Death of a Royal

The following is the start of a new book I'm working on. I'd like to get some opinions on whether it grabs you. If there is enough of a hook, or interest in the characters, to get you to turn the page to chapter 2 :) :)

Prologue

“He’s dead” whispered a small man who was sitting in the middle of a dance floor, its usual beer sticky surface now joined by a congealing pool of blood. The air was still, the only sound to be heard was the steady creaking of the floorboard as the man slowly rocked back and forth, cradling the motionless body of his brother who lay soaked in his own messy gore.

The crowd overlooking the two young men did their best to appear shocked, and some may actually have been sad, but most of the people who surrounded the twins were trying their hardest to mask their real emotions. However, somewhere in the eerily unlit pub, amongst the forgotten Halloween decorations, and the rich scent of stale beer, mixed with the aroma of sharp piss from the nearby gents toilet, a shocking snort of laughter burst free. The owner of the escaped guffaw went unidentified as all attention was fixed on the gruesome scene in front of them. The true feelings of this group weren't the only thing being concealed, and almost all heads suddenly snapped around when the deathly silence was shattered by the sound of hard steel hitting the cold tiled ground near the bar. One member of the gathering had tried to skulk away quietly, only to completely fail when they skidded on a puddle of blood they had not spotted. This resulted in the person crashing over a dining table and as they did so, they dropped a blood flecked knife. A knife which had been destined for the violent grey sloshing sea just off of the crumbling cliff outside.

Whilst the collective attention was diverted, the twin hugged his brother closer and spoke quietly into his ear, “I told you this would happen, Jacob” the brother said with a discreet mirthless chuckle.

PART 1

One week earlier

Chapter 1

The Royal Family

Monday

A respectable, speculated young man, no older than 18, and shorter than most, laid motionless on a hard tiled floor. Behind the bar of a large decrepit seaside pub, Jacob stared up at the ceiling. He now noticed it was a very ugly shade of yellow… piss yellow, he thought, decorated with years of filthy beloved cigarette smoke. He could paint it a nice clean white, he supposed, but what would be the point? It would soon be the same disgusting colour again within a few weeks (Jacobs ' father thought allowing their sparse clientele to smoke indoors was in fact a great marketing ploy, regardless of the illegality of it). Anyway, the Royal Ships wasn’t exactly rolling in spare dough at the moment, he remembered. Why waste money on a pointless job? Thinking of pointless jobs, and saving money, he made a mental note that he really should convince his dad to sack his useless brother, Miller. However, Jacob knew that his father thought that if he did sack his feckless twin, then he would have to hire someone else. But, if his father did that, then he would have to pay that person a proper minimum wage and that would just never do. This, despite the fact that Miller drank more beer as payment than it would cost his father to actually pay a decent bar worker. Nonetheless, Jacobs Dad was not one to be reasoned with when it came to handing over cold hard cash.

Lying on his back, with the start of a cracking headache, Jacob cursed his brother Miller for failing to do his job properly yet again. The bar was a bloody mess. Empty bottles and crisp packets lay littered wherever Miller had been standing when he consumed them. Even without Miller's rubbish, the stock counter behind the serving desk looked hideous. All over the wall were tacky humourous signs like ‘Warning: No one gets out sober’, ‘BEER: Helping ugly people have sex since 1862’ and ‘Wish you were Beer’. Jacob had implored his father to remove these, as well as the naff dancing toys (the singing fish was a particular favourite of his family) as he wanted to establish The Royal Ships as a classy establishment, but his pleas were to no avail. He couldn’t even get his folks to tell Miller to remove Mr Chippy, the pet hamster that his brother kept next to the til. The furry little fecker was forever flinging his little pebbly shit everywhere. That had to be illegal, but noone ever listened to him. If it wasn’t a scheme to make money, then his Dad didn’t have the time or energy to deal with it.

Upon taking over bar duties from his twin, Jacob found that the drip trays hadn’t been emptied as usual and their frothy contents had spilled all over the smooth floor, as he discovered when he slipped and flipped on a puddle of lager. One minute he had been carrying a stack of dirty pint glasses (all of which belonged to Miller), and then the next moment he was on his back in a snow angel pose.

Jacob was finally roused from his fantasizing about Miller's demise when the bar's old-fashioned pay phone rang with a ‘briiing’. He was just about to try and sit up when he saw his fathers little legs run to answer the call, which was surprising. His Dad had made a lifetime habit of avoiding calls as they usually consisted of people wanting money that he never had. Once, Jacobs father had taken to wearing women’s clothes around the house. He wasn’t a cross dresser, it was just in case the bailiffs came unexpectedly, though the family expected their unexpected visits almost weekly. Jacobs' Dad would answer the door and claim that Johnny Cox was a cheating bastard and had run away with his fancy lady. Unsurprisingly, it seemed old habits die hard.

“Allo, The Royal Ships pub….Nah….he ain’t ere,” said Dad in a voice that sounded like the mother in Monty Python's The Life of Brian, “he’s scarpered, gone with the wind he has. He’s ridden off into the sunset….hang on, I'm telling ya, he only gone and trotted off into the sunset and left his old lady, and all those babbies bereft! Bereft I tell ya! Who am I? I’m just the cleaner here…Mrs Cox? Didn’t you just bleeding hear what I told you! She’s bereft, ‘art broken! She's a puddle mate! You’ll not get any sense out of the daft old bat if you mention the old man's name…where has he gone? I told you, I'm just the barmaid……..yeah, I'm the cleaner too. Look, he ain’t here, he’s gone, so whatever you want him for, you better get a big telescope and go out looking. Good luck to you, and if you find the rat face little bleeder with his fancy lady, then make sure you call US and tell us where he is….yeah, you do that sunny. Cheerio!” and with that Jacob's Dad slammed the phone down, at which point he noticed his son on the floor.

“What you lying down there for, boy?” snarked his father in his usual Brummie accent. Jacob thought he looked tired, much more worn out than a man in his 40’s should look. He always seemed to be carrying the worries of the world on his diminutive shoulders. But, Jacob remembered, if he wasn’t such a sneaky sod, always up to dodgy dealings, then perhaps life wouldn’t be so bloody stressful for him AND his family.

“Miller didn’t empty the trays again. I slipped” Jacobs answered and his Dad just rolled his eyes in weary acknowledgement as he ran a hand easily through the remnants of his once black hair.

“Well get up ya silly sock, and clean it up before the cleaner goes arse over tit and sues me, cos that’s all I bleedin need ain’t it.”

“I thought you were the cleaner Dad!”

“Oh, I suppose you heard that smart arse. Well when you can start helping get some money rolling into this humongous shit heap, then perhaps I won’t have to lie to keep a roof over our heads a little bit longer, will I? That little performance will keep them from the door for a few more weeks, which gives us some time to organize a way to actually make some money for once,” spat Dad, with words looking to excuse himself as always.

“Oh yeah,” wondered Jacob “What do you have in mind?”

“Me? Well nothing, that's your job innit, anyway, I ain’t gonna be here for a while, as you know. Me and your Mom will be off soon, and we’re not gonna be back for a few weeks. We need to get your sister settled in at Auntie Annes before we leave her there.”

“She’s staying in Ireland?” Jacob asked in surprise as he finally sat up and peeled away the wet shirt sticking to his back.

“For a bit, yeah. She can’t stay here after all that business with the ice cream man can she! The only reason he didn’t go to the police was because we promised to get her away from here.”

“And because he knew what she’d do if he did,” interrupted Jacob.

“Well exactly, so we’re getting her away for her own good too, or else she’ll end up in borstal.”

“Might be the best place for her!”

“Oh nice” snarled Jacobs' father “you think leaving her in Ireland is harsh, but you’d be happy to see her locked up!”

“Dad! She’ll be a terror in Ireland too! You’re just kicking the can up the road. Perhaps she needs to suffer the consequences for her to learn a lesson.”

Jacob's father thought on this, and deflated a little “Perhaps. I dunno, maybe you’re right. We were too soft on the lot of ya and look how you all turned out.”

“Errrr, what’s wrong with me,” Jacob questioned with genuine confusion.

“What's right with ya ye little feck up!”

“Oh, cheers Dad. Maybe if you hadn't snuck us all away to the arse end of nowhere in the middle of my A levels, I’d be in uni now!”

“Oh don’t start that again. If we stayed at home you’d probably be inside a concrete pillar on the M6 with the rest of the family, so your qualifications would have been feck all use to you, wouldn’t they? So quit with all your excuses. Everything is always someone else's fault. Maybe if you weren’t away in cuckoo land with all your lofty plans, you would have had your wits about you. Instead of sitting in a puddle of lager looking like you’ve pissed yourself. Now, look at your brother. He’s had the same lot in life as you and look how well he is doing!”

“Miller????”

“What? No, that little fecker is as bad as you, he just doesn’t pretend to be something he ain’t, no, I’m talking about Kurt obviously.”

“Obviously,” Jacob sarcastically drolled.

“Kurt’s virtually never at school, and his ideas actually make us money. You can’t learn clever you know.”

“You, Dad, are a constant source of inspiration,” murmured Jacob as he got himself up off of the floor, with no help from his father. Johnny Cox was just about to rebuke his son's sarcasm when the tatty door labeled ‘Private’ and which led to the family's grotty flat above the pub, swung open. Suddenly the rest of the Cox clan shuffled into the bar area, interrupting father and son’s well rehearsed argument.

Now standing on the other side of the bar from Jacob was his tiny little mother. She wore glasses looking far too big for her teeny little head, though even they were dwarfed by the size of her huge bouquet of Curly rose faded hair. Besides Mrs Cox stood a small hunched girl. She was only 11 years of age but the deep black eyes they peeked out from beneath her severe fringe seemed decades older. Towering behind everyone was Jacob's younger brother Kurt, but he was certainly not his little brother. Kurt loomed high above the rest of his short-arsed family. Unlike his siblings, who all inherited their mothers flame-colored hair (though Jacob regularly dyed his blonde), Kurts was jet black. He got his colouring from their father and kept his hair swept back in a very enviable flick. Jacob took solace that like their Dad, his younger big brother would probably be balding in the not so distant future. Last of all, and making his way back behind the long warping wooden bar that ran the entire length of the large pub, was his twin brother Miller. The word twin implies two people who look the same, but Miller and Jacob were virtually different in every single way, except they were also identical. Where Jacob kept his hair short and neat, Millers was wild and looked like it was shooting out in every direction, as if it was trying to escape his head. Jacob kept himself tidy and respectable, whilst Miller's clothes looked as if they were attempting a great escape, as his shirt remained forever untucked, his collar pointing upwards and his tie hung lower each day. And where Jacob wore thick black rimmed glasses, in order to be able to see, Miller chose to be fashionably blind.

“Right,” Johnny said to his very smiley little wife and glum looking children “are we all ready to go?”

“I’ve got the passports Johnny” beamed Mrs Cox, looking as if she was about to embark on a sunny holiday to Spain, instead of Limerick, Ireland, where “God still ain’t finished his piddling,” according to Auntie Anne.

“Great, well you all go wait in the car. I’ve just gotta check a few things with the lads, and then we’ll be off,” said Johnny as he gently ushered his wife towards the exit

“You boys behave whilst we’re away,” Mom called back to Jacob and Miller, who was already pouring himself another pint of lager and sploshing more froth onto the floor. “Especially you Miller Cox,” she said waving an accusing digit at her scruffiest son, “Try and help your brother for once, will ya!”

“I will Mom,” answered Miller in a tone that definitely sounded like the word ‘not’ had been implied.

“Oh!” Mom suddenly piped up just before Johnny could finally guide her out the door “remember, if you have any problem, the big knife is behind the bar and the shotgun is under the bed. If you have to use either, chuck’em off the cliff into the sea right away.”

“We knowwww,” answered her sons in well worn unison.

“Bye bye boys, be good. See you soon, love you lots,” and with that the little bundle of sunshine was out of the door, leaving behind the gloom that was Dad.

“Right you two!” he menaced as he stomped towards his eldest sons “We need money, and we need it fast! I want you’s to put your heads together and maybe, just maybe, there will be enough brain cells amongst you to come up with a decent idea.”

Before Jacob could interject (Miller was too busy drinking to even be paying attention), the younger brother Kurt butted in first.

“Why are you dragging me to Ireland for, Dad? If you need money so badly, leave me here and I can sort out some events again. The last one had this place packed man!” Kurt reminded his father proudly.

“Yeah, packed,” interrupted Jacob with a tone that heavily implied a ‘but.’ “But the cops came and made all the underage drinkers go home to actually try and do some revising. After that there was no one left. You’re lucky Old Bill was able to smooth things over with the Inspector for us, cos otherwise we’d all be sleeping on the beach now! Bill said that he’ll not be able to do that again, so we’re on warning!”

Johnny reached up and grasped Kurt gently on the shoulder. “He had a bit of bad luck, that is all, but the idea was sound.”

“A bit of bad luck! He could have gotten us closed down, and you,” Jacob said whilst poking a finger in his Dads direction “might have ended up in the nick for being the reason half of Torquays students failed their GCSEs this year!”

Dad waved this off and ruffled his beloved youngest son's slick hair “there were mistakes, certainly, but it was still well organized.”

Jacob took in a deep breath to continue his argument but his Dad cut him off “But anyway! Kurt, I need you with us, I need someone who is quick on their toes and won’t be given the slip by Marie. Your sister is in enough trouble and I need help trying to convince her to stay on the straight and narrow. So you’re coming with us.”

“Take Miller then….” countered Kurt.

“Piff! Yeah right. He wouldn’t stop her, he’d be her getaway driver, and I'm not talking metaphorically!”

“Probably,” muttered Miller as his nursed his nice cool pint.

“Well what about Jacob then?” Kurt bargained.

“You think he’d be able to stop your sister! She’d have him tied up and gagged before he could cry for his Mommy.”

“Hey, hang on,” chipped in Jacob.

“But nothing,” said Johnny, cutting Jacob off and addressing Kurt, “I need brawn and brains, so go get in the car with ya Mother and make sure your sister doesn't sprint. Go on, quick!” he said with a hint of an apologetic tone. Kurt scoffed down at his little older brothers and then sulked off to wait within the converted transit.

“And you two,” Dad said as he rounded on his eldests with a stern look “I mean it. If you don’t actually do your job and come up with a good idea to bring us in a pretty bob or two, then we’re done for! And, you know we can’t go back to Brum, so we’ll be fecked!”

“Well what about the Karaoke event? Happy Harry said he wants to move it from the Queen's Legs to here,” Miller finally proposed once he had necked his pint.

“No! Anything but that. That Bobby O’Shea is a complete and utter nut job and I’ve had my fill of psychos. I just need you to come up with an idea that is gonna bring a decent crowd in, and make us some cash…”

“But,” Jacob argued.

“But nothing,” his father snapped. “Stay away from Happy Harry. He will bring nothing but trouble. In fact, if you can, just keep him away from here full stop.”

“Why?” quizzed Miller “Arry’s sound. He’s a right laff.”

“Trust me son. I’ve rubbed shoulders with the best scumbags you’ll ever meet and that Harry is off.”

“Why?” quizzed Miller.

“I can’t put my finger on it,” replied Dad, who seemed to be looking for an explanation in the air above him “but…look, you just get the measure of people when you’ve dealt with enough of’em, especially the sort I’ve had to deal with around the pubs in Brum.”

“But this is Torquay Dad, not Birmingham and anyway, Harry's alright,” Jacob said, in a rare case of agreement with his twin.

“Look!” said Dad in a fluster “Regardless if Harry is alright or not, bloody Bobby O’Shea most certainly isn’t, and if he thinks you're poaching his staff, you’ll disappear faster than a fart in a hurricane. I mean it, for your own good, please, stay away from Harry and Bobby, right. Just come up with something else.”

Suddenly the sound of the transit van’s broken horn began to barp.

“I’ve gotta go. Jacob…If you really are an amazing business man, as you keep claiming, then show, don’t tell. I’ll see you both soon, but remember! Auntie Anne doesn't have a phone, so don’t go getting into any trouble you can’t get yourself out of!” And with that final warning, the twins' father made a hasty exit out of the pub, disappearing along the Babbacombe Downs, passed rows of Torquays famous palm trees, in a puff of black exhaust smoke.

“Aw sheez,” exclaimed Miller whilst pouring another pint.

“What?” questioned Jacob.

“Here’s ‘soon to be not so’ Appy Arry coming up the road. What are we gonna do?”

“Dad’s not wrong about Bobby O’Shea you know.”

“Nope.”

“We better cancel then.”

“Yep, unless you think that Judo lesson you had in primary school is gonna stop him kicking your short arse.”

“Hmmm, didn’t do me much good during the prefect riot of 89.”

“Nope,” agreed Miller, though a thought occurred to him “But we do have Trixie.”

“WHAT????”

Chapter 2

Happy Hour