The Family

The man grasped his beer in one large scarred hand, taking quick steps back to his corner across the virtually empty bar. He spread his spindly limbs out across the couch and ran a hand through his short hair, as bright blue eyes darted to the window, where the snow was still falling heavily outside. Satisfied, the eye abruptly moved to spear the plump youth opposite him. After a few seconds, he decided the youth posed no danger, and he calmly opened his newspaper.
His name was Lucas. Though few would jump to pleasant conclusions about him, it was difficult to believe he was a man who had personally killed over twenty people, and ordered the deaths of hundreds more. His light build and casual dress – ragged jeans and a faded t-shirt – belied a vicious temperament and a deadly efficiency.
The young man on the other side of the room was more aware of this than he knew.
Art pulled a mobile out of his suit pocket. It occurred to him that at the age of twenty-six, he was far better suited to the casual style of dress his target was wearing, almost as much as the older man would have been suited to his own current formal wear. He loosened the collar around his neck. A hand ran through his short beard as he dialled the number, unconsciously mirroring Lucas’s movement a few seconds earlier. There was no answer. He dialled again. This time, it was picked up within two rings.
“Hey, Art.”
“Hello, Howard. When are you getting here?”
“Ten minutes.”
“You said that nine minutes ago.”
“We’ve got a minute left, then.”
“Are you a minute away?”
There was a pause. “Touché. Y’know, I think I might hand you over to the designated driver.”
Art waited as the phone was passed across, keeping his eyes on the man in the corner.
“What?”
“I’m sat here in a bar on my own, Samira!” He hissed.
“So?”
“So without you both here, I just look like a dad at a wedding."
“Don’t be stupid, no one would invite you to their wedding. Look, don’t get snippy; at least you’re not sat out here in the snow. We’ll be there in a few, just keep him there.”
Art allowed a sceptical look to paste itself across his face. “How the hell am I supposed to do that?”
“Buy him drinks.”
“And if that doesn’t work?”
But his words were only met with the dial tone. Art turned, finding to his dismay that Lucas was already halfway through his beer. His feet were already moving before his brain had time to do anything but marvel at the speed with which the fellow chugged his alcohol. A seasoned drinker, perhaps?
He reached the bar. “Two of whatever that chap’s drinking, please.”
He mentally ticked off what he knew of the man. Violent. (That was a key one.) Loved his daughter. (Another key one.) Fondness for dogs. (Useless in this context.) Cheapskate, and possibly a seasoned drinker. Would appreciate free drinks.
Several minutes later, the barman returned. “Ten fifty.”
He did a double take. “I’m sorry, what?”
An exaggerated sigh rocked the man’s body. “It’s imported. Ten fifty. Please.”
Art tried his best not to scowl as he handed over the money. He’d be mentioning it to Samira. Her idea: her bill.
As if on cue, Samira and Howard appeared in the doorway. The tall blonde girl was recognisable instantly, as was the stockier form of his brother. They were both dressed casually, with Howard even sporting a baseball cap. It was another unpleasant surprise. Art waved his arm as broadly as he dared, thankful for the curve of the bar that took him out of the target’s view. Samira stalked over, with Howard trailing behind.
“You said,” Art hissed, “we were all doing it in formal wear.”
Samira stared at him blankly. “At no point did we ever say we’d all do this in formal wear.”
“Yes you did!” Retorted Art. “You promised, if I recall.”
“Oh, yeah, that. I lied, sorry.”
He jabbed a finger into his own chest.  “I look like a cock if I do it on my own.”
“I’m going to sit at the bar.” Howard interjected. He kept his eyes on the ground, and the cap low over his face. “If he sees me, he’ll kill me.”
“Fine.” Art spat. “I guess it’s me who’s talking to him then.”
They both shrugged their shoulders in an identical movement.
Art huffed, gathering up the drinks. He and Samira left Howard at the bar, rounding the corner to find that Lucas had discarded his newspaper, and was already putting his coat on.
He put his best grin on, nudging Samira and speaking through gritted teeth. “What’s his daughter’s name?”
“Er, Jessica.”
“Lucas!” He grinned, steering himself over and plonking the drinks down. “You’re going?”
The man froze, fixing Art with tiny black eyes. His hands twitched, and the young man froze too.
“How do you know my name?”
The words were saturated in a thick Edinburgh accent. Art tried to think of something, but nothing came to mind apart from a series of four-letter words. He squirmed under Lucas’s blank gaze.
“...Guessed it?”
Samira frowned at him, pretence already abandoned. “Oh well done, Mr Machiavelli. Spot on. What a web of intrigue.”
Lucas darted forwards, and a long hand clamped onto Art’s arm like a pincer. The young man exclaimed as half of an expensive pint sloshed straight down the front of his suit. Samira poked her head over her brother’s shoulder, while Art struggled to keep the other pints upright.
“I hope Jessica’s still working hard at those exams.”
The grip on Art’s arm was instantly released, as if he was white-hot. “Is that a threat?”
“No!” Art started. “Of course not. We’re just trying to have a chat.”
Lucas studied them for a second. “You’re kids.” He mused. “I don’t know any kids. How did you get my daughter’s name?”
Art indicated the table. “Let’s sit.”
The older man took a step closer. He leaned in, slowly and deliberately. “No, you’ll answer my question first, or I’ll cut you open in front of your friend.”
The youth looked at Lucas’s wide eyes, which met his gaze unflinchingly. Behind the man’s calm facade, something deadly raged inside him – something feral and animalistic. Art caught a glimpse of whatever it was, in those eyes.  Lucas was not bluffing.
Art sat. Wordlessly, Samira followed suit. Lucas stood for a few seconds, staring at them.
The youth motioned at the drinks.
“These are both for you.”
That got his attention. Lucas sat down, and Art slid a drink over to him. The man snatched it from the table and took a long gulp. His eyes remained fixed on them.
“We know Jessica’s name because we’ve been looking for you.” Samira told him.
“Oooh.” Lucas chuckled into his drink, unimpressed. “And who are you?”
They looked at each other. “We’re the family.” Samira replied.
“The Family.” He repeated. “Which one?”
They stared at him with identical frowns on their faces.
“A regular one.” Art responded, finally. “It’s not a gang name.” He jerked his head, indicating his companion. “She’s not my friend, she’s my sister.”
“Fascinating.” The word drifted from the man’s mouth like smoke. “And what interest does your family have in me?”
“You knew one of us. My brother.” Art said sharply. “To be specific, you killed him.”
Lucas raised an eyebrow, reaching for his second drink. He made a show of looking around the empty bar. “That’s a big accusation to be making in a public place.”
“And yet you seem very casual about it.” Samira snapped.
He smiled. “Being casual isn’t illegal yet, is it?”
“We have a witness.” Art said, equally calm.
“I’m sure you do.” Lucas sounded bored. He took a long draught of his pint. “So you’ve come for what? Prise a confession? Compensation? Revenge?”
“Yes, actually. That last one.”
Lucas stared at him. His smile faded, to be replaced by a look of authoritative curiosity – like a destructive child studying an insect.
“You’re very confident.” He observed eventually.
Art looked back at him mildly. “If you knew our family, you’d understand why.”
Lucas didn’t reply, too busy draining his pint. He clapped the glass down in the table, and Art winced.
“That was really expensive.” The youth told him.
“Then I appreciate it all the more.” Lucas shrugged on his coat.
“Lucas – er, just in case I’ve not made myself clear, we’re going to kill you.”
The man’s lips tightened and his cheeks turned pink, while his eyes darted to the ceiling. With a feeling of annoyance, Art realised he was suppressing a grin.
“Whaaat?” He whined, suddenly sounding twenty years younger than he really was.
“What’s your name?”
“Arthur. It means ‘vengeance.’”
Samira frowned at him. “It means ‘tall and noble hill.’”
Lucas ignored her. “Arthur, have you ever threatened anyone with death before?”
The youth’s feeling of irritation grew, and he folded his arms. “No.”
“I can tell.” Lucas leaned forward. The smile dropped from his face like a stone from a cliff, and those eyes burned again. “When you say something like that, you’ve got to really feel it. You’re telling this person they will never love, live or laugh again. You’ve got to put yourself in their shoes. What would be your last thought?”
“I don’t know.” Art glanced at Samira, who was staring silently. “Can’t remember one.”
“If I were to kill you now, right this second, I’d be yours. I’d be the final image on a dying mind, and the closest thing to the Reaper himself that any of us can ever be. I’m worthy of being that image. I’m not feeling that from you.”
“You’re very good at romanticising murder.” Samira interrupted.
“A man’s opinion of himself is important, sweetheart.” Lucas told her, spreading his hands. “Yours is not. And neither of you are sounding like killers; I think even Jessica could probably fend off the pair of you, even without the men guarding her.”
Both siblings looked shocked, even offended. “We’re not going to touch Jessica!” Art exclaimed. “We just wanted to get your attention.”
Lucas stood sharply. “You did well. Now, normally a stranger who said my daughter’s name to me wouldn’t still be alive at this stage, much less still talking to me. But you’re both still young, so I’m going to give you both a chance to realise the impact of this conversation. Sorry about your brother.”
“You will be.” Art told him, as the siblings stood too. “He’s looking forward to seeing you.”
Lucas raised his empty glass in a parting salute. “I’m sure I’ll meet him one day in the great beyond.”
“Not sure you’ll be waiting that long.” Samira muttered in a sing-song voice.
But the man wasn’t listening, already striding away. He clanked down his glass and made to move towards the door, but something stopped him. He’d recognised someone sitting at the bar.
Howard swivelled on the stool to face him, eyes bright.
“Lucas!” He looked surprised, and uneasy. “How, uh...how are you?”
Lucas didn’t reply. His face was pale, and his black eyes were wide with horror. He looked as if he’d seen a ghost.
“No. No...You’re dead.”
“I’m definitely not.” Howard replied. “I’ve checked.”
Lucas stared, and his eyebrows furrowed. “You’re dead.”
He said the words slowly and firmly, as if he expected Howard to dissipate upon realising this. Art and Samira suddenly appeared behind Lucas, Art draining the last of the alcohol he’d paid so much for.
“Ah.” Howard allowed himself a small smile. “I see you’ve met the family.”
Samira couldn’t see the man’s face from where she was standing, but she could see him frozen in place, his normally twitching hands deadly still. She grinned.
She was so caught up in relishing the moment that she didn’t even see Lucas draw his knife, or run her brother through. Nor did she register him turning as Howard fell from his stool, and driving the blade deep into Art’s stomach. The violence was so sudden, so random almost, that her eyes almost seemed to blank it from her mind. All she knew was that their target was gone, and her brothers were bleeding on the floor in front of her.
Everything slowed down, and Samira’s world shrank. She forgot about Lucas. She forgot about where they were, and why they were there. Suddenly, she was very aware of remembering what it was like to watch someone die.
Samira fell to her knees, not wincing as they impacted the linoleum. She leaned down, muttering in Art’s ear.
“Wake up.” She muttered. “Wake up, Arthur. We haven’t got time for this.”
Art didn’t reply. He was already still. She crawled to Howard, who wasn’t breathing either. His blood was leaking across the floor in front of her, the dark pool spreading across the lino like a virus, reflecting the light from the cheap lamps above them.
They were dead.
Someone touched her shoulder, and she started. It was a woman. Samira vaguely recalled her sitting at the bar a few seconds earlier. The only other patron.
“Sweetie. Come on.”
Samira shook her head groggily. The initial shock was fading, and she remembered where she was. “No, it’s OK.” She explained. “They’re going to wake up.”
The woman was crying. What a stupid reaction.
“Honey, they’re – they’re not.”
“They are.” She insisted.
The woman started to say something, but Samira snapped. “They’re going to wake up! Leave me alone!” She slapped the hand away, and the woman recoiled. “They’re going to wake up. You’ll see.”
She retreated, leaving the girl alone. Samira remained on her knees as she stared at the bodies of her brothers.
“You’ll see.”

*

Howard coughed; a long, rasping sound that racked his entire body. His back arched abruptly, and he propelled himself into a sitting position. His eyes met Samira’s. They said nothing, their expressions unreadable.
Then Howard lashed out, punching Samira hard in the arm. She squealed.
“I told you that would happen.” He yelled. “Why did you let him see me?”
“We weren’t trying to!” She snapped, massaging her arm. “And he killed Art too!”
“I don’t care. He’s killed me twice.”
“Er, I’ve been killed too. Five times. That’s – count ‘em – two more times than you.”
“You’ve ever only been shot. That’s nothing. You’ve always died quickly. Getting stabbed is worse.”
“No it’s not.”
“Yes it is.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Yes it is. Look at this place.”
“It’s no worse than being shot.”
“Yes it IS.” Howard leapt to his feet, his temper getting the better of him. “You’ve NEVER –”
“Seriously, this discussion again?”
They both turned to find Art also awake, pawing at his suit jacket in a futile attempt to get some of the blood out. The knife was on the floor next to him. “Are we going after him then, or what?”
“We’re only waiting for you.” Samira snapped.
“The guy put a breadknife through my abdomen, Sam.” Said Art, getting to his feet. “He also left it there. I think I’m allowed a few minutes.”
“He didn’t seem particularly scared of the pair of you.” Howard noted.
“No, he turned out to be quite critical of Arthur actually.”
“Why does that not surprise me.”
“Erm, did anyone else volunteer to talk to the vicious cold-blooded killer?” Art interrupted. “Or did it fall to the eldest to initiate the conversation? Because I’m pretty certain it fell to the eldest.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter now.” Howard said. “He must be miles away.”
“Probably.” Samira sighed. “I had to wait almost half an hour for the pair of you to revive yourselves.”
Art couldn’t suppress his temper. “OK, Samira. Tell you what – next one’s all on you.”
“Good.” She snapped. “And I probably won’t start out by calling the guy by his first name.”
“No, you just get straight to threatening his daughter instead. And I can pay for all the –”
Arthur paused, turning to his brother. “Howard, can you wait outside for us a second. I have to discuss something with Sam.”
Howard shrugged. “Sure.”
He left them, wandering past the stricken bystander, and out of the double doors into the snow. The setting sun burned in the distance, crimson rays streaking their way through the fading clouds and glinting off the icy path. He marvelled at the way as he perched himself on a nearby wall. Now would be a good time to have a cigarette, he supposed. If only he smoked.  Maybe he’d start. Wasn’t like it was a health risk for him.
Howard thought about that, and about the nature of his condition. He wondered if he’d age like normal people did.

*

He was still wondering that when Samira strode from the building; fists clenched, with a furious scowl on her face. He didn’t bother asking, instead letting her stalk past him to the car. She flung open the door, crashed into the driver’s seat and slammed the door behind her. He tried to make eye contact but she just sat there, fuming.  
He had to wait another fifteen minutes for Arthur to exit the building, while Samira sulked in the car.
“Discussion go OK?”
“No. I needed money from her.”
“How did she take it?”
“Not well.”
Howard looked at the fresh stain of blood, already congealing on his brother’s previously brand new shirt.
“Does she have that knife?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
The youngest member of the family couldn’t suppress a grin as Art removed his jacket, balled it up and threw it in the bin without breaking stride. Reaching the car, Art silently edged into the passenger seat as Howard hopped into the back. The engine coughed into life, and the hazards flickered briefly as the wipers swept pointlessly across the windscreen. The wipers stuttered for a few more moments before the headlights blazed and the engine finally roared appreciatively.
A few seconds later, the car squealed off into the night.