Free Father and Son by John Barlow Page A

riding the silence, letting things settle. But
then it’s over.
    “So,” Holt says, like a doctor waiting to hear a patient’s ailments.
    “So,” says John, “this is, what, like a drop-in centre? Could a
person come here if he was feeling, I dunno, confused, or low, or didn’t know
where else to go?”
    The question surprises Holt. His expression brightens.
    “Yes, exactly that. Technically we’re still a church. But these days
it’s more a matter of reaching out. Anybody, any faith, any background or
predicament. If you… I mean, are you…”
    “No, no, not me,” John says, quickly getting that misapprehension
out of the way. The sudden spark of delight fades from Holt’s face as he
realises that he’s not about to become John Ray’s father-confessor. “I’m
looking for somebody.”
    “We’re all looking for somebody.”
    Holt says it with the same assuredness that his dad used to have, his
words enunciated with a calm, unfailing purpose. It irritates John, like it
always has, a person who knows they are right, the absence of doubt, of any
questioning. But for as long as he can remember he’s also harboured a nagging
respect for the Holts, father and son, the fact that they have stood so
resolutely behind their beliefs, often in the face of danger. There’s something
admirable in a person who’s willing to do that, something good and courageous,
however big a tool they are.
    “No,” he says, “I’m looking for somebody in particular. Sixty, big
bloke, Cockney accent.” He gets the card out of his wallet and holds it up. “He
had your card. You probably know who I mean, right?”
    Holt shrugs. “A lot of people come here.”
    “Think again. Couple inches shorter than me, but still a big bugger.
He was an ex-boxer, gentle, affable, but you wouldn’t mess with him. I mean,
ever. If he walked through that door you’d know him straight off, however many
lost souls there were hanging about.”
    “I can’t talk about people who come here. It’s a private thing. That’s
the point.”
    “Yeah, well he’s in trouble so I’d appreciate it if you could make
an exception.”
    “If he’s in trouble why not call the police?”
    “Why don’t you call ’em, since you seem to know what this is about?”
    Holt doesn’t flinch. He wasn’t expecting this to be a social call. He
takes a second, inhales. Then he pulls a quizzical face, as if he’s confused by
the question.
    “If the man you’re describing did come here, what’s that got
to do with anything?”
    “You know who he was, and you know who he worked for. Word gets out
he was coming here, sooner or later the finger gets pointed at you.”
    “Because he came here? After all this time?”
    “Because he’s dead. Murdered last night.”
    “Jesus.”
    Holt looks away, oblivious to his own blasphemy.
    John struggles up from the armchair. “Shall I put the kettle on?”
    Holt makes no reply.
    “I’ll take that as a yes.”
     
    After all this time… It’s hardly a
secret. Towards the end of his life Holt’s father had become more ambitious, shifting
his attention from street crime to the more organised sort. This was when Lanny
Bride was making his move, buying up legitimate businesses, amusement arcades,
bars, car washes, extending his presence in the city, right under the noses of
the moral majority.
    Low-level drug pushers were one thing, but people like Lanny Bride
becoming property owners? Minister Holt hadn’t liked it, and he’d made the fact
known. Then the Ministry was torched to the ground. One of Lanny’s men did it,
almost certainly. But was it Roberto? If so, why was Rob coming here ten years
after the event?
    “You know what puzzles me?” says John, as he drops teabags into two
mugs, “your dad’s attack troops never went after my dad.”
    He sloshes some milk in each mug and brings them over. Doesn’t
bother to take the teabags out. It’s not as if they’re going to drink it.
    Holt chuckles. “Your father