Kerry Barnes - The Hunted - A gripping crime thriller that will have you hooked

Harry Harman entered his mother’s kitchen with a face like a smacked arse. Doris was in her pinafore, not that this was unusual. Making a sandwich, she turned to her eldest son. Briefly looking him up and down, with no hint of an expression, she carried on slicing the cheese.

‘Where’s the ol’ man?’ His deep voice was gruff from too many fags and he had another distinguishing characteristic – a fat neck to match his overlarge head. A spiteful-looking man, he glared with hate most of the time. Those cold eyes never softened, even when he watched his mother with her crooked fingers, riven with arthritis, pouring tea into her dainty bone china teacup. She was almost fifty-seven and yet the boys still had her running around after them, cooking and ironing their shirts. They had moved out years before, with huge drums of their own, yet they would still bring their washing home, treating her as though she was their slave.

‘I don’t know, Son. Shall I give him a message?’

Harry tutted. ‘Nah, I need to find him, like fucking now!’

Doris stopped buttering the bread and wiped her hands on her apron. ‘Son, he’s probably up to no good with that old tom up on the Sandycroft estate, as well you know an’ all. So, I would be grateful if you didn’t come in ’ere and raise your voice at me,’ she said calmly, before she picked up the knife again and carried on buttering the bread.

Harry was seriously irritated. He knew his father was off somewhere having it away with the next tart who would put it out for him for a few drinks, but he felt somewhat guilty; he should have been more polite to his mother. Doris had a knack for winding him up with her righteous ways. She moaned constantly about their father and for good reason: he shagged everything in sight, and when he wasn’t doing that, he spent all their money on drink.

Whilst she could at least thank her lucky stars that her husband never belted her one, her mother always said she’d married beneath herself. And as the years rolled by, she wished things had been different. Hindsight was a wonderful thing but if only she’d never said ‘I do’ at the time. Trying as hard as she had, she’d been unable to change him or her sons for that matter. All three were a chip off their father’s block. And all of them had two things in common – a total lack of class and not a single brain cell between them.

Frank Harman wasn’t the best-looking man in South-East London, but he was okay – although he viewed himself as a Paul Newman double. If he was, Doris never saw it, and now he resembled the wrestler Big Daddy. Still, she’d made her bed and she had to damn well lie in it.

With three boys and a girl in the family, they sadly took on their father’s looks and build, with the possible exception of Scottie, who was the better looking of the bunch. Paris wasn’t too much of a looker without make-up, and certainly never had her mother’s sweet face.

Trying to keep up her posh voice and sophisticated ways only earned Doris the reputation for being a snob, and so, as the years dragged by, she became resigned to being put down at every turn by her insufferable children and humiliated by her villainous husband. Even her daughter had an air of arrogance about her, goaded on by the three boys. Their little princess, they called her. Doris wasn’t so blinded by her antics as the boys were, though. She was a class-A tart and was always causing unnecessary bother. Flashing her new tits and a five-hundred-pound pout, she was a spoiled little madam.

If only she could be proud of at least one of her four children, but the truth was she was ashamed of them. Totally. Frank was to blame. He brought them up to do whatever it took to earn a few bob, and there was nothing legitimate in it either. He laughed at their naughty antics, and so it was no surprise that they were all off the rails before they even reached primary school.

‘Where’s Paris?’ Harry asked, trying to moderate his angry tone.

Doris shrugged her shoulders. ‘How would I know? I haven’t seen her in a week. She’s probably staying over with that new fella of hers … Travis, I think his name is.’

Harry knew that wasn’t the case. He shuddered inside, remembering the picture of Travis in pieces. It wasn’t the bruises that turned his stomach but the fact that it was obvious he’d been gruesomely tortured. The photo on the phone had served as an ominous warning.

As thick-skinned as he was to violence and life itself, he felt uneasy. Looking back at his brother Vinnie’s feeble attempt at revenge made him want to crucify him. Gutting the dog was pathetic and instantly sent out the wrong message. He should have carved up Stafford, not the mutt: now that would have been a real warning not to mess with the Harmans.

‘I’ve made some fairy cakes. Would you like one?’ asked Doris, with a fake smile.

Harry thought he could see a trace of sarcasm on his mother’s sweet face, but, on reflection, he assumed he was just on edge and angry. ‘No, I need to get hold of Farver and Paris.’

Doris took her cup and plain cheese sandwich over to the kitchen table and sat herself down. Harry watched her, and for the first time in his life, he noticed how lonely and pitiful she looked as she ate her boring lunch at the Formica tabletop in her plain dress and pinny. The vision of Travis and then this image of innocence, his mother, oblivious to her son’s antics – he knew he wouldn’t be able to bear it if the Regans hurt her. She wasn’t like them. ‘Muvver, can you go and stay with your sister for a while?’

Holding the china teacup in her hand, Doris looked up at her son and just stared.

Harry was uneasy. ‘It’s just safer for the moment, Muvver.’ He softened his words.

‘Have you forgotten, Harry, my sister passed away six months ago? You were all invited to the funeral … but I guess you were too busy to go.’

Harry swallowed hard. He did remember her mentioning something, and yet he’d forgotten about it. He’d been too busy at the time – although he wouldn’t have gone anyway. He hardly knew his aunt. ‘Well, have ya got a friend you can stay with?’ His guilt now turned to annoyance.

‘No, Son, I don’t have any friends because your father put a stop to having any of those! Anyway, why do I need to get away? What trouble are you in now?’ Her tone was bitter.

‘Never you mind, Muvver. Just do yourself a favour and get away for a bit.’

‘No, Harry.’

With a deep furrowed frown, Harry glared. ‘Listen, Muvver, I ain’t fucking about. Ya need to get away from the house—’ Before he could finish, Doris jumped up from the table.

‘No, Harry! You listen to me for once in your life. I’m sick to the back teeth of being bullied … yes, bullied, by all of you. As for that useless father of yours, I’ve been pushed around by him for far too long, and I will not take it from you too. So, take note, sunshine, I’m not going anywhere. This is my home and not yours, so if anyone is leaving it’s you, Harry. Christ Almighty, I’ve had years of hiding from the aftermath of your troubles or dodging the police. Well, no more!’ She sat back down and took another sip of tea.

Harry sighed in frustration. Of course, she was right. For the first time in his life, he looked at her for who she really was – a downtrodden, washed-out woman. He pulled a chair out and sat opposite. ‘Muvver, I’ve a flat down the coast. It’s nothing too fancy, but it’s okay. Why don’t I take you there for a short holiday?’ His voice was almost sweet; it was so unlike his usual gruff tone.

Doris gave him a wry grin. ‘Harry, please stop taking my aloofness as stupidity. I’m fully aware of what you’re up to. Since when did you do charm? If you think offering a trip down to the seaside is doing me a favour, you’re very much mistaken. I know the truth and so do you. Like all of you, if I was to get hurt due to your antics, then none of you would be able to live with yourselves because you would be eaten up with guilt!’ she said, with a raised voice.