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TWENTY
SYDNEY, AUSTRALIA
Clive Parrish lefthis office in a hurry. He was late home for Linda’s birthday lunch, like he’d been late to most family functions the last twenty years. But he’d promised her that he’d make time for her today. And he was trying, he really was.
He’d just tried to log in on his laptop and it failed. Password and fingerprint security. Maybe it was a software issue. Maybe he’d been in such a hurry, he’d done it wrong.
He’d just cursed and closed the laptop, taking it with him so he could check from home when he had more time.
On the way home, he stopped at the roadside florist to pick up something for Linda and to sweeten his lateness. He chose the largest bouquet the man had, tapped his card to pay, and smiled as he turned to leave.
“Sir, it’s declined.”
Clive stopped. “Declined? It can’t be.”
The guy shrugged, apologetically. “It could be a card error? Sometimes the lines go down. Here, let me try again.”
“No, it’s fine. I’ll call them.” Clive took cash out from his wallet, paid for the flowers, and went on his way, more annoyed than concerned.
God, did everything have to go wrong today?
He pulled up at the gate to his house, noting all the cars parked. Both his kids and their families were here, Linda’s two sisters, and some cars he didn’t recognise. Probably her friends from the book club, Clive thought with a roll of his eyes as he got out of the car. He took the stupid flowers and went inside.
The gathering was happening in the private gardens, as they mostly did when the weather was nice. Clive could hear laughter and chattering, kids playing. He plastered a smile on his face as he greeted about two dozen friends and family with kisses on cheeks and warm handshakes.
Linda gave him her ‘be nice, people are watching’ smile and leaned in for him to kiss her on the cheek. “You have a guest,” she said. “Said he was one of your army boys. I didn’t want to be rude...”
One of my army boys?
Clive’s gaze went straight to the yard and that’s when he saw him. He didn’t know how he hadn’t seen him before. Blood drained from his head down to his toes.
“Clive?” Linda asked. “Is everything okay?”
No.
No, it was far, far from okay.
Tim “Harry” Harrigan was standing in the backyard, a glass of fruit punch in one hand and a soccer ball in his other. He smiled at Clive.
Clive looked woodenly to his wife. “Yes, of course, dear. Just excuse me a moment.”
He made a beeline across the yard toward Harry. He couldn’t feel his legs. He wasn’t sure how they carried him.
Just then, Charlotte ran up to Harry. He gave her the soccer ball with a huge smile and she ran off, happy. “Cute grandkids,” Harry said, like they were long-lost friends. “Nice house too. How much did that set you back? Three million? More?”
“What the hell do you think you’re doing here?” Clive hissed. “In my house. With my family. My god. Have you lost your mind?”
Harry kept the smile on his face. “Don’t speak to your guests like that. Where are your manners?”
Clive took more notice now. Harry was just as tall and broad as he always was. The man was huge. But his hair was flecked with silver now, and he had more scars on his face and arms than Clive remembered. The last decade had aged him more than ten years, but then again, Clive wasn’t surprised.
“Oh, and about our last phone conversation,” Harry said. “You never got back to me with Gibson and Hull’s location, but that’s okay. I found them. Did you see the photographs?”
Christ.
Yes, he had. They’d almost made him sick.
“They deserved every bit of it,” Harry said. “You should have seen what they did to Asher.”
