of a celebrity has its moments but perched up here looking down on normality must be lonely,’ she looked over at Franco standing by the apartment’s lift. ‘I wonder if he ever feels trapped?’

Handsome Italian aristocrat and footballing legend Franco Rossellini’s every move, on and off the pitch, had kept the gossip hungry press fueled for years. Owned by the public, his handsome face was splashed daily over every social network. His love life and talent, dissected and debated across continents.

Yet, he took it in his stride, seemingly unfazed by the commotion he caused. Ignoring it with a regal aloof wave of his hand, it came with the territory, and football was his territory, so what? Some called it arrogance; he called it confidence.

‘He’s looking a little trapped right now,’ Josie grinned at Tara, trying to lighten the mood. ‘He’s about ready to explode, not a happy chappy.’

The two girls turned to look at him. Franco and his bodyguard, Michael, were standing together, watching an effervescent Seb politely usher two policemen into the lift.

Franco tense with anger. Michael stony-faced, disheveled, covered in bloodied dirt, absent mindedly pulling at bandaged hands.

‘Thank you, officers,’ Seb smiled. ‘If we hear anything we’ll let you know. Have a good night,’ he bade the closing doors a flamboyant farewell.

Once safely out of sight, he looked up to the ceiling and smiled, shaking his head… yet again David Howard has managed to cause complete and utter chaos, the man is a legend.

‘What the hell are you smiling at?’ hissed Franco. ‘It’s not bloody funny Seb, we’ve just lied to the old Bill. We could go down for this.’

‘Whoa! Keep your knickers on mate, it’s not my fault,’ Seb’s open arms protesting innocence. ‘This is Michael’s call, remember? Not mine,’ he sauntered to the bar and lined up five glasses. ‘We’re just following orders, mate. Drink anyone?’

Franco turned to Michael, pushing him back against the wall, his voice low.

‘Why the hell are we lying to them? This could get way out of hand. I’m not happy Michael, and why the hell did you bring her here,’ glaring in Tara’s direction. ‘Get rid of her, she’s with David now.’

‘I didn’t know what else to do, she’s in shock,’ calmed Michael. ‘Besides I want her here, we need to control the situation.’

Franco wasn’t interested.

‘She made her choice, get her out, I mean it Michael, I want nothing more to do with her or her bastard psycho boyfriend.’

He ran a nervous hand through his hair.

‘Shit, between the two of them they’re ruining my life. My agent is pulling out all the stops trying to keep this shit out of the papers and calm the board. He has the patience of a saint, no other player gives him this much grief,’ he looked at Michael, shaking his head. ‘The press are gonna have a field day. First Maria, now BiJou, my exes are dying off like flies,’ he glanced over at Tara, wincing at the thought of anything happening to her. He turned back to Michael.

‘Sorry, mate,’ Franco calmed raising a hand. ‘Bijou is your sister, I’m sorry for your loss.’

Michael closed his eyes, not able to think about it, he waved the subject aside. He didn’t have time to mourn her now, he would do so later.

‘It’s okay, thanks boss, I should never have let her get involved with you,’ he sighed. ‘But since when have you worried about what the papers or fans say? You just keep delivering goals and they’ll forgive you anything, they have short memories,’ he glanced over at Tara and lowered his voice.

‘You’re in love with that girl, boss, look after her or you’ll lose her too. David will pay, have no fear,’ he checked his phone. ‘Where the hell is Anton? I don’t like this; if we don’t all sing from the same hymn sheet our story is fucked.’

Seb, listening at the breakfast bar, answered him.

‘The taxi dropped him off when we left the warehouse,’ pouring whisky into tumblers. ‘I’ve texted him to get his ass over here,