Jimmy refilled his glass with whisky and sipped it once more. He was almost enjoying himself now. 'Without you, Freddie, I can grieve for my boy in peace without wondering if that mad cunt of yours will be nearby. I can work my living now, without worrying about what trouble or upset you are going to cause with your fucking big trap. Without you, I don't have to listen to your crap fucking stories or feed and water your fucking ugly wife. I know what you've said about me over the years, Freddie, you treacherous cunt. I hear everything, and do you know what? I expected better off of you, but deep inside somehow I always knew you were just a two-faced, jealous and fucking incompetent wanker. Without me, Freddie, it's you who are nothing, mate. You, not me.'
Freddie knew he was beaten and yet it just would not register in his brain. His life as he knew it was over, he would be suspect now that Jimmy was giving him the cold shoulder, and if no one knew the real reason, and he was confident that they didn't, then they would assume the worst. That he was a grass, or a fucking nonce, a poxy kiddy fiddler, or worse still that he had stolen off his own.
He suddenly realised with a stunning clarity that he had to kill Jimmy, if for no other reason than to make himself feel better, and also to make sure his son was safe for the future. Little Freddie might not be the child of his dreams but he was the child of his loins and as such he would see him all right.
He tried one last time to appeal to Jimmy's better nature. If it all went well he was back in and he would keep a low profile for a while until this all died down. If he was out then he would get his money's worth from this long streak of paralysed piss he had once called his kin.
'It was all a terrible tragedy, Jim, but he is my son. Can't you understand that?'
His voice sounded broken, and Jimmy had to give it to him, he was in the wrong profession. If ever anyone was born to be an actor it was Freddie Jackson.
'He is me boy and he has his whole life ahead of him. He is my son.'
Jimmy grabbed Freddie's jacket with such strength that Freddie was reminded of just how big this man actually was. Pushing him back against the bar he said angrily, 'And Jimmy Junior was my son, remember, and he's fucking dead. And you are dead as well, aren't you, dead and gone? You might as well be pushing up the fucking daisies now because I have already put the word on the pavement that you are to be blanked by one and all, and believe this, Freddie, you will be.'
Freddie knew he meant it, and he was still struggling to think how the fuck he was going to walk away from this train wreck without a scratch. He grinned then and, pulling himself up to his full height he backed away from Jimmy. Smoothing his clothes down as if he was the most fastidious person on earth he said snidely, 'You sure about that, about him being your son, I mean? After all, we all know he's dead, don't we?'
He was laughing and Jimmy felt the air leave his stomach as the words sank in.
Freddie picked up his drink and toasted Jimmy before saying, 'At least I hope he's dead, we planted him after all…'
His laughter was loud and it was genuine. Freddie actually thought that was funny, that it was a joke. Jimmy stared at the man he had loved and loathed over the years and realised suddenly that this was the real Freddie, that he had always been like this, this was exactly who he was. And he had produced another one just like him, a selfish, violent bully. He was suddenly thrilled to be Freddie's nemesis, thrilled to be able to dismantle this ponce's life and enjoy his decline from the security and safety of his own large gated residence. The less Freddie had going for him, the further he dragged him down, the more Jimmy knew he would feel better, and if not exactly assuaged, then at least compensated for his grief.
Freddie was roaring with laughter, and then he started shouting, 'Let me out, Dad, it's dark down here!'
He was imitating Jimmy Junior's voice, and as he listened Jimmy felt as if he was going to go mad with grief. 'You are unbelievable. Nothing is too low for you, is it, Freddie?'
'You got that right, and remember that for the future, won't you? But dad, now that's a good word, ain't it, Jim. Dad, help me, Dad, it's dark and damp and full of worms in this box.'
He kept repeating 'Dad' under his breath until he said jovially, 'But which one of us should be the one to help him, I wonder? Women talk see, and you two ain't produced any more chavvies, have you, Jimmy? A bit suspect that, don't you think? I have four with Jackie alone. That's without me "outside kids", as your pal Glenford would call them. You sure you ain't a fucking Jaffa, mate?'
His mirth was almost demonic in its intensity, and Jimmy knew Freddie was enjoying this, that he was really loving it. 'Remember when you announced to the world that Maggie was finally in the club, and I said to you then, if you remember rightly, "Are you sure you didn't have any help?"'
He was grinning. He was getting his revenge now, and it felt good. 'Why do you think Maggie, the little homemaker, rejected him, Freddie? You don't think it was because of who the father was, do you? All the time you thought you were stitching me up, I was shafting your old woman, mate.'
He was laughing again, louder this time, as if this was the most hilarious thing he had ever witnessed or heard.
'You cunt, Freddie, you fucking vicious cunt! But dream on by all means. My Maggie wouldn't touch you with a fucking barge pole.'
Freddie stopped laughing then because he knew he had him on the ropes, and he said seriously and demurely, but with that evil smile he had perfected over the years, 'Ask her, Jimmy, ask her about our little tryst. It was on your anniversary. You were licking the Blacks' arses in Scotland, and I was licking your wife. Got lovely tits, your Maggie, nice and plump and full, just how I like them.'
The heavy glass whisky bottle was smashed down on to Freddie's head in a split second. The strength of the blow was such it knocked Freddie on to his knees, and it had been so unexpected that he had not even had time to react to it and protect himself. This, he knew, was because Jimmy was at the peak of his anger.
Jabbing at Freddie with the broken bottle, Jimmy felt the warm spray of blood as he severed the carotid artery, and then he stabbed viciously over and over again.
He was swimming in a red mist of blood, and the smell was overpowering.
The anger in him was so acute that even when he knew Freddie was dead he still slashed at his face and head until he was unrecognisable. The need to hurt this man was so overwhelming that he actually felt sorrow when he realised that Freddie Jackson was really dead. It was too quick a death for him, but it had been gruesome, and that was some consolation.
Freddie's blood was everywhere, all over the bar area. The ceiling had been sprayed liberally with it and the floor, the dirty old pub carpet laid there in the late sixties and still maintaining a faint blue and gold pattern, was drenched in deep red sticky blood.
Jimmy felt lighter in himself than he had done in years.
He stopped, as suddenly as he had started. The high piercing screams of Melanie finally alerted him to what he had actually done. She had witnessed it all.
Now, standing there covered in Freddie's blood, Jimmy Jackson finally understood the immense power of anger and hatred. For a few moments, he knew, he had become Freddie Jackson.
Chapter Thirty-One
Maggie had been sitting in the police station for hours, but they were being very nice to her, which meant tea and coffee was offered at appropriate intervals.
Now, after five hours, she was finally being allowed to see her husband.
As she walked through to the interview room she felt a deep coldness inside her. The policeman smiled at her as he opened the door, and the heavy sound of it closing behind her made her jump, grated on her nerves.