John Farrell Is Utrinque Paratus

John Farrell Is Utrinque Paratus

By T.D.McKinnon

Copyright T.D.McKinnon 2011

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This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Editing and cover design by Zoë Lake

Thank you, Zoë, for your continuing support, influence, inspiration and constructive criticism.

Other books by T.D.McKinnon:

*Surviving the Battleground of Childhood

*I Was a Teenage Devil - But I’m Alright Now!

*Heather Skye Wilson Is the Psychic Warrior

*Terra Nullius

Table of Contents

Chapter 1: In the Shadow of Guilt

Chapter 2: Humble Beginnings

Chapter 3: The Professional

Chapter 4: Unfortunate Circumstances

Chapter 5: Bad Tidings

Chapter 6: Predator

Chapter 7: Fool me Twice Shame on me

Chapter 8: But Wait there’s More

Chapter 9: Bad Dream

Chapter 10: Ghost of Christmas Past

Chapter 11: Dance of Death

Chapter 12: In the Darkest Night a Candle Glows

Chapter 13: Once More unto the Breach

Chapter 14: The Lion’s Den

Chapter 15: Proof of Life

Chapter 16: A Cutting Remark

Chapter 17: Only Winners Win

Chapter 18: Hope Springs Eternal

Chapter 19: The Bigger They Are

Chapter 20: A Glimmer of Hope

Chapter 21: The Best Laid Schemes

Chapter 22: No Retreat No Surrender

Chapter 23: Et Tu, Brute?

Chapter 1: In the Shadow of Guilt (back to ToC)

*

On the rooftop of the thirty story office block, opposite and four floors above Craven’s penthouse, I'm in full sniper mode and ready for the task at hand. It's been ten hours since I arrived in the early hours of this morning and set up my hide.

As Craven’s Silver Ghost pulls up at the curb opposite, I snuggle the stock of the Remington against my cheek and focus my scope sight on the action taking place in and around the car; it's like a well oiled machine. The front passenger side door and the rear off-side doors are open almost before the Rolls stops; two sharp looking characters in plain, dark suits step quickly, simultaneously, out of the vehicle and two others quickly follow from the other doors. They're scanning 360º, each with their own arc of view, traversing vertically and horizontally. Something attracts the driver's attention and he seems to looks straight up at me. Thinking he’s seen the reflected glare from my scope I hastily conceal it; however I obviously haven’t been spotted because the next thing Craven’s Close Personal Protection team are bundling him out of the nearside, rear door. I quickly level my rifle again.

*

Had it been twenty years ago I would have had him as they hustled him into the building… I say indignantly. As it was, I couldn’t be sure I wouldn’t hit one of his CPP team… I couldn’t take that chance.

Shit!… He must have picked them up in the States; or I would have had some wind of it, comments Bobby.

Yeh… that’s what I thought. I watched them moving through the penthouse, searching every nook and cranny, until they'd swept it clean; then they closed all the blinds and curtains prior to, I’m supposing, ushering Craven into the flat.

Well, there wouldn’t be any point in hanging around after that. While that team’s on the job the odds of getting to Craven are pretty slim.

My thoughts entirely… that’s when I got the hell out of there. Falling into silent contemplation, I sip my favourite single malt. It seems, for the moment, that Craven is out of my reach.

I wonder… says Bobby, coming out of his introspection, if I can find out who these guys are? and he goes into the next room to make some phone calls.

I'm still sipping the same glass of malt, staring into the pale, golden liquid when he returns a half hour later. Definitely not domestic, he tells me. I should know the details in an hour or so. We return to our meditations with another glass.

It’s an hour to the minute when the phone rings and Bobby goes to answer it. Five minutes later, smiling from ear to ear, he comes back in and tops up our glasses before settling down; letting out a relieved sigh, he says, They’re a mob working out of New York: ‘Protect International’. The team currently looking after Craven is a tight group of buddies; former ‘Navy Seals’. They're supposed to be here for another five days, when they're relieved by another team flying in from New York. But, guess what? Surprise, surprise… our Mr Victor Craven hasn’t been entirely honest… and I've just provided a more accurate picture. He smiled, took another sip of scotch and gave another sigh. Now, we just wait for it to hit the fan.

Craven had billed himself as a legitimate businessman fallen foul of a rival business, who had then put out a contract on him. Bobby put the story to rights; specifically, that Craven was in fact an underworld figure hiding behind some legitimate business fronts. Furthermore, he was in danger, not from a hitman, but from a former British Airborne Forces veteran whom, along with the vet’s son, Craven had put a contract out on because the vet’s son refused to help him in a drug related crime. Bobby also gave details of how, after paying Craven a visit at his penthouse the first time, he’d killed two of his own bodyguards just to set me up on a murder charge.

*

We don't have to wait long. The following morning, at around 8:30 a.m., I watch the CPP team leave in a taxi. No replacement team arrives. There's no visible movement in the penthouse, not a curtain stirs. At around 10:00 a.m., five heavies pull up in a Jaguar; I recognise two of them from Craven’s country property. It looks like Bobby has influence in areas Craven can’t touch. Now, with only his thugs again, I wonder what his next move will be.

Two days later he still hasn’t moved, or opened the blinds. Deciding to stir the porridge a little I fire fifteen-silenced rounds, five into each window, and then get out of there, leaving Bobby in a nearby café to observe the reaction.

The police arrive in droves along, of course, with the armed response group. They check out the whole street, including the café Bobby's sitting in. It's a couple of hours before the majority of them vacate the street, leaving one undercover car. An hour after that, when the last of the daylight has faded, Bobby spots Craven among a group of undercover cops moving quickly to their car. He tails them through the busy, London traffic to a place in St John’s Wood.

*

Assuming they've taken Craven to a safe-house - which will give me a couple of days before they move him to another location - I act quickly. Big mistake!

Drop your weapon, now! the order comes clearly over a loud hailer, and I freeze. Lie face down, spread eagle, on the floor… Now!

Setting himself up as bait; Victor Craven, if nothing else, is a man of considerable internal fortitude. At 3:00 a.m. as I enter the building through a ground floor window I'm suddenly illuminated, at centre stage so to speak. I comply with their every order, there's no point doing anything else, and all things considered they aren't too rough with me. Watching and listening, I try to assess whether there is an honest policeman there: not in the pay of Craven; however, it's made pretty obvious there's no way I'm getting an opportunity to speak to anyone unattended.

Taken immediately to Scotland Yard, I am questioned extensively by several detectives over a five-hour period, during which time they try several different methods of interrogation. I of course tell them nothing, and maintain my request for a lawyer before answering their questions. Eventually, they lock me up in a cell and I manage to sleep for a couple of hours. After waking me, a different set of detectives begin the whole interrogation process again. I'm eventually charged with two counts of ‘break and enter’ at Craven’s penthouse - but no mention of my visit to his country property - two counts of manslaughter, and two counts of ‘first degree murder’: all Craven’s thugs. I'm then fingerprinted and, in line with a new policy, they take a DNA sample before locking me up.

I've had a particular law firm in mind for some time; it seemed like a good idea to at least give that avenue some consideration, just in case. Now, it appears, we have arrived at that ‘just in case’ juncture. If I don't show, or get in touch within twelve hours, Bobby is to presume something has gone wrong and engage the aforementioned legal firm. This legal firm, specialising in criminal law, possesses a brilliant track record. He is instructed to hand them the fully documented account I've been preparing, in journal form, from day one of this conflict with Craven. He should then disappear. His job then is to keep Connie and James out of the way, for the moment. Bobby, as usual, is right on the ball and when the police eventually allow me to make my call the lawyers are primed and waiting.

*

Sitting opposite me, Mr Franklin-Pierce is somewhere in his mid-fifties, average height, lean and impeccably groomed; his intense blue-grey eyes and silver-grey hair perfectly coordinate with the charcoal-grey herringbone of his three-piece suit.

If all that you have set out in your deposition to us is correct, Mr Farrell, you are in an extremely unenviable position.

Yes sir… I know that, but will you take my case?

Just at that point the cell door opens and four detectives literally flood into the room.

Do you mind, gentlemen!… I am entitled to a little privacy with my client, says Mr Franklin-Pierce, assertively; more than a little put out.

I don’t even have time to register that he, by way of his statement, has just accepted my case when one of the policemen announces, John Farrell… you are hereby charged with the murder of Ronald David Jones… You are charged that eighteen years ago, on or about the 11th of July 1976, you did murder seventeen-year-old Ronald David Jones on Hampstead Heath… He pauses, my jaw drops and I observe, albeit momentarily, my lawyer’s jaw drop too. You do not have to say anything, but anything you do say will be taken down and… at about that point I cease hearing what the policeman is saying: my mind’s eye is rerunning those few moments in the early hours on the morning of the 11th of July 1976.

My client has nothing to say at this point in time.

A DNA database was initiated in the UK only this year; following a routine cross referencing of my DNA they were rewarded for their methodical and systematic adherence to the new regulations.

I hadn't noticed on that dark morning, all those years ago, when I broke the boy’s neck that the adhesive dressing on a cut finger had come loose, sticking to the side of his head. I now have the dubious honour of being the very first person in the United Kingdom to be charged due to the implementation of this new technology.

At a preliminary hearing we apply for but are denied bail and I'm whipped away to the detention centre at Wormwood Scrubs. The induction process is the introduction to the dehumanising experience of Her Majesty’s correctional services; beginning by stripping naked in front of the warders and the other criminals being processed. My worldly possessions are taken from me, catalogued and locked away for the duration of my incarceration. I then wash with carbolic soap in a communal shower together with my fellow inductees, in full view of the guards. Before being issued ill-fitting prison garb, I am inspected to make sure I'm not carrying contraband. Apart from the fact that I was searched at the police station, where trouser belt and shoelaces were taken from me, I'm naked and have just gone through the showering process; you can imagine what’s left to search.

Open your mouth! and this from a prison guard half my age. Move your tongue to the roof of your mouth!... Lift your arms straight up in the air! But of course the final indignation is to come. Bend over and spread your arse-cheeks!

*

Sitting here in my cell, staring at the walls, I can't help wonder how the hell I came to this? What quirk of fate? What set of unfortunate circumstances brought me to this juncture?

Chapter 2: Humble Beginnings (back to ToC)

*

Born just after the Second World War into a coalmining family in Lampton, County Durham, my earliest clear memory is in our National Coal Board home.

Ma is bent over the sink, using an old scrubbing board to do the daily wash. Da and my brother are just leaving for the back-shift. My three sisters are still at school, being in infant’s school I get out earlier.

Geordie, my brother, is sixteen and, after being on the dole since leaving school, has recently started work. Da's happier because now Geordie is helping to support the family. Ma's happier because she can put a better spread on the table at mealtimes, and she doesn’t have to worry so much about Geordie getting into mischief. My sisters and I are happier because he’s hardly ever around to tease us anymore. Geordie's happier of course; having a beer on the way home with Da on paydays, he can call himself a man now and, when he’s not working, he's allowed to be out pretty much when he wants as long as he’s home by eleven o’clock; when Da locks the door.

I started school last week and I’ll be five next week. I have a thirteen-year-old sister, Elizabeth, who gets Izy, lizy or Beth; an eleven-year-old sister Margaret, who gets Maggie or Megs; and an eight-year-old sister Josephine, Jo, Jo-Jo, or Josie. Oh yes, and my name’s John. I like my name because there’s not much you can do with John.

See ya’ later Ma, says my father, kissing her on the top of her head as she's bent over the sink. See ya’ tomorra’ John! he says rubbing the top of my head as he passes: I’ll be asleep by the time he gets home from work tonight.

See ya’ Ma, says Geordie smiling at my mother, see ya’ shrimp! he says cuffing me across the head on his way out.

I remember that little scene as if it was yesterday. About six months separates it from the next scene, but emotionally they're worlds apart.

*

The house is full of people I hardly know, and everyone's wearing black, Ma and my sisters are crying; they have been for days. Da and Geordie are lying in coffins in Ma’s bedroom.

There was a cave in at the pit, Da and Geordie were among fifteen buried alive, and it took four days to dig the bodies out. Today is the funeral.

I’m not quite sure how I feel yet, it doesn’t seem real; I keep expecting Da and Geordie to come through the door with black faces, laughing, just as they always did after a shift. Ma’s been sleeping with me in mine and Geordie’s bed, although I suppose it’s just my bed now. She keeps me awake for hours with her crying; when we get up in the morning the girls look like they’ve been crying all night too.

Da and Geordie are in closed coffins. I heard someone say the coffins were closed because the bodies had been so badly squashed. They didn’t know I was under the table trying to stay out of the way. Most people don’t even realise I’m there, or think I don't understand what’s being said.

I haven't been able to cry yet.

Poor Annie! one woman says, What’s to become of her and the bairns? Naybody’s gonna to take on a widow and four poor, wee orphans!

I can’t work out why anything has to become of us.

If you need anything at all, Annie, don’t you hesitate to ask, I hear another woman say. And as Ma turns away the woman says quietly to another, I feel bloody awful… I had to offer… but I’ve barely enough to keep body and soul together m'self.

*

Those two scenes are vivid memories, like clear pictures in my head; the rest sometimes blurs a little but is interspersed, periodically, with other clear windows so lucid they are almost like flashbacks, tying my life together like some grand mosaic.

*

Following the funeral, life changed so much for me and what was left of my family. Ma took in washing to earn extra money, but it wasn’t long before even I began to feel the pinch: I was always hungry, for one thing. Ma would wake up at night crying with the pain in her back and her hands, from bending over the sink, scrubbing clothes, twelve hours every day. I know because she was still sleeping in my bed.

Lizy moved into Ma’s bed after a couple of weeks. No point in three of us being squashed up in one bed… while a big bed goes completely to waste! she said one night; Ma made no comment, so Lizy moved in that night.

Ma eventually got a job cleaning offices at night, at which stage she still had enough energy left to look after us, but she still wasn’t earning enough. A few weeks later she got a second job, working in a clothing factory during the day.

Other things changed too. Because Ma was working 'all the hours God sends', as she put it, our chores increased significantly. The girls started first thing in the morning: cleaning the house, washing clothes in the sink, cleaning out the fireplace if we were lucky enough to have coal the night before. I got to make the porridge, if there was any oats left, and wash the dishes when we’d eaten, all before getting washed myself and going to school.

By the time my sixth birthday came around we were all pretty used to being without Da and Geordie, even Ma had stopped crying at night. In fact she got an old single bed from Mrs McKracon around the corner and moved back to share the room with Lizy. Life goes on.

*

By the time I was eight years old Lizy was working in Woolworths, Durham City, and Ma was only working her day job at the factory. Maggie, Jo and I had more chores to do, but that was to be expected, they got done without too much fuss most of the time.

Lizy got a boyfriend, Bobby; he came around a couple of times a week and we all watched the television: a joint family Christmas present. At half past eight I would go to bed, Jo would go to bed at nine, Maggie at half past nine and Ma’ at ten o’clock. Lizy and Bobby would then have the place to themselves until eleven o’clock when Bobby went home and Lizy locked the door.

School was always a mixed bag of tricks. I wasn't one of the in-crowd. How could I be? I didn’t have a dad. I wasn’t bad