TRANSFERENCE

Crime Fiction by Frank Sonderborg

We were parked in St. Georges Hill. A millionaires gated residence in Weybridge. Around eight miles from London. John Lennon had lived here and took driving lessons around the local streets. So, very upmarket and a good place to run a scam. We were going to hit the house and snap the trap.

The HQ of a master class in Credit Card fraud. The end result of months of tracking and plain detective work. We still had no idea how much they had filched from UK punters. The National Crime Agency had been called in, when the big chiefs had realized the scale of the fraud. Now, armed with a full response team from SFO19. We were getting ready to hit the house.

The information we received, showed it was being run by a gang of very trigger-happy Russians. I felt again the Glock 17.  I wasn’t used to being armed. But I had the training and enjoyed the buzz.

We went in hard behind the SFO19 armed response unit. Front door, back door, windows. The house was empty.

The Russians, if there had ever been any, had left in a rush. The floors were covered in Credit Cards, thousands of them. The other rooms where full to overflowing with Gimme-a-job CVs. The scam was simple. A well-paid job advertisement would suck in thousands of CVs, with enough details, to enable the scammers to apply for new Credit Cards. Every detail needed, was provided by Citizen Joe Soft-Touch.

It was always a big time Charlie job in Qatar or Dubai or some other Tax-free haven. It was slick and well planned and of course victim-less. The punters would get their money back. The only one out of pocket was the insurance companies. And fuck-em was the general public consensus.

We were put on the trail, as MI5 believed it was a possible terrorist cell. An empty house when we raid, stinks of just one thing.

A mole. A mole in either our organization or MI5. And at the rate our lads where getting locked up for schmoozing with the Fourth Estate. It could very well be one of ours.

Everybody was looking for a pension-pot to get out of the game.

After doing due diligence we left the rest, to the bag it all up boys. And headed back to the office. This was no terrorist outfit. Just a straight up scam job.

By the looks of the Credit Cards and the sheer amount of paperwork, it had been running awhile. So, it must have reamed in millions.

I signed in the Glock and headed for home. Only a couple of hours late. The wife was entertaining our daughter and her loser boyfriend.

What a jerk, only a couple of years younger than me and hanging around with my princess.

I hated the bastard.

She had met Grant on the rebound. Got herself knocked up by some slick talking Arab student from Oman.

Had the kid and finished her Law degree. Loved her for that.

What spirit and toughness.

Now a single mom, as Mr Oman, high tailed it back to the land of sand and four-wheel drive Ferrari’s.

We had a grandson named Ahmed and we loved him to bits.

Then she took up with Grant the loser.

He had teenage kids and an ex-wife somewhere.

She tried to leave him, but he threatened to kill himself, and of course she felt responsible.

First hooked on drugs, then he went cold turkey.

Big fucking deal. Became an alcoholic instead.

The vices always remain constant, as my mom used to say.

Met my daughter in her final year at university.

 Blood sucking Vampire. Yea, I threatened him. But he latched on like a leech and made her responsible for his actions.

I told her, “Let the fucker die if he wants to.”

Even his own children are more mature than that piece of shit.

But Helen, my beautiful daughter loved him. And threatened to cut us out of her life. My wife went nuts at this.

“She loves him,” was her desperate plea.

“He’s a useless piece of shit,” was my reply. “It’s blackmail on behalf of that fucking waster.”

My wife went berserk. “I want my daughter and grandson. So, behave. It’s your daughter’s choice. Accept it. Or I will leave you.”

So, I sucked on the cyanide pill and accepted it.

I still thought he was a miserable wimpy motherfucker. But for the peace of mind and keeping my marriage, I kept my mouth shut and entertained the bastard.

They came and played happy families with us.

Ahmed was such a great kid. I wondered will he ever go chasing his real Dad. When he realizes this fake piece of manure is no relation.

Grant had a get rich, then a get poor scheme, one after another, and quickly ran down my daughter’s and then our savings.

I said to Helen, “Tell him to get a real job. Any job.”

But as usual she took offence, and we were punished by her absence for a month. The wife took it hard and would not speak to me.

I could not get my head around it. He fucks up and we get to suffer.

As always, I had to go around and apologize and make up. Usually with hard cash.

Then out of the blue he was offered a great job. The wife organized a meal with wine to celebrate. As usual, I was late again. Most times I made sure I was late with work. I just could not stand the small talk with the dead beat. I felt more like punching him than shaking his hand.

They’d already started eating when I arrived.

Grant, drinking my fine wine, eating my food. Arm around my daughter.

My wife, Maria, was beaming. Grant had been offered a fantastic position. It meant moving away from the UK.  I felt a sickness coming on.

Helen said, “Its Qatar, not really that far. A financial adviser for Murakk Finance. We move in a month. It will take that to finalise the paperwork and move our stuff.”

My wife was looking at me. Willing me to be happy. And failing miserably.

Thought, yea great news. Financial adviser, fuck. I would not trust this guy to buy the morning paper.

“Did this job entail any up-front payments?” 

Helen immediately jumped on me. “You never stop do you? You never give up. Still picking, picking, picking. You’ll never accept Grant as he is.”

“Honey, look, it’s a simple question. Has he paid any cash up front to his new employers?” I looked at him and knew the answer.

“Yes,” he said. “They needed some money for a work permit and moving expenses. But I will get refunded.  It was no different, than buying an annual train ticket and then getting it refunded by the firm.”

“Let’s get this straight. You’ve landed a Big-Time Charlie job in Qatar. With a world renown Blue Chip Finance Company, and the first thing they do is ask for cash to pay for your relocation.”

 Grant looked his usual loser self. “Yes, and what of it. What’s it to you?”

 This time I really lost it. “It’s my fucking money you piece of shit. My savings are fuelling you’re fucking dream world. And now you’ve shoved a sucking pump, into your bank account, belonging to a bunch of cretins, from fucking Murakk Financial services.”

My wife was up, pleading with Helen to stay. She looked at me with hate in her eyes.

Then I snapped and broke every rule in the book. “I’ve just come back from a raid on a Credit Card fraud factory.” They stopped and looked at me. “Yea, a fucking Credit Card fraud operation. They suck in idiots with promises of great jobs and then they rip them off. Copy their credit card details and apply for new ones. After all, they have every fucking detail of your life. School reports.

Where you’ve lived. Where you’ve worked. It’s so fucking easy. And you Mr fucking financial wizard. You will find, and this may be a problem, as you can’t even find your own arsehole. You’ve been scammed.”

I was powering along in the naive belief the penny would finally drop for my daughter. Grant was on his mobile. I drank my wine and watched him. Calling his bank. The white face as he realized his account was overdrawn. I said nothing as they stormed out. The wife crying, went to bed.

 I was still at the table a few hours later when I got the call. “Jeff it’s me, Harry Smyth.”

 I hadn’t heard from Detective Harry Smyth, in years. “Yea, Harry what’s up.”

“Your daughter lives in Croydon?”

 Now I was on full alert. “Yea, she does Harry, what’s happened.”

 “Jeff, I don’t know how to say this. I’m terribly sorry.”

 I had hung up and was on the way to my car, before he’d finished the sentence. I drove like a mad man in the direction of Croydon. Harry spotted me and let me through the cordon and up into the apartment. Helen was in a corner of her bedroom bloodied and broken. Ahmed was in his blood-spattered bed.

 “Where is he?” I said very quietly. Then I lost it. “Where the fuck is he.”

 Harry said, “Calm down. We still don’t know what happened here. Her boyfriend is missing.”

I collapsed in a chair and started crying. “She was my little girl,” I said.

 Harry, very gently said, “they were shot sometime this evening. Neighbors heard the couple and kid arriving home and then an argument. Lots of screaming and then gunfire. Then the boyfriend left. “Look Jeff, I’m sorry but we have to do our job. Go home and we’ll contact you tomorrow.”

But I didn’t go home. I went to my locker and got a spare gun. An untraceable ice-cold piece. Then I went hunting.

If I could have bottled the essence of hate, it would have sold on eBay. It was pure hillbilly. Eye for an eye, biblical venom. I had a gun, and I was going to blow that motherfucker, down to the burning hell he deserved. I drove around until the sun came up. Sometimes I thought it was all a dream. Then I felt the gun, and I knew it would not be over until I’d burned him.             

I went home and let myself in. I sat again at our happy families table and waited for Maria to rise. Maria took it like any mother would, hysterically, only person to blame was me. Then she would stop and make believe it was all OK. Just a dream.

She started to call Helen on her mobile and broke down when there was no answer. We got the official news via the local cops. Then it was just another cascading item on the news. Another senseless killing in London. Neighbors and friends and Maria’s sister called. Maria was pumped with tranquilizers and had taken to bed.                                                   

 I left her with her sister and went back on the hunt. I went to see a man I had dealings with many years before. Went by the name of Bal. I’d run into him while cracking pot heads. The Colombians and Chechnya’s had arrived in London. And moved the goal posts with the level of violence they were capable of. Bal moved amongst them as an equal.

I arrived at London Road, in Kingston. One of the spookiest areas in London. From the toppled red post boxes, like a deranged memory to the fallen MPs massacred in Iraq. To the Little Russia restaurant run by God knows who.  On down to, ‘Failing Kentucky,’ a mecca music bar for hard ass rocking punk bands. Run by Morry and ex-band members of ‘Failing Kentucky.’

Bal was at the bar as usual. Dressed all in Jesuit black, with long black hair. He looked the part of a dark side monk. There was a distinct whiff, of the Bram Stoker, about him. He didn’t turn, just stared into his glass of untouched whiskey.

“Jeff, comrade,” he said, “I heard. You have my commiserations.”

“I don’t need commiserations; I need that bastard found and dealt with.”

 He turned to look at me and smiled a smile of the dead.

“So now we’re Judge and Jury. What happened to due process, innocent until executed.” 

“Fuck it,” I said, “I just want that piece of shit extinguished.”

“You will owe,” he said, “and I will collect.”

“OK,” I said, and finished my pact with Bram Stoker. I passed him the information he needed and left.

 Maria still wouldn’t face the fact, her daughter and grandson where gone. I was dead inside and just went through the motions. We had the funeral. This should’ve been a closing. But it just made it worse. Grant was still missing. I was put on extended sick leave. Sitting day after day staring at the wall. Everything was shutting down. Every time Maria looked at me. I could see hate in her eyes. Then my partner Crossly called to say Bal was looking for me. I headed for the ‘Failing Kentucky.’

 There was a band doing a heavy metal version of, ‘The Green Manalishi,’ which set the scene. As my darkness was hitting boiling point. I sat beside Bal and ordered two whiskeys. He pushed a slip of paper in my direction. The address was a place somewhere in Kent. All I knew about Kent was they grew apples, and it was a hangout for retired London Mobsters. I decided to let Crossly, filter the information to Smyth and the murder squad working the case. Of course, it was all over the news the next day. Murder suspect found dead in Kent farmhouse. He’d shot himself with the same shotgun used in the murder of his girlfriend and her son.

Maria had lost it and was gone from this world. Every time she came anywhere near normal, she would just spit on me. Maybe I deserved it. I was just numb to everything. I started to see the local Metropolitan police shrink. To see how they could get me back to work or give me the boot.

My shrink was an attractive looking woman. Her aim was to get me to function again. Transference, she said it was called, and she believed it was the key to getting me back on track.

Simply put, I needed to transfer my hate for Grant to another object or thing, and gradually we could eliminate it totally.

Crossly called and said Bal was looking for me again.

“Jeff, you’re not involved with that dark twisted soul.”

“Nicely put,” I said and then lied. “No, just catching up on old times.”

The case, as such, was nicely wrapped up. Lover kills girlfriend along with her kid then tops himself. Done and dusted. Pack it away and move on.

I arrived back in the ‘Failing Kentucky.’ Bal was on his usual perch. Untouched whiskey in front. I realized I had never seen him drink. Maybe he was a teetotaller. Sitting here in punishment for his black sins. And this man had a bucket list of sins to repent.

“Happy now, are we Jeff.”

“No,” I said. “No, I’m not. I’d rather have my daughter and grandson back. What do I owe you?”

“Here is another piece of the puzzle,” and he passed me a piece of paper. Then he looked at me and his eyes where a black sclera of the damned.

“Transference, have you ever heard the term.”

“Yes,” I said feeling a cold chasm opening up under me. “Oddly enough, I have.”

“The information on that paper is all about transference.”

I left the bar to the screeching pounding sounds of ‘Pretty Vacant.’ Which just about summed me up.

The address on the paper was the Kent farmhouse along with a name. “Trevor Whitehead.” Who the fuck was Trevor Dick-head and why did Bal give me his name.

How had Grant ended up at the farmhouse?

I was still on extended sick leave and spent the time just staring at the wall. Crossly got in touch again. Grant went, it seemed, to the farmhouse for his interviews. There was a connection with the farmhouse and this guy Whitehead. It was alias for a con artist called Peter Sharpe.

Now residing in Malaga in Spain. We had nothing to pin him with the Credit Card scam or the suicide. Crossly wanted to know where I’d got the information.

“Never mind,” I said and cut the call.

I had another appointment with the shrink. I headed in to see her. It was all very informal. I checked her out. Short hair. Sensible bankers outfit. Looking serious and very professional. Still looked hot. I knew I was recovering when I noticed the scent. She was going on about transference again.

Yes, I agreed it was working. As I was getting very horny just looking at her.

This ruffled her feathers a bit. But she was used to it, so moved on.

“You believe you can return to work.”

“Yes,” I said, “I’m reborn, reformed, rebuilt.”

She smiled at this and signed me off. I was back in business. I went straight down to London Road and the ‘Failing Kentucky.’

Bal looked at me and smiled. “Jeff is back on the horse.”

He reached into his pocket and handed me a piece of paper.

 “Now go and finish it.”

I headed back to the office and started chasing information on the Yards databases.

He’d given me an address in Malaga. The beach house was registered to a Trevor Blanc. The house was down as a meeting place for local hoods and retired ex Brit cons.

Now I had a picture of Trevor Blanc. My wife blamed me totally for the death of her daughter and grandson.

The murdering fucker had cheated me by blowing his head off. But now, now I had at last, someone to blame. Totally ridiculous and nonsensical. I could feel the hurt seeping away. I started to make my plans.

Crossly was pissed off. As I was not pulling my weight on our assigned investigation.

“It’s that fucker Bal. He’s pulling your chain, setting you up. You dumb fucker.”

I just smiled and said, “Don’t be silly.” And continued to get my stuff ready for the flight to Spain.

I never said goodbye to Maria. She was still away with the fairies.

I flew into Madrid and hired a car and drove to Malaga. Booked a room at a local hotel and went looking for Fred the Blacksmith.

Ex British army. A life spent killing for his country and then tossed out onto the mean streets. He took his skills and like any good conservative, went into business on his own. I liked him, and understood how he had ended up somehow, as a bad guy. He still saw himself as being on the side of the righteous.

He was just killing scum.

I’d explained, yes, indeed they were just scum.

But it was against the law. I told him to get out of town, as he would get nailed if he hung around.

He settled in Malaga and made a living supplying tools of the trade to the various low lifers who swam in these waters. I turned up at his garage and gave him my list.

“Business,” he asked.

“Family business,” I said.

I headed back to the hotel. And sat and brooded in my room. The anger was returning. I needed to control this, or it will not go well. Trevor Whitehead, alias Peter Sharpe, alias Trevor Blanc, was married with one kid. A son. And lived just out of town, in an expensive beachfront villa.

Had house protection. Not very serious stuff. 

Tuesday nights he came into town with the family. Ate at his favorite restaurant, ‘La Bamba.’

Wednesdays and Saturday night he came in alone to eat at the Tropicana restaurant, run by a Brazilian trans-gender called Trulli. Lots of dancing girlie boys. Food was good, so it was booked out all week.

Tuesday was the day I would make my move. I gathered my stuff from the hotel room.

Kevlar lookalike vest, copied by some illiterate gunsmith in the Pakistani tribal lands.  A Glock 17. The real deal. Spare ammo in case I ended up in a war zone. 

I was getting calls and messages from Crossly.

I sent a text; to say I was taking a break.

They usually came in to eat by Taxi, around 9pm, and then left around 11.30pm. So, I needed to be out by the Villa by at least 8pm.

I drove out in my hired car.

Lots of smart Villas by the beach. Most of these where probably dodgy accountants from Eastern Europe, and a few crooked Irish Bankers enjoying their retirement package.

I parked down from the Villa, stepped out and waited for the Taxi to arrive.

Standing for an hour watching the house had stiffened my limbs. The weight of the vest was a killer, and the damp humid heat was causing me to wish I’d never put it on.

Thought, tonight would be his last.

Bastard. Smug cocky bastard. All smiles and white teeth. Designer suits and shirts.

I was getting bitter. Eaten up with hate and a blackness that had started to engulf me.

I started to walk towards the villa. The cab will be on its way. There was a security gate and then a driveway up to the indulgent white villa.

Very expensive. Very Sheik. All paid for, out of other people’s misery and their Credit Cards.

The cab arrived and the gates opened, and I walked on in. I followed it, right to the door.

Pulled a gun and told the cabbie to scram-moose.

He was driving away in a hurry when I rang the doorbell.

This was a one-way mission. Not really thought through.

But fuck it. I was here, and now was the time.

He opened the door and looked at me oddly. Wearing an open necked snow-white designer shirt.

A heavy gold medallion around his neck. He then gave me a big white teeth smile.

As he brushed his short, manicured hair.

Flashing the Rolex on his left wrist.

A healthy glowing tan from a life by the Villa pool.

Looked fit but not overdone. You’re typical successful ex-pat British businessman.

I ruined the look by pumping two quick bullets through his immaculate set of teeth. Two more through his white shirt, now a bloody mess. I kept firing as he went down. His wife standing behind him was spattered with his brains and blood. She got two in the chest and one in the head.

A large overweight Samoan Odd Job type of guy had arrived and was standing and firing away to my right.

I felt a jolt of pain. One of the shots had gone in between the plates.

Thought, cheap fucking Pakistani shit. I reloaded and emptied the lot into Odd Job.

He went down in a bloody mess.

Turned and then noticed the kid.

Standing by the body of his Mummy. Splattered in blood. Just staring at me.

I could see him in 10yrs time, coming after me, with a meat cleaver. I reloaded again, and watched as his head disintegrated, from the flying hot metal of an Uzi out of control.

Another wannabe bodyguard. A jumped-up punk-head with a weapon gone wild.

He stood, eyes closed and kept his finger on the trigger until it just stopped.

Thought, another fucking amateur. I emptied my last rounds into him. And then all was still.

Until the howling started.

Thought, ‘bloody dogs.’

In the distance I could hear the sirens. Police cars on the way.

Looked at the kid splattered on the ground.  Then I felt the pain, as I started to leave by the back door. The house was empty. Cooks and servants must have done a runner. I made it outside. And headed for the beach.

I threw the gun and plastic gloves as far as I could into the heavy surf. The pain was excruciating. Then fell on my knees and ended up face down in the salty brine. I started to crawl along the water’s edge, but the vest was weighing me down. Much use that fucking thing turned out to be.

A large ball of flame suddenly lit the night. Followed by the thunderous sound of an explosion as the Blanc Villa went south. Bits of flaming wood and bricks and mortar came showering down on me.

 As I lay gasping for air, the waves continued to crash over my prone body.

Thought, what a way to go. Listening to howling dogs, and police sirens waking the dead.

While my mouth filled with wet sand. I confessed to the wind and sea. 

“OK, I’ll talk, I’ll talk. I did it, it was me.” But nobody was there to give a fuck. I was on my own.

Then I was being lifted and carried along the beach.

Bal had my arm over his shoulder, and we were heading towards his car.

“OK, Jeff, it’s finished. I’ll take you to a safe doctor.

Just say you were hit by a stray bullet from some gangland shoot out. It happens a lot around here. Not good for the tourist trade Senor.”

I couldn’t argue the point with a mouth full of wet sand.

Much later, I asked about the Spanish Police.

“You done them a favor, “he said, “Nobody liked that piece of shit. Leave a statement with them, and it will all just disappear.”

After I was patched up, I was sent home. Back to the UK. Back to my crazy wife. I would be suspended again for going AWOL. No sympathy this time when they heard about the carnage in Malaga.

I had let myself in to the house and sat again at our happy families table.

 Maria came down from upstairs.

“So, you’re back then.”

“Yes, I said I’m home.”

 She didn’t smile, just said, “Has Helen called. Have you seen her?”

“No, I said I hadn’t seen her. Maybe she was just too busy to call.”

“OK then,” she said, and went back upstairs.

I felt OK. More normal than I should. A circle had been squared, and as Bal said, the transference was now complete.

But every night when I close my eyes. I can see a blond kid coming at me with a meat cleaver.

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Bio: Frank Sonderborg was born in Dublin, Ireland, Shares his time between the UK and Spain. And does his best to write interesting stories. His stories have appeared in: Action: Pulse Pounding Tales 2:, Noir Nation 3: Noir Nation 5:, Pulp Modern JFK Issue #6, Pulp Alternative, Shadows and Light:, Thrills, Kills ‘n’ Chaos:, ShotgunHoney, Twist and Twain. The Yard Crime Blog, Punk Noir Magazine, Talkingsoup.

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