And the answer is down to what Felix and Dad were involved with. I’m sure you can guess where this is going.’
‘I’m picturing some organized crime connection here?’ I say, seeing my suspicions confirmed. But I wasn’t expecting this kind of story.
‘Exactly. A neat little organized crime group called the Berg, run by Felix Davison - Zoe’s dear Grandad. They hid everything from me - absolutely everything - because, as Dad said when he fessed up, that he wanted me to make my own choices. So that I could be free to do what I wanted with my life. And they asked if I wanted in.’
‘What did you say?’ I ask, without meaning to interrupt.
‘I said no. I said I didn’t want to be involved. Dad respected that. Felix did too, as did the others from the Berg. And everything seemed to be fine. Until three days ago when Dad went missing.’
‘That is quite the story,’ I say, leaning back on my chair.
‘It’s just the start, really. But it’s a start nonetheless. There’s more, but you have the crux of it there.’
‘What is your gut telling you about your father’s death?’
Jack ponders this for a moment, and gazes out of the window, at the drizzle, and the steady stream of traffic crawling into Manchester’s belly.
‘There are 160 organized crime gangs in Greater Manchester. Can you believe that? And, from what I’ve learned and heard, the Berg are right at the top. Whether I pretend it wasn’t true or not, Dad was a power player in a powerful group. A group that people look at with envy. Who knows how many people want to bring the Berg down a peg or two.’
‘And you think Felix might have an idea?’
‘If anyone knows about a high-profile organized crime hit in this city, Felix would be my first port of call.’
‘Then it should be ours too.’
I stand, ready to get Jack moving, but he looks forlorn and lost, still staring wistfully out. He speaks softly.
‘The night of my birth. Dad could only find brandy, and when he came back up the stairs, he and Felix swapped what they were holding - the baby and the brandy. Dad held his baby son for the first time, while Felix had a stiff drink after delivering a baby in his bathtub, both trying to process the loss of my mother.’
He runs a hand across his shaven head, and sighs.
‘The Baby and The Brandy is a legend. It’s part of North-West crime folklore. Nobody knows I was the baby in the story. By the time this is through, I’ll make sure they know damn well who I am. That legend is going to get a surprise ending.’
I survey Jack with sadness, and feel for his situation. I have made some appalling choices in my life, that reaped terrible consequences. But Jack never chose any of it. His father did, and it resulted in the death of both of Jack’s parents. And now he is left alone, with more questions than answers and a grief that is pushing him towards actions that will see him in harms way.
But he is not alone. My mind is swimming with the detail I have heard, the injustice and intricacies of Jack’s situation, not least of all, the way that organized crime has claimed another victim - not Royston Brooker, but Jack himself... and I know I will fight his corner until the bitter end.
7
We leave McDonald’s and re-enter Manchester’s ashen, urban embrace, and both climb in the Lexus wordlessly. I drive, since Jack only finished drinking an hour or so ago, and I don’t want any additional attention drawn to us at all.
I put the key in the ignition, but I’m unsure of what to do next - I know immediate progress is needed, but I am honestly not sure what the right first move is, save for waiting. Jack clearly sent a message with Zoe, if she cares to deliver it. He wants a name, and he wants to spill blood on receipt of it.
‘Do you think your plea to Zoe will get you a name?’ I ask. ‘Will Felix give you one? I mean, do you think he even has one?’
Jack thinks this over, as fat raindrops speckle the windshield, pattering
‘I’m picturing some organized crime connection here?’ I say, seeing my suspicions confirmed. But I wasn’t expecting this kind of story.
‘Exactly. A neat little organized crime group called the Berg, run by Felix Davison - Zoe’s dear Grandad. They hid everything from me - absolutely everything - because, as Dad said when he fessed up, that he wanted me to make my own choices. So that I could be free to do what I wanted with my life. And they asked if I wanted in.’
‘What did you say?’ I ask, without meaning to interrupt.
‘I said no. I said I didn’t want to be involved. Dad respected that. Felix did too, as did the others from the Berg. And everything seemed to be fine. Until three days ago when Dad went missing.’
‘That is quite the story,’ I say, leaning back on my chair.
‘It’s just the start, really. But it’s a start nonetheless. There’s more, but you have the crux of it there.’
‘What is your gut telling you about your father’s death?’
Jack ponders this for a moment, and gazes out of the window, at the drizzle, and the steady stream of traffic crawling into Manchester’s belly.
‘There are 160 organized crime gangs in Greater Manchester. Can you believe that? And, from what I’ve learned and heard, the Berg are right at the top. Whether I pretend it wasn’t true or not, Dad was a power player in a powerful group. A group that people look at with envy. Who knows how many people want to bring the Berg down a peg or two.’
‘And you think Felix might have an idea?’
‘If anyone knows about a high-profile organized crime hit in this city, Felix would be my first port of call.’
‘Then it should be ours too.’
I stand, ready to get Jack moving, but he looks forlorn and lost, still staring wistfully out. He speaks softly.
‘The night of my birth. Dad could only find brandy, and when he came back up the stairs, he and Felix swapped what they were holding - the baby and the brandy. Dad held his baby son for the first time, while Felix had a stiff drink after delivering a baby in his bathtub, both trying to process the loss of my mother.’
He runs a hand across his shaven head, and sighs.
‘The Baby and The Brandy is a legend. It’s part of North-West crime folklore. Nobody knows I was the baby in the story. By the time this is through, I’ll make sure they know damn well who I am. That legend is going to get a surprise ending.’
I survey Jack with sadness, and feel for his situation. I have made some appalling choices in my life, that reaped terrible consequences. But Jack never chose any of it. His father did, and it resulted in the death of both of Jack’s parents. And now he is left alone, with more questions than answers and a grief that is pushing him towards actions that will see him in harms way.
But he is not alone. My mind is swimming with the detail I have heard, the injustice and intricacies of Jack’s situation, not least of all, the way that organized crime has claimed another victim - not Royston Brooker, but Jack himself... and I know I will fight his corner until the bitter end.
7
We leave McDonald’s and re-enter Manchester’s ashen, urban embrace, and both climb in the Lexus wordlessly. I drive, since Jack only finished drinking an hour or so ago, and I don’t want any additional attention drawn to us at all.
I put the key in the ignition, but I’m unsure of what to do next - I know immediate progress is needed, but I am honestly not sure what the right first move is, save for waiting. Jack clearly sent a message with Zoe, if she cares to deliver it. He wants a name, and he wants to spill blood on receipt of it.
‘Do you think your plea to Zoe will get you a name?’ I ask. ‘Will Felix give you one? I mean, do you think he even has one?’
Jack thinks this over, as fat raindrops speckle the windshield, pattering
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