Lasting Scars Read online

  Lasting Scars

  Lenny Brando

  Copyright © 2020 Lenny Brando

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Published by Lenny Brando Creative

  Cover design Brendan Lyon

  First Printing, 2020

  Print ISBN 978-0-9957360-1-6

  eBook ISBN 978-0-9957360-2-3

  www.LennyBrando.com

  For Sinead

  1

  Alice Madsen bit her lip and crossed her legs. She should have worn tights. Or jeans. She shook her head and swung her knees under the cover of the pavement table. From the safety of her sunglasses, Alice swivelled her eyes back to the adjacent traffic. Around ten feet from her, a blue Ford Transit stood stationary behind a red London bus, and the van driver continued to stare at her through his open window.

  He looked familiar. It took several beats to place him. Samir Hassan. She dismissed a brief pang of guilt. Perhaps he had recognised her, and that was why he stared. “Samir Hassan? At du? Hvad siger du?” she asked in Danish.

  His stare narrowed, and she removed her sunglasses. Something like recognition crossed his face, but his eyes were cold. He seemed to say something, but whatever he said got lost in the ambient noise. Then he raised his voice and the words carried to her in a sudden lull. “Stop med at leve dette liv.”

  “Huh?” Alice squinted at him. “Hvad mener du?”

  The van driver didn't respond. She watched his stare drift towards the people drinking at the nearby tables. He wiped his forehead with his hand, then his mouth curled into a hostile sneer. When he turned to Alice once more, she shivered under his gaze and she looked away. Perhaps he still bore a grudge.

  A moment later, the bus pulled away with a diesel growl, and the van jumped and stalled. Alice heard the sharp grind of the ignition several times as the driver tried to start the engine. A cabbie leaned out the window of a black taxi. “Oi. Stop admiring the skirt and move it.” Samir Hassan shouted in frustration, and people at the nearby tables looked up. Someone laughed at him. Hassan howled, then the engine turned, and the van moved off.

  Alice wondered whether she was mistaken. Perhaps it wasn’t Samir Hassan. She put her sunglasses back on, shrugged off the incident as irrelevant and wished Kristin would hurry. When she picked up her phone, a voice to her right interrupted her.

  “Where are you from?”

  Alice twisted her head towards the voice. Two twenty something guys drank at a nearby table. One grinned at her, the other looked disinterested.

  For pokker, she thought. She pulled at her lower lip with her teeth as she considered how to reply. A moment passed and she sighed. “Denmark. I’m waiting on a friend.”

  “Why don’t you sit with us while you wait?”

  She shook her head. “No thanks.”

  His smile disappeared. “We not good enough for you?”

  Alice closed her eyes. “I said I’m waiting for my friend.”

  “So?”

  “I’m fine. Just leave me alone, okay?”

  The guy’s face reddened, and she saw him clench and unclench his fists. “Up yours and all,” he said.

  “Grimme røvhul,” Alice muttered.

  “What did you say?” He went to stand, but the other guy stopped him and said, “Leave it, bruv. She ain't worth it.”

  He sat down again, and she heard his seat clunk against the table. “Stuck up bint.”

  Alice turned away and focused on her phone. It trembled in her hand as she tapped on the screen. She gripped the phone tight to steady it, then flinched at a movement in the corner of her eye. She stared out onto the street as a figure approached from her right.

  Her shoulders stiffened, and she readied herself to escape to another table. When she saw the waiter place the champagne and two glasses down, she let out her breath and the hold on her mobile loosened.

  After the waiter left, she sipped on champagne. She shifted in her seat, crossed and uncrossed her legs and fiddled with her phone, all to block out the conversation from the other table. But the guy raised his voice, “I’ll tell you what, Daz. Them Danish birds know how to live, eh?”

  “Leave it Lewis, you muppet. Let’s go somewhere else.”

  She heard a bottle slam on metal and chairs scrape on the concrete. Footsteps approached, and the guy loomed over the table. He jabbed his finger at her, and she shrank back. “You know what, Danish? You ought to show respect.”

  The other guy jumped in and dragged him away. As they walked off, she saw the guy called Lewis spit onto the street. When they rounded the corner and were out of sight, she slumped back in her seat and her shoulders trembled. She concentrated on her breathing. Big breath in, big breath out. Then she lifted her champagne glass and knocked back half in one unsteady gulp. A little dribbled down her chin, and she dabbed at it with a napkin.

  The waiter appeared again. “Were those guys hassling you?”

  Alice shrugged. “I guess.”

  “Are you all right?”

  She nodded and forced a smile. “Occupational hazard.”

  “Yeah?”

  “For sure. Thanks. Anyway, my friend will be here soon.”

  “Good for you,” he said as he cleaned the nearby table. “Don't let them get you down.”

  “I’ll try.” She stretched and imagined she felt the tiny hairs on her neck settle.

  For the next ten minutes she swiped on her phone. Then an angry blast of a car horn followed by a metallic crunch distracted her, and she glanced around. She thought she heard someone shriek but couldn’t be certain. Seeing nothing, she returned to Twitter and continued scrolling through her feed.

  As the tightness in her shoulders faded, she looked to the table where the two guys had sat. She nodded to herself and thumbed another tweet. Why can’t a #girlalone #lookinggood wear what she likes without #eyerape and hassle from #entitledmen? #metoo. Then she texted Kristin telling her to hurry.

  Heavy footsteps and panicked shouts caused her to look up from her phone. Several people ran towards her. Her body tensed as she thought the two guys had returned to give her more harassment. But these people brushed past her with open mouths and wild eyes. One large woman barged into her table. The glasses fell, and the bottle of champagne toppled. It rolled to the ground, broke with a dull crack, and the contents fizzed out in a frothy pool that spread to her heels.

  “Hey,” Alice shouted. “Stop. Look what you did.”

  The woman ran on without a glance back. The waiter hurried out and threw his hands up into the air. “Not your day, is it?”

  Alice rolled her eyes. “It’s supposed to be.”

  “Let me talk to the manager. Laurent Perrier, right?”

  As the waiter’s footsteps receded, Alice felt drips on her thigh and stood. “For pokker,” she cursed. She rubbed her bare legs with her hand and wiped the liquid from her fingers with a napkin. She checked her phone was dry and tweeted, Stupid people in #SthKensington knock over my #champagne and ruin my #newjobcelebration. No-one even said sorry!! #grr. As soon as she sent it, a pang of regret caused her to reconsider, and she thought about deleting it. But her fingers were still sticky, and as she looked for a dry corner of the used napkin, the tweet slipped from her mind.

  2

  Extra tables and chairs had been put out on Exhibition Road for the street festival and many
were already occupied with people drinking and eating. Red plastic cones and plants in large pots separated a single lane of traffic from the revellers the road, which was now restricted to one way from Thurloe Place.

  As Lewis Cole and his brother walked by the tables nearest the road, Lewis kicked at a traffic cone and knocked it over. “You know what, Daz? That Danish bitch dissed us.”

  “Chill out, bruv.” Daz bent down and put the cone back in its place.

  Lewis stopped and lit a cigarette. “I’m going back.”

  “You don't even know what she said, you muppet.”

  “She dissed us.”

  Daz pulled at him. “She ain't worth it.”

  Again, Lewis spat onto the street. “Unfinished business.” He flexed his fingers and twisted his head to loosen the muscles in his neck.

  “Let it go.”

  Lewis took several deep breaths. “Bint.”

  “She don't matter. Okay?”

  “Does matter.”

  “I talk sense, bruv. Without me reckon I’d be visiting you in the Scrubs and all.”

  Lewis took a deep drag and pushed Daz. “Shut it.”

  Five minutes later, they sat a table drinking beer. Lewis yawned and fiddled with his phone. Daz poked him in the shoulder. “What did we do before phones? We talk or something?”

  Lewis glanced at him. “Supposed to be a festival and all. Where’s all the muff?” He waved his hand around. “Ain’t much happening is there?”

  “It’s too early. Later you won't be able to move for all the muff.”

  “Yeah, sure.” Lewis Cole turned his attention back to his phone.

  The harsh sound of scraping metal followed by indistinct shouting made them look up. Someone screamed and Lewis stood. “Whoa. Some prat smacked into a van.” He shaded his eyes with his hand. “Looks like that Danish bint’s Arab mate and all.”

  “Them lot can’t drive.” Daz pointed to his near empty beer. “Anyway...”

  “What?”

  “Your shout.”

  “You sure?” Lewis drained his glass. “All right. Gotta take a leak anyway.”

  “Muppet.”

  Lewis scowled. “Stop calling me that. I ain't no muppet.”

  Daz laughed. “Right.”

  Lewis squeezed by tables and angled towards two girls that caught his eye. The dark-haired one in the red mini dress looked to him, all lipstick and heavy eye liner. “All right?” he asked. She looked away, then giggled to her friend.

  Lewis stopped and tried to think of something witty to say when angry shouting sounded from further up. The girls jumped to their feet. “What’s going on up there?” asked the girl in red.

  Lewis laughed. “Some Arab tosser in a van who can’t drive. Don't look like much.”

  “Oh,” she said. The girls turned their backs and ignored him.

  “Yeah,” Lewis said. “It ain't nothing. You know what, girls? Can I get you a drink?”

  “No thanks.” She whispered something to her friend and they both laughed. He flexed his hands and took a deep breath. Were they laughing at him? From the corner of his eye he saw Daz wave him towards the bar. Lewis let out the deep breath he held and walked away. He struggled to contain his paranoia, and he was convinced they were still laughing at him.

  At the bar, he ordered the drinks, then stomped to the toilets. After he finished, he went to open the door but stopped to calm down. As he washed his hands, he thought of the Danish girl, then the other two. While his skin flapped in the dryer's warm blast, he tried to think of what he should have said to them all. Bitches, the lot of them. He muttered the words aloud and nodded at himself in the dirty mirror. Looking good Coley, he thought. Their loss.

  When he opened the door, strange sounds drifted into the bar. Like a girl screaming. As he got to the street, he saw the blue van had ploughed into the tables outside, scattering chairs, drinks and people in all directions. He squinted into the sunshine. The Arab leapt from the van and reached back in. When the Arab stepped away, metal glinted in his hands. He shouted words Lewis couldn’t understand. Lewis stared to where he and Daz had been sitting moments before. Someone’s leg stuck out at an improbable angle from a crumbled heap on the ground. He forced himself to keep staring. His fingers dug deep into his palms and he took a deep breath.

  His twin brother lay motionless in a pool of blood.

  3

  Alice texted Kristin. “Where are you? Fat person broke champagne!! Didn’t even stop! Anxiety attack coming!!” She stared at the screen until it beeped. “5 mins. In cab. Traffic grr!” She placed her phone down and glanced around. Neither the waiter nor the replacement champagne materialised.

  Shouts and screams sounded in the distance and grew louder. She recoiled in her chair as more people ran from around the corner towards her. They spilled onto the street. Traffic screeched to a halt in a squeal of sudden brakes and irate horn blasts as individuals weaved between vehicles.

  Someone shouted at her, “Run. Run. Terrorists.” She got to her feet, and a middle-aged man brushed against her and stopped. “Get out of here now,” he said, his voice quavering as he gasped for breath. His face was red and beads of sweat glistened on his forehead. “Go. Go.” Then he continued past her up the street.

  All thought of the spilt champagne vanished. Her hands shook as she grabbed her phone and jacket. She cursed her heels as she tried to run. When she stumbled a second time, she stepped into a doorway and slipped them off. Then she ran barefoot with the crowd.

  “What happened?” she asked a girl running beside her. But the girl didn't answer, she increased her pace and ran. A guy slowed nearby, panting hard. Alice turned to him, “What’s going on?”

  “Bloody terrorists again,” he said. “Bastards.” He dodged into the stopped traffic and disappeared into the throng now crowding the road.

  She ran to Cromwell Place and onto Thurloe Street. She gasped at two men carrying a bloodied woman in a torn dress. They set her down on the pavement and left her sobbing. Sirens sounded nearby, and a police car pulled up at the junction behind her. The doors burst open and two policemen jumped out, stopping traffic. Alice didn't wait for further information or orders. She pulled on her heels and tottered into South Kensington tube station where she fought her way onto the next train to Notting Hill Gate.

  4

  The news van screeched to a halt and everybody leapt out. Laura Bowfield grabbed her mike and ran towards the scene. Cameraman Ricky Moss followed, and their footsteps hammered the pavement in unison. Police tape cordoned off Exhibition Street, but Laura ducked underneath. “Ricky, come on,” she shouted. “Start rolling. Stop arguing.”

  “But I haven’t said anything.”

  “Good.”

  A police officer hurried over to her. “Out,” he said. “Get the other side of the cordon.”

  “Laura Bowfield. Xtra News. We’re going live.”

  “I don't give a shit who you are. Get behind the damn cordon.”

  She put her hands up. “All right. All right. I’m leaving.” She stooped back under the tape and the officer left her with a glare.

  “Okay. What now?” asked Ricky.

  “Hang on.” Laura ran her hands through her hair. “How do I look?”

  “Your hair is perfect, Laura. Just perfect. Red suits you.”

  “Good. Now keep shooting the scene. Get me great TV. Vivid images, remember?” A poster drifted towards her in the breeze and she studied it for a moment. “Hey Ricky, get me a close up of this poster.”

  “Why? What is it?”

  Laura read from the poster. “It says ‘Annual Thurloe High Summer Festival - come celebrate with us.’ That’s great. Poignant.”

  Ricky threw her one of his looks, then pointed the camera at the poster on the ground.

  “Wait.” Laura patted him on the shoulder. “It’s too clean.” She ripped the poster and ruffled it with her foot. “Okay. Now you’re good to go.”

  “Improvisation on the visuals, hu
h?”

  “It’s good context Ricky. When you’ve got it, get more destruction. Tight shots.”

  “Like what? It wasn't a bomb.”

  “Fuck’s sake.” Laura shook her head. “Broken tables. Shattered glasses. Look. Over there, to the left.” She pointed at several places, then turned away. “Where’s Nafeez?” She saw him over by the van fiddling with some kit and beckoned him over.

  “Naz, I need you to slip in there and get me someone to interview. Go on.”

  Nafeez raised his eyebrows and folded his arms. “You taking the piss? Chrissake, Laura. They’ll think I’m a terrorist.”

  She looked him up and down. “Yeah. I suppose racial profiling might be a problem. All right. Get Simon.”

  Simon appeared a moment later. “Laura, I’m on audio and comms as well as driver. I’m sure not paid to do this shit.”

  She put a hand on his chest and smiled. “Oh Simon, please. There’s a guy over to my right talking to the police. When they’re done with him, nip in and bring him over here. Tell him we’ll give him £100 for something exclusive.”

  “£100? From where? Remember what Tim said last time? Huh? Two words, Laura. Second word was ‘off’”

  “Just go for it.”

  “No.”

  “Please Simon? I’ll put in a word.”

  “You always say that.”

  “And I always deliver.”

  “Yeah right. Supposing he won't come over?”

  “Then offer him £200.”

  “Huh?” Simon raised an eyebrow. “Of monopoly money?”

  “Bullshit him. Say we’ll take his details and send it on to him.”

  “Bullshit him? What? You think I’m a journalist or something?”

  “Funny guy. Just do it.” Laura pointed over. “Look. The police are walking away. Go get him. Quick. Before the competition get here. Go. Go.”

  5

  Thirty minutes after Alice tweeted in outrage at the smashed bottle of champagne outside the Provence, she hurried towards her house off Portobello Road. The contagion of panic followed her, and the familiar, insidious feeling that something was wrong dogged every footstep to her front door.