The Hunted. Kerry Barnes

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       Chapter 3

      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, СКАЧАТЬ