Bullet 7

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BULLET 7 A collection of short stories. Published by: Bullet Media Ltd 7 Roker Park Road Sunderland SR6 9PF UK www.rocknrollnoir.com 2006 Copyright © Retained by individual authors. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the permission of the copyright owner. ISBN-10 0-9551497-3-8 ISBN-13 978-0-9551497-3-3

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WELCOME…… Bullet 7! More shots from the hip…. Attitude. Passion. Excitement. That’s what Bullet is about. We believe that when you sit down to read something, anything, it should give you the thrill of a lifetime. That’s what we set out to do. Of course we don’t always pull it off but we’re out there swinging, doing the best we can which is way better than most. You’re gonna love this issue, a truly global round up of writers full of aggression and style, taking on the idea of rock’n’roll noir and putting their own individual spin on it. Mainly new writers this time round but with a few old mates thrown in there as well. Keep an eye out for some of these writers, we think they’re going places. But if you think you can do any better, come and have a go. We’re always on the look out for new talent, that’s what we’re here for. Check out our submissions details at www.rocknrollnoir.com So read on, enjoy and remember…keep on rockin’…. Keith Jeffrey Editor

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Contents Milky Wilberforce (England)

4

Peter McAdam (England)

26

Ray Banks (England)

39

Paul Kavanagh (England)

49

Chris McTrustry (Australia)

54

Jason Golaup (Scotland)

60

Julie Wright (England)

64

Dan McGrath (England)

74

Mandi Winterburn (England)

88

Brian Richmond (Northern Ireland)

93

Cindy Silvester (England)

103

John Weagly (USA)

109

Adrian Magson (England)

117

TK Dan(England)

127

Lee Coombes (England)

141

Mark Boardman (England)

146

Scott Cassidy (England)

152

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Milky Wilberforce Keeps making idle threats to give everything up but hasn’t the guts to see it through. Recently upgraded to a studio flat from a bedsit so maybe things aren’t so bad after all. Milky has recently developed an intense love affair with sixties free jazz which may explain his lack of success with the opposite (or indeed same) sex. Still if Albert Ayler was good enough for Lester... 7

THE DOGS I used to have a foreskin…not that I’m Jewish mind….. Friday night, the last night, I locked up the office and dropped the key down the drain. I took a last look at the Benwell Sava-loan branch office, blew it a delicate little kiss then turned, hugging the briefcase tight to my chest. It was done, all I had to do was walk from the office to that bus stop over there, get on the 38 and I was gone. Away, clean, free. I should have known though, I should have seen them coming. I should have known that Frankie wouldn’t let me get away with anything like that. One step towards success was all I achieved, then I was hauled back from the brink by two hands clutched at my elbows. They steered me towards a beat up Mondeo parked way over in the wrong direction. Behind me the psst! of pneumatic brakes spat mockingly. The 38 had come and gone. “Hi Stevie boy. Alright?” “Yeah Frankie, fine, fine.” I twisted and writhed in a pathetic attempt to break free but that soon stopped when a third hand clutched tightly at my throat and a knee thumped me in the kidneys. I dropped the case. From then on, I did what I was told. I’m not stupid. Well, maybe. I knew I’d blown it and I knew who had me. Resistance, as they say, was futile. “Now, now. You ain’t going anywhere. Got it?” I nodded my head. The grip slackened so that I could breathe again and we resumed the frog march. The Mondeo was getting closer, bigger, scarier. Final. Frankie picked up the case and my knees went. 8

“Heavy this. Got more than your sandwiches in hasn’t it?” “Notes, papers you know, catch up on a few things over the weekend.” Frankie hove into view. Olive skin, jet black hair and cold green eyes that nailed me with a piercing, unforgiving gaze. I went cold, like I was with a dead man, like I was with a Nazi, a butcher. Nothing underneath but emptiness. “The conscientious employee. Does my heart good to see dedication like that. Mind if I have a look? I am your employer after all. I like to keep tabs on my staff, know what they’re up to. At all times.” He lightly touched the case handle. “What’s the matter Stevie boy? Got something to hide?” Frankie opened the bag. Frankie looked impressed. Frankie stuck his right boot in my bollocks. * Woke. Eyes blinked. Hard concrete. Nausea, waves of nausea. Cold, hard world. I sat up in a pool of piss and blood. Naked from the waist down. Frankie, heard Frankie. “He’s woken up Rocky. Pin him down while I get the pliers. I want him to feel this.” * “So what brings you to Bradford?” The landlord was fiddling with a set of keys to get me into this dump he was trying to sell me. I guessed he was about my age and he wore a dark Matalan suit like he was made for it. His shirt collar was frayed, his shoes plastic leather but he spoke with the practised authority of someone used to dealing with scum tenants. “New job. Need something while I get myself sorted.” “Just yourself?” “Yeah. Split up with me ex. You know how it is.” ”Tell me about it. My ex cost me two houses when we spilt up.” 9

This mansion he wanted to rent me was a stone built back to back just off the Manchester Road. It was up a dark alley way past three bins filled to overflowing with household rubbish and horse dung. As we entered the back yard, through a tumbledown fence, I could see the originator of the horse shit. The house faced on to scrub land where a moth eaten old pile of horseflesh was munching on burnt grass. A gipsy caravan, faded with time and graffiti was parked nearby. Salubrious. I’d spent the last couple of days traipsing round the arse end of Bradford trying to find somewhere decent to live. Trouble was, Bradford seemed to be all scrag end, no prime beef, at least not in my price range. I was getting desperate, my wedge couldn’t stand any more nights at the b&b and neither could I. Sharing accommodation with brickies and scaffolders was not my idea of comfort. One more night in that lump of concrete they called a bed and I doubted I’d be able to walk again. I imagined cockroaches everywhere. So I needed to find somewhere quick and my standards were dropping faster than a football club’s shares. Eventually the landlord found the right key and slipped it into the UPVC frame of the conservatory door. The door opened up and he ushered me in ahead of him. “Lovely little house this. Modernised back to back. New kitchen, fridge, washer.” This was a house? The kitchen was in the living room and you could barely fit in a three piece suite. Upstairs was a shower room, and two bedrooms. On the walls were pictures of dogs dressed as policemen or milk men or soldiers. The furniture was MFI fire sale stock, the carpet red with blue swirly patterns throughout. The place smelled of damp, it was cold, dark and oppressive. “I’ll take it.” “Excellent, I’ll need a month’s deposit and a reference.” “I got this from my employer.” I pulled out something I’d printed off the pc in Bradford Central Library that morning. Desk top publishing takes the joy out of forgery don’t you think? “That looks fine.” 10

“And I can pay cash now.” “Fabulous.” And I was in. A new start, a new life in this broken down heap of shite with a portable telly and a bin bag full of clothes that would embarrass Primark. But nobody knew nor cared who I was which was all that mattered. Jason Marshall would be able to start over once again, just like the song. Hope this time Bradford had a better conclusion than all the others. The Landlord held out his hand. “Welcome to Bradford. Sorry what’s the name?” “Tony. Tony Draughton.” “I think you’re going to like it here.” I fucken doubted it. I wasn’t wrong. * Winter was soon on me and I couldn’t find a job to save me life. A proper job I mean, one with prospects, one that could offer me the opportunities I was looking for. I soon fell into that sad sack routine that leads to an appearance on the Jeremy Kyle show. Woke up about ten everyday, Radio 5 on permanent throughout the night filling my dreams with weird shite. I’d get up, eventually, have me breakfast then head on out. Usually I’d walk into the city centre, drop into the Greggs seconds shop on the way in and have a pasty while I walked. I’d visit the library or the job centre, scan the websites for jobs then back home for Countdown. Watch telly till about six, then nip out to buy some chips and nick a bottle of whisky from the offy. Routines are meant to keep you sane aren’t they? This one didn’t, ground me down into the dust. I started getting desperate, started not washing, started not doing the dishes, started not changing my clothes. What was the fucken point? I needed something, really fucken needed something but there was still a bit of cash stashed away in the mattress so I didn’t have to bang on the door of Morrisons for a job just yet. That was the measure, that gave me my freedom. When that wedge was gone, that was when I gave up. 11

Three months later my pile was down to about an inch thick and I was panicking, big time. Nothing was happening and the siren call of shelf stacking for Morrisons was beckoning. I was cold all the time because I didn’t want to turn on the central heating any more than I had to, the place was dark because I wanted to keep the lecky bill down and the place stank because the damp was creeping up from the basement. One day I thought fuck it, I’d had enough. I looked at the wedge and flicked it. £220. Blow the fucken lot I thought, go out with a bang then go round Morrisons on Monday morning, skint, desperate and willing to do anything for money. So I came home that night with a nicked bottle of whisky up me front. It was just on the turn from winter to spring but that shit hole I called home was still fucking freezing. My plan was to switch the telly on, wrap meself in the duvet and drink till I puked. I walked up the tunnel and heard some talk and chatter. “Ah fucken know you fucken stupid bitch.” “Well why the fuck didn’t you fucken get it then?” “It fucken wasn’t there.” “It fucken were there! I fucken saw it!” “Well it weren’t fucken there when ah fucken went.” I hesitated then thought fuck it. I fucken live here. I turned the corner into my little yard area and came across a couple, younger than me, arguing the toss about nowt. She looked late thirties but I saw that drugs had a hold of her and she was probably early twenties. Her face was puffed up and the skin ready to drop off like bad movie make up. Her hair was in a long bob framing a face with hollow sunken eyes, encircled with comical black rings. She looked like a bulimic charva panda. She held her arms tight to her chest and looked in desperate need of something, a tab or a drink but then I realised she needed something a lot stronger. She was toe to toe with a bloke at least a foot higher and wider than her. He wore a black nylon bomber jacket zipped up to the neck and his jeans were stiff with filth. He had his face stuck right in hers, the skin taut on his skull, white, pasty with blue tattooed dots on his cheeks like psychedelic black heads. 12

Mills and Boon never had a romance like this. They looked surprised at my arrival but as I jingled my keys they realised I must be the neighbour. “Areet mate,” he threw a nod at me and I threw one back, expressionless. I moved on, desperate to get the keys in, the door open and away from them. They weren’t having it though. “You the neighbour then?” “Yeah.” “Keep yersel to yersel don’t you.” “Suppose so.” “Been here long?” “Six months or something.” “Fuck me, you a hermit?” “Not really.” “I’m Mark, this is Sarah.” “Hi Mark, hi Sarah. I’m Jeff.” “Should get yersel out. Come round have a can or summat.” “Thanks for the offer.” I sped in and shut the door quickly behind. “Miserable fucker.” “Shut up! He can still hear you!” Fuck him and fuck her. A can with them? Fuck me. I’m not that desperate. Not yet. * The pile was gone and I was on my way to throw myself on Morrison’s mercy when it came. The letter I mean, inviting me to an interview with West Bowling Housing Association for the post of Rent Clerk. The relief was overwhelming, then the panic, Jeeze I had to get this one. I decided to check on them that morning, a quick recce to see what I was letting myself in for. Tip number one for the successful job hunter, do your research. They were just down the road in one of those tower blocks built in 13

the modernist fever of the sixties. The sort of places that architects love to build but hate to live in. You could tell it had been through a refurb, it had one of those ridiculous metal hats on top, air conditioning I think. Only the desperate wanted to live in places like that and that’s where the Housing Association came in. “No job? No future? Got a job stacking shelves? Let West Bowling Housing Association find you a shit hole to live in! We can make your life bearable by giving you a decent roof over your head. Especially if you don’t deserve one!” Looked good. Just the sort of place I wanted. Plenty of cash and lots of do-gooders. I wandered into the reception area and picked up a few leaflets. It was bright and welcoming in an IKEA sort of way, I felt good about this one, felt it was right. When I got back Mark and Sarah were sitting on their door step. For the first three months I’d seen or heard nothing of them, now I couldn’t avoid them. Had they been hibernating all winter? Now the sun was poking itself out of Bradford’s watery clouds had their biorythms clicked, driving them outside ready to bathe like lizards in whatever sun they could get? Or was it warmer outside their back to back than inside? “Areet mate.” Mark was smoking a thin rolly, jeans still filthy and still wearing that nylon bomber jacket. Dominoes were stitched into the material. Must have been a bouncer once. Looked psycho enough for it. A girl about 10 and a boy about 5 were there. A woman dressed smartly, formal, official was filling out a form. “Alright?” I returned the greeting but was obviously staring too hard. “Mind yer own business mate.” Sarah looked up, a big shiner on her left eye. She eyed me viciously. I let myself in and raced upstairs to peer from the upstairs window. I saw the woman take the kids away. 14

* My new suit made me as downmarketedly contemporary as TK Maxx sale item but I walked into the interview full of confidence. A middle aged man stood up in a tight fitting shirt that bulged over his belted stomach. He looked decidedly average, like he only wore this stuff because he had to, because he had to go out to work for a living and that if he had to wear a suit it would have to be the nastiest he could find. His partners were equally dishevelled. Middle aged women with fly away hair and blouses that bulged at the breast. You didn’t feel tempted to look inside though. The guy held out his hand. I grasped it firmly but not too firmly, a cheesy grin slicing my face. I swiftly moved on to the women shaking their hands in the confident knowledge they fancied me. “Hi, I’m Steve Maplin. I’m the area manager for West Bowling Housing Association and this is Pat Morden and Sheila Weston who are based in the Manchester Road office. If successful, Sheila will be your line manager.” She shifted uncomfortably, like the responsibility was too much too bear. “Mark Farnham.” “I hope so! Otherwise something awful has gone wrong!” Steve laughed. I smiled, the women grinned politely. “Please help yourself to water.” Steve shoved a plastic glass full of water towards me. I declined. “Now let’s start off with an easy one eh? Tell us about yourself and more specifically why you want to join us here at the Housing Association.” “Firstly can I say thank you for allowing me the opportunity of talking to you today.” Their eyes widened in surprise. That’s when I knew I had the job. I continued. “This is an exciting opportunity and one for which I’m ideally suited. I feel my unique set of experiences and skills would be invaluable for the Housing Association and I’m sure I can make a difference. I have relocated to Bradford for personal reasons and I’m looking for a new start in a post that can make a real difference to my life and to others.” So it went. I can talk that sort of shit with the best of them, read all the books, done all the personal motivation courses. I know what to say and when to say it to get the job I want. I got it. The letter came a few days later. I was to start two weeks 15

on Monday. * The Monday came and I was up with the larks. Get there early, show enthusiasm, get in the good books. Had to show willing, build up confidence that this guy was on the up and up. Could be trusted above all else. I’d splashed out on a brand new Matalan suit, buffed up the shoes to a highly polished state and I was ready. I slammed the door and locked it. A warm Spring morning that felt like a new beginning. For the first time since the incident with Frankie I was feeling good about life, feeling there was a future, a plan to work to. I was back on track and ready to rock. “A’reet mate.” Mark was sitting on his doorstep drinking a can of Morrisons own brand and smoking something herbal. “Morning.” “Looking smart there. Suited and booted. Tie an’all.” “Just off to work.” “Work? Enjoy yersel’ mate. Got better things to do with my time.” “Glad to hear it. See you.” “Just to let you know there’ll be a couple of dogs in the back yard. For a coupla days.” “Dogs?” “Yeah dogs.” “Ok.” “Just thought I’d let you know. Good neighbour and that.” “Yeah no problem.” I turned the key in the door and headed off to work. The post of Rates Clerk at the West Bowling Housing Association was an absolute piece of piss. In normal circumstances I’d be pissed off that I was reduced to doing this monkey work for the peanuts they were paying me but I saw the opportunity and I needed to impress. This job was so well within my capabilities that it wouldn’t be long before they were looking for ways to increase my responsibilities, I was certain of that. All I did was sit at the computer and process the rent payments. 16

The tenants would come in with their cash or giro and hand it over to me and I would process it. Within a week I’d sussed it, saw the holes in the system and how they could be exploited. I just needed a bit of time though, work out the audit trail, who did the daily and weekly checks, when the security guard came to pick up the cash that sort of thing. But this was doable. Very doable and the amount of money I was handling on a weekly basis made Frankie Rivaro and his betting shop look like peanuts. I was happy and I was in a nice routine and the weather was turning warm. I’d even dispensed with the additional duvet. Got myself a new TV with my first wages and everything was feeling fine. Like the Farmer waiting for the crop to ripen. One night about half six I was just settling down to a Loyd Grosman pasta meal and Price-Drop TV when I heard some barking outside. Deep and raucous and loud. I ignored it, probably a dog out in that back field annoying the horse. But it went on and on and I realised that it was close, real close. Then I heard the chink of chains then a whining, a persistent high pitched whining. I got up and looked out the window. There, tied to my washing line post were two Rotweillers, three foot high, tongues lolling out, yellow fangs dribbling saliva on to black and brown coats. There were three dollops of shite on my patio. I opened the door and went out. There was Mark on the door step smoking a regular rolly. A can of lager at his feet. “A’reet mate? Told you I was getting the dogs. Meet Carver and Bully.” A smile rose up his face like vomit. Triumphant fucker. Reckoned he’d played me. * I’m a “Hitch Hikers Guide to the Galaxy Fan” so yeah I can be a bit of a nerd. At the time though, back in 1978 when I heard the first broadcast of the first episode it was like nothing you’d ever heard, like when I saw the Human League that time. Back then the future seemed an exciting place to be, a hang over from the Moon landing and Tomorrow’s World. Not any more though, now it’s all about global warming and terrorism and state control of movement and identity. But at least the Hitch Hikers is still around to keep that sense of 17

spirit and adventure alive, so I obviously had to be amongst the first in the country to see the film version when it came out. It was being shown at the local cinema in one of those deals where you go along late on a Thursday night and get a sneak preview. Their guess is that you’ll tell all your mates about it on the Friday and encourage them to go see it over the weekend. Word of mouth drives box office and maybe they get a smash on their hands. I couldn’t see that working for this particular film, the die hards were gonna hate it and the few that did like it didn’t have any friends in any case. By definition, HH2G attracted sad twats like me, nerds, sci fi fans, members of the extended Nomates family. Doomed to failure I reckoned, anyway the film was fine though not as good as the radio version obviously and it was about half twelve when I got home. I’d forgotten to leave the porch light on so it was pitch black walking up that alley way. The light that was meant to switch on at the first sign of motion had gone months ago and the landlord still hadn’t got round to fixing it. I couldn’t see what was in front of me and I tentatively placed each foot carefully in case there was some trip hazard there that would send me arse over tit. As I moved I heard the chink of chains. I stopped then turned the corner into my patio. A whirlwind of barking deafened me as Carver and Bully leapt at me like ravenous, slavering wolves. Their chains yanked them back causing a brief whine then they were up again barking, straining to get at me and tear me limb from limb. I cowered back against the house. Closed my eyes waiting for the leash to snap, for teeth to tear flesh but nothing came, except a thunder roll of deep, cavernous barking. I sneaked a look, they were at the limit of their chains, jumping, leaping, desperate to get at me but always jerked back at the last second by their leash, collars digging deep into their throat. To my side there was maybe a three foot corridor of safety to my door but I was frozen to the spot with fear. “Carver! Bully! Shut the fuck up will ya!” A light switched on next door. I could see a bare chested Mark struggling to pull some shoes on. “Fucking shut up you stupid fucking bastards!” 18

I was relieved when he pulled open the door and stumbled out. He had a dog chain in his hands and went at them flailing them into submission. “Down! Fucking down! I fucking told yer to be fucking quiet you fucking stupid bastards.” Three hefty swipes each was all it took. “Hey look mate you can’t keep them there you know.” He turned on me, deathly white flesh, taut wired body, well toned, well muscled torso, face right in mine, nose bumped nose. “What the fuck am I supposed to do with them! They’re fucking guard dogs!” I thought of Frankie and knew I couldn’t go through violence again. I turned and went to the door and fiddled with the key, hands shaking, desperate to get the lock open. I pushed the door open and slammed it behind me, desperate to keep Mark out. I held the handle and waited for him to go away but he stayed there, shouting. “You fucken miserable twat, they’re only fucken dogs! What’s the matter with you? Fucken scared of them? Fucken puff!” Frankie, images of Frankie. Cold floor. Pain. Then the alarm went, bells and blue lights turning my back yard into the world’s worst disco. I’d been too busy keeping that psycho out that I’d forgotten I only had 45 seconds to get to the control panel. Nothing could have delighted Mark more. “Ha! Ha! Ha! You twat!” Then Sarah appeared, arms tightly crossed, wearing a raddled old T-shirt with baggy leggings suspended on wire thin legs. “Turn that fucken alarm off! You’ll wake the kids!” “What fucken kids?” I was feeling brave behind that glass but it was a stupid thing to say. Mark disappeared for a second but returned with the dogs. He put them up against the door and whipped their backs. “Kill! Kill! Kill that bastard!” They went into a frenzy of rage at me, 19

barking, biting, lunging, slavering all over the door. I locked the door then went to the alarm panel and turned it off. After the bells stopped clanging, I could hear Mark again beating the dogs into submission. Their tiny whelps and whines heartbreaking despite their previous attempts to rip my throat out. I opened the fridge door and pulled out a bottle of Smirnoff Blue and knocked back a mouthful neat in one heavy gulp. The hit wasn’t enough so I did it again and again and again till those flashbacks of Frankie were banished and my hands had stopped shaking. I checked the window again just to make sure that everything was quiet out there. Then I went to the basement and found an old wooden chair the landlord had left. I smashed a leg off, went back upstairs and watched TV till dawn broke. * I have this theory based on the idea that you have a number of elements to your life that are important to you. The Sine wave theory I call it. The aim is to achieve equilibrium, one part of your life is going well, so another part has to be crap, one wave is up, one wave is down so everything balances out. That way you can deal with the bad as long as something else is going really well. Right then, the good stuff was work. That was going a treat. I’d fitted in perfectly. I was always being asked out by the gang for drinks, my skills were being recognized and I’d been given additional responsibilities. In fact I thought hey this isn’t so bad, why take a chance in ruining something that was working this well? But then again I was beginning to crack the system, it was there for the taking. I’d been through an audit, seen what they did and how they checked the processes. I was getting up to Level 3 access and I already had the safe key. Couple more months and jackpot! Nope I couldn’t turn that down for a safe nine to five. The down side was home. I dreaded leaving work, because it meant another creep past those rabid dogs, usually with the smirking Mark there making dumb insults. It was like a bereavement waiting for me every morning and evening. I stopped going out at nights, even made sure that I got my groceries straight after work 20

so that I had no reason to go out again. It was like that eighteen months I spent on day release. Worse, I wasn’t in fear of my life back then. The dogs were there, all the time, sleeping, eating, shitting in my back yard. One of them was always asleep but all it took was the other one to notice me creeping past like a cartoon character to set them going, snapping and tugging at their chains. One of these days that chain was going to snap…. A month passed then one night I came in from work, I’d just done a bit of shopping at Morrisons and was carrying a couple of plastic bags. The rustling of the paper was enough to set them barking. As they did so Mark ran out of the door and started laying into them with a chain. “Shut up! Fucking shut up you stupid fucking twats!” A few swipes and they soon quietened down. He turned and saw me. “Oh it’s you, setting them off again.” I ignored him and moved towards the door. “Fucken coward.” I found my keys. “I fucken said “You fucken coward.”” “Sorry?” “You fucken will be. Couldn’t do it to ma face could yer?” “What are you talking about?” “I am talking about the bastard RSPCA.” “RSPCA?” He leaped at me, grabbed my collar and shoved his face in mine. His breath stank of own brand lager and stung like acid. I closed my eyes and saw images of pliers and Frankie, memories rushing back. Puke began to well in the back of my throat. “Don’t come the fucken innocent with me! Bastard RSPCA came round today. Told me I had to find some proper accommodation for them. Proper kennels and shit.” “Look I’ve spoken to nobody about them.” “Well who else you little shit? Where am I going to put these two? Whose gonna have a pair of guard dogs like that? I’ll have to get rid of ‘em. Rid of ‘em you hear?” 21

He shook me hard. “Say something, say something will ya, ya cunt!” Then the pressure left and I heard something slump to the ground. “They’re all ah’ve got, they’re all ah fucken got.” I gingerly opened my eyes and saw that Mark was slumped on the ground, head between legs. “You crying?” “No I’m fucking not!” I left him to it and sneaked into the safety of home. I’d just turned off the alarm when a brick sailed through the window swiftly followed by a dog turd. I spent the rest of the night boarding it up. From the inside of course. * The day came. Cash from the rent collections reached a peak on the last Friday of the month. Most of the tenants only understood cash, only felt comfortable with the reality of notes and coins, so they made sure that when they got paid by the dole or the company they did manual work for, that they paid their rent before anything else. At least then they could be sure that they’d have a roof over their head for at least the next four weeks. By 3 o’clock there’d be a cash mountain in there, all registered, all accounted, all independently verified. Then the security guy would come round make the pick up and it was all smoothly transferred to the bank, everything safe and secure. Unless, unless…. The person who signed over the cash had to make sure that the figure that was transferred to the bank was the same figure that was entered into the system. This was then reconciled the following week and checked off against the tenants’ accounts. That way they knew who was up to date and who wasn’t. Unless, unless….somebody, who was less than trustworthy, got into the system and made a number of obscure contra entries. 22

That way the figures would balance and the tenants would have a roof over their heads. Nobody would notice, at least not for a couple of months, maybe longer. By then though, I’d have handed my notice in “for personal reasons” and disappeared off the face of the earth. I settled myself into my terminal and tried to focus on work but It was impossible. All I could think of was that pile of cash growing ever larger as one tenant after another came in and paid off their balance. Now and then I’d get a tantalizing glimpse of the wads in the huge black safe that dominated the office as the door opened as more money was deposited. By lunch time the office was all but empty as most of the staff used up their Flexi on a Friday afternoon. Just me and Gill the admin assistant were left, two of us in charge of all that cash. Gill was a nice woman, though who she was assisting was anybody’s guess. She seemed to spend most of her time surfing the net and going to the toilet. Gill usually went out at lunch time, to do a bit of shopping, maybe get some office stationery to pad out the time but this lunch time she wasn’t shifting. 12.30, then one, then one thirty and still she hadn’t gone. I couldn’t say anything though, couldn’t risk any attention being brought to me by asking Gill why she wasn’t going out for lunch but I had to get a clue as to what she was doing. “Doing anything at the weekend Gill?” “Not a lot. Do something with the kids.” “Sounds nice.” “That’s a big bag you got there, Mark” said Gill. For weeks now I’d been attending a gym after work on a Friday. £35 quid a month just to make myself ill, but it was worth it, gave me a reason to have a big bag in the office on a Friday afternoon. “Yeah, going to the gym after work.” ”Quite an obsession with you now isn’t it?” “Got to keep the pounds off.” I slapped my belly. “Got your own equipment in there? It’s a very big bag.” “Just a couple of towels.” I looked at the clock, it was barely shifting, like the workings were caught in treacle and time itself had slowed down.

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Gill’s phone rang, “Hello? Yes…..What?........ When?...... Ok I’m coming.” She hung up and started pulling on her coat. “Mark, our Jamie’s done something to his head at school, I’ve got to pick him up from the hospital. Will you be alright on yer own?” HALLELUJAH! “Oh yeah, I think I can manage. Nothing serious?” “Daft bugger tripped over in the yard and sliced his head open. 8 stitches. See you Monday.” “Take care.” Thank you God. Then silence except for the clock ticking with ever slowing precision. I gave it ten minutes, ten minutes that never dragged more slowly, like they were swinging on crutches. I caressed the safe keys in my pocket, jangled them slightly, enjoying the exquisite pain of waiting. Slam! Bob came in, door swinging, loudly banging, heart stopping. “Sorry forgot me notes for the meeting.” He came and went. Five more tortuous minutes of loneliness. Fuck it. I whipped the keys from my pocket, quickly scampered across the office, opened the safe and shovelled big piles of neatly banded notes into the bag. I slammed the door shut, zipped up the bag and resumed my place at the PC. Sixty seconds work and 80k richer. At 3 the security guy made his pick up, I signed over the amount and made the entry on the terminal. I would make the contras later next week so it didn’t look too contrived. Bob came back to the office at about 4 and fiddled around with a few bits and pieces. Half four came and I reckoned enough was enough. I picked up the bag and started walking. 24

I touched the door handle. “Cheers Bob! See you Monday.” “Thanks Steve. Enjoy your weekend.” I planned to. It was right then that I thought I was going to get away with it, right then, just for that fleeting flashing moment, I thought I was going to pull it off. Fantasies overwhelmed me in a Technicolor blur of decadence and luxury. High class escorts, luxury hotels, foreign holidays and bleak, bleak Bradford left thousands of miles behind. I left the building. “Hey you bastard! Look what you done! Look what you done! This is you, this is all your fault!” Staggering towards me across the car park was Mark. In his arms something dark and big and heavy. I tried to ignore him and walked in the opposite direction, I couldn’t be having this today. I walked in the opposite direction. “Come here you little bastard. Don’t you fucking ignore me!” I heard running and turned to see Mark covered from head to foot in blood racing towards me. I dropped the bag in shock, then turned to run, tripped over it then went flying across the concrete car park. Mark leaped on me. “They’re dead! They’re dead! I fucken killed ‘em. Stuck a knife in their hearts and fucken killed ‘em! RSPCA were gonna take ‘em away and destroy them. The bastards were gonna charge me for the fucken privilege. Fucken cunts. Beat ‘em to it.” He stared balefully at the corpses, then dragged me by my shirt collar, I scraped and scrambled till finally he dropped me on the dogs. They were still warm. Frankie. Blood. Pain. Not again. Not again. “Look at ‘em. Smell ‘em. Touch ‘em. This is you. This is you. You did this.” I looked away and saw the bag, made a movement but he 25

stamped on my neck. Bob came out of the office. He saw my bag and picked it up. “Mark? What’s going on here? Are you alright?” I heard a siren. “It’s ok Mark, I’ve called the police.”

26

27

Peter McAdam Peter is a quiet Dadaist living in the shadows of suburban Washington. But he gets these frequent visits from Eddie Temple and it shakes up his life. He’s moved three times but Eddie catches up with him and dictates his brooding monologues of a relentless hitman. 28

DEAD MAN’S GAMBLE Julie Andrews and The Goat Of Mendes, what a combo!! Julie holding her arms aloft singing her heart out amid the splendour of the Swiss Alps and little kids running around the landscape innocently singing the dori rey mee’s.. The she-goat of Baphomet, the Satanic emblem of black magicians. These two images subliminally flash on and off like an amphetamine flashbulb; “High on a hill was a lonely goatherd Lay ee odl lay ee odl lay hee hoo Loud was the voice of the lonely goatherd” (cue subliminal image of Baphomet, the winged she demon. Sitting cross legged sporting a goatee beard, wearing a pentangle crown, a devilish stare and horns sprouting from its Pan-like head) “Lay ee odl lay ee odl-oo” (cue subliminal message) DIE FUCKER!! I’ve found a way to crack open DVD’s. I can manipulate the contents of the films with an editing package, so I’m copying the Sound Of Music for old Bikey Jackson. Bikey’s just got out of the nick, he has a penchant for old musicals and I’m playing mind games with him at the moment. “YOU’RE GONNA DIE FUCKHEAD” flickers in and out 0000.5 mili-seconds at a time and a satanic symbol staining an otherwise vanilla family film. This technique alters the atmosphere creating a sense of foreboding; hopefully the desired effect will make him shit his bed. It’s all about pissing in someone else’s water. I did this for a guy down at my local paper shop as an experiment. He loves Bogart films, so I edited in a horse being executed, shot in the head from an old black and white documentary about equine diseases. It’s on a loop as it collapses and rises unnaturally from the ground again. So two weeks later, after I’ve been away working on a job, I return 29

to pick up my magazines. There he is with a fucking rash on his neck. You see he gambles on horses always fucking bragging he’s won this and won that, now he won’t even look at the form. Mention horses and he changes the subject, when I say I have a tip for Cheltenham, a horse called Humphrey, he scratches that fucking neck of his. I’m trying to get him to watch some Doris Day if he does the poor bastard won’t ever drink milk again. A film on a DVD is a self-contained entity. Usually you can’t get in there to change it but with the right kind of software you can crack it open, break into the content. You can go in there and jiggle with the innards, fuck it up, mess with the narrative, slip in your messages. That’s what I’m good at, manipulation. This is how I approach my job. I like to penetrate things. Watch the jig saw pieces of a personality fall apart and then move in for the kill. In actual fact I’m like a voyeur with bullets and some shit hot software to boot. Bikey Jackson is a Hells Angel. A big fucker, got a Grizzly Adams’ fuzzed up grey beard that looks like it’s fucking exploded all over his face. Their lass must have to send out a search party to find his fucking mouth to kiss… well not exactly, I’ll explain later. He has a big, big smile and tiny fucking eyes which in physiognomy terms means a dodgy cunt. He wears a bike jacket like he was born in it. The arms are cut off to reveal his now flabby arms, dotted with tattoos of snakes and swords and somebody called Caroline. He has a limp, not from a bike accident, silly fucker dropped an iron on his foot while he was in the nick. He’s out now and smelling the sweet air of freedom. He wants to take out Ravenger. Ravenger is a fat charva from Wallsend… Ah! Wallsend where the English breakfasts are ‘fuckin massif.’ £5.99 you get the whole fucking heart attack on a plate. In the not too distant past when Ravenger was a junior twokker he looked up to Bikey because of his power and his drug territory. But things turned sour when Bikey slapped Ravenger in a pub coz he looked at him the wrong way. This humiliating experience sowed 30

the demon seed in his soul. He never forgot. Ravenger was a police bitch, anything that happened on the estate he would squeal. So years passed and Ravenger after several gym sessions and a quaint bouquet of steroids and uppers got big, real big… and bold. Having friends in the force and wanting somebody out of the picture. Ravenger was in the ideal position to get rid of Bikey so he paid a local prostitute, coincidentally called Caroline, armed with two bags of coke, tapped Bikey up in a bar and led him to a disused building. She spiked his bottle of cider and knocked the stupid fucker on the head, coppers were tipped off and Bikey was pulled in for possession. After he was put away, Ravenger and his gym sluts ruled the roost, but apparently Ravenger is still soft as shit, still needs his army around him. That’s why he never had a one to one with Bikey; Bikey still has something on him. Bikey has calmed down since coming out, he now talks really camp, he hangs around the town toilets looking to rub your stiffy for a fiver, sad fucker. Four golden stars to the penal readjustment system coz before he went in the nick he was a mean machine who would belt you even when he was having a good night. He couldn’t give a toss about his territory now. He doesn’t want it, it’s the fact that Ravenger framed him and sent him down for seven years that keeps him hanging on. So he’s biding his time. Strangely, they are still on nodding terms, but I bet they do a lot of back watching. You see if Ravenger did it himself or got any of his cronies to do it then the Wallsend Black Snake Chapter would be busy grave digging the whole weekend. They don’t normally get involved coz Bikey is a bit of an embarrassment to them, but when one of their own gets rubbed out, well they have their principles. I don’t know any of these guys you have to understand. I’ve wheedled my way into this via Ravenger. I only got to know Bikey in the Wallsend Café and a few drinking holes. So at the moment he thinks my name is Jimi Hendrix and I’m a plumber from Ashington with a passion for Hollywood Musicals.

31

My real name is Eddie Temple, I hate plumbing, I hate musicals and my full time job is killing. People.

* Why does it always rain in Wallsend, every fucking Monday. I huddle into the Cholesterol Café, whip my woollen hat off and nod to Betty. She’s got a skewed rolly dangling from her mouth and her hands covered in tomato ketchup, like she’s just butchered some unfortunate fucker. “Well ya said Ketchup” “I didn’t mean all of that” scowls a disgruntled pensioner. I sit down opposite Bikey. He’s eating a ‘fuckin massif’ 3 eggs, 5 rashers of bacon, fried bread nearly half a loaf, pile of beans, 6 slices of black pudding, 4 sausages and a clump of dodgy mushrooms spilling over the side of the plate. “Got something to tell ya Jimi” he looks up from his feast and wipes the egg yolk from his mouth. “Remember the World Cup? Eriksson was under pressure with Rooney breaking his foot, should he take him? Should he leave him? Will his foot heal up in time?” “Aye” “In the end he took him, it was a gamble, but he could afford to gamble coz the silly bastard was on his way out anyway. He had fuck all to lose, apart from his reputation” I look puzzled. He didn’t get me to come out in the rain to lecture me on fucking football. He continues “It’s what you call a dead man’s gamble.” “What?” Bikey leans forward. “When someone’s on the way out it’s time to take a gamble, even take someone with them, call it vindication, call it what you fucking like.” He points his fork right near my eyes. “It’s about resolving things, this is my gamble” “What are you on about mate?” “Cancer.” “Fuck sake.” “Say nothing more, I want no questions.” 32

“That’s fucking shaken me up Bikey.” I lean back in my seat with false resignation. “I mean it, no questions,” he jabs the fork again and lowers it to pick up a burnt sausage, shoves it whole in his mouth and nods to me. I nod back. “No questions then.” “Thanks Jimi, you’re a good ‘un.” If he’s going to pop his clogs then that’s my fee down the pan. Here’s me thinking I’ll have to do it soon when…. he gives me cause for a slight reprise. “I’m going to do Ravenger next week, at Marsden Rock.” Thank fuck for that. “That guy who framed you? No man Bikey, you’ll get yourself killed.” “I’ve passed caring Jimi, am on the way out, it’s the right time. It’s his two monthly pay cheque from the south crew,” he says “He’ll be on his own because he’s fiddling, even his mates don’t know he’s earning extra.” “At least let me give you a hand. I have a mate who can get you a gun and I’ve got wheels. I mean you can’t rub somebody out by going public transport, where’s your class?” “Aye you’re right, I might need a hand, that’s good of you Jimi you’re a real mate” He finishes off his ‘massif’ and leans back in his seat. “Ah! Jimi…Jimi Hendrix, what a name… Pity you couldn’t play like him, you could give up plumbing” then he starts singing “Hey Jimi!! Where you going with that pipe in your hand?” he lets out a hearty laugh a big, big smile and those fucking slits of his eyes become tiny knife cuts at the top of his face. His laughter bellows all over the Cafe, shaking the dayglo poster offers on the grease stained walls. Betty looks over with another eternal rolly in her mouth. She wipes her hand clear of ketchup and joins in the joke, her guttural machine gun laughs ending with a 50 a day ciggie cough. I look at him seriously “I can’t play like Jimi but there’s always time mate, time is on my side.” He drops his smile and can’t figure out whether I’m taking the piss 33

out of his situation or I’m making a philosophical statement about mine. No matter. He sups off his coffee and before leaving says “I’ll let you know mate.” “By the way Bikey I’ve copied Singing In The Rain for you” I hand him the DVD, “Cheers mate” “Did you enjoy The Sound Of Music?” “Well, yes and no, I enjoyed it but felt really uncomfortable for some reason. I don’t know why, maybe it’s the stress I’m under.” “I understand.” Bikey limps away into the afternoon rain. * The Crown Posada is a long bar with a little snug on your left hand side when you walk in. Dark wood, stained glass windows and the ceiling is an amazing lilac with white decorative plaster. It looks like it used to be a theatre but cut in half right down the middle. There’s an old record player on the far side of the bar and Billie Holliday sings above the vinyl scratches. Strange fruit, beautiful voice. Ravenger is in the snug with Billy Johnson and Nez, his right hand man. Billy is another fat baldy cunt weighed down with bling. He looks like Ravenger, a bronzed potato head wearing golden earrings. The only difference is Billy has a scar on his cheek from a knife fight in his Merchant Seaman days. And there’s Nez, all muscles and no brain, sporting a Chris Waddle mullet. He must have a sense of humour to wear fucking hair like that, the sad bastard looks like he’s been in stasis since the 70’s. He’s got a gold ring on his left hand finger, it reads NEZ but the letters are backwards. So when he thumps somebody in the face, he leaves the word ZEN imprinted in the skin. Big fucking deal. Ravenger gets me a pint while he’s at the bar. I pull off my woolly hat and take off my drenched parker. Billy and Nez don’t know who the fuck I am and what I am doing here, they think I’m a hanger on. They give me the evil eye. “You a student then?” Nez looks me up and down. “Nahh! I’m a plumber.” “Might have a job for you.” “Aye,” I pretend to perk up. 34

“My Uncle Dave has plenty of leeks in his allotment.” They both laugh their tits off, I laugh with them and make a gesture to Ravenger for a quiet word. We both head for the toilets. “What’s the score?” “Next week I’m coming along with him, he’s going to try and hit you at Marsden Rock.” “That’s an important meeting for me, don’t fuck it up… Anyway how did he know I have a meeting at Marsden?” “He keeps tabs on your every move mate. Anyway he’ll be dead before he gets there, I’ll take a detour.” “When it’s done and I read it in the Chronicle I’ll send the second instalment… You have my word on that, now piss off I need to talk to our lass” he thumbs in a number on his mobile. I leave and return to the snug. Nez points at me “Fucking pipes r us” they both laugh as I pick up my parker. I think I might just return again to see these two Muppets. That gives me a satisfied feeling and a little glow in the centre of my heart. “See ya lads, another time eh?” “Fucking arse” rings in my ears as I head off… nice boys. * Bikey limps down the road and gets in my car. I give him a reassuring smile. “You got the money for the gun?” Bikey takes out a bundle of 20’s. “£400, it’s all there” I take it from him and push it in my parker pocket. “A mate of mine is meeting me in the Marsden Grotto pub so if you wait in the car I’ll text you when I’ve got the gun.” I rev up and we’re on our way. “I would put some music on but the little shits have stolen the fucking radio and the speakers. They’ve even pinched my favourite Betty pen – the one where you turn it upside down and it reveals Betty’s suspenders.” 35

“Who? Betty from the Café? A smile grows on my face from a bizarre image of Betty from the Café, lounging on a sofa in her underwear covered in tomato ketchup. Erotically smoking a skewed rolly. “Nahh man Betty Page” “Does she live round here?” I point over to a housing estate “Aye look number 32” Bikey looks over and hasn’t a clue what I’m on about. I look at him, his exploding beard and his big, big smile, I kind of feel sorry for him. “Fancy a drink?’ “Aye what have you got?” he spins around looking for alcohol. “Check out my carrier bag on the back seat.” He buries his hand in and pulls out a carton of milk. “Fucking Goat’s Milk?” “You can laugh it’s good for you.” “Don’t mention goats to me.” “Why what’s the problem?” “They give me the willies, those fucking little beards and their oblong weird pupils, man, satanic fuckers.” I’m thinking of Maria Von Trapp and the satanic goat. My judo psychology does actually work. “Fancy a sing-a-long?” “Like what? Sweet Child Of Mine? Bat Out Of Hell?” “See if this rings a bell.” High on a hill was a lonely GOATHERD Lay ee odl lay ee odl lay hee hoo Loud was the voice of the lonely GOATHERD Lay ee odl lay ee odl-oo Bikey looks sick. “I’ve changed my mind Jimi, I’ve got this weird feeling something bad is going to happen” “Too right, you’re going to blow fucking Ravenger into the next fucking dimension” I look at him. “Seven years of your life he’s fucking ruined, get a grip and shoot the bastard” He says nothing and it’s silence from here on in. 36

Marsden Rock. It’s only a bloody rock, 50 metres from the shore. It’s had a chequered career. Soon as you get there you see a sign advertising the Samaritans, it’s a popular spot for suicides. The safety fence is always decorated with flowers. I think it reeks of death. A lot of people like it, say it’s a spiritual place, a place of contemplation. Mind you when you’re having a pint in the Grotto pub and you see the Rock against the sea, you feel kind of humble, like you’re insignificant in the general scheme of things. Apparently there was this gothic kid who killed some of the seagulls and placed them on the beach making up the word “DEATH”. Does that sound like a spiritual place? The Rock of Death, it looks like a big chunk of fucking cinder toffee. “Right Bikey, I’ll go down see my mate and get the gun, then I’ll text you. Come down to the pub toilets and then it’s all up to you.” “Okay” he says staring through the front window into the sea like he wants to drown in there and forget everything. “You alright?” “I’ll be fine. I think that goat’s milk is making me sick” In the lift that takes you down to the Rock, there’s this full length mirror, so I practise whipping out my gun, “Ravenger your dead fucking meat.” There’s obviously no mate in the pub toilet going to sell me a gun, this is to keep Bikey out of the way. It’s Ravenger’s two monthly meet up with the South Tyneside crew, swapping cash for drugs and I want a part of it. I put the gun away and take a long hard look at myself. I’m thinking I just might let Bikey go, he doesn’t know who I am and he’s harmless enough, just been given some bad breaks. Although I think it’s his karma catching up coz he was a bad bastard. Let nature take it’s course, Eddie. I come out of the lift and emerge from the pub. I see two figures on my right in the distance walking south along the foot of the cliffs where it curves round into a cove, a cosy hiding place from the Marsden tourists. I make my way over to the big Rock, and stand inside the stone 37

arch, watching them talking, laughing then the guy hands Ravenger an envelope. They shake hands. It’s a cloudy day and there’s only a few people around mostly clustered near the pub. This is perfect for the situation that is about to unfold. I don’t want any messy massacres. The guy walks away and Ravenger is on his own, I emerge from the stone arch, he sees me and lifts an arm. I acknowledge him with a wave. I climb over the rocks to meet him as he walks towards the in coming tide. “Job done?” he asks, he doesn’t even look at me. “Aye,” I look up to the sky and see the Sun breaking through the clouds. “You shouldn’t have come here, I told you I’ll pay you when I see it in the Chronicle, now piss off I’m going to phone our lass” I circle round him and stick my gun into his bronzed cheek. His golden earring shimmers in the sunlight. He twitches and goes to turn to face me but feels the coldness of the barrel. “What the fuck are you doing, man?” He instinctively raises his arms. I can see those sweat beads running down passed the glowing earring; I move the barrel to his temple. “Now you know why my surname is Temple?” “You’ll get fucking hunted down if you harm me” “What by Billy No Mates and Mr Zen? The fucking Wallsend Krankies? You know something I just might hunt them down someday, call it unfinished business.” “Please man I’ll forget the whole thing, keep the money.” He throws the envelope down onto the rocks, “I’ve got a kid man.” Now it’s getting a bit mushy, just like the Sound Of Music. “Got a kid? you only see him once a month and you let him deal for you, what kind of Father is that eh?” I bend my knees and search blindly with my free hand amid the crusty rocks for the envelope. “Got it,” it feels fat full of notes. I straighten up and push the barrel into his temple and grip the trigger. I’m just about to give him the big goodbye when I hear Bikey stumbling over the rocks. “Jimi man what the fuck are you doing?” “Fuck man. Keep your fucking voice down.” 38

Bikey pleads with me, “Let me do it man, give me that at least.” “Bikey you’ll be a marked man, your life won’t be worth living,” says Ravenger lowering his hands. I push the barrel hard into his cheek and push it up wrinkling his face. He raises his hands again. I look at Bikey and his face is so pitiful. “Here,” I give Bikey the gun, he takes over, holding it with both hands and screwing it into the side of Ravengers face. “Make sure you do him good and proper,” I walk away. “Where you’re going Jimi?” “His name is not fucking Jimi he’s Eddie Temple, I paid him to kill you.” Bikey looks puzzled and screams into Ravenger’s ear. “He’s not Eddie Temple, his name is Jimi Hendrix” “Jimi fucking Hendrix?” Ravenger turns to see me walking away with the envelope and manages an ironic smile. I shout over, “He’s making it up, just trying to worm his way out of it, I’m going back to the car, he’s all yours Bikey.” Bikey gives me that big, big smile of his. I continue, “Oh! And Bikey when you’re finished throw the gun into the sea.” Bikey grits his teeth and forces Ravenger to his knees. “Get down ya spineless bastard you’d do anything to get out of this one, Jimi’s my mate, he’s a good ‘un.” I climb the winding steps to the top of the cliff. I pause half way and look down at Bikey waving the gun at Ravenger who is on his knees. They’re arguing with each other. Reminds me of the DVD analogy; their lives are self-contained, living their small narratives. I enter as an observer, see all the shit underneath the surface. So you crack open the secrets go in there and meddle about, drop in a few messages, manipulate the scenes become a virus. That gives you the power to alter the outcome. I continue my climb. I’m surprised I haven’t heard a bang. I look down leaning on the safety fence. He’s still talking to him he must be pouring out his seven-year angst before blowing his head 39

off. Then…..A dull THUD. The seagull’s squeal and fly from the top of the Rock, filling the sky. Ravenger slumps lifeless among the rocks. Lifting the boot of the car I grab my trusty Serendipity, the long range L115A1 sniper rifle. My ipod toggles to Number 22. The spine tingling harpsichord runs over your skin like a shard of glass, drenched in echo and reverb. The infectious groove of the bubbling bass and slap happy tabla’s, chug along like a chilled out train. It’s where happiness meets menace, it’s the mid-heaven of the day’s arc. The climax. Right time right place. It’s the sovereign of soundtracks. Roy Budd I take my woolly hat off to you. I can’t get over this being like the end of Get Carter. If I told anybody they would accuse me of engineering this, I must admit it borders on the cliché, but what the fuck. Bikey is in my sights, unfortunately he knows my real name now, I was going let things go. He limps away from the dead body; he looks dejected like he’s regretted it and he’s going to break into a mournful song. I’ll wait till he throws the gun away. “Goodbye Bikey, you were fun but you didn’t half stink.” He throws his arm back to throw the gun in the sea, just that second before releasing it. POP!!

40

Ray Banks Ray Banks is the creator of Leith-born, Manc-raised PI Cal Innes, who made his novel debut in May 2006 with Saturday's Child (Polygon), with two more following in 2007. When he’s not undermining British crime fiction with his foul-mouthed stories, he can be found living in Newcastle with his wife and assorted animals. He still maintains he has balls the size of coconuts at www.saturdayboy.com. 41

THE DEACON SHUFFLE “What you gonna do, Joey?” Dunc brings it up the day the two of them get chucked out the hostel because Dunc had tack on him. And Dunc’s already pure fucked off because the way he sees it, it’s medicinal and it’s only tack, man. It’s only fuckin’ resin. When he doesn’t get an answer, he looks down at the bin bag full of clothes by his feet. Sticks a rollie in his mouth. He takes up a double seat on the Metro, his legs spread, his spine curved. There’s the sound of plastic every time he moves his foot. Still nothing from his mate across the way, so Dunc starts on: “Where you gonna go, Joey? Tony Hills, man, he’s dead or fucked off somewhere. Your old lads Andy and Blake up in Blyth, they got themselves nicked. So what you got left, man? You want to nip down The Well, see Goose? Gonna put up with all that Falklands shite to get a fuckin’ score bag?” Dunc smokes half his rollie in one draw. Smoke puffs out of his mouth as he continues. “Fuckin’ Tumbledown, man,” says Dunc. “That cunt bashed Argies like I bashed his fuckin’ mam.” Joey’s breathing through his mouth. “Don’t matter. I can’t go back in there, can I?” Joey isn’t his birth name, but it’s what everyone calls him. Name stuck to him like grem. Dunc used to call him a streak of dehydrated piss, so that’s mates for you. Dunc always gets a vocabulary – “a certain perspicacity” – once he’s tied off on one. Now Joey’s got his cap pulled down, two days’ of blond fuzz on his cheeks and neck. Sitting forward, leaning on his knees, head down. Smoke curls from the inside of his palm, his tab turned inwards just in case the inspectors come round. Looks like his hand’s on fire. And it fits in with the full-on boiling temperature on the train. Dunc doesn’t give a shit about the heat or his tab. He’s got his shirt off, the blue ink on his back like a dare, the tracks on his arms double-dogging it. Dunc says, “You want revenge or not?” “Revenge?” Joey catches a face of smoke and blinks before he turns his face to the window. “Howeh, man, it’s not that fuckin’ bad.” “You know your problem, Joey? You’re a fuckin’ mong, can’t see straight. Tapped, man. Always have been.” “She’ll recognise us.” 42

“So what if she does?” “So she knows me name, she knows where I live.” “Like I fuckin’ care.” Dunc spreads his legs further, gets more comfortable. “Like you fuckin’ care, man. You don’t live there no more anyway.” “I don’t want the polis coming round me mam’s.” Dunc sucks his teeth, shakes his head. “I dunno, like. If it was me, I’d want a bit of fuckin’ payback. You been moaning on for ages, like that bitch was on your back every time you went in. Treat you like a smackhead thief an’ that, you want to do something about it.” “Can’t do nowt about it, Dunc. I’m barred, like.” “’Cause of what? ‘Cause you twocked a couple fuckin’ Mars Bars?” Joey pokes at something in his back tooth with his tongue. It was only a couple of Mars Bars – Work, Rest and Nick – but that suspicious old bitch, she’d kept Action Man eagle eyes on him the whole time. Thinking back, Joey should’ve known better, learned from his mistakes. But the urge to steal was too strong and he had a sweet tooth. When he turned around, she’d been straight up, caught him with a fistful of kets. Shouldn’t have been a big deal problem, but Joey’d been nabbed before and this was his third strike. She went off it, pure mental – looked to Joey like her eyes would roll back in their sockets, she’d point and scream like one of them pod people he’d seen on the telly. Joey did the Deacon Shuffle, one foot to the other, acted like he didn’t know what was happening, tried to block out this woman’s kick-off. “Kinda situation’s that?” says Dunc. “What you gonna do then, eh? You admit you nicked stuff, you’re out. You don’t admit it, she’s still got your fuckin’ script.” “I know.” “And you went down the market, right?” “Aye.” “Aye. With the fuckin’ Motorolas. You need cash so bad, you risk getting nicked down the market over phones?” Dunc leans forward, slaps Joey’s cap. “Give it a shake, marra.” Joey frowns and adjusts the peak. Pulls it even lower to hide the red in his face. “Didn’t know what I was thinking, like.” “Fuckin’ bitch. Reckons she can hold your jellies over you like they’re fuckin’ dog treats. All that power’s gone to her head. And while I’m fuckin’ at it, what kind of power is it, anyway? Give ‘em a white coat, they think they’re a doctor.” Dunc finishes his 43

tab, drops and grinds what’s left of the Zig-Zag into the rubber floor of the train. “All I’m saying, we do this, we don’t need to score for fuckin’ donkeys’.” Joey doesn’t say anything. He looks at the trampled rollie, takes a drag on his own. “You’ll do this,” says Dunc. Nothing from Joey. The doors hiss open at Manors. * Dunc doesn’t let it go. Joey knows he won’t, but he still bristles when Dunc swans into his room at the Sally. Joey shifts in bed, still half-asleep, and the room goes black for an instant, something landing on his face. He hears Dunc saying, “No excuses now.” Joey puts one hand up to his head, pulls the ski mask from his face. “Aw, howeh...” “No excuses. Stick that on your head, that old woman won’t know you from her fuckin’ son. Camera won’t get you, neither. So any shite you come up with now, it’s ‘cause you’re a bottling cunt.” Joey rubs the material of the ski mask. The heat’ll kill him if he wears this. He pauses and bites a hangnail from his thumb, then sticks his fingers through the eyeholes. There’s a weight on the bed. Joey looks up. The door to his room is closed, Dunc leaning against the wall with a grin on his face. Joey follows his gaze. A machete lies on the bed. Rusty at the blade, crusty at the handle. “What’s that?” says Joey. “That, marra, is a big fuck-off knife. Stick that under your jacket, we’re in business.” Joey’s already shaking his head. “Where’d you get it from?” “Fuck does it matter?” Joey puts his hand on the machete, lifts it. He feels the weight, the balance, in his hand and arm. The crust along the handle is a mucky brown. “I can’t carry this,” he says. “Course you can.” “Dunc –“ “Unless you’re a bottler.” “I’m not –“ “You keep this shit up, you’re a bottling cunt. End of.” Silence. 44

Joey thinks about the machete, about what Dunc wants to do. His lips go thin. He blinks. “What you got?” says Joey. Dunc opens his jacket, grabs the rubber handle sticking from his inside pocket. He draws out a claw hammer. Looks new. “See anyone fucking about with us, I’ll put a hole in their napper.” He short-swings the hammer. “Wap. Down. Out.” Joey pictures that hammer coming down on someone’s skull. He blinks some more. “This is shite, man.” Dunc replaces the hammer, the grin dropping to half his face. There’s a glitter in his eyes. He opens the door. “The morra, Joey,” he says. “First thing. We’re on.” When Dunc closes the door behind him, Joey gets a burning pain in his throat. * Joey has plenty of time to think that night. He needs it. He’s been bombarded by Dunc all day. Spent the afternoon with him, but they didn’t talk about the next morning in detail. Dunc dropped statements into the conversational lulls, and now Joey’s trying to piece them together, his stare trained on the ceiling. Dunc said, “You been in there before, Joey. You know the place like your own cock.” Dunc said, “You think the fuckin’ polis care about a chemist? They got people stabbing each other and raping each other every day. They’re not gonna be bothered about a shitty little methadone rip.” Dunc said, “Them fuckers, that bitch what fucked you over, they’re all the same. You want to worry about them you be my fuckin’ guest, but I’ll tell you this: it don’t matter who’s in there. People at them cushy jobs, they think that if they fuck with people they see every day – people like you and me, man – they’re like better than those people, know what I mean?” Joey knows. He’s sick of it. He went in there to get his methadone, reckoned he was turning his life around. Back on the straight and narrow. That bitch behind the counter giving him evils, it wasn’t good for a man’s soul, especially when it was as fractured as Joey’s. And then there’s that fuckin’ name. Not his name. His name’s Robert, named after his dad, wherever the fuck he is. Only his mam who calls him Robert. To everyone else, he’s Joey. 45

Back in the eighties, back when Robert was a kid, Blue Peter’s annual charity thing – collect your milk bottle tops, all that – was for the disabled. In order to do that, in order to really grab the kids’ attention, the BBC brought on Joey fuckin’ Deacon. Poor bastard had cerebral palsy, proper shoulder-biter, looked like Davros in a charity shop suit. And kids, being the spiteful little cunts they were, they adopted Joey Deacon as their spastic poster boy. His name became a byword for any freak – physical, mental, even spiritual. Something the matter with you, you didn’t fit the norm, you didn’t belong, you acted like a divvy that one time or accidentally called the teacher “Mam”, you were a Joey. That was it, you were branded. Kids saw you, their tongues got stuck under their bottom lip, the Frances McDormand thing. Their heads went to one shoulder – maybe there’d be a slap to the back of one wrist – and the word “Deeeaaacon” came at you like a punch to the gut. Or Flid, Scoper, Bifta... And this particular Joey, he lapses every now and then. Like when he’s got Dunc staring at him, the smoke spilling from the big man’s mouth, sucked up his nose and recycled. That glitter in Dunc’s eyes, it makes him feel like a Joey because he’s so frightened. He puts a hand over his face. Pinches his nose and screws his eyes closed. Joey feels like he’s about to cry, but he doesn’t allow himself that luxury anymore. His body shakes under the sheet. He waits it out, his face creased. Hears the bedsprings squeak as he shudders. The emotion passes. Joey lets go of his nose, sniffs a wet breath to his lungs. Breathes out and wipes his cheeks. He pulls himself out of bed, reaches under the mattress and removes the machete. Joey turns the weapon in his hand, puts one finger to the blade and draws it down. The blade’s dull. Joey’s scared. But he’s always been scared. * Dunc goes into the chemist first. He’s safe to show his face – he’s never been in there before and the woman behind the counter isn’t going to recognise him. It’s early morning and the heat hasn’t settled into the day yet, but Joey’s still sweating. He can feel himself burning up inside, one hand on the machete inside his jacket, the other dug deep into his pocket, rubbing the ski mask like a security blanket. He stands across the street from the 46

chemist, trying to look like he’s meant to be there. So Dunc’s inside, he’s doing a recce. Making sure the place is clean of customers, making sure there’s nobody caught in a blind spot, nobody who’ll get in the way when all this kicks off. He has a look through the greetings cards on the spinning rack, then goes to the door. Joey sees Dunc appear, sees him nod. Joey pulls the ski mask over his head with one hand, pulls the eyeholes to the right position. Then he jogs across the road, picking up speed as he hits the threshold and into the chemist. The more noise, the better. Get the woman scared out of her mind, she won’t remember a fuckin’ thing. Someone comes on all aggressive, a person gets scared, the brain shuts down. Joey knows all about that – he’s been there enough times. Could be Satan himself telling her to empty the fuckin’ till, she won’t know the difference. So when Joey bursts into the chemist, he’s waving the machete like a cavalry sword and screaming. It’s like Dunc says: these people, they never expect it to happen to them. Dunc slams himself up against the till, gestures for Joey to follow. Joey holds the machete high as he squeezes behind the counter, takes the two steps in a single jump. The woman scrabbles out of the way, backs into a corner. She’s silent, but her mouth is open like a scream is caught in her throat. It’s not the old bitch, either. This woman’s young. Got a Celtic band tattooed on her wedding finger. Her eyes shine with tears, but the water doesn’t escape. Joey points the machete at her, uses every muscle in his arm to stop the tip from shaking. She flinches, stares at the blade. Joey can hear Dunc in the back. He’s pulling drawers out, the rustle of the bin bag as he empties the pills and potions into it. Joey wonders why the old bitch isn’t here. He wants to ask this girl, but he can’t speak. And anyway, it’s like, think, you spacka: he asks about the old bitch, they’re going to know who he is. They’re going to go looking for him at his mam’s house. And Joey’s mam always believed Joey had something special in him. He doesn’t want to think about that now. Joey looks at the girl. She’s got a badge on her uniform that reads CAMRYN. Joey narrows his eyes behind the mask, wonders what kind of name that is. Starts to play on him, that name. What kind of parent calls their kid Camryn? And now he stares at the ring finger, part of the hand that’s covering her face. He wonders why she got that tattoo, wonders who it’s for. 47

Too many questions. Before he knows it, Dunc’s back out and slapping him on the shoulder. “Howeh, Joey,” he says. “We’re gone, marra.” Joey doesn’t move for a moment. Then he shuffles his feet, not sure what to do. He hears Dunc knock the card rack over on his way out the door. He looks down at the girl. There’s a puddle of urine on the floor. “Sorry,” he says. And runs. * Dunc lies back on the grass, the handle of the claw hammer lolling out of his inside pocket. He’s taken two vallies and he’s drifting. The sun beats down on him. There’s a Morrisons carrier full of beer on the ground. Joey reaches for another can, cracks it. Out the back of the flats now, nobody’s going to bother them, so Joey’s got the machete laid out on the grass in front of him. He looks at it as he drinks. He’s taken a couple of blue pills himself, didn’t know what they were but they’re doing a similar job to Dunc’s. Similar, but not the same. Joey pictures Camryn’s face, blank with fear. He pictures the piss on the floor, the Celtic ring. He pictures all of these things swirling around like water down a plughole. His gut feels weird, so he drinks some more beer. It doesn’t help. It makes him want to throw up. Joey looks across at Dunc. The big man grins at him. “Did alright in there, Joey,” he says. Joey scratches his bottom lip with his top teeth, looks at his can. “Should be good for a couple weeks until the next one.” “Nah,” says Joey. Dunc lets out a hack of a laugh. It sounds ugly. “Said that the last time, Joey.” “I know. And I mean it this time.” “Aye, right y’are.” Joey stares at him. “I fuckin’ mean it.” “I know.” Dunc sits up, puts a hand to his head. Then he pulls his T-shirt off to top up his homegrown tan. “But you do what I tell you to fuckin’ do else I’ll deck you.” Joey nods, sniffs. Dunc lies back on the grass and closes his eyes. There’s a 48

sick grin on his face. It makes his lips look purple and wet. Joey puts his can on the grass and reaches for the machete. “Aye,” says Joey. “I know you will.” * Joey’s upstairs, lying on his bed, looking at the Loaded poster he’s got on the ceiling. Jennifer Ellison tries to look demure, stares back at him with her arse in the air. Joey’s mam opened the door to him and a look of terror spread across her face. She was lucky Joey wasn’t carrying the machete at the time. It might’ve killed her. But no, Joey had left it somewhere else. He wishes he hadn’t. He liked the machete. It was like a sword and he always liked swords, especially when he was a kid. Like when he was playing by himself out in the back yard and he had this broom handle he was waving about. Fought off a bunch of soldiers like fuckin’ Zorro. Jumped backwards onto the bin and missed his footing, ended up getting stitches in his head. Only person he ever told about that was Dunc. And Dunc said, “That explains a lot.” Joey sits up, looks at his front. His jacket, his T-shirt, his jeans. Blood caked brown on his clothes. He wishes he had the machete with him right now so he could compare the colours. Joey picks at some of the dried blood on his jeans. He examines the flecks under his fingernail, then wipes his hand. Dunc was right on a couple of things. One: People freeze when the screaming starts. Two: People never expect it to happen to them. Joey remembers picking up the machete like he was going to offer it to Dunc, the blade lying across the palms of his hands like he’d seen in a samurai film. He knocked the beer over with his foot as he stood up. Dunc opened his eyes, saw Joey with the machete, then looked down at the spilled beer. “You fuckin’ spaz.” Then Joey started screaming. He twisted the machete, closed his fingers around the handle, brought the other hand round and the blade down on Dunc’s leg. The machete dug deep and stuck. Dunc folded in two, his stomach muscles twitching as he sat up, the colour rushing from his face. Joey frowned, tried to wriggle the blade free from Dunc’s thigh. All he could hear was an ear-splitting screech. And he won49

dered where it was coming from. He let go of the machete, took a step back. Saw Dunc flailing about on the grass, blood welling around the blade, raining down the sides of his leg. He stopped, watched Dunc some more. Heard, “You-fuckin’-cunt-you-fuck-gonna-fuckin’-kill-you.” Then Joey ran. After a while, Joey felt his knees ache with each step. He slowed down, looked over his shoulder. Knew that Dunc wouldn’t be following, but he had to make sure. He got an image of his mam in his mind, telling him to stand up to bullies, all them lads at school who called him flid. He felt his chest tighten, had to stop. Put a hand over his face again. Let the heaves go through him. Nothing left in him now. He’s off the bed, at the window. There was a buzz at the door a second ago. Joey looks out the window at the police car. He’s glad. If it’s the police, it’s not Dunc. Dunc’s off somewhere, bleeding to death. Or he’s fixed up and ready to even the score. Doesn’t matter now. Joey knew his mam wouldn’t let this go. She probably thinks he’s mixed up in something serious. She’s probably right. Because Joey thinks this wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t been such a fuckin’ Scoper. A fuckin’ spaz. A fuckin’ Deacon. He feels a cold sweat at the sound of someone climbing the stairs. There’s a knock, then the door opens. Joey turns. Two uniforms on the landing, looking serious and disgusted at the same time. One of them talking to him, his lips barely moving. Saying something, but Joey turns back to the window, blocks the copper out. His feet are burning. He starts to shift the weight from one foot to the other. And somewhere in the drone of the copper talking, he thinks he hears the name Robert, but he doesn’t answer to it.

50

paul kavanagh was born in england 1971. he likes to drink gin. he has not smoked a cigarette in ten years. he once lost a bet because of a donkey. he gleaned much. he is happy. his wife is happy. together they are happy. 51

speed I’ll polish your knob, said Jane. Watching her teeth rattle the last place I would want to stick my cock in was her mouth. Her teeth were chomping wildly. Though her teeth were rotten they were still like jagged rocks. Speed is a strange drug. It is a cheap drug. It fills you with the fear that soon everything will slow down. That’s why you take the drug. You take speed to rush through the night. Through the day. Come on let me suck your cock, said Jane. Dry frothy spit was flaking off her furrowed pale lips, again this was another reason why I didn’t want to shove my cock into her mouth. She was pacing around. She was splashing piss everywhere. The toilets of the boozer was like a sewer. There were shit and piss everywhere. Jane was febrile, scratching, itching, she couldn’t stand still. Come on I’ll split your bell end from your foreskin with me tongue, said Jane. Jane’s tongue was like sandpaper. I knew a man that liked a whore to masturbate him with sandpaper. He would roll the sandpaper into a tube. He’d have the rough sand on the inside of the roll. Next he would place his erect cock into the roll. He told me that sometimes he didn’t even need to spend the money on a whore. The skin of a cock heals quickly he told me. Speed is a cheap drug. You can inject it. You can snort it. You can down it with a glass of gin. It leaves a terrible taste in your mouth. It leaves you dry. Sometimes your teeth chatter. You can’t help but bite your lips until they bleed. You perspire profusely. The taciturn suddenly finds himself loquacious. Sex can be a disaster. Here it is unlike ecstasy. Come on you can fuck me here, said Jane. Jane was a skeletal ghost. When your cock entered her cunt you could feel her bones rubbing against you. There was none of that hot flabby flesh that lubricates and sucks upon the cock. There was no suction. Jane never became moist. She sucked the juice 52

out of you and you walked away just as dry as her. Your cock always felt as though it had been between two planks of wood. I have never heard of anybody od-ing on speed. A speed freak is unlike a coke freak. There is something dirty about speed freaks. I can’t describe why this is so. Speed leaves the junky macerated. Speed is used by the hard man that likes to drink all through Saturday daytime and into Sunday morning. Speed allows him to do this. The hard man believes his is not a junky. He doesn’t thieve to achieve his goal. He only takes the speed on Saturdays. Maybe he’ll do a bit on Friday night to keep him awake. Most speed freaks are thieves. They break into cars and steal radios and whatever is lying around. A speed freak unlike a crack head can live off paltry sums. Her boyfriend introduced Jane to speed. He told her it would trim her down. She would shred the pounds quickly. It would stop her from eating. Jane was anorexic and bulimic. She didn’t need anymore encouraging. The weight dropped off her. So did her family and friends. She stole off them all. Her boyfriend ended up in Liverpool for three years. She never visited him. She never wrote to him. The boyfriend had been fiddling with Jane’s three-year-old girl. The little girl was now living with her grandparents. Jane started to unravel a roll of shit paper. She made paper mache moors on the floor. At a cake factory that I used to work at all the nightshift used to take speed to get them through the night. Even some of the old ladies that did the packing were on speed. You could see them standing folding boxes sweating and chatting. It was kind of funny. You could hear them complaining about how many cigarettes they had consumed. Speed can do this. I lit up a cigarette normally this would have Jane on her knees begging but not tonight. Those undulating moors would slowly becoming hills. Speed normally comes in a paper packet that is folded with the precision of origami. A piece of an old magazine more then likely, though now and again one gets it in a plastic bag. I prefer the paper packet. I once got one of these packages and the picture was of a lovely cunt that was a good omen. Speed is a strange drug. It 53

is a cheap drug. You know when somebody is on speed. Speed has its neon lights. The sweat, the chewing of gum, the pale complexion, that wild, feral stare. Speed makes you do funny things. During those moments of loquacity I have seen quiet men sweet talk the most beautiful creature into bed. Speed is usually taken like coke in boozer toilets. Speed is sold a lot in pubs. You always know the pub. The pub you can buy anything, dvds, fur coats, dogs and a lady. The police are always watching, but this does not stop the thieves, the junkies, the football hooligans, the whores and the hard men from drinking in this pub. Give me some and you can do anything you want with me, said Jane. Once in a flat she sucked ten cocks one after the other. The men were all sat around smoking weed, drinking, watching Coronation Street. They doubled up on her, fucked her with bottles, air fresheners, everything that was oblong. She was beaten so badly she had to have a hysterectomy. Though it was more like a lobotomy. Jane was a speed freak. She hated living. She wanted to run backwards. All junkies desire to run backwards. Speed is a cheap drug. It fills you with the fear that soon everything will slow down. That’s why you take the drug. You take speed to rush through the night. Through the day. It’s a cheap drug. For some people speed is fun. Like the hard man speed can be taken to make a boring town fun. I passed Jane the last drags of the cigarette. Those hills had become mountains. The paper was no longer white but yellow with patches of brown. Jane handed me the syringe and moved so that I could squeeze past her. I had got a glass of water from the barmaid. She knew that I was using it for my gear but she didn’t care. I withdrew the right amount. I passed the syringe to Jane and pulled out the spoon I always took out a spoon with me on Saturday nights. I kept it in my back pocket. My mother lately had been complaining about how all the spoons were going missing. While I removed the filter from a cigarette Jane sat on the toilet and rolled up her sleeve. I poured some of the bag onto the spoon, emptied the water from the syringe, mixed the compound and placed in half of 54

the filter. A junky lets nothing go to waste. So Jane sparked up the cigarette and took three long drags. After this she passed the cigarette to me and I did the same. It went between us like a joint. Jane held the lighter under the spoon and I mixed until the gear had dissolved. These tasks were too much for Jane because she had the shakes. I placed the needlepoint into the filter and filled the syringe with the fluid. The rush from speed starts at your toes and undulates up your back until it reaches your head. Waves undulate periodically. Sometimes you start to laugh. Sometimes you have to sit down. Sometimes you feel nauseous. The rushes can be too much. Sometimes the rushes are not enough. Jane would shake herself down and that was it for her – me I would shake myself down, inhale and exhale deeply. I wanted to fuck sometimes. But this would be a fleeting desire. From now on everything would be a fleeting desire. Ephemeral moments of desire superseded many more desires.

55

Chris McTrustry In between writing gigs, Chris McTrustry makes ends meet by contributing to the misery of others - i.e. by working as a postman in the city of Wollongong, NSW, Australia. Known locally as the Cranky Postman, he delights in delivering deliciously devilish debt-ridden love letters (a.k.a. bills). The more the merrier. He is a produced television writer, having dipped his toes in the frothy waters of soap opera and a published children's author. Crime is on the agenda now and the frothy water is starting to get murky... 56

DEBTS “You’re not like our usual clients.” Morris leaned forward and lifted his cup of coffee. “I got that feeling. I must admit, you’re not what I expected either.” Fischelli shrugged, spread his hands. “It’s business.” “Yes.” Morris sipped. “Business.” “Well, you got to present a certain…image.” He grinned, showing a mouthful of gold teeth. Nice. “It makes people feel at ease. And let’s face it, when they come to see us, at ease is the last thing they are.” Fischelli loosened his tie, a bright flowery one, and leaned back in his chair. “So, you got some ID, Mr Morris?” Morris presented a photo license. Fischelli laboriously checked the address against a sheet of A-4 paper – Morris’s application. Christ, a loan shark who insisted on the client - the mug, the sap, the loser – filling in an application. Fischelli looked up at Morris. He reminded him of a fish, a groper, big lips, sad, droopy eyes. That face looked like it would wear a hook. “So how come you want to do business with us?” “That’s my business. But needless to say, I can’t go to a legitimate lender.” “You’re a postman.” Morris nodded. “Have been for twelve years.” “You got any banks on your beat? Eh?” Fischelli laughed. “Maybe do an inside job on them.” “I’m only a postie,” Morris said, glancing down. “I’d get caught.” “You’re asking for a lot of cash.” “That’s because I need a lot of cash. Fast.” Fischelli tapped the application form. “You didn’t list any collateral.” “I don’t suppose many of your clients do.” He reached into his pocket and dropped a small plastic bag; druggies called them baggies on the desk. “What’s this?” “My collateral. It’s a sample.” “You can’t do a bank job, but you’re buying drugs.” Fischelli smiled to himself. “Why am I not surprised? You got muscle?” “Er, no.” “You got runners, sellers? A network?” “I’m working on it.” Morris pushed the bag further across 57

the desk. “Taste it. Test it. Whatever. This is what I need the money for.” “Obviously.” Fischelli sighed. “So tell me, why don’t I just remove you from the equation and take the score myself?” Morris swallowed. “I have a unique in on this deal.” He licked his lips. “Sure, I’ve come to you with nothing. Yeah, I have nothing. But without me, this deal doesn’t go ahead. It’s nothing.” “Oh yeah?” “Yes.” “What’s so unique about this? It’s coke, right?” “You’re right, the coke isn’t unique. But the circumstances in which it’s come into my possession are. Like I said, without me, the deal doesn’t go ahead.” “I could torture you.” Fischelli smiled. Morris sucked in a deep breath. He tried to smile. “True. But I’ll give nothing away. I’d sooner die.” “Really?” “Believe me. I have nothing and I have nothing to lose.” “But everything to gain?” “Maybe. Perhaps I’ll get a chance to get back where I-” Morris silently chastised himself. “But that’s my business. So kill me, cheat me. Lend me the money. It’s your call Mr Fischelli. But rest assured I will pay you back.” Fischelli topped up the coffee cups. “Then perhaps we should negotiate.” “Can we negotiate a better interest rate?” “Cheeky.” Fischelli clicked his tongue. “My rates are fixed.” “Your rates are exorbitant.” “My rates are the best in the market,” Fischelli spat. There was an edge to his voice. A menace for the first time. “In this specific market.” He gestured at the door. “I don’t need your business. Go see what my competitors are offering.” Morris held up his hands ‘in surrender’. “Okay. I’m sorry. I apologise.” “Hey, we got to negotiate, I know, but I say what’s what. Interest on the one hundred grand will be forty percent. That’s non-negotiable. First instalment is payable a week from the day you get the cash.” “I’ll need ten days.” “A week. You’re aware what happens to those who default?” Morris nodded. “I’ll be able to pay everything back in ten 58

days. Principle and interest.” Fischelli sighed. “See how you’re travelling after a week.” “Do I get the money?” “You got a house?” Morris frowned. “…Yes…” “Yours?” “Well, it’s mine and my mother’s. Why do-” Fischelli held up his hand. “Good enough.” “So do I get the money?” Fischelli picked up the baggie. “As long as this is what you say it is, yeah, you’ll get the money.”

* “Try the number again.” “Sure. Let me use your phone.” “Lenny. Just make the call.” Lenny sighed and dug his mobile phone out of his jacket. “I’m claiming expenses from Fischelli.” The driver drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “You don’t need to bother Mr Fischelli, you just need to get onto a better plan. You get a good plan, your mobile is your friend.” Lenny hit the redial button on his phone. “This is a business expense.” He put the phone against his left ear. “It’s ringing.” The driver squinted at the house across the street. All had been quiet since they arrived fifteen minutes ago. No-one had entered or left. He glanced at the file on Morris. The photo from his license sat in the top right hand corner. He supposed Morris was a good looking guy. Plenty of blond wavy hair, a strong chin. He wondered why his license photo didn’t look as good. “Fuck it! It’s gone straight to message bank. Again.” “Let me hear.” The driver snatched the phone from Lenny. “-so if this is you-know-who about you-know-what I will need the full ten days – as I requested. But please leave a message.” The driver hung up. “That same message has been on there for three straight days.” “Well, then...?” Lenny said. “What are we waiting for?” He reached back between the seats and grabbed two baseball bats laying on the rear seat. The driver nodded. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s go.” He was 59

about to open his door when a dark sedan eased to a halt outside Morris’s house. “Just a tick,” he said, snatching a handful of Lenny’s coat sleeve. “Let’s see who the visitor is.” The driver and passenger doors opened almost simultaneously and a small but solidly built white man with a blast of red hair and a large and very solidly built islander stepped out. After adjusting their ties and sunglasses, they strode up the path leading to Morris’s front door. “Shit,” Lenny muttered, “Paddy and the Chief.” He frowned. “What the hell are they doing here?” The driver took one of the bats and opened his door. “Let’s go ask,” he said, as he left the car. The white man, Paddy had knocked on the front door and it was just opening as Lenny and the driver reached the front patio. The Chief frowned. “What the fuck you guys doing here?” Lenny spread his hands and shrugged. “Professional ethics prevent from me replying to your enquiry. However, applying said ethics, to you, I’m obliged to ask you the same question.” “Mrs Morris?” This from Paddy. “Oh, not again,” squeaked a small voice from behind the security door. “Is this about Edmund?” “It is,” Paddy said, dourly. “Is he in?” Mrs Morris gave a long, tired sigh. “Why won’t you leave me in peace?” The driver nudged the Chief in the ribs. “So you’re here to collect?” he whispered. The Chief nodded. “This dude’s in for a hundred big ones. Mr Flattery isn’t happy he’s not been in contact.” “Our employer is of a similar disposition,” the driver said. He pushed past Lenny and the Chief and joined Paddy at the front door. “Hello, Mrs Morris. I assume you’re Edmund’s mother – or is that older sister?” “Oh, spare me. You’re just like the others.” “The others?” The driver gestured at Paddy and the Chief. “You mean these gentlemen?” “And the others. After money. Saying my Edmund borrowed money.” “Lots of money,” the Chief said. “He borrowed nothing.” “You sound pretty sure,” the driver said. “That’s because I am.” 60

“You can’t know everything your son gets up to.” “Oh really?” There was defiance in the old girl’s voice. “I knew everything my son was up to.” The driver sighed. “Your son borrowed a substantial amount of money from my employer-” “-and mine,” added Paddy. “And he has defaulted on his repayments.” “No, no. That’s not possible.” “Fuck it!” Lenny muttered and, drawing a bat from under his coat, charged the front door. “Tell us where he is you old bitch!” A loud crack exploded as the bat smashed into the door. There was no answer, apart from a gasp and a low whimper. “Mrs Morris, we have no quarrel with you, but we need you to co-operate.” “Ah shit,” Paddy said. “It’s a couple of Ray Spencer’s boys.” The driver glanced over his shoulder. Sure enough, two large, well-dressed thugs were making their way down the path. “This is ri-goddamn-diculuous,” Paddy muttered. “Who hasn’t this guy borrowed from?” “He hasn’t borrowed from anyone!” “Don’t start that again-” Suddenly the front door opened and Mrs Morris, a small, withered lady who’s whole being was dominated by the roundest, greenest eyes set in a wrinkled pinched face, marched out onto the patio. She held a photograph frame to her chest. “Excuse us ladies,” said of the new arrivals. “Hey, old woman, you tell me where I find Edmund Morris.” “Go to the end of the queue,” Lenny smirked. “My Edmund didn’t borrow money from anyone.” “Oh Christ, don’t start that again,” Paddy said. “You’re doing my head in.” “When did he borrow the money? Hmm?” This came almost as a challenge. “Tell me that. When? “Ten days ago,” said the driver. “Same,” the Chief said. Mrs Morris smiled, but it held no humour. There was no life in those old green eyes. “He couldn’t have borrowed any money ten days ago.” She held the photograph up to the driver. He saw a portrait shot of a cowed, bald man smiling shyly at the camera. “My son died seven months ago.” 61

Jason Golaup Jason was brought up in notorious Glasgow housing scheme Easterhouse, where gang warfare, drug addiction and poverty are rife. His idols include Brian Jones and George Best. 62

STANDING AT THE BAR AT A CHEMICAL BROTHERS GIG Shawsy n I were standing at the bar at a Chemical Brothers gig. My girlfriend Maz was trying to get served for us, but it was proving to be more difficult than it is for John Motson to live a single day of his life without spewing the words England, World Cup n 1966 in the same breath. I clocked a skinny guy gesticulating furiously with Maz. Waving his arms around mental he was like a mad ‘Acieed!’ house dancer keeping the spirit of ’88 alive. What’s his fuckin problem? I thought. I started to walk over. But a girl that was standing next to me grabbed my arm n said that he was her boyfriend, Boab, n that he was getting pissed off with the lack of service. That’s cool then, I thought. When Maz jetted back from the slowest bar in Glasgow, she was deep in conversation with Boab. I was fucked if I knew what they’d been on about, but then she asked him to guess what age Shawsy was. “Aboot 25,” replied Boab. “25!” gasped Shawsy. “I’m 39.” “Ma arse.” “I am. I’m 39.” “Yae need tae stey aff ae that Voddy mate.” “See these two here,” stressed Shawsy, pointing his smouldering cigarette at Maz n I, “they’re taking me to The Dam for my 40th next year.” Boab took a swig of his Budweiser before providing a response to Shawsy’s revelation. “40? Yae musta went tae Rez then.” I looked at Shawsy. His coupon was as vacant as Alan Shearer’s drawer of winners medals. “Rez… Rezerection… Hangar n that?” Boab offered. “Right,” nodded Shawsy. “No, I wasn’t into that scene.” “Whit kin a music wur yae intae?” asked Boab. Shawsy took a drag on his fag - a stick on for being the solitary 63

legitimate cigarette being consumed in the entire arena. “After the charts got saturated with all of that rave n techno pish I got into Take That,” he replied. “But Barry’s my number one.” “White?” “Manilow.” “Take That? Barry Manilow? Ur yae fuckin gay?” “Aye. You got a problem with that?” “Naw mate. Not at aw,” Boab protested, raising his hand in a conciliatory gesture. “Don’t piss me off,” warned Shawsy, “I’ve had a shite day. “Take That tickets were going on sale this morning. Don’t know if you heard - they’re doing a reunion tour. I got up super early, stuck one of my old Take That videos on, n was on the phone all morning. Didn’t have any breakfast. Didn’t go to the loo. Just kept my finger on redial. Dedication, as Roy Castle would’ve said. “Could it be Magic came on. That’s a sign, I thought. One of Barry’s. Was it fuck. “I had to watch that video more than the once. Didn’t want to fuck about with swapping tapes over… But after the nth time of hearing Lulu murder Relight my Fire, I could’ve murdered the ginger old cow. “When I eventually got through, the lassie on the phone told me that the tickets had sold out in jig time. I was fuckin gutted. Had to fire out for some B n H to deal with the stress.” “Did yae ivur see thum perform live?” asked Boab. “No. Seen Robbie though. But he’s a wanker.” I was dying to get back to The Chems cos I could hear the hypnotic drums of Let Forever Be kicking in, n I was fuckin mad for that song. But I couldn’t yank myself away from Boab n Shawsy’s tête-à-tête. It was captivating as fuck - the way that they were batting conversation back n forth with a verve n intensity reminiscent of one of those classic Borg v McEnroe encounters during the 80s. “So, did yae nivur listen tae any dance music at aw then?” Boab continued. “Why do you keep asking me that?” 64

“It’s jist thit ah cannae see the connection between Barry Manilow n The Chemical Brothers.” “I did have a Shamen CD,” confirmed Shawsy. “The one with the song about E’s are good.” “Ebeneezer Goode. Fae Boss Drum.” “Yeah, that’s right.” Boab necked his Bud. He shifted over to within a ball hair of Shawsy. He looked dead nervous. Like Pete Doherty’s baggage handler going through customs. His eyes were animated, bouncing around crazily like a pinball on speed. “Huv yae goat any E’s oan yae mate?” he asked Shawsy. “Whit did you jist fuckin say tae me therr?” “Sorry, ah -” “You don’t know me. Ah could be any cunt. Ah could be in the C.I.D.” “Whit? It a Chemical Brothers gig?” laughed Boab. “How no? Dae yae think thit nane ae the polis listen tae The Chemical Brothers?” “Sounds a bit mental. That’s aw.” “Whit’s mental aboot it? Whit ur yae laughin it noo? It’s no that funny.” “Jist thoat a somehin,” smirked Boab. “A bent copper who’s intae Take That n Barry Manilow, n gits ees rocks aff tae The Chemical Brothers.” Shawsy didn’t laugh. Didn’t utter a word. But Boab must’ve twigged that he’d gone too far. “Didnae mean tae offend yae mucker. Ah wis jist huvin a laugh.” “Yae want a laugh? Resurrect this ya fuckin prick.” … N that was how my best pal, Shawsy, got hit with HMP in Barlinnie. Plunging that boy with a steak knife. Fuck knows how he’d got into the SECC tooled up with a steakie down his juke. Poor fucker died there n then in a pool a blood. So whenever I’ve got The Brothers on, I think of Shawsy banged up at Bar-L, n the night he lost his nut standing at the bar at a Chemical Brothers gig.

65

Julie Wright Julie Wright’s first published fiction appeared here in Bullet magazine. She also has stories on Flashing in the Gutters, The Curve Ball Conspiracy and Flashes of Speculation.

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THE LOAN ARRANGER It’s Monday, so it’s Southwick, land of the short, pale person. White bread, white sugar, lard, chips and lager. You are what you eat. I do the rounds, collect the cash, no problems. They’re all as good as gold. They know what’ll happen if they fuck me about. Some of them found out the hard way. I’m the man with the money, personal banker to the perpetually skint. I make people’s dreams come true, especially at Christmas. If the bairns want something special, I have the power to let them have it. I’m the Santa Claus’s Santa Claus. I’m a fucking saint, me. You won’t see my adverts on the telly, mind. I’ve not taken any billboards out lately either, but I’m chocka with business. Anybody needs a loan, all they have to do is ask. Anybody wants to stay in one piece, all they have to do is pay up in full, on time, every time. I learned the ropes working for Alan Savage. His squad used to hang around the arcade when they’d finished collecting. I used to doll off school and go down there most afternoons, that’s how I got to know them. I started running messages for them, proved I could be trusted. When I turned sixteen, Savage took me on. At first I was still just an errand boy, but before long I was on the squad, out collecting with the lads. I loved it, took to it like a duck to water. Not that I’m violent, I’m not a headcase, man. There’s only bother when some fucker takes the piss, other than that I could be the man from the Pru. After a few years, though, I realised I was in a trap. I’d gone about as far as I could with Savage; he was a good boss, but I’d always be just an employee. I wanted more. I wanted my own operation. I thought about it all the time. I knew I could handle it, I had the experience. I knew there was enough business, I could set up and he wouldn’t even notice me. I also knew that if I did, I would be taking a huge risk. I saw it as the next step, setting up for myself, but there was every chance Savage would see it as disloyal, me learning the business from him then setting up as competition. Bad things happened to people who pissed off Alan Savage. Bad things that were done to them by people like me. I tried to forget about it, but that itch wouldn’t go away. I couldn’t just be satisfied with what I had. The job was easy, the arcade was boring. All I was doing was making time pass. Some67

thing had to change. About a year ago I set up a meeting with Savage, and change happened. He listened while I explained what I had in mind, then he sat and thought it all through. Still as a rock, but I could see his mind ticking over behind his eyes, weighing it all up. I was hardly breathing, I couldn’t take my eyes off him. I felt a bead of sweat run down my spine, tickling from the nape of my neck to the crack of my arse. ‘You’re ambitious, I’ve always known that,’ he said. ‘And I reckon you’re right, there probably is enough business to go round.’ I relaxed a little; dared to hope. ‘But you must know I can’t let you set up on your own, Edward. How would it look? You work for me.’ He laughed, but there was no mirth in it. ‘Or you did, anyway. Barry will be in touch.’ He turned back to the papers on his desk. That was it; I had been dismissed, just like that. A part of me that had kept its gob shut up until then suddenly wanted to be heard: How the hell else did you think it would end, dickhead? Did you think he’d throw you a fucking party? My guts turned to ice. I was fucked. I paced the floor that night, waiting for Baz. I wanted him here on my territory, that way I had less of a disadvantage. I’d be watchful on the street, but he was a sneaky little fucker and mean with it. If he got the drop on me I’d had it. Baz liked space to fight in. My flat was small. Barely room to swing a bat, but I had one next to the front door anyway. Not much in my favour, but I’ll take whatever’s going. He turned up at midnight, probably hoping I’d be off my face by then. I wasn’t. ‘Evening, Baz.’ ‘Eddie.’ He nodded. ‘Nothing personal, mate.’ Not fucking much. Savage had picked his man well. Everyone knew that Baz had been looking for an excuse to slap me ever since that business with Sophie. She was out clubbing with her mates when I met her, how the fuck was I supposed to know she was Baz’s kid sister? I didn’t know he had one. I didn’t know she was only fifteen, either. She was just some jacked up little bird wearing fuck-me shoes and a fanny pelmet. She looked eighteen, easy. Very fucking easy, as it turned out. ‘Just business,’ I agreed, then danced back out of the way as he took a swing at me and the door frame splintered under the force of the blow from his baseball bat. I reckoned that one must have rattled the teeth in his head when it landed. I fucking hoped so, anyway. I grabbed my cricket bat and took aim; let bat68

tle commence. I wound up with a trashed flat, a black eye, a fat lip and a couple of cracked ribs. Baz ended up in hospital, as much a victim of his weapon of choice as of mine. Cricket bats are shorter, more manoeuvrable in an enclosed space. I just landed more hits than he did. The neighbours knew better than to pick up the phone, so I rang Baz an ambulance myself, after I’d kicked him down the stairs and dragged him up the street. Let him be found outside of somebody else’s house. I didn’t need the aggro. I sent him flowers, though; after all, it was just business, nothing personal. A couple of days later, I was back in front of Alan Savage. I had a new proposition for him. We could go on forever, him sending somebody round and me kicking the crap out of them. Fair enough, my luck would run out sooner or later, but I reckoned I had the measure of the squad he was running just then. I should know, I’d recruited them. ‘All right, son,’ he said, eventually. ‘A franchise. Let’s give it a go.’ He paused to check that I was listening, not that there was any need. He had my full attention. ‘I’ll give you your territories and I want fifteen per cent of your take.’ ‘Seven and a half.’ ‘Ten.’ ‘Agreed.’ I’d expected to have to pay twelve and a half, so that was a bonus. ‘You get me somebody who can fill your shoes. Until that’s sorted out, you stay put.’ I nodded again. That had been my idea. I couldn’t afford to pay for a franchise, not with my other set up costs. This was in lieu, this and the percentage. ‘And you stay on call, Edward. I need you, you’re there. No question, no charge.’ I hadn’t counted on that. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘For six months.’ ‘Eighteen.’ ‘Twelve.’ ‘Twelve after the new boy’s ready.’ We shook on it. The new boy is Jeff Jopling, JJ. He’s doing all right so far, which is keeping Savage sweet. Makes life easier. It’s Tuesday, so I’m off to Pallion. Over the water. First call, old Pop Harris. Owes me two weeks. He’ll be shiting it if he’s come up short again. I rap on the door, what my mam would call a money knock. The curtains twitch and I see Ma Harris’s wrinkly old face 69

peering out. She’s mouthing something, looking nervous. I can’t hear what she’s saying. ‘Open the bloody door!’ She hears me, though. She hesitates. I mime kicking it in. She nods and a few minutes later I hear the bolt being drawn, the chain going on and the click of the lock. She peers out through the gap. ‘He’s not in, son.’ ‘I need my money. Two weeks.’ I pretend to check the book, but the figures are all in my head. ‘That’s a hundred quid, not counting the extra interest incurred for late payment.’ Old man Harris is into me for about fifteen hundred now. He’ll pay back four times that, easy, more if he keeps slipping with the payments. Gambling debts. The bookie was going to break his legs, so I came to the rescue. Trouble is, the stupid old sod can’t lay off the gee gees, and his luck’s no better now than it was before. The way he’s going, me and the bookie will be breaking a leg each. He knows it’s no idle threat. The lad up the road still walks with a limp. And he’s still paying. Never misses, these days. If he does, he knows it’ll cost him a finger. Ma Harris is shaking her head. ‘I haven’t got that kind of money, son. I’ve mebbe got ten pound in me purse, but I need that for food.’ ‘Better than nothing. It’ll buy him a bit of time.’ She looks crushed, but she goes and gets her purse anyway. Poor old sod, worn thin with years of worry and want. I always wonder why women like that don’t leave, but they never do. They always stick with the useless tossers they married. She passes the tenner through the gap, chain on the door giving her the illusion of safety. Her hands are shaking. When I do Pop Harris, I decide I’ll give him an extra boot in the bollocks just for her. ‘Tell him he’s got two days. I’ll be back on Thursday. He’d better be here.’ She nods, her eyes teary. She probably thought she’d be done with shite like this at her age, whatever that might be. She looks about a hundred and ten. No sooner am I away from Harris’s than my mobile rings. It’s Savage. ‘Edward? Trouble. Your monkey’s fucked up.’ Bollocks! That’s all I need. Things have been sweet so far and I’m only at his beck and call for another month or so. Well, allegedly. A part of me knows I’ll never be free of Savage. I’ll al70

ways be paying him a percentage, always be at the end of a fucking chain that he can yank whenever he feels like it. Ten seconds later and I’ve got JJ on the phone. I arrange to meet him in the Fort, see what the silly sod’s been up to, then I ring Kenny and get him to do tomorrow’s round for me. ‘He was pushing it, Eddie! He got what he deserved.’ ‘You don’t beat the fuck out of the posh ones, man, I told you that.’ ‘He set his lip up.’ ‘You lost it, you mean.’ ‘Thinks he’s a cut above.’ ‘You shouldn’t have smacked him.’ ‘He’s no better than I am. At least I can pay my bills.’ He scratched his head. ‘He’s pressing charges. I’m going down for this one, Ed, I’ve got previous.’ He swallowed his lager. ‘He wasn’t half as cocky after I bust his nose, mind. Snot everywhere. Cried like a fucking baby.’ He waggled his empty glass at me. ‘Pint?’ I shook my head and he went to the bar to get himself one. How the fuck was I going to sort this out? What a bastard mess! ‘He got family?’ I asked JJ when he came back, slopping Stella all over the table as he sat down. ‘Aye. Horse-faced bint and a couple o’ kids.’ ‘Age?’ ‘Late thirties?’ ‘The kids.’ ‘Oh. Senior school. They go to Southmoor.’ ‘Any lasses?’ ‘Both.’ ‘Good. Enjoy your pint.’ I got up and headed off. Thursday and I’m off to Seaburn, catch a bit of salty sea air. Ocean fucking finance. Savage isn’t the only one with middleclass clients. Makes good business sense. Some of these in their own homes, they’ve got even less cash than the housing association crowd. But they’ve got jobs, families, appearances to keep up. More to lose. I’m done by one o’clock, although I’ll be back at seven to do my evening round, catch the workers while they’re having their dinner. It’ll be mince and spuds or fish fingers and beans for most of them. Summat cheap, anyway. Mind, if anybody asks them at work tomorrow, it’ll have been salmon and asparagus or veal escalopes with roasted root vegetables. As if anybody who ate that posh nosh would look as ill and grey as this lot do on their unre71

mitting diet of shite and stress. Anyway, I’m done for now so it’s off to Pallion to catch up with Pop Harris. On the way there, I get a call from Savage. ‘Nice work, son. All sorted.’ ‘No worries, Mr S, all part of the service.’ Pop Harris is waiting for me, opens the door before I knock, and he’s got my dosh in his hand. I nod, take it and count it, mark the book up. I see Mrs H at the window. She jumps like she’s been burned when my eyes land on her. As the yellowy nets fall back into place, I see an empty space where the telly used to be. I meet up with JJ again once I’m through with old man Harris. ‘Here,’ I say, passing the envelope over the table in the pub. ‘You hang on to that.’ ‘What is it, like?’ He peers inside then pulls out the photographs and spreads them on the table. ‘Put them away, you fucking idiot!’ I gather them up before anybody can see them. Pictures of the wife dropping the kids off and picking them up. Pictures of the kids in the town with their mates. Pictures of the bloke’s family when they’re vulnerable. Evidence of how I spent Wednesday. I trailed around after people, sat in the car and watched, took pictures, waited for my chance. I got it when I saw Shergar load the kids into the car and take off after tea. I let myself in, caught him at the kitchen table with the Guardian sudoku puzzle and a glass of red wine. He nearly shit when he saw me. I nearly laughed out loud. With his two black eyes, he looked like he had a burglar’s mask on. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded, once he’d recovered from the shock of me being in his house and had realised that I wasn’t just there to hurt him. ‘What do you want?’ ‘You owe a lot of money to an associate of mine.’ ‘Your associate did this to me.’ He indicated his face, purple and yellow bruising showing around the bandages taped to his nose. ‘I owe him nothing.’ ‘Your debts aren’t cancelled just because he stuck the nut on you.’ ‘How about if I drop the charges?’ ‘Good idea, why don’t you?’ ‘Well, I will, if he does his bit.’ He sat back, ready to cut a deal. ‘What bit?’ He tapped his nose and nodded. ‘Cancels the debt.’ It was like being in a Carry On film. I was just waiting for the bugger 72

to wink. ‘What are you saying?’ Cheeky sod tutted and rolled his bloody eyes. ‘I’ll drop the charges if he cancels the debt.’ He enunciated each word carefully, like he was speaking to an idiot. I could see why JJ had twatted him. I was tempted myself. ‘Oh, I see.’ ‘Well? How about it?’ ‘No chance.’ ‘It’s a fair deal. Take it or leave it.’ ‘You’re kidding yourself,’ I told him. ‘It just won’t happen.’ ‘It would be worth his while, surely. The publicity….’ ‘The publicity is just fine the way it is. You defaulted on a payment, you got a smack. You’ve done him a favour, really. It’ll be all over the papers when it goes to court. Gets the message across loud and clear.’ He hadn’t thought of that. ‘On the other hand, your neighbours, your family, the people you work with, they’re all going to find out that you have money problems and that the banks won’t touch you.’ ‘He’s a thug. It’s an assault charge.’ ‘It’ll all come out, I can promise you that. All the details, the full story. As for my associate, well, prison is an occupational hazard.’ ‘But he will be locked up. He can’t collect money if he’s in prison.’ ‘He’ll be looked after while he’s inside and his job will be waiting when he comes out, along with a nice, fat bonus for being a good and loyal employee.’ He sat back and folded his arms, stuck his chin out. ‘I’m not paying another penny. There’s no way anyone can touch me now.’ ‘Nice looking girls you have.’ ‘What?’ ‘Your daughters. What are they, twelve and fourteen? Something like that.’ ‘You leave them out of this!’ ‘She looks like a nice lass, the little blonde one.’ I flipped a photo onto the table in front of him, the youngest kid waving and smiling. ‘You wouldn’t dare.’ I spread the other pictures out across the table. ‘You can make this all stop now.’ ‘I’ll have the law on you!’ 73

‘After my associate, you got me. After me, someone else will come. Then another, and another, and another. You’ll never meet the man you owe money to. You’ll never be in a position to touch him. Are you getting the picture?’ I stirred the prints with my finger. ‘Fucking scum! I’ll break your neck!’ He jumped to his feet, crashed into the table and sent the wine glass flying, but for all he was quick, he was soft, spent all day in front of a computer. I got his arm behind his back and pushed his face into the scrubbed pine. He howled, his nose still tender from JJ’s ministrations. I saw him eye the broken wine glass, his imagination doing my work for me. ‘Drop the charges, no-one gets hurt. Your call.’ ‘He’s dropped the charges.’ JJ tells me what I already know. ‘Thanks, Eddie.’ ‘Just don’t fuck up again.’ ‘I lost it, man. I let him wind me up.’ He grinned, embarrassed. ‘It won’t happen again, don’t worry.’ ‘Sometimes you use your fists, other times you use your loaf. I told you this.’ ‘I know. Sorry, mate.’ Friday, last collecting day of my week, and I’m off to sunny Hendon. Third call and I’m at the door of one Bobby Robson. No kidding. This one’s a spotty little scrote with an attitude problem. I knock, my money knock, then listen. Sure enough, I hear the back door slam. Mid-terrace, so pick a direction and go for it. I take off and race round the block. Luck’s on my side and Bobby-oh ends up running down the back lane towards me. He looks up when he hears the pounding feet and his eyes nearly pop out of his head. He skids to a halt cartoon style, does an about turn and takes off again. I catch him easily. He’s sweating like a rapist, breath tearing at his lungs. I’ve barely broken a sweat. I get him by the scruff and throw him against the wall. While the back of his head’s still stotting off the brickwork, I punch him in the gut and step back smartly. Sure enough, he doubles and pukes. Misses me, though, which is lucky for him. These boots cost a packet. ‘You owe me,’ I tell him. It’s a couple of minutes before he can speak. ‘It was me mam’s birthday. Had to get her a present.’ ‘What about your repayment?’ ‘Next week, mate. I’ll have it all for you, get back on track.’ He’s gasping air like a mackerel flapping on the pier. 74

‘And how will you manage that, Rockefeller?’ ‘What?’ He doesn’t get it. ‘HOW THE FUCK WILL YOU PAY?’ I shout, and I swear a few of his spots pop in terror. ‘Sell something.’ He’s not half so cocky now. You aren’t though, when you’re kneeling in your own puke. ‘Sell what?’ ‘Mountain bike. It’s a good ‘un. I don’t use it.’ That much was obvious from his athletic prowess. I put the toe of my boot under his chin, turn his face up to mine. ‘Make sure you do.’ He nods as best he can under the circumstances. I kick him in the ribs and walk away. I can hear him behind me, sniffing and cockling like a brat. Out on the front street I see a group of kids playing football. Little Tommy Briggs runs over in his new Sunderland strip. Brand spanking, just out this week and he’s got it on his back. Other kids watching him with green eyes. ‘I got it for my birthday, Mr Bell.’ He stands in front of me, showing it off. ‘Looking good, Tommy.’ ‘Me mam said she got the money off you. Thanks, Mr Bell.’ I ruffle his hair. ‘No bother, son. Tell your ma I’ll see her next week.’ He runs off to join his mates, kicking the ball around the streets, proud as punch in his new footie strip. I made that possible. Me. That’s what I do. I make people’s dreams come true.

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Dan McGrath Dan is a freelance theatrical technician living in Newcastle Upon Tyne, where he scratches out a living on the backs of the talented by putting up their sets and mopping up after their shows. His ample spare time, he wastes on television and an assortment of futile projects, some of which involve making words for other folk to put in books and other assorted reading matter. At last count, he had managed to stay alive for twenty seven years, earned two university degrees and at time of publication retains all his own teeth. 76

JUST BUSINESS Two friends stood side by side in a bleak industrial wasteland, a light wind blowing whirls in the aging dust around their feet. Hulks of abandoned warehouses loomed faceless in the early morning greyness. The silence between them was a little uneasy. “Anything you want before I go?” asked Ally, breaking the uncomfortable moment, his voice wrung out and tense. “Pair of wire cutters would be good,” replied Joey, then, catching the look on his friend’s face, “just kidding, man, just kidding. I know.” Joey held up his hands pacifyingly and shook his head. “Just kidding.” “This isn’t exactly funny for me, you know.” “Think what it’s like for me then.” Ally turned his shoulder and took a step towards the car, a small dark blue Rover; inconspicuous. You could see this car drive past you every ten minutes for a day and still not think twice about it. “Wait, man. Hold on; okay,” Joey kept his voice down a notch from shouting, but only just. There was a pleading tone to his words that he didn’t want to show, but it leaked out anyway. Ally stopped and turned back. “Okay. No more gags.” Ally had always been bigger and brawnier than Joey, and Joey had always been a fast talker, glib and casual. They had known each other since school, when Ally’s size and strength had been the only thing that had kept Joey from being beaten to a pulp. He had a habit of talking too much near bigger kids. Lots of people had asked Ally over the years why he hung around with Joey; the little bastard was always getting him into shit. Ally would always just shrug, as if he wasn’t sure himself. He was sure: they were friends, what could he do? “A cigarette, okay?” Joey asked, testing the question as much as making a request, “I want a fag.” “Sure,” nodded Ally, reaching into his coat and pulling out a bent packed of Benson and Hedges in his fist. He thrust it out towards Joey, pulling the top back with his none-too-dainty thumb. Joe slid one out, and Ally noticed that his hand was trembling. He had never seen that before. Ally watched his friend’s hand as he pushed the end of a cigarette into his own mouth, thinking. He knew why Joey was scared, even 77

though he was trying not to show it. He knew damn well. Joey was scared because he knew Big Al was not going to get him out of this one. Almost his whole life, Joey had been getting into shit, and always he had had Ally there to step in for him, to be on his side. Well, not this time. “Er, a light?” Joey asked, interrupting Ally’s reverie. “I left mine in my other trousers.” Ally just looked at him. “Okay! Okay,” Joey raised his hands again, “no more joking. Do you have a light?” Ally dug in his pocket and fished out a scratched clipper, which he used first to light Joey’s cigarette, then his own. The two men smoked without talking for a long minute, the seconds dragging out into years, somehow easing the silence between them. The old industrial estate was full of silence now. Somewhere a rusty hinge squealed with the breeze and occasionally the wind would cause a skittering of dust on the cracked and pitted concrete; the sounds of decay. Once upon a time, this place would have been full of the noises of engines roaring, metal banging on metal, the voices of men working and laughing and shouting and sweating. Not anymore. These days there were just the sounds of things rotting away and a whole lot of silence. The cigarettes were nearly smoked to the ends. Both men smoked down to the filter, neither one wanting the moment to end, neither one willing to say so. At last, Joey flicked his well-smoked cigarette away into the wind. Ally did the same and gathered his coat around him. “I should go.” “Yeah, you probably should.” “Listen, Joe, I..” “It’s cool.” Joey nodded, then shrugged his shoulders. “This is my fault, man, not yours. I don’t blame you for it.” “Really?” “It’s cool, man.” “You know, it’s just that-” “It’s cool, Al.” They looked at one another in silence. The moment drew out, became long, but not uncomfortable.

78

“If you want, Joe,” Ally began slowly, almost helplessly, “you know, I could...” He didn’t finish, just let the thought trail off into the wind. “No.” “But we cou-” “No, man,” Joey shook his head firmly, “I’m serious. They’d kill us both, and we couldn’t run away. We’d be found. They know everyone we know. We’d be dead.” Joey had always been able to convince Ally of anything. It was probably why Ally had ended up in so many stupid situations, he reflected. Joey had always talked him round, sounded reasonable, made even the most lunatic of plans sound like a safe, sensible option. The little guy with the big mouth that got him into more trouble than he was worth. Everyone said he was more trouble than he was worth, anyway. Not to Ally, he wasn’t. The first time Ally had been laid, it had been down to Joey. The little guy had just marched over to a girl Ally had been sweating over and staring at and mumbling about all night and dragged her right over to him, sat her down and pretty much told the two of them to just get the hell on with it. He did things like that, and he got away with it. Joey always got away with it. Always. “Maybe, but maybe we could go-” “Are you even listening to me, you dunce?” Joey had on his annoyed face; the face he used when he was talking Ally round to something, like the big guy was intentionally not listening to reason. “I said no, man. It’s not going to work. I’m here, and you’re going to go away back to Donny and tell him it’s all sorted, leaving me here like this.” “But Joe...” “No fucking buts, idiot. No fucking buts. None. There is no ‘but’. That’s it; the way it’s going to happen.” “Why?” Ally looked almost on the verge of tears. It was the first time Joey had seen it in him. He understood; it was the first time since the two of them had met that he wanted to cry, too. “What do you mean, ‘why’? Are you fucking kidding? Because Donny will tear you a new-” “No, I mean why did you do it?” The question stopped Joey dead, mid-sentence, like somebody had just grabbed hold of his windpipe and squeezed. The two of them were almost crying now, crying like a pair of schoolgirls, he thought bitterly. 79

A month ago, Joey had started creaming chunks off the top of the payments he collected for Donny. Not big chunks, but a few notes here and a few notes there, sometimes telling Donny they were behind on their payments; sometimes telling the payers the rates had gone up and they owed more than they thought. He hadn’t told Ally anything about it; just let the big man assume Joey knew what he was talking about, as usual. Joey and Ally worked hard for Donny; picked up a lot of money, a lot of payments, and a few notes here and a few notes there added up pretty quickly. It wasn’t long before Donny found out, naturally. Someone talked to him direct. Either he went to see someone about money supposedly owing, or someone came to ask him why the rates were going up, it didn’t really matter which had happened. He found out. When he found out, he had Joey and Ally dragged in and asked them about it. Ally knew nothing about it, but Donny had suspected that all along. Joey knew all about it, tried to deny for a while, then gave in and fessed up. Well, that was it. Donny had to do something about Joey, and assure himself of Ally’s loyalty. So he sent them both out to this old industrial estate with a pair of thick gloves, a short length of steel pipe, a jar of grease and a coil of barbed wire and told Ally to give Joey the choice. “Why the fuck do I do anything, man? Really?” Ally shook his head. “I don’t know, Joe.” “Because I always do.” “Yeah, Joe, you always do.” “I always get myself in shit.” “Yeah, you do.” “Always. Just too deep this time. It was always gonna happen, one way or the other.” Ally just nodded. He didn’t trust himself to speak without sounding choked. “So you better get back in the car and go tell Donny it’s sorted.” The choice is not much of a choice. Arriving at the estate, Joey had stripped naked while Ally greased the pipe, then inserted it as gently as he could into Joey’s anus. In a lot of ways, Joey was grateful it had been Ally doing this, as a lot of guys in Donny’s service would have taken great delight in roughly shoving a length of only partially lubricated pipe up Joey’s arse. Guys like Joey with 80

big mouths tended to make themselves unpopular with moronic but egotistical wannabe gangsters. With the pipe inserted, Ally had gently fed one end of the barbed wire through, then carefully removed the pipe over the wire, leaving the metal barbs stuck inside Joey’s rectum and lower intestine. Ally had kept going with the pipe until it was completely clear of the wire, then stood on his car and, wearing the gloves, tied the wire to the top of a high fencepost, securing it in several loops. Lastly, Ally had bundled Joey’s clothes and chucked them in the back of the car. Once Ally left, Joey would have a simple choice to make: stay painfully where he was in the middle of nowhere on the vague chance someone would find him or until he died of dehydration, or tear the barbed wire out of his arse and try to make it to a hospital before he bled to death from his rectum. Not much of a choice at all. “I didn’t want to-” Ally turned as he opened the car door. “I know, Al, it’s cool. Nothing personal, you know? Just business and all that.” “Yeah, but-” “It’s cool. Just get going, or Donny’s gonna have you out here next.” “Yeah.” Ally ducked his head and he clambered into the small car. He always looked stupid crammed inside that little space. Joey almost laughed, but didn’t. “See you Joe.” “See you Al.” The car reversed in a slow, broad circle, kicking up dust. Joey could feel the gentle trickle of blood from inside his colon, the sting of the barbed wire in his delicate flesh. “Just business,” he said out loud to nobody. “Just business my arse.” He got his own joke and barked out a laugh, then stopped because it hurt. He was glad he hadn’t dragged Ally down with him; the big man would be okay. He wasn’t bright or inventive enough to double-cross someone like Donny, so he’d be fine. He didn’t have many friends, but then he didn’t have many enemies either, and that was handy. Personal attachments were all well and good, but in Ally’s job, the fewer the better. They made things complicated, like they had almost made things complicated with Joey. You take away the personal entanglements and what do you have 81

left? Just business.

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Dave Zeltserman Dave Zeltserman’s dark short crime fiction has been published in many venues, including Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Alfred Hitchcock’s Mysery Magazine, New Mystery, Hardboiled and Hot Blood. His first novel, Fast Lane, debuted in 2004 and was listed by Poisoned Pen Bookstore as one of the top hardboiled books of the year. Dave has two additional dark crime noir novels scheduled for publication in 2007—Small Crimes (Serpent’s Tail) and Bad Thoughts (Five Star). Dave lives in the Boston area with his wife, Judy, and when he’s not writing crime fiction, he spends his time working on his black belt in Kung Fu and running his noir fiction web-zine, www.hardluckstories.com. 83

NINE BALL LESSONS Charlie “the Mole” Greco gently kisses the eight-ball into the corner pocket setting up an easy nine-ball shot in the opposite corner. As he’s chalking up his stick, he asks me how playing pool is like making love to a woman. I shrug, tell him I don’t know. “Think about this,” he says. “Even though you usually get better results with a gentle touch, sometimes it just feels so damn good to slam it home.” Charlie bends over the table and slams the nine ball hard nearly bouncing it out of the pocket, his face turning red as he laughs at his own joke. Nobody I know likes laughing at their own jokes more than Charlie. He looks up at me, kind of quizzical, wondering why I’m not laughing along with him, ’cause usually I do. I tell him I got too much on my mind. Which is true. I drop a ten-dollar bill on the table for the game, and he waits while I rack up the balls for the next game. Charlie and I’ve been playing pool every Thursday night at the back table in Donnegan’s since high school, almost twenty years now. Of course, I dropped out of school after one year, being more muscle than brains and having an open invitation to work for “Big” Tony Lombardo, but Charlie being a smart guy finished high school, then two years of college before dropping out to take the job I helped arrange for him with Lombardo. I do “muscle” work for Lombardo – stuff like breaking deadbeat’s arms, busting heads, sometimes much worse. Hence my nickname, “Knuckles”. Not too hard to figure out. Charlie’s nickname is my fault. He doesn’t have much of a neck, and has kind of a long nose and round face like a mole would, but that doesn’t have anything to do with me giving him that name. And it’s not because he spies on people or has any sort of facial blemishes. I started calling him “Mole” because of his bad eyes. Before he got his contacts, Charlie used to squint like a mole coming out of the ground. Probably because of the physical similarities the name stuck, but if it wasn’t for me, and his eyes were better, he would’ve ended up with something like “Professor”, or maybe “Socrates” or “Plato” or some other philosopher, ’cause he’s always philosophizing about life, especially how it relates to pool. “What the hell does a muscle-head like you got on his mind?” Charlie asks, his eyes like small gray polished stones as they sparkle with amusement. “Just business,” I say. 84

“You need to have your mind on the game,” he tells me. “Pool is like life, focus is everything.” He breaks the rack, pocketing both the three-ball and the six, but also dropping the cue ball in the side. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he swears, his lips pulled back to show his canines. He turns, shakes his head angrily at me. “You see, Knucks, just like life a game of pool can shit all over you when you least expect it.” I now have ball in hand. If I want to try it, I could place the cue ball behind the one and take a tough cross-table combo with the nine to win the game, but it’s a low percentage shot. I see Charlie spotting the combo and then trying hard not to look at it, trying hard to will me not to see it. But that’s not why I place the cue ball so I can easily tap the one into the side. It’s because the combo’s a low percentage shot and I don’t do those. I like to play it safe. After I make the shot I hear a heavy exhalation of breath coming from Charlie, a thin smile creeping onto his lips. “You had the game, Knucks,” he tells me. “All you had to do was combo the nine and you had the game.” “Low percentage shot,” I tell him as I sink the two-ball and set up an easy four-ball corner shot. “You never get anywhere playing it safe.” I give him a go-fuck-yourself look as I pocket the four and then the five. I don’t set myself up as much as I wanted with the seven and I end up rattling the ball around the corner pocket, but it doesn’t drop. “Fuck,” I swear under my breath. “Pool is like life, Knucks. You gotta make it look easy. Never let them see you sweat.” I watch as Charlie takes the game from me, his shiteating grin stretching wide. I drop another ten-dollar bill on the table. “What’s wrong, Knucks? You seem so damn preoccupied.” Preoccupied? Yeah, that was one way of putting it. I stop to polish off the pint of Guiness I’ve been drinking. “I told you before, just business.” “Yeah, so what does Lombardo got you so worried about it?” I wasn’t going to tell him. As I said before, I’m a guy who usually plays it safe. But Charlie and me have been buddies over twenty years, and I can see the concern spreading across his face. I shrug and tell him it’s because of the Voodoo Lady busi85

ness. “Oh Chrissakes, Lombardo still has that bug up his ass?” I rack the balls up and wait until he breaks. It’s a bad break. Worse than bad. Not only does nothing go in, but he leaves a quick one-nine combo to take the game. I line up my shot, taking my time. “He lost fifty grand on that,” I tell him without taking my eye off the shot. “And then you got the two hundred grand he didn’t make that he was expecting to.” I sink the shot and look up as Charlie crumples the tendollar bill I had just given him and tosses it back in front of me. I smooth the bill out, taking my time with it before placing it in my wallet. I usually don’t beat Charlie and maybe that’s why I’m taking my time celebrating the victory, or maybe I’m just trying to stretch things out and avoid the unpleasantness that’s coming. I’m not sure. It’s already ten o’clock. But I just stand and watch as Charlie takes his turn racking the balls. “I thought you already got that one figured out,” Charlie says. I look at him, and he looks back, mostly bored. A month ago ten grand was spent fixing a dog race, and forty grand spread out among WIN and perfecta bets. If Voodoo Lady wins as she’s supposed to, Lombardo takes home a minimum of two hundred grand. The dog should’ve been shot up with enough amphetamines to guarantee a win, but more was used than should’ve been and the dog’s heart exploded in the middle of the race. Left the bitch dead dead where she fell. “I thought so too,” I say. “But Lombardo found out ten grand was bet on the dog that won.” Charlie strokes his chin as he thinks about it. “We were double-crossed,” he says. “I paid that kid ten grand to fix the race for Voodoo Lady. He must’ve intentionally overdosed our dog and pepped up the one that won. And the sonofabitch bet the ten grand I paid him on the winning dog.” I nod. It could’ve been that way. Makes sense. But it also could’ve been Charlie who double-crossed us. Give the kid the hypo with enough junk to kill, then pay someone else to speed up the winning dog. You do that you get to walk away with all the money –what you’ve won with the ten grand bet, plus the remaining thirty thousand that was supposedly spread among losing bets. The question is why does Charlie only bet ten thousand on a sure thing? Well, I guess that’s pretty easy to figure out. He’d want to set up the kid at the track in case Lombardo’s able to get his 86

hands on the betting info. That’s if Charlie’s the rat and not the kid. Charlie looks like he’s telling the truth, but then again, the kid stuck to his story when I broke each of his fingers, and kept breaking bones until he passed out. I tell Charlie what I did to the kid and the story he told. Charlie keeps looking at me straight on. Not a flinch, not a waver, nothing as he tells me the kid was simply sticking to the lie. So there I am. If Charlie’s lying to me, I can’t tell. I can’t read it, just like I couldn’t with the kid. I shrug and tell Charlie that’s what I thought but it’s what’s on my mind. Then I break the rack. A pretty good one sinking three balls and leaving me an easy setup for the first three shots. I peek at Charlie as I make them. He looks unconcerned, just pissed. “Nice break,” Charlie says. I just make a face as I line up my next shot. I’m barely paying attention as I’m knocking down shot after shot before sinking the nine. I’m trying hard to get a read on Charlie, just like I did that kid. “Sonofabitch,” Charlie swears. “Two games in a row. Fuck. When was the last time you took two in a row from me, Knucks?” “Been a while,” I say. The next game is more of the same. I hit some sort of streak where I can’t miss. For the first time I see Charlie looking worried. Not a fucking drop of perspiration when he thinks I might be suspecting him of ripping off Lombardo, but the thought of losing three games in a row to me has him sweating. Fuck, I just don’t know. I wish I could read him. He tries distracting me by telling me why people like nine-ball so much. “With eight ball you got so many choices,” he’s saying. “With nine-ball the order’s set. You don’t have to think so much. You just do what’s laid out in front of you. Simplicity, Knucks. That’s what people strive for in life.” He’s right about that. It’s when you have choices to make when you get yourself in trouble. Thinking about that does distract me, at least enough so I miss the nine ball shot. But at least I leave him a tough cross-table bank shot. At least it’s no gimmee. Still, he’s grinning from ear-to-ear seeing how he psyched me out. I stand back and watch him line up the shot. He’s off on the shot. You can tell from the sound the cue ball makes when it hits the nine that it’s too flush, but I watch as the damn nine-ball does a slow spin towards the side pocket and falls in. Charlie starts laughing at that. Damn near busts his gut. 87

“Like in life, better to be lucky than good,” he forces out, still cracking up over his luck. “I was shooting for the corner.” “No shit.” His face is turning red as he’s laughing harder to himself. I just stand watching trying to get a read on him. I mean, we’ve been buddies over twenty years. I need to know which one’s lying to me, Charlie or the kid. But the thing is the kid never changed his story, even when I slapped him awake and sliced him open from neck to groin. Even as he was gurgling out blood, he insisted he was telling the truth. But there’s nothing Charlie’s saying to make me think otherwise either. Except he should’ve noticed when Donnegan’s cleared out an hour ago. That was when I was supposed to do the job. He should’ve realized it was too quiet in there. But then again, it could be nothing more than being worried that Lombardo’s falsely suspecting him since he was the guy responsible for the bribe and laying down the bets. I just don’t know. But then I realize it doesn’t matter. I’m just dumb muscle. I’m not paid to think. I’m just one of those guys who does what’s laid out in front of him. Charlie was right. Like everyone else I seek simplicity in my life. I start joining Charlie, laughing also as I pick the nineball out of the pocket and start tossing it in my hand. That just makes him laugh harder. “Charlie,” I ask, “you know what a nine-ball’s like?” He’s just about choking with laughter now, his face turning a bright red. Barely able to spit out the words, he mutters something about how this is going to be good. I’m laughing hard too at this point. I catch the nine-ball and stare at it. I turn to him, a hard grin etched on my face. He’s barely able to keep from pissing his pants, his round body convulsing as he laughs himself sick. “Come on, Knucks,” he forces out between tears of laughter. “What’s a nine-ball like.” “It’s like a hard fucking rock,” I say to him. Before he’s able to connect what I’m saying I slam the ball hard into his forehead. He drops like a sack of guts. With the ways his eyes are staring open I know he’s dead, but I stomp down on his windpipe to make sure. Maybe he was telling me the truth, maybe he wasn’t, but it wasn’t my call to make. As I said before I’m just dumb muscle. As it is, the job should’ve been done an hour ago. It wasn’t my place to figure anything out. I call and arrange for the cleanup. I know the guy on the other end is pissed. I’d kept him waiting. I hope my fuck-up doesn’t get back to Lombardo. Before leaving I give Charlie one last look and think there 88

but the grace of God, and realize that’s as much thinking as dumb muscle like me’s entitled to.

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Mandi Winterburn Mandi Winterburn is not quite thirty and has spent the last three years doing the ‘poor student’ bit. Currently living in Grimsby but looking for somewhere a tad more exotic. Mandi’s previously published work includes ‘If you insist’ in Peep Show. 90

BREAK AND DISH John paced. Sighed. Paced. Shook his head. Rubbed his sweaty palms. Paced. The knot in this stomach grew tighter. His jaw began to shake. His life, his wife’s life, his daughter’s life all depended on this one game, more to the point - this one frame. He would beat near enough anyone over nine frames but one frame to keep them quiet and off his back for another six months was too much. He jumped as the living room door opened. “Someone walk over your grave?” Melissa asked. “Not yet” “What’s up wi’ ya?” “Just nervous about this match tonight darl’.” “You and your fucking pool, try being nervous about the bills we haven’t paid, the job you haven’t got and the money we fucking owe! Why I am still with you I really don’t know. Sort yourself out John!” She stopped, stock still and glared, turned, headed back towards the door and turning to look at him again, said, in calm tones that scared the shit out of him “or we are leaving.” He wanted to tell her, desperately wanted to tell her, one match tonight and they could start afresh, he would quit pool, he would never play again, he just had tonight to sort it out. * “You are trying my patience kid, it’s eight grand and it’s my eight grand.” “I’ll pay you I swear, only give me…” “Here’s the deal; you play a man of my choice, one frame next Thursday night, you win and you have six months, you lose and I’m going to break every bone in your fucking body then let you watch while I do the same to the lovely Melissa and - what is your daughter called?” * One room, a table in the middle, red walls and bad light. Six men sat at a table at the end stretched out confidently around a bottle of JD. Johnny stood in the doorway, his knees weak, his heart racing. “How very nice of you to join us Jonathon, come have a drink.” Whiskey was poured into a grubby glass and waved in his direction. John felt sick and dashed for the door. Outside his stomach 91

wrenched and his face fogged with hot sweat. The food he hadn’t eaten all day lurched to his throat in bitter acid and he spat on the floor. Dizzy, he leaned back against the wall, his head on hard concrete. It was a warm evening, a hot evening and the stench from the nearby bins didn’t help. * Melissa had never cheated before but she had had enough and it was just one date. He seemed such a nice guy and it was just dinner so why not. Kate was downstairs with Lillie and said she could stay till half eleven. It was only six. Opting for something less tarty she took off the black dress and wore the summer dress, that was better. She was quite excited, his flat was nice, she had been before and after all it was just dinner. * “Not feeling well Johnny? Best you perk up, you need to be on your game tonight.” John didn’t answer. If only he could get the break, if he got the break he would calm down, he would be OK, he could do this. Cue out, balls wracked. “Your call Johnny!” He watched the coin spin, be caught and slam on the table. “Tails.” “Heads it is!” His legs wobbled, his head spun, his stomach turned. “I’ll break then.” Came a voice from behind him and he turned to see a tall slim man approach the table. “Don’t worry Johnny, It will all be over by seven.” The tall slim man winked, broke and potted four balls. John stared at the table and watched the last ball’s roll die. * Melissa was ready and it was only half past six, she didn’t have to be there for an hour. She sat on the bed and got the purple folder from under the bed. The bills. John needed to get work and get work fast, her job didn’t make ends meet. Why the fuck shouldn’t she go out for dinner, at least this guy had a job. *

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By the time John approached the table the tall guy was on the black. John tried to calm himself, they would all go, he knew that, nothing too difficult and as long as he played a simple game, nothing flashy, he would be OK. Just seven balls and the black. He took his first shot, perfect. Six balls and the black. * Melissa walked in the bathroom and picked up her perfume. She sprayed, neck, wrist, wrist, chest, neck, neck. Nice. * Five balls and the black, cut it in the middle pocket, leave yourself right for the next, nothing flashy, just pot. * Hairspray, it was a lovely evening but breezy. She sprayed it on and scrunched. Nice. John didn’t like it like this but then when did John ever care for her. * Four balls and the black. Not too hard but he needed to screw back. Just enough bottom, pot roll, ready. * Lipstick, baby pink, blotted on tissue and re-applied, sexy! * Three and the black, pot. Two and the black, pot. Last ball, pot. John relaxed a little. The black ball and he was safe, his family were safe for six months and he would get a job, work his arse off, stay out of the halls. They could move. Tell no-one. He needed to double it, straight in the middle. He could do it, he was calm, he was confident, then he dropped his cue… * “Right chick I’m going. I’ll be back by eleven-ish and I have my mobile” Melissa left the flat. the sun was shining, a lovely evening and she set off to meet her date. * John collapsed to his knees. If only he hadn’t dropped his cue and 93

lost the confidence. The black ball dropped into the pocket. “Hard luck kid,” said the tall guy as he walked out, unscrewing his cue on the way. John was dizzy again, sick, terrified. He felt hands under his arm pits as he was half lifted, half dragged to the table at the end of the room. “Now, I know I promised to break every bone kid, but that takes effort. You owe me eight grand. HAND.” Someone grabbed John’s hand and forced it on to the table, he panicked and clenched his fist. A voice told him to spread his fingers. The cold metal of a gun stung his temple, he did as he was told. “Now what would you say a finger is worth these days?” “NO, PLEASE, GOD NO!” John screamed. He struggled but his hand was being held down, he was being held down. He could feel dry ash under his fingers, tears and sweat on his face. “It’s not God you owe kid, it’s me! A grand per finger while I wait? As way of interest? No, I’m feeling kind, two per finger.” John lost control, crying and begging, his bladder panicked too and lost control along with him. He felt the warm piss on his jeans, the cold blade on his skin and he screamed. * “I suppose we had better eat then as it is nine and you are deserting me at eleven.” Melissa and her date sat down, the food looked lovely, she hadn’t been treated like this before. Separate courses were not something she was used to. “So will you come again?” “Just try to keep me away, sorry I have to go.” “And you enjoyed dinner?” “Delicious, the first dish, what was the meat in it?” “Oh it was just nothing special, lets call it a finger salad.” “And do I get that again?” “I doubt it, cooking like that won’t happen for at least another six months.” They kissed and she left. Melissa was over the moon, at last she had found a nice guy, a decent guy. She had been struggling with John for so long and it couldn’t go on. She would tell him when he got home

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Brian Richmond Brian Richmond grew up on a housing estate in Belfast during the troubles. It was pretty hardcore, although he spent most of the time in his room reading 3 Investigators books. He now lives in the much more peaceful surroundings of Donegal where he walks, writes and spends too much money on books and cds. 95

TAILS YOU LOSE Death – in the form of a 26-six year old psychopath from Belfast called Billy McQuade –crashed into the cottage holding a .45 calibre Barretta in front of him. Thorpe didn’t even look up from his paper. “Trick or fucking treat,” Billy said. “Been done before…” McQuade walked over and backhanded Thorpe, the front sight ripping open his cheek. He rolled out of the chair and ended up on his hands and knees watching red raindrops plop heavily on to the floor. “Think we wouldn’t find you, you squealer, you tout…? Your Special Branch friends should of found you a better bolt hole than this…” “Look, just do me, okay. I’ve been waiting. But tell them they can whistle for their fucking money…” Thorpe sat up, shook his head, tried to stop the room rotating about him. “What money?” Thorpe paused. “Money?” “You said they could whistle for their money…” Thorpe kept his face blank.”Ah…no…must’ve been the crack on the head…” McQuade kicked him in the stomach. “ If you’ve got money here, I want it…” “ What… you gonna… do, shoot me..?” Pulling himself up with the arm of the chair, Thorpe collapsed on the cushion, still fighting for breath. “I know, sounds like I don’t have much – whadyacallit? – leverage? But, see, I do. I’ve found that people’ll do just about anything to try and live for even a few minutes more. Mebbe a neighbour’ll call. Mebbe you’ll have a chance to get the gun…Your mind plays funny tricks…” “Look, sonny,I made bombs for our boys for 15 years, don’t tell me about being close to death…” “Until you turned tout.” “Hey somebody’s got to do something about the new breed of little shits like you…” “Just, you know, show me the money…You like that movie? Personally, I think that Tom Cruise’s a fruit…” 96

McQuade sat on the chair opposite. A fire was blazing in the hearth. Outside, the October wind whaa-hooed around the walls. He held the gun loosely in his lap, still pointing over at Thorpe. “There is no money, is there? That’s bullshit. If there was you’d be throwing it at me to let you walk away from this…” “That’s right. No money. You’re spot on, there.” McQuade looked around the room. The place was pretty bare, like nobody lived here. Except……on an old, dust-coated dresser. A picture of Thorpe with his arm around a girl about half his age. McQuade nodded at the photo. “Girlfriend?” Thorpe didn’t react. “Daughter…That’s it. A daughter. Someone to leave the old inheritance to…You do have money stashed, you bastard…” Thorpe wouldn’t look at him. “You still can’t make me tell you where it is. I’ve gotta leave her something, to make up…” “Oh, I think I can. Remember, that neighbour could be on their way any minute. Mebbe the police are following me…Anything could happen…A few more minutes and things could turn right round…You know, there’s nothing beats a real fire, is there?” “What are you thinking..?” “Remember, when you were a kid, and some bigger kid talked you into doing something, and when your ma told you off, you’d say “He told me to do it!” Remember what your ma would say?” Thorpe was silent. “You know, go on, tell me…” “You are one sick little shit, you know that..?” “Just tell me.” “She say, if he told you to put your hand in the fire, would you do it?” “Da-daah. That is the correct answer!” “Fuck you, no. Shoot me.” “Is that footsteps I hear on the gravel? Sirens in the distance?” Thorpe drew himself upright. “All right, you little shit. You think you’re hard, eh? You think you’re tough..?” He stretched out his hand towards the flames. It was trembling. All of a sudden he jerked it back. “Whoooo…too hot for you, eh?” McQuade said. Thorpe looked at him, drew a breath. He looked at the fire. He saw explosions. The flames became burning people, twisting and turning in agony.

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Slowly, he reached out his hand. The skin grew hotter and hotter, seemed to tighten, draw itself in around his bones. Heat turned to pain, intense, scalding pain. The skin went red, then gradually blackened, darkness spreading across his flesh like cloud shadow over a summer field. He bit his lip against the agony. Black flakes lifted off the back of his hand and fluttered up the chimney. He remembered his daughter, as a child, notes to Santa Claus… Pain was no longer limited to his hand: he felt it through his whole body now. But with it came a strange exhilaration. He turned back to McQuade, the hand held in front of him like a trophy. “You want the money? You want the money, you fuck? I’ll show you your money.” He swept past the still seated gunman who jumped to his feet and ran after him. “Where you going? Where you going? Come back…” Thorpe stormed through the kitchen, out the door into the black autumn night, McQuade trailing in his wake, waving the gun but feeling strangely impotent. They crossed the overgrown back yard: Thorpe striding, McQuade stumbling. In a corner by a dry stone wall was a little shed, about 4 feet high. “Don’t you open that fucking door. I’ll kill you if you do…” McQuade shouted. Thorpe stood back. All of a sudden, the rage seemed to go out of him. His shoulders slumped. His face seemed to draw in on itself. Now, as he looked at the still smoking remnant of his left hand, there was revulsion in his eyes. “In there…” even his voice was weaker. “It’s the well for this place. Pull up the nylon cord hanging over the side.” McQuade kept the gun pointed, managed to crouch and reach in to the little shed, felt along the side of an old, damp wall until his fingers met the rope. He pulled. It was heavy but he couldn’t afford to put down the gun. Gradually, something came up, clattered over the side. The rope was wrapped around a bundle enclosed in a water covered plastic bin bag. One-handed, McQuade ripped the bag away. More plastic and more, layer after layer until, at last, he came to a silver metal box, the kind people carried expensive 98

cameras in. Thorpe began slowly inching away. “Where you going? “ “Me? Nowhere.” Thorpe kept shuffling backwards. “Stay still to fuck…” McQuade looked at the box, looked at Thorpe, looked back down. What had the old bastard said? He made bombs for the boys for years? “You wouldn’t have booby trapped that thing now, would you? Smart old bugger like you?” Thorpe didn’t reply. McQuade stood, took a few steps away from the box. He should get Thorpe to open it. Yeh, that was it….No no no…Hold on a second…What if there was a gun in there? The old boy could have stashed a pistol inside. “Aren’t you going to open it? It’s what you wanted.” “Fuck up!” Shoot Thorpe, open it himself…No, he couldn’t do that either. Not if it was booby trapped. He wouldn’t be able to disarm it. “Pick it up. Bring it inside.” Thorpe hesitated. “Do it!” Maybe it was McQuade’s imagination but the older man seemed to handle the thing very gently for such a strong box. They went back into the cottage, back into the main room and Thorpe put the box on an old linoleum-topped foldaway card table between the two chairs. McQuade walked over to it, reached out towards the catch. There! Thorpe moved back, near to the door, drew his body in on itself. “You sneaky old bugger…You’ve got a little surprise in there, haven’t you?” “What? No. I don’t know what you mean.” “Oh? Then tell you what. You open it.” Was he wrong or was there a flicker of panic in Thorpe’s eyes? “Open it.” There it was again, the hesitation. “What if I’ve got a gun in there?” “Then you wouldn’t have mentioned it, would you?” There was stillness. There, McQuade thought, got you. Not so smart now, are you? But the old boy was smart…Could it be a double bluff..? A double bluff…Jesus, he was in charge here, it was supposed to be simpler than this. “Okay, I’ll open it.” Thorpe reached towards the box. 99

“Whoa whoa whoa. Just hold on a minute..!” “For Christ’s sake! Open the box…don’t open the box…Make up your mind for fuck’s sake…” McQuade thought. He was pretty sure it was a bomb. But it could be a gun. He’d lost confidence in his ability to read Thorpe’s motivations. Despite that fact that he was the armed one, he felt his control of the situation slipping away. “Right. Here’s the plan. I’ll be behind you, aiming right at your back. Even if you do have a gun in there, you’re going to have to turn and aim and fire. You won’t have a chance. You have to do all that, all I have to do is pull the trigger. So, that’s what we do…And you make sure you do everything in slow motion. Now, stand fucking still ‘til I’m in position.” McQuade inched himself around, weapon on Thorpe, until he had the chair between himself and the card table. “Okay. Open it.” Thorpe’s back blocked his view of the box, but that was all right. McQuade would be able to tell by Thorpe’s arm movement if he was grabbing a gun. And putting a body and the chair between him and any possible blast was a good idea. He can’t get a gun without me shooting him, he can’t set the bomb off without blowing himself up. And, even if he is suicidal, I’ve got some protection. It wasn’t perfect but it was the best he could think of… Thorpe stood in front of the metal box, not moving. “Get on with it!” The older man reached out with his good hand, flipped one of the metal catches. Despite himself, McQuade jumped at the loud metallic clack. They both waited. A turf fell in the fire, sending up sparks. “The other one..!” Thorpe hesitated, then said “You’re right. I booby-trapped it.” “Yes! I knew it!” “I can disarm it. But I need to hold the box open about an inch, no more, slip my hand in the gap, flick a switch.” “So do it.” “I need two hands. One to hold it open, one to disarm the bomb. This one’s burnt to fuck…” He was a trier, McQuade would give him that. “I need you to come over here and help me.” 100

No way, no fucking way, McQuade was staying right where he was, gun trained on Thorpe’s back. “Fuck that. Fuck your hand. You do it.” “But…” “Do it.” “I give you the money, you let me walk..?” Yeah, that was going to happen. “Absolutely.” Thorpe paused, took a deep breath. With his good hand, he lifted the second latch, carefully, but it still snapped back at the last minute. Claaack!This time they both jumped. God, thought the gunman, I really need to piss. “ Okay. Now I’m going to lift the thing open about an inch with my bad hand. I need to hold it still while I slip my fingers through the gap and turn the thing off…” Thorpe still didn’t move. “So get on with it.” “My hand is in a bad way…If you just…” “Uh-uh. Forget it.” “Okay, then…” Thorpe’s left hand had tightened up into a claw-like shape. He lifted it and the hand disappeared out of McQuade’s vision, shielded by the old bomb-makers body. Still, McQuade could tell by Thorpe’s posture that he was starting to lift the lid. “ Christ that hurts…” “You can do it. You old skool types are tough…” “Right, I’m holding it open…” McQuade had to admit, the old man’s voice sounded agonised. “Now, I’m going to reach in…” Silence. All of a sudden, the moisture in McQuade’s mouth seemed to evaporate. The fire spat again and he realised that he’d wet himself. “Shit…” said McQuade. “What is it?” “Where’s the fucking switch..?” “Don’t you be trying nothing…” “My hand…” “ Watch what you’re doing!” “SHIT!” Thorpe’s arm gave a jerk. The lid of the box shot up and back on its hinges, crashing on to the card table. From inside the box came a frantic electronic beeping. 101

“Oh fuck…” said Thorpe. “What? WHAT?” “GET DOWN” McQuade hurled himself down behind the chair, drew himself down into a ball, waited for the explosion. Christ, he hoped it was only a small charge. Oh God, he didn’t want to die here… Time stretched. McQuade crunched himself in even tighter. He felt fragile, made of glass, ready to shatter… The bleeping went on. And on. There was no explosion. What the fuck…? It hadn’t gone off…McQuade started to uncurl his body… Suddenly, there was a loud bang and cushion stuffing flew all over him. It’d gone off…No, wait a minute, that wasn’t an explosion, that was… More shots tore through the chair, knocking him sprawling this time. He rolled over on to his back. Shoot back, he thought, but he realised that he could no longer feel his arms or legs, didn’t even know if he was still holding the weapon. Then Thorpe was standing over him, pointing a neat little Walther PPK. “You old fucker. You bluffed me. There was no bomb.” Thorpe smiled. “Oh, there was. But I disarmed it, simple flick of a switch…” “That beeping noise…” Thorpe raised his burnt left hand. In it was one of those cheap, tiny travel alarm clocks, still making its electronic racket. Thorpe threw it down on to McQuade’s chest. “A little bomb, an alarm clock and a pistol. Heads I win, tails you lose…” McQuade’s insides felt strange, busted up. Ah well, fuck him if he couldn’t take a joke. It went with the territory. “They’ll just send somebody else…” “Maybe. But when they find you here, I’m going to have draped the trees with your guts. When word of that gets out, they might find it hard to get anybody to take the job of coming after me. After all, you’re supposed to be one of the best…” “Did you ever even have any money..?” 102

“Ah, that’d be telling,” said Thorpe and shot McQuade twice in the head. He went over and sat down in the remaining undamaged chair. Planning, that was what these young bucks didn’t understand. Preparation. He looked at his hand. Jesus, it was a mess. Still, it would heal. Everything healed. He tossed the gun on the floor, got out his cell phone, thumbed in a number. His daughter answered. “Everything okay, da?” “Hunky dory. Come pick me up. Time to move on.” “Do I bring the money” “Abso-fucking-lutely.” He looked into the dancing flames again. Say what you like, nothing beats a real fire.

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Cindy Silvester I enjoy travelling and worked in Romania for two years but I'm staying put in the UK for now. I enjoy reading and watching thrillers. I love writing because I can escape into a fantasy world. 105

HOME TERRITORY Hard rough hands from behind. They’re holding onto me for dear life. I’m trying to wrestle out of it but he’s too strong. Blindfolded; the velvet makes me feel like I’ve lost consciousness. But I’m very much with it. The smell is of cheap aftershave laced with sweat. The only name I hear is Glaze. I’m wracking my brains to think of who Glaze might be as my body is flung into the back of a van. A pair of footsteps follow me in. Hands tied - too tight tearing into my flesh. The door slams echoing in my brain and the engine springs into life. Gunmetal pressed against my throbbing temple from a woman’s perfumed wrist and the fear kicks in. “Thought you could get away with it, bitch” she snarls yanking my hair back with the force of a boxer. “Enjoy your fucking games?” I must try to compose myself, get out of here alive although I want to shit myself. Odds massively stacked against me but I’ve always been a thinker. “Not this time,” calls a voice from the front. The accent is familiar. Scottish, but not strong, mixed with Mancunian. I know, yes I know why and who. I’d heard that accent before screaming not exactly the same but it must be a relation. Easy as fuck, we’d laughed three months ago about it. Easy money, easy targets. We’d got high on our precision about it all. The roles demanded of Tania – glamour girl, vivacious, blonde slightly over the top but a winner most of the time. Jake, he’d simply watched ready to jump in should he be needed. The lookout. Three months ago the stranger had stepped out of the taxi – this one wasn’t planned but we’d played the role so long it was second nature. Rules of the game: Tania pouts and purrs, I jump in and Jake is there if we need him. It didn’t work. 106

“Come on this one.” Tania insists as he staggers out of the taxi. Smiling he says, “All right,” His voice is a different lilt, the traces of Scottish. “Not from round here sweetheart?” Tania purrs sidling up close to him. “Want to have some fun?” “Want to have some fun?” A woman’s voice cuts into my thoughts, like she’s reading my mind. “Or is that your friend?” I’m shaking but biting onto my trembling lip so much I can taste blood. Mustn’t show them. Mustn’t show them. The mantra beats within my heart. Everyone falls for Tania, almost. He didn’t. “Sure you want to do it here?” I ask. “Home territory.” Tania cocks her head back and chuckles. “Scared are you?” “We’ve never been caught.” My voice is a feeble cry. “We’ve never been caught.” Until now that is. Unplanned. Usually we do it with hair colour or the next person to walk around the corner alone. “Gotta girlfriend,” he slurs the cool night air hits him taking away all sobriety. He’s ours. “Perhaps you’d prefer a brunette,” I murmur as seductively as I can unused to This role. “Our secret. Fun.” I step back pushing him from behind. His, dark eyes turn, glaring before giving a cry of pain when I kick his legs from under him. As if in slow motion the bone snaps, his head cracks the concrete. Tania runs up to him her manicured nails clawing at his skin. 107

She lifts the wallet like she does every time, stealing the cash, leaving in a tenner so the dumb fucker thinks he’s spent more than he thought. That’s how we play the game. “That’s the last time you refuse a woman,” I cry. “Bastard.” Only now the rickety road we’re travelling on has made me the pawn and my captors the master. The sweat is trickling from me. I’m cold and hot at the same time. The woman’s voice cuts into my thoughts again. “That’s the last time you fuck about bitch.” How? I want to cry out. How did you find me? He was only a stranger passing through. But I can’t let them see I’m afraid I’ve never been scared before but now the ice inside is making my skin prickle so much I’m shaking and can’t stop. The gun against my temple makes me want to cry out. If I do it will be so easy for the bitch to pull the trigger. No one has a gun in this backward place surely. Thoughts of meeting Tania stir inside me. We were supposed to be going out clubbing and playing our game tonight. She’ll be wondering where I’m supposed to be. The phone in my trouser pocket suddenly vibrates. Our targets were only drunk saddos who’d more money than sense. Gave us good money. Moved around for a week. This one was home territory. Hands wrench the phone from my trouser pocket. I expect the phone to be thrown away or smashed but with a grinding halt the van stops sharply so I lurch forward. “Hello,” “Hi who’s this? Cas where are you? We’re supposed to be to be going out tonight.” “Playing your game?” the Scottish man asks. “Well we’ve got a new set of rules - a new contender. Wanna join us?” He switches the phone off and they both scream with delight as the vehicle springs into life again. 108

Their laughter grates on my nerves slicing into me. I always have a contingency plan and we’ve needed them. It’s easy being a woman, usually if we run into any trouble, Tania runs on and flutters her spider lashes. “Oh they’re after us,” she’ll cry. They’re going to get us,” I can’t help the smile that cuts across my face at the most inopportune time. So easy, any damn fucker usually stops and obliges trusting us implicitly, passers by, anyone in fact. The slap stings my skin I can feel the heat of it burning through me. “Got something to laugh about. Like when you mugged my boyfriend.” The harshness of her voice is like that of the insane. I’d know the stranger’s voice but he isn’t here. “Girlfriend?” Perhaps I can keep her talking. “He mentioned you,” “Shut the fuck up,” murmurs the man. “No one asked you to talk.” I’m left with a vast hole of knowledge - knowledge I’ll never find the answers to. The van stops again, lurching forward. I hear the front door slam as the driver jumps out. The rear doors are opening as I’m pushed forward into ground. “Help, help,” I scream surely someone will hear me. The slow demonic cackle fills my ears. I scream some more not wanting to believe it is useless. The searing pain stabs into my ribs. I’m picked up and flung onto the ground again. I hear my phone. This time it vibrates. This time they answer it again. “Cas,” I hear Tania cry. 109

“Tania help,” The gunshot in the air makes my heart want to explode. I hear Tania scream until someone stamps on my phone. The sound is gone forever. “Bitch,” the girlfriend’s voice poisons my ears. “Want to play our game? Cos this is the last time you fucking mess around with anyone again. No one ever warn you that you should be careful who the hell you pick on. We’ll be watching you, anytime and you won’t know who the fuck we are.” “No,” I yell out writhing in agony as my arm is wrenched back Uncontrollable sobbing erupts from me. The kicks in my shin are killing me. “Not so brave now,” I hear the Scottish man say. “Don’t want to play,” Hands rip off the rope from my arms. “Next time, you’re fucking dead. Pass that on to your mates” The shock takes a while to register. The noise of doors slamming only registers once the van is down the road. I tear off the blindfold with my good arm. Still sobbing and shaking, my eyes adjust to the dimming light and the endless country lanes. Battered and bruised, my phone is on the side lines. I can’t stop. Must move though my head is shaking. With horror I realize I can’t tell anyone because they know me and I don’t know them. Walking, keep walking until someone comes, until I see a phone box. The game is over. I lost.

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John Weagly John Weagly lives in Chicago, a city that rumbles. He’s had over 25 plays produced by theaters across the US and over 50 short stories and poems published in a variety of mediums. “The Undertow of Small Town Dreams,” a collection of his short stories, is available from Twilight Tales Publications. www.johnweagly.com. 111

LONG DISTANCE RUMBLES Trains rumbled through my head. I could feel them bore into my ear, crunching through the bone so they could get into my skull. Then they would hammer through my brain, hitting each out-of-the-way switching station that existed in my cerebellum. They’d screech. They’d smash. They’d splinter. Finally, when the passing was finished, they would exit my other ear. Then I would have eight minutes of silence, eight minutes until the next train came crashing through like a bullet. * In early April, in the eight hundred block of Chicago Avenue, I found a pistol. It was in an alley, behind a Dumpster, in a puddle of rain. I was walking, collecting job applications. I took a shortcut. The sun was out, but it had stormed the night before and puddles still marked the city here and there. A block away, an elevated train rumbled. I noticed the handle of the gun behind the Dumpster’s wheel. April showers can bring whatever you want them to bring. When I got home, I looked inside the gun, cracked it open. One bullet was missing. Here’s what I think happened: Someone was running from something, a robbery or a murder, and they wanted to get rid of evidence. They threw the gun away and kept running. And I found it. The city can be a scary place. There are a lot of people and you don’t know who they are or what they’re up to. A gun can be a good thing to have. * Through rumbles I heard ringing. My phone was an old, red one that ringed instead of beeped. It hadn’t been hooked up for very long. “Hello?” I said from the other side of half-closed eyes. “Were you asleep?” the voice said. It was female. “No.” I’d gotten home from job hunting and sat down on my couch. I didn’t remember nodding off. I don’t know why I lied. There’s nothing wrong with taking an occasional nap. It’s not a crime. The gun was sitting in my lap. “Too much sleep is a sign of depression. People sleep because they don’t want to be awake.” 112

“I wasn’t...” “I didn’t mean to wake you.” A train went past my window. The click clack click of metal wheels on metal rails sounded like the shrieking of the dead. “Do you live on the El tracks?” the voice asked. I was surprised she could hear it. My phone carried more than I realized. Telephones baffle me. I’ve never understood how a teeny-tiny wire can carry someone’s voice across thousands of miles and make it sound like that person is in the room with you. It just doesn’t make sense. “Hello?” “Sorry,” I said. “I got distracted. Who is this?” “Is Clara there?” “No.” “Do you know when she’ll be back?” “There is no Clara,” I said. “You have a wrong number.” “Is this 856-8000?” “Yes.” There was a pause. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to say more. I twisted the receiver cord around my finger. “Oh my God,” the voice said. “I’m so sorry. This is Clara’s old number, before she moved in with Mark.” “That’s okay.” “I didn’t realize they reassigned numbers so fast.” I didn’t say anything. “Sorry to bother you,” she said. Then she hung up. * The next time the phone rang, I was awake. “Is Clara there?” It was a guy. “This is Clara’s old number,” I said, “before she moved in with Mark.” “Do you know Clara?” “Yes,” I lied. “She’s pretty,” I added. “I’ll say. All that blonde hair. She’s somethin’.” “Yes.” “Where do you know Clara from?” “Here and there.” “Some of us are starting to get worried,” he said. “We haven’t seen her for a while.” “That’s too bad.” “When’s the last time you saw her?” “I haven’t seen her for a while, a long, long while. It seems like forever.” 113

“I hope she’s okay.” “Me, too.” “Sorry to bother you,” the voice said. Then he hung up. * I interviewed at a cereal factory for a job working with marshmallows. I talked to a guy named James. The factory was on the outskirts of the city. I had to take the train to and from the interview. * I kept getting calls for Clara. Some were from her friends; some were from people that seemed to barely know her. Sometimes I pretended I knew Clara, sometimes I didn’t. I looked forward to the wrong numbers. I liked talking to the people who knew her. I gathered information. “She moved up here to be an actress,” a female voice told me. “Was she good?” The voice laughed. “That didn’t matter. It was what she wanted to do and she was going to do it no matter what.” “She was determined.” “She did some plays in high school and some people told her she was talented, so she decided to try her luck. When she got here, she didn’t really do much. Some of us went to see her in a David Mamet thing at a storefront.” “A storefront?” “One of those small theaters? They used to be retail, now they’re art palaces?” I’d seen them here and there. “I don’t go to plays,” I said. “The play wasn’t very good, but she was okay.” I found out that she and Mark became a quick item. “She met him at Starbuck’s that’s where she worked,” a man’s voice said. “That’s where I met her, too,” I lied. “I like coffee.” “He was a regular, stopping in everyday. After a while he asked her out.” “And she said yes.” “The first time she brought Mark around to meet all of us, we weren’t nuts about him. We went to this Mexican place for Margaritas. Mark was polite, but you could kind of tell he didn’t want to be there. Like he didn’t really care for us.” “Maybe he didn’t care for the Margaritas,” I said. “Maybe,” the voice agreed. I was told about Mark and Clara moving in together. 114

“It was so fast,” a female voice told me. “We were all a little skeptical, but it seemed to be what she wanted.” “Then it was good,” I said. “No! It wasn’t! Right after she moved in with him, Mark told her she should give up her theater hobby.” “Her hobby?” “That’s what he called it. He told her that there were just too many actresses in Chicago, that no matter how talented she was she’d always get lost in the shuffle. He said he was telling her because he believed in her and didn’t want to see her get hurt.” From the things the wrong numbers said to me, from talking to the people who knew Clara, I grew to know Clara, too. * Listening to Clara’s dreams, I was reminded of my own. Futures trading was invented in Chicago. This is what prompted me to move to the City of Big Shoulders. I wasn’t crazy, I knew I wouldn’t just walk into the Chicago Mercantile Exchange and be handed a million dollars. I thought I’d get a job as an office boy or in the mail room and then work my way up. I’d have my first million by the time I was forty. The apartment I found was a single room with a kitchenette along one wall and a bathroom in the corner, no curtains and tile instead of carpet. Elevated trains passed by right outside my window. I thought, “This place is perfect! It’s so urban! True rags to riches!” It was just me, my future fortune and the sounds of the thriving metropolis. It wasn’t as perfect as I thought. I didn’t become an office boy at the Merc. I didn’t get a job in the mailroom at the Chicago Board of Trade. I couldn’t get as much as an interview anywhere in the financial district. All I had to hope for was working with marshmallows. And the elevated trains never stopped. Every time a train went past, every time I heard the screech and scream, every time my skull tore open, I felt a little bit of me leaving. My convictions climbed onto each of those trains and went to who knows where. Honestly, can anybody trade on the future? * “Is Clara there?” the voice said. Another female. “No. Sorry.” “I think something’s happened to her.” “What do you mean?” 115

“I think something bad has happened to Clara.” The voice hung up. My phone didn’t ring for a while after that. * I waited. And waited. And waited. I was supposed to go in for a second interview at the cereal factory, but I didn’t feel up to it. I stayed home and sat and stared at the phone like a cheerleader without a prom date. “I think something bad has happened to Clara.” What did that mean? What had happened to her? Was Clara still alive? I slept sitting up, with the phone in my lap. Finally, two days later, the phone rang. “Were you asleep?” the voice said. It was female. “No.” “They found Clara’s body.” I swallowed. “Was it Mark?” Silence. “Did he shoot her?” More silence. “Are you Clara?” The line went dead. A train flew by my window, screaming towards its destiny. * I checked the papers. They found Clara in an alley. Behind a Dumpster. In the eight hundred block of Chicago Avenue. According to the White Pages, she and Mark had moved to 808 Chicago. The same block where I’d found the gun. Clara had one bullet in her. I looked at my pistol. Clara’s calls started right after I found the weapon. Did it mean anything? Was it a coincidence? Was my gun an instrument for talking to people far away, but farther than the other side of town or even the other side of the world? The phone rang one more time after that. “It’s all up to you,” was all that was said. * I dressed in the same outfit I’d been wearing to job interviews, jeans and a dress shirt. I left the shirt un-tucked so I could hide the gun in my waistband. 116

It wasn’t hard getting into the building; I waited outside until one of the tenants got home and then followed them in. I took the elevator up to the apartment. I knocked. A man with short dark hair and glasses opened the door. He was wearing shorts and a t-shirt. I guessed he didn’t plan on going outside. “Are you Mark?” I asked. “Yes.” “Is Clara here?” “Do I know you?” “No.” Something crawled across Mark’s face. I couldn’t tell if it was sorrow, guilt or confusion. “She’s gone.” “Gone?” “She’s dead.” I looked at him for a moment and let him look at me. “I know.” The muscles in Mark’s jaw tightened. “Are you a cop?” “I’m Clara’s friend,” I said. I took the gun out of my waistband. “Is this yours?” Mark’s eyes widened. “Where did you find that?” I raised the pistol. Mark started to close the door, but before he could I shot him in the face. The blast sounded like the earth exploding. In the distance, a train was going somewhere. I was surprised I could hear it. I’d always assumed gunshots were louder than trains.

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Adrian Magson Shortlisted in the Crime Writers Association Debut Dagger Award 2001, Adrian’s first crime novel ‘No Peace For The Wicked’ was published in November 2004, and is the first in a series featuring a young female investigative reporter, Riley Gavin, and her sidekick, former military policeman Frank Palmer. The second, ‘No Help For The Dying’, came out in September 2005, and in a review in The Guardian was described as: "Gritty and fast-paced detecting of the traditional kind, with a welcome injection of realism." The third in the Riley Gavin/Frank Palmer series – ‘No Sleep For The Dead’ – came out on the 3rd August 2006. 118

CALL-OUT ‘No job yet, Sal?’ Terry, my young half-brother and professional layabout poked his nose round the corner of my kitchen to see if there were any free drinks going. There weren’t, so he had to settle for coffee instead. ‘No.’ It came out resentfully and I wondered what he wanted. Asking after his big sister’s welfare wasn’t his strong point, and he’d phoned first before coming round. That meant the visit wasn’t casual. He slumped on the sofa, eyes revolving like marbles, and I waited for the pitch. Whenever he was nervous, about to tell a lie or ask for money, his eyes would go runabout. Most of the family had grown wise to it, as had his small and shifty circle of mates. Terry was what some referred to as a career suspect. He acted bent, looked bent and how he’d escaped doing time was beyond me. At twenty-five, he was five years and a whole generation younger than me. Maybe that’s why we’d never been very close. I shoved his coffee at him and walked over to the window and looked down onto the busy street below. It wasn’t palatial, being a spit from the wrong end of Holland Park Avenue, but Terry thought it was the dog’s biscuits. He shared quarters and bacteria near King’s Cross with three lads who thought having a front door bell was the height of sophistication. ‘What do you want?’ I asked him ‘Umm… I thought I could put something your way,’ he mumbled. Here it comes, I thought. What will it be - a certain winner or some hooky goods off a passing lorry? Either way, it would be too good to be true, like most of his tips and ideas. ‘There’s a… business opportunity,’ he managed. ‘You might want to get in on the ground.’ ‘How much?’ My cynicism must have been obvious, because he looked affronted. 'What do you mean?’ ‘This business opportunity. What is it and how much?’ He jumped to his feet, losing half his coffee in the process. It was a sure sign he was about to throw a pitch. Terry never pitches sitting down - it’s a habit he’d got into. With his dodgy circle of acquaintances, being ready to run was probably good business practice. ‘These mates,’ he said, ‘have got a line in imported security 119

equipment – from Holland.’ The way he said Holland made everything sound legitimate. ‘Security equipment?’ I knew a little bit about that kind of thing, but there were many different kinds. ‘What kind?’ ‘Lights… alarms - that sort.’ He grinned. ‘I figured you’d know about that, what with your job ‘n all… well, your old job.’ He tailed off, remembering he’d just reminded me of my recent departure from Her Majesty’s Royal Military Police. Victim of jobs cuts, would you believe. Surplus to requirements after budget re-evaluations, along with several colleagues and goodness knows how many others throughout the armed forces. I was suddenly fed up with the small flat and needed a drink, even if the only company was my half-bent half-brother. ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘You can buy me a gin and tonic and tell me all about it.’ I poked him in the chest. ‘But that doesn’t mean yes’ We went to the Washington, one of those private drinking clubs that are still about if you know where to look. This one was down some steps, through a heavy door, and in what probably used to be the servants’ quarters of a regency-style house not far from the park. I’d been introduced to it by an old boyfriend, and had found it a lot safer and convenient than any of the pubs in the area. There weren’t many customers when we arrived; a few lone regulars and a couple of local boys cooking up a deal or two. They stopped and stared when they saw me, and I wondered if it was because I was a woman and therefore something to be stared at, or because it was true that once a cop always a cop - even of the military kind. I certainly didn’t try to look like one, but maybe there’s something in the air that we never quite lose. Whatever, these two suddenly got nervous and decided to go and find something important to do elsewhere. ‘Sorry, Bill,’ I said to the owner. He knew of my background but didn’t care. As long as I didn’t smash the furniture he was happy. ‘No, probs, Sal,’ he said easily. ‘They were about due to be tossed, anyway, bloody entrepreneurs. Couldn’t even spell the word.’ He gave Terry a leery look, and I wondered if the customers’ nervousness had actually been generated by Terry, not me. ‘What’ll it be?’ ‘It’s a dead cert,’ Terry said for the third time, as we found seats in one corner. He sank his beer and looked hopefully at me for a refill, and I caught Bill’s eye. ‘Let me get this straight,’ I said, after he’d explained every120

thing. ‘Your mates bring in these security alarms from Holland, and you tout them round the housing estates and sell them doorto-door?’ He nodded proudly, as if he’d invented plutonium. It smelled suspiciously like too much hard work for my work-shy brother, but I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. For now, anyway. ‘So what about all the other systems on the market?’ He didn’t even blink. I doubt he’d even considered it. ‘Bernie, my mate, used to work for one of the big operators,’ he replied. ‘He can carry out installations the same day. Jack’s the money man – he deals with the pricing. We sell fifty percent below anything you can get from the shops.’ The Holy Grail of selling. Flog it cheap enough and some mug will buy it. Mind you, not far from here were some monster housing estates where buying off the back of a lorry was the established way of supporting your local industry. ‘So what’s the hook?’ I asked. ‘Crime,’ Terry responded, sharp as a knife. ‘It’s on the increase, isn’t it?’ he continued quickly, seeing my look, ‘and there’s estates round here where they’re being specifically targeted by gangs exploiting the absence of domestic and personal home security systems.’ I stared at him. When Terry uses anything longer than two syllables, he has to breath in and out before reaching the end. This sudden burst of loquacity showed he’d been coached. Presumably by somebody with a lot of patience. ‘So what do you need me for?’ I asked, although I could guess. His shifty eyes rolled. ‘Well, we - I… need some capital,’ he said. ‘Y’see, Bernie and Jack put up the cash to buy the first lot of kit a couple of months back. That went like ice melting. Now we need more, but the supplier wants cash up front. Bernie said if I get the money, they’ll make me a full partner.’ He paused. ‘They want five grand by tomorrow.’ It smelled higher than a vanload of dodgy prawns, but I couldn’t see what the scam was unless they were planning to do a runner with the money. Somehow, though, I didn’t think even Terry’s mates would be stupid enough to do that for a mere five grand. I shook my head. ‘Sorry, Terry - I don’t have that sort of cash.’ After ten years in the army, I wasn’t exactly rolling in money, and so far my job interviews had produced a stunning silence. Any spare cash I had was geared towards keeping my 121

head above water. He looked crushed, and I realised he’d been depending on me coming up with the resources to help out. ‘What happens if you don’t get the money?’ His face said it all. ‘They paid me a starter to tide me over, see… so I could start selling the gear and the appointments for the installations. Only now the first load of gear’s gone and they – we need to re-stock before the supplier goes elsewhere and closes us off. They had another partner a few months back… but he walked in front of a car one night.’ ‘That was unlucky,’ I said. We were interrupted by two shadows looming over our table. When Terry looked up his eyes went runabout. ‘Hi, fellas,’ he squeaked, and pretended them turning up wasn’t a big coincidence. I should have confiscated his mobile. ‘Sal, this is Bernie and Jack.’ I looked up and saw two characters out of a bad film. One was balding and heavy-set, with the kind of face that had been used to dig holes. The other was the same, only taller. Both wore smart suits and ties, and the sort of shoes Terry wouldn’t even begin to know where to buy. Back-street rough in top designer gear. The one I guessed was Bernie – the shorter one – nodded and stared at me with gimlet eyes. His hands were hanging down by his side, and I could see they were used to manual work; he’d scraped his knuckles recently on a rough surface. ‘Sal,’ he growled. ‘I didn't know Terry had a sister.’ He didn’t bother shaking hands. His voice was high-pitched and nasal, and as he spoke, I caught a glimpse of teeth that looked too good to be true. Maybe some of the rough surfaces had fought back. ‘Sal was in the Military Police,’ Terry said excitedly, and I wanted to smack him. What was he trying to do - empty the place even further? ‘Really?’ This was Jack. He didn’t look impressed, and seemed more interested in trying to see what I kept under my blouse. ‘My cousin Stan was a Redcap,’ he said. ‘When he joined up, his dad lost the will to live. Said the idea of having a copper in the family made him feel sick.’ I ignored the jibe and decided I didn’t like them enough to give them the time of day, much less any of my money - Terry or not. I left him to his business partners and went back to the flat. I was suddenly feeling depressed. Depressed at the thought of 122

Terry leading the existence he led, and wondering how far I was behind joining him if something didn't turn up. I called a contact who ran a job search agency for ex-army personnel. He had the usual vacancies, and I rang off when he tried selling me the idea of patrolling a shopping centre in Romford. Next I called a name I’d been given by the adjutant when I left the army. It was a firm specialising in employing ex-MPs for close protection work. I was reluctant to take it anywhere, but with funds dwindling and no promise on the horizon, it didn’t look like I’d got much choice. ‘We’ve been waiting for your call, Miss Brent,’ the man on the other end said. ‘If you’re free, we’ve got an assignment for you. Hot weather casual.’ He meant the clothing. ‘Good female personnel are in high demand at the moment. Pop in this week and we’ll brief you.’ ‘Hot weather,’ I said. ‘You mean Iraq?’ ‘No,’ he said crisply. ‘Southern Europe. You could do it standing on your head.’ I agreed an appointment and rang off, and decided to go out and buy myself some new clothes. The retail therapy might help lift my spirits. I was late back and called into the Washington for a nightcap and some idle chat with Bill. Everybody was talking about a spate of burglaries on a nearby estate, and one drinker had had his house turned over. He had lost a DVD player and other nicknacks, and his wife was screaming about some missing jewellery. It seemed they weren’t the only ones. ‘I thought we’d seen the last of it,’ the offended victim moaned. ‘It all went quiet for a week or two, now they’ve started up again!’ ‘After the last lot, I got one of them alarm systems,’ another man announced. ‘They’d have to be mental to try getting past that.’ ‘As long as it doesn’t keep going off,’ a third man muttered. ‘I got one and it kept clanging off in the middle of the night. Bloody thing cost me a small fortune in call-outs.’ ‘What about the guarantee?’ the burglary victim asked. The other man lowered his voice. ‘Well, it was cheap, wasn’t it? Installation promised the same day… but no guarantees. They say it keeps the prices down. The engineer reckoned it was probably kids chucking stones at the casing that set it off.’ I spotted Terry as he came in, but he didn’t see me and 123

made a bee-line for the group of burglary victims. He soon had their attention, and when I caught the word ‘installation’ I knew what he was up to. Then he spotted me and nearly bolted. He recovered and strutted over. ‘Sal – hi!’ he said. Up close, he looked sick, and for the first time ever I realised he was actually frightened of me. ‘Business good?’ I asked. He grinned faintly. ‘Yeah. Picking up, in fact.’ The smell of dodgy prawns came back and I leaned towards him. ‘So I hear. There’s nothing like a bit of fear to create a market, is there?’ He pretended he didn’t know what I meant, so I put my glass down and gripped his hand hard. ‘You’re a fool, Terry,’ I told him. ‘Those two mates of yours are going to get you in so much trouble, you’ll never wash the smell off.’ ‘What-?’ He swallowed and backed away. ‘I don’t know what you mean, Sal.’ ‘Of course not. Just as a matter of interest, Terry – who do the customers see in your little enterprise?’ He thought for a second. ‘Well… me - and Bernie when he does the installations.’ ‘And the repairs?’ ‘Bernie does them, too.’ Next morning I was woken by a loud hammering on the door. It was Bernie and Jack. They were dressed casual and looked annoyed. Before I could say anything Bernie placed his meaty hand in the middle of my chest and propelled me backwards down the hall. They both followed very quickly, and Jack slipped past me into the living room. ‘Where’s he gone, little girl?’ Bernie breathed, sinuses whistling like a boiling kettle. ‘Where’s who?’ It was obviously Terry they were after. The slap was light, but still enough to hurt my shoulder. ‘Your poxy brother, that’s who we mean, Miss Redcap,’ he snarled. ‘And just for your information, I do hit women.’ I tried to back away to give myself more room, but forgot about Jack. He nudged me with his shoulder, pinning me against the wall. All the breath went out of my lungs, and I wondered how I’d ever let myself get so sloppy. My old instructors would have been ashamed of me. ‘The little toe-rag’s gone missing,’ grated Bernie. ‘And he owes us some money.’ 124

Jack moved in on the other side. ‘Problem is, little girl, if we don’t get it from him we’ll have to get it from you instead.’ To reinforce the point, he lashed out with his foot making a dent in the plaster. ‘Understand?’ Then they left. My instincts were to leave Terry to it and go find my overseas assignment. But I couldn’t. He was my half-brother, and I felt a responsibility towards him. I decided to go looking for him before he ended up buried under someone’s patio. Bill said he hadn’t been into the Washington, and a couple of customers looked a bit leery when I walked in, so I guessed the word was out. That afternoon I went shopping up west and returned with a couple of packages. They’d cost a bit, but I reckoned I could use them elsewhere and write them off to tax. Later that evening I went back to the Washington. I spotted the burglary victim, who was burbling away about the new alarm system he’d just bought. I bent his ear for a few minutes, and after buying him a couple of drinks, followed him round to his house a few streets away in the middle of a large, anonymous estate. He provided a ladder, and I had the bright red alarm box off his wall in seconds. Then I unwrapped my packages and spent a few seconds at work before replacing the cover. I shimmied back down and disappeared, swearing him to silence. Then I found a quiet corner in a side street where I couldn’t be overlooked, and waited in my car with a flask of coffee. An hour later, as the pubs were emptying, an alarm went off in the distance. I drove through the streets, following the sound. A man was standing outside a large semi scratching his head and staring up at the wall, where an alarm box was trying to jump off the brickwork. On either side curtains twitched as neighbours looked to see what was up. I stopped the car with a view of the house and waited. Twenty minutes later, a plain van carrying a set of ladders pulled up and a bulky figure climbed out and hammered on the door. I began snapping away in the dark with one of my new toys. The householder came out and I could hear his voice raised in complaint. The new arrival nodded and took the ladders down from the van. As he stepped through a pool of light, I recognised Bernie. Seconds later the noise stopped and Bernie shinned back down the ladder. When he reached the bottom he stuffed something in his pocket. The happy householder handed him some notes, and off he went. 125

I followed at a distance, and he led me to another estate, where another bell was ringing. I stayed long enough to see him at work, then left. The following morning Terry turned up with a large bruise on his cheek and a limp. He’d obviously bumped into Jack and Bernie. ‘They say I owe them the money,’ he moaned. ‘Either that or I work for free until the same amount’s paid off.’ I shook my head and led him round to a camera shop, where I had a word with the manager and handed him my new camera. He came back a while later and led us over to a large PC, where an image was displayed. It showed a man on a ladder against the side of a house. Terry’s jaw dropped when he recognised Bernie. I grabbed his arm in case he bolted, and asked the manager to run off some prints. Then I dragged Terry round to the local nick, where we had a meeting with a Detective Sergeant I knew named Slaney. Being anywhere near a police station went against all Terry’s instincts, but with a bit of sisterly prodding and a few threats, he finally coughed up everything he knew. ‘Interesting,’ said Slaney, staring at my camera, imageintensifier and prints on the interview table. A colleague he’d introduced as an electronics expert was studying the pictures of the alarm system with a deep frown. ‘I’d need to see one close up,’ he murmured. ‘But it looks to me like there’s some kind of secondary circuit in there… designed to go off at intervals.’ Slaney shook his head, quick to catch on. ‘Clever. They do a few burglaries to create a market, get the punters to buy their alarms… then wait for these chips to set off the bell so they get called out to fix it at a premium charge. The householders are so grateful by the instant response, they don’t even twig.’ ‘And they can do that as often or as regularly as the punters will stand it,’ the electronics expert said. ‘They could pre-set these things to go off every year without fail. Get a few hundred of these going off annually, and you’ve got a nice regular income. Money for old rope… I almost wish I’d thought of it.’ Two hours later, we were back at the flat, and Jack was being interviewed by the local police. Bernie had ducked out of sight before they could get to him. ‘What d’you reckon will happen next?’ Terry asked. Now he’d had a chance to think about things, he was terrified Bernie would come looking for him. 126

‘I’ve no idea,’ I said honestly. I was about to suggest he try moving to a safer part of the country when the front door caved in. Bernie shouldered into the room like an enraged bull, his face red and bringing in a strong smell of booze. He had a pickaxe handle in his fist and looked ready to use it. Terry moaned quietly and sank into a chair, and I suddenly felt sorry for him. He was out of his depth with these people, but didn’t have the brains to see it. Bernie’s first swing demolished the sideboard, spraying splinters of wood across the room. The second went through a coffee table. When he looked at me, I knew I was next, and being a woman didn’t count. I was instantly transported to a pub near Frankfurt which had been popular with squaddies. It had a series of rooms not much bigger than this, and was invariably full unless NATO manoeuvres were going on, when trade suffered and everybody was living in tents for days at a time. Otherwise, fighting was laid on nightly and you only went in if you knew you could handle it. Unfortunately, MPs didn't have any choice in the matter. I’d had to do my fair share, because women MPs had the same training as men and none of us wanted a soft ride. Nor could we allow anyone to threaten our authority. And in my mind’s eye, Bernie suddenly had on a uniform and was calling me out. And that wasn’t allowed. The pickaxe handle hissed past my shoulder and smacked into the wall behind me. Bernie expected me to back away, or maybe he thought I’d go all soft and wobbly and run screaming out the door. Instead I ducked in close and hit him once under the chin with my elbow, clicking his expensive porcelain together. As he grunted with surprise and pain, I took his wrist and pulled hard, yanking him off balance, then spun my hip against him and bent over. It was one of the simplest throws, but effective. Bernie gave a surprised howl and landed hard on the remains of the coffee table. Before he could get up, I took the pickaxe handle and smacked him behind the ear. ‘Call Slaney,’ I said to Terry, throwing him my mobile. ‘Last dial.’ I gulped in air and tried not to be sick. Adrenalin does that sometimes, which is not something they ever mention in films. I suppose heroes or heroines throwing up after a fight isn’t good box-office. ‘And tell him if this carries on, I’ll be expecting a commission for all the villains I’m catching for him.’ Terry stared at me, then Bernie’s prone figure, as if I’d suddenly changed into Cat Woman. Then he nodded obediently and 127

went through to the kitchen to make the call. I used up half a roll of Cellotape on Bernie’s arms and legs, then sighed and sat down to wait for the police. It was quiet in the room apart from Bernie’s nasal breathing, and I found myself thinking about the job interview and the money I could be earning. Hot weather casual, the man had said. Hot weather would be nice. Casual, too. On the other hand, he’d also said women personnel were in high demand, which meant it was a seller’s market. Good thing, too; it looked like I might have to stick around here for a while…

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TK Dan TK Dan lives in Newcastle. He is currently working on a novel featuring his previous Bullet short story character Pasty.

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DAY OF THE GEEK Now Two a.m.- pissing down, my hands blistered, my back breaking, breathless and caked in mud, I begin to lose heart. I look back through the trees and into the headlights of the stationary car. “Enough?” I call out. “No, keep going,” a desperate, disembodied voice from the darkness. “Fuck,” I mutter, gritting my teeth, taking up the spade again and driving it down into the glutinous heavy clay. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Four weeks earlier I was at work when I heard. The lunchtime news, the smug bastard of a newsreader had more than a little glee in his voice. “James McLeod, the last surviving member of the 1975 Heathrow Diamond Robbery gang has died in prison. Nicknamed Max the Axe, he was notorious in gangland for…” Forgot what I was doing. It took the punter shouting at me to bring me back into the room. “Fucks sake mate! I like a full pint but that’s just taking the piss.” I looked down, Guinness, black and creamy, cascading over the top of the glass onto my hands. Helen rang me later that night. A heart attack, a massive heart attack, could have happened at any time. The funeral was Tuesday. “What the bloody hell do you want to go and do that for?” My mother, she’d never understood, never would. I shrugged, and neatly folded a black silk tie and put it in the suitcase with my suit. She sat in the kitchen of our tiny council flat brooding over her piss weak tea, as I rummaged around in a basket of washing looking for a shirt that would stand another outing. “It was bad enough you going off to visit him all the time, but at least you kept it private.” Yeah, that’s what you think, I thought, nine hundred hits in the last week alone and now, well… who knew? Everyone loves you when you’re dead. And my mother was wrong. Plenty of people knew about me and Max the Axe, and even more would soon. “I mean the television and newspapers will be there. What are people going to say if they see you there? Bloody computer.” 130

Bloody computer indeed, I thought, thank God for the bloody computer. I’ve always loved them. It started at school, lunchtime computer club with Mr. Gregory. I’d gone as a way to keep out of the way of the other kids. A failing inner city comp is no place to be at lunchtime when you’re the freak, the weirdo, the geek, the loner. And that was me. That was Alan O’Rourke; or Anorak as they christened me. That was Alan O’Rourke. Was in the past tense. Not now. Not now thanks to the wonders of the information technology revolution. Thing is, computers are my bag. I’m a natural with them, at one with them; understand them better than I’ve ever understood people. Back then, within three months I was better than any pupil or teacher in that shit hole comp. And they knew it, just left me to my own devices, embarrassed by their own incompetence. It was natural I’d want to work with them when I left, but I ended up in some poxy job with the council. I was a ‘user advisor’, which mainly consisted of holding the hands of old biddies too scared to switch them on “in case I break it.” It bored me shitless. I packed it in and went to work in the pub instead, waiting for something better to turn up. I waited for a long time. But it turned up in the end. I decided to start a website just to keep my hand in, and to fill some empty hours. Anything was better than just sitting in front of the box with the old girl, watching hour after hour of soaps and makeover shows. Only thing was, I wasn’t sure what to do the website on. What else was I interested in apart from computers? I found my answer one quiet Wednesday afternoon in the High Street. There were shouts, an alarm bell ringing, more shouts and a car furiously revving its engine. I turned to see what was happening and couldn’t believe my eyes. Two guys, black balaclavas, sawn off 12 bores and holdalls, struggling to get in the back of a silver BMW. A couple of women screamed, the driver gunned the car engine and went to shoot off, but one of the robbers was still stood at the back passenger door shouting. “Where’s Davey? Where’s Davey? Not without Davey!” The car 131

tried to take off into the mid afternoon traffic but the guy at the back door banged on the top of the roof with the butt of his gun, which went off with a deep bass boom, emptying its load into the grey overcast sky. More women screaming, people hitting the floor or diving behind corners to take cover but I just stood there transfixed, enthralled. Mouth open, eyes agog. Another man, in a balaclava came flying round the corner, a security guard in hot pursuit. A wail of sirens was now swelling somewhere in the distance. “Wait,” screamed the man at the back door of the car. The latecomer, Davey I presumed, turned and aimed his shotgun at the security guard. “Don’t be fucking stupid!” he shouted, “It’s not your money!” But the security guard was not to done out of his moment. A lifetime of boredom and waiting had boiled down to this instant and he was not to be denied his opportunity for heroics. Davey shook his head as if he were sorry to have to do it, then nonchalantly lowered his gun and emptied both barrels into the security guards legs. He crumpled like a condemned tower block. The BMW screeched away North, along Gosforth High Street, the only sounds left the intensifying sirens approaching and the incredulous moaning and groaning of the security guard, repeating again and again, “I’ve been shot, I’ve been fucking shot.” It sounded like he was bragging. I didn’t stick around to give the police a witness statement. Just walked away. Buzzed. My head swimming with ideas. Gangsters. When I came to think of it; I’d always been fascinated by them. It started as a kid with a black sheep of an uncle. A drinker, a ladies man, a gambler, a waster… or a bon viveur, depending on your point of view. I was seven and ill on the couch with chicken pox, when he’d turned up late one night. Him and two heavies in brown pinstriped double breasted suits, with broad kipper ties, dripping with gold jewellery- sovereign rings and chunky bracelets- drenched in Old Spice and Brut. 132

“Need to borrow your kitchen for a while, sis,” he’d smiled at my mother while ruffling my hair. She was none too pleased, but also scared shitless and had simply nodded and pulled her dressing gown tighter around herself. They played cards all night. I remember going in to get a glass of milk, cutting my way through the whisky and cigar fumes and seeing the piles of banknotes casually, carelessly tossed on the table. And the men themselves. Huge. Powerful. Awesome. And then for days afterwards, when my uncle had disappeared again, all the hushed conversations my mother had with aunties, uncles, close friends- about the late night visitors, “friends of the Krays …” But the Krays had been done to death. I needed to do someone else, someone unique. I found my boys in a true crime book I bought from one of those cheap, remainder bookshops. There were only two pages on them but their story was fascinating. The Rough Diamonds- the gang responsible for the 1975 Heathrow Diamond Heist – and in particular James Alexander McLeod, Max the Axe. I can still remember the first photograph I saw of him. His features as sharp as the blades he carried. His eyes two jet black buttons staring straight back at the camera, dead, lifeless, intense. His red hair electric shock spiky. Born to a prostitute in Easterhouse Glasgow, he’d fetched up in Benwell Newcastle after his mother had rolled one too many clients, swindled one too many pimps. The maddest, baddest kid in Newcastle’s wild west end. In care by ten, borstal by 14, jail by 18. When he was released from that particular spell for razoring a rival over a gambling debt, he felt he’d “served his apprenticeship” and moved to London to get in with the big boys looking to fill the power vacuum left when the Krays went down. With his talent for violence and intimidation it wasn’t long before he was in gainful employment. And plenty of it. He became respected, liked- a face. Which is how he came to be in on the Heathrow job. Britain’s biggest jewellery theft. Three million quids worth of diamonds en-route from Rotterdam to New 133

York. Except the job went wrong. Halfway through the raid, security guards appeared. The alarm was sounded and there was a scramble to get away. As Jimmy clambered through a window, a security guard grabbed him by the leg and hauled him back in. Jimmy smacked him with a crow bar. “Ah didnae want to, but the boy gie me no choice.” Last out, he watched as the Transit with the diamonds in disappeared into the sunset, and the cops appeared on the horizon. Nicked. One week to the day later at a remand hearing he managed to overpower the escorting officers on the way back to the cells and escape. And that’s where the story gets really interesting. So furious was he with the rest of the gang that had left him “wi ma arse hinging oot just waitin’ for a shaftin’” that he tracked them down. One by one. With an axe. They finally found him back in Easterhouse, a prostitute in his bed, the axe under it. The diamonds nowhere to be seen. It had long been the subject of speculation. Who had them? Where were they? Jimmy coughed to the murders but claimed he never got to lay a finger on a single stone. Hence the murders. Hence my website www.roughdiamonds.co.uk. I don’t know how he found out about it. Maybe he just googled his name and up it popped, but the day I opened up my inbox to find an e-mail from one James Alexander McLeod, ranks as the most exciting in my life. He thought I’d done a good job, corrected me on a few facts and we began to correspond. Then he suggested I visit him in jail, for a face to face interview. I leapt at the chance. He liked me, trusted me. We became friends. I was even a guest at his prison wedding when he married Helen, a slim, sleek blonde, thirty years his junior, whom he’d met over the net. Me Anorak- the geek, the freak, the weirdo, the loner- mixing with the maddest and baddest of gangland.

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Now I was to be a mourner at his funeral. He’d wanted to go out in style. He’d left strict instructions. A carriage drawn by two jet black horses, the mourners to follow walking behind. East End style. I was in the second row - friends and associates - all looking like we’d stepped straight out of Reservoir Dogs. And despite my mother’s worries, I hoped that every single camera crew in the world would be trained on me walking along shoulder to shoulder with some of the most notorious killers and psychos this country has ever produced. The streets were packed, the crowds hushed in a respectful silence. Easterhouse had seen nothing like it. The funeral went well, barring one ugly incident just before the cemetery gates when a bystander, a man of around 60 with a Glasgow smile, a razor scar from ear to mouth, broke free from the onlookers, ran and spat at the carriage. Lucky for him that the police wrestled him away before we got to him. At the wake we drank enough whiskey to sink a battleship, laughed, wept, danced and sang. When I finally stumbled away in the early hours of the next morning, Helen had seen me out, holding me and sobbing like a child, begging me to stay in touch. I enfolded her in my arms, drawing her closer, feeling her svelte body against mine; drinking in the scent of her sweet perfume. Feeling myself harden against her, I promised her that if there was anything I could do for her, anything, she only had to ask. She turned up three weeks and six days later. Came into the pub, just before closing time. The last of the punters chucked out, the doors locked and the boss cashing up in the office, I poured us both a large Jack Daniels and coke and took it across to the corner table where she sat preoccupied and morose, wreathed in smoke from a Marlborough Light. She’d said she’d been in town visiting friends and thought she would look me up. I can’t say I was disappointed. I handed her the glass and she raised it to mine, “To better times,” 135

she murmured. We chinked glasses and I sat down. “It’s good to see you, Helen,” I said. She lowered her eyes, tapped the ash from her cigarette, smiled sadly and looked up at me. “It hasn’t been easy,” she said. I nodded as if I understood and cast around in my mind for something to say, “Anything I can help with?” It sounded weak, glib. She lowered her eyes again, a pregnant silence fell between us. I watched her intently. Finally she looked back up, her head to one side, “Can I trust you Alan? Really?” “You have to ask?” I said looking her straight in the eye. She held my gaze for a moment or two then turned to the handbag beside her and rummaged around, eventually producing a small padded envelope. She took a quick furtive look around the bar, checking that we really were alone, then slid it across the table to me. I looked at it then looked at her. She nodded towards the envelope, indicating I should open it. Carefully, I delved inside and took out a CD. “Elton John,” I said flatly raising my eyebrows. She smiled ruefully, “I’m afraid Jimmy, lovely man though he was, had terrible taste in music.” She took the CD case from my hand, placed it on the table and, still with cigarette in hand, opened the case. She carefully slid out the inlay card and opened it up to reveal another CD hidden in its folds. She carefully picked it up, by its edges and showed it to me. I looked back blankly, waiting for some sort of explanation. She laid it carefully on top of the table, “On my last few visits, Jimmy told me he had written everything down, everything, and was storing it; burning it to CD. You know what a computer nut he became in the last couple of years. It was the only course he showed any interest in the whole time he was in there. Which is how he ended up meeting you; and me for that matter,” she paused for a moment looking wistful, “He said he was keeping it hidden among the few music CDs he had.” She tapped the CD with a perfectly manicured, blood red fingernail, “This is the only one it can be.” “And?” I asked. She took a long draw on her cigarette, leant back and exhaled 136

slowly. “Jimmy’s official bank account holds, 37 pounds and forty two pence exactly. When we married he promised me we’d live in the lap of luxury once he got out. Said he’d take care of me no matter what. Now I don’t think he was bullshitting me, nor do I think he was planning another job.” It began to dawn on me, “The diamonds?” I asked incredulously. She shrugged and looked longingly at the CD, “Wish I could tell you. I’ve got to give the old bugger credit. It’s secure. Needs a password to access it.” She picked it up, looked at it then leant forward looking me straight in the eye. “A password the stupid old bastard forgot to tell me before he popped his clogs.” There were butterflies in my stomach and saliva thickened in my mouth. “Well?” she asked, still holding the CD in front of my face. I reached out and gently took the CD from her, enjoying this, a moment of glory. I studied the CD as if it were some interesting curio, then carefully placed it back in the case and closed it. “Leave it with me,” I said drawing the case towards me. Her hand shot out and grabbed me by the wrist tightly, “No!” she said panic stricken. I looked up at her surprised, released the CD and shrugged. She gave a nervous little smile and relaxed her grip on my wrist, but didn’t take her hand away, “Sorry,” she said, “but it’s all that I have.” Her thumb began to caress my forearm. “You do understand?” she asked. I nodded, leant forward taking both her hands in mine, rested my elbows on the table and looked into her eyes. “So what now?” I asked. “There’s a laptop back in my hotel room…” His security was laughable. I’d hacked in within five minutes. Helen who had been pacing up and down behind me, tumbler of whisky clamped in her hand was incredulous. “You’ve done it?” I nodded, stood up, gestured her to the laptop, went across to the mini bar, poured myself a generous scotch and then reclined on the bed. I watched her face lit by the LCD screen as she scanned through the documents on the computer. From time to time, she looked over to me, her face a portrait of wonderment and delight. I played it cool, not asking any questions, just drinking in the fact that I was 137

here, the saviour of the day, in an expensive hotel, with her. She clapped her hands with glee, looked at me again, her eyes alive with excitement. “It’s all here,” she said her fingers flying across the keyboard, “it’s all here.” She shut the computer down, came across and sat on the edge of the bed. She put out her hand and stroked the side of my face smiling. I went to make a move, but gently she stopped me. “Not yet,” she purred, “Not yet. You’re going to need all your strength for tomorrow.” “What do you mean not going in to work?” The old girl roused herself from the telly, ‘This Morning’ was blaring out, and looked at me. “I rang in sick.” “Why?” she asked suspiciously. “I’ve got to go somewhere.” “Where?” “None of your business,” I fired back. “You’ll end up losing that job,” she said grumbling and refocusing on the telly. “Good,” I muttered, stuffing a pair of stout boots into a holdall. She picked me up in her MX-5 and we set off for Kielder Forest. His instructions were clear and two hours later, looking like Dick and Dora off for a country hike, we parked the car and set off walking down a rough forest road. Half an hour later we were lakeside, by an abandoned cottage. “You reckon?” I asked. “Has to be,” she smiled, looking around her, the wind blowing strands of hair across her face. “He must have come this way on his way up to Scotland.” She looked around, trying to peel back the years and imagine Jimmy here. “Should I get the spade?” I asked. She shook her head, “No risks. Tonight. Late tonight.” Now 2:10 am - Finally the blade of the spade strikes something other than clay. There is the satisfying scrape of metal on metal and when I tap the top of the object there is a dead, hollow sound. “Helen!” I call out excitedly. I lean back for a moment wiping the sweat from my brow, feeling the dirt on my face being ground into my pores. There is the rustle of gore-tex and the cracking of twigs 138

as she hurries across from the car. I look up from the sizeable trench I have dug and grin, seeing her silhouetted above me. “It’s there?” she asks anxiously leaning forward and tucking a stray strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “Found something,” I reply, picking up the spade again and beginning to dig with renewed vigour. I scrape away the soil from the top of the box first, then use the spade to chop away the heavy clay either side of the box. Within ten minutes, I’m lifting it out; a black metal box about the dimensions of a lever arch file. I hand it up to Helen who quickly bustles away to the car with it. I haul myself up out of the trench and, beginning to feel the weariness of all the night’s exertions, slowly tramp back towards the car. My boots, heavy with clay and mud, seem to pick up every loose fallen leaf on the way. When I get to the car Helen is sitting in the driver’s seat, her legs out of the car with the box in her lap, fiddling with the catch. “Okay?” I ask panting, leaning over the open door. “Yeah, just got to get the catch,” she replies intent on the box. Breathless I step back, go to the front of the car and reach down for the day sac we brought with us. I find a bottle of diet coke, unscrew the top, sit back against the bonnet of the car and raise it to my lips. It’s flat and has the remnants of a cheese sandwich I ate earlier floating about in it bumping up against my pursed lips, but I don’t care. This time tomorrow I’ll be sipping champagne with Helen. I lift the bottle again, guzzle and look back towards the hole and the huge mound of earth still illuminated by the car’s headlights. I let out a snort of laughter. “Looks like I’ve dug somebody’s grave,” I call back over my shoulder to Helen. I hear a click and look around to see her stood, just out from the car door, legs akimbo, arms outstretched, a gun in her hands. “Funny you should say that,” she says flatly. I turn around chuckling, “Helen, what the fuck are you…” “Shut…the…fuck…up!” she commands slowly and deliberately. “I’ve put up with enough of your fucking prattle.”

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I look at her and the gun uncomprehendingly. This isn’t happening. I look from her to the gun, from the gun to her. I shake my head disbelievingly. “Is that real?” I ask. “As real as the diamonds in the box,” she says gloating, “Now it’s time for you to turn around and crawl back into the hole, you’ve just come from.” “But…” “DO IT!” she shrieks. Outraged, I eye her for a moment and begin to take the most tentative of steps towards her. This has to be some sort of joke, a misunderstanding. There is a sharp, crack and I feel a piercing pain shoot through my left upper arm. I reel backwards instinctively grabbing at my left bicep. Sticky. Blood, I raise my fingers to my face mesmerised by the red goo gluing itself to my fingers. “I’m not fucking around here,” she warns, “now turn around and walk.” I turn and begin to trudge back towards the hole, my brain on fire as I try to process this sharp turn of events. When I reach the edge of the hole I attempt to turn around to face her, but she will not allow it. “In!” she demands. I climb down into the hole. The wound in my arm has started to burn, and the blood seeps out mingling with sweat and dirt. The full horror of what is happening begins to sweep over me and I become clammy, nauseous as I realise this is no game, no glib ITV Monday night crime drama. This is the real deal. Once in the hole I slowly turn round to look up at the towering figure above me. Still with arms outstretched towards me, still with the gun in her hands. My judge, my jury, my executioner. I’m suddenly aware of a warm sensation in my left leg and realise I have pissed myself. I begin to shake uncontrollably, and start blubbering, snivelling, slobbering. No more a rough diamond , no more the gangster and his moll, I have been these last 24 hours but back to what I am. The essence of me- geek, freak, weirdo, lonerAlan O’ Rourke- Anorak. “Wh…why?” I whimper piteously, pleading looking up at her. She begins slowly. “Does the name Terry Winters mean anything to you?” she asks. I wrack my brains trying to place the name, hoping that if I remem140

ber it, then all of this madness might stop. Nothing. Timidly I shake my head, fearful of what my ignorance will bring. “Think harder,” she snarls, “after all you’re the expert on the 1975 Heathrow Diamond Robbery. You’re the authority on the ‘rough diamonds’” she sneers this last bit. Nothing comes. I stand mute, my hand clamped across my wounded arm. “Oh dear, oh dear,” she sighs, then another shot rings out into the forest night. My knee collapses and I fall face first, down to the floor of the hole. I writhe in agony as my brain registers excruciating pain. She begins slowly, venomously, “Terry Winters, was the name of the security guard who tried to stop James Alexander McLeod, or ‘Max the Axe’ as you so proudly call him, from escaping. Terry Winters, if your memory serves you well,” she says bitterly, “was beaten unconscious with an iron crow bar for his trouble. And Terry Winters was my father.” For a moment I forget the pain as I try to take this in. It can’t make sense. “Yes, Anorak,” she continues, “my father, who lived the rest of his days in a wheelchair as a vegetable, with my mother as his nursemaid, worn out, old before her time thanks to your hero ‘Max the Axe’. “She wouldn’t let him go into a home you see. Wanted to look after him herself. Always believed that with her love, her care, one day, one day, her Terry would come back. But he never did, no matter how much, pureed pap she spooned into his dribbling mouth. No matter how many shitty nappies she changed for him, no matter how many times she wiped his pile ridden arse, her Terry was gone. My dad was gone. And I made myself a promise. That somehow, someone would pay. So I got close to Jimmy. Sought him out, hooked him and reeled him in, pretending to be in awe of the hard man with a heart of gold. But all I ever had was the express intention of making that bastard suffer. One day when he got out, he’d suffer, but he died before I got the chance. “The diamonds well…they’re just a consolation prize. Chances are if he’d survived it would be him down in that hole now and you’d be at home, tippy tappying away on your computer.…” She re-cocks the gun. I begin begging, pleading, beseeching her. 141

“Which leaves, you, me and a gun,” she snorts, “You know Anorak, I don’t know who repulsed me the most in the end. That murdering bastard who must surely be rotting in hell as we speak... or you…with your slavering admiration for him.” My voice is no longer my own as I implore her for mercy. “Please, Helen, no, Helen, I’ll do anything you want.” She laughs, “And you really thought you had a chance with me…” she shakes her head disbelievingly. “Well here’s your consolation prize.” The last thing I see before she pulls the trigger for the third time, is her blowing me a kiss. Bitch.

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Lee Coombes Lee Coombes is currently appearing as wee willy winky at IKEA in Bristol reading fairytales to children eight (count them!) hours a day. He is a singer in cult band the martin baber killers. his stories have appeared in american magazine Exquisite Corpse and The fRENCH lITERARY rEVIEW. his play cabmaster has toured in europe and appeared in stuttgart foreign language theatre festival. he lives on his own in one bedroom flat in Bath, England. 143

BRASS Evening. November. The clocks gone back, the days short and the nights sooner. Bob driving through Stapleton road after a business meeting. Six o'clock but already dark and passing along the road by the roundabout he spots her, arms clenched around herself, standing there watching the traffic. He couldn't be sure so he turns left into the petrol station, heart beating in his chest and breath coming out in clouds. Without thinking he turns the car around and drives back down the road and stops the car opposite her. He takes out a map and pretends to read it. Where is she? He looks up and she's looking left and right across the road. He looks back at the map and studies it intently, when he looks up again she's there, in the middle of the road, looking at him, he winds down the window. "You looking?" He nods his head. She's hard looking and hunched against the cold, looks left and then crosses the road to the passenger side. She tries to open it but it's locked. Bob leans over and opens the door, she slides into the seat next to him and smiles. He goes all tight and cold in his chest. He's looking at her, young with her dyed blonde scraggly hair pulled up into a messed-up kind of bun, white, stained canvas trousers, a sports top but her face is pretty if strained, young but with a mouth and eyes that scrutinise and appraise. "You been waiting long?" "Yeah!" she coughs and laughs at the same time and Bob smells the stale fag-smell on her breath. She pulls up her hair and twists it between her fingers. "I look a mess," she says. "I haven't got any make-up on or anything." "You look lovely!" Bob says and is shocked to realise he means it. "Where shall we go?" "Down there!" and she points down the dark road towards the railway line. "I'll bet its nice to be in the warm again?" "Yeah," she smiled briefly. "It is," and then she turns around and says, "look there's another one taken my place already." Bob looks, another woman in a long coat was walking up and down the 144

road. She added, "that girl really is a mess." They drove further along Stapleton Road and then turned right into a narrow street that led into a car-park that faced onto some warehouses. "Whose that man?" she said pointing at an old man walking a dog. Bob drove on. "He's just an old man," he said turning the car around by a warehouse and switching off the lights. They talked prices. The old man disappeared up the narrow street. They were alone now. By the far end of the houses was a small Victorian terrace. Nothing else. Just the light of the street lamps. "Money first!" He opened his wallet and pulled out the money in worn fivers - all the cash he had - and handed it to her. She took it quickly, folded it and tucked it away in her coat. "What's your name?" "Debbie. What's yours?" "Bob," he said. She pulled off her top revealing every bump of her spine, when she sat back up Bob saw two tiny buds of breasts and a black tattoo on her shoulder. She started pulling her trousers down. The hot air from the blower was scorching his face and so he turned the ignition off. "You want these off?" she said, her fingers round the waist of her trousers. "No," Bob whispered. "That's all right." She had a pierced navel and another small tattoo on her stomach. She looked at him and then settled herself in the chair, lowered her head to his crotch and started to work. "Can I stroke your back?" he said. "I like it scratched," she said disengaging briefly. And so he scratched her back and ran his hands through her hair which was hard with hair-spray and smelled of pubs. After a while Bob heard the sound of an approaching car. He looked up as the car stopped right in front of them. A black man jumped out of the car and opened the roll-up metal door of the 145

warehouse. A woman with dark hair waited in the passenger seat. Bob pulled up his trousers and she covered her breasts in her sports top. Bob then drove forward and parked up further away. Both of them sat there and waited until the other car drove away. She laughed and it was the laugh of a much older woman, a cackle really. And then she reapplied herself again and then stopped when she noticed a police helicopter moving above them. The helicopter hovered nearby, its search light sweeping the area. "Its only a matter of time before they catch us," she said. He didn't say anything. Just started to think about his car that had been stolen the night before and the laundry in the car and the baby seat and all his personal stuff in someone else's possession now. "They’re looking for someone," she said. "Haven't they got anything better to do?" he said drumming his fingers tips on the wheel of the car.. Bob watched the searchlight illuminate the low terraces and warehouses. "You look like someone," she said turning to him laughing. "Someone famous." "I'm not though," he said. "But you do look like someone," she said. "Who do you people say you look like?" "They say," and he looked away, the helicopter retreating now over the railway line and up into the hills. "They say I look like that guy in the action films." "That's right," she coughed into the windscreen. "That's who you look like." Bob pulled up his trousers. "Shall I take you back now?" "Whatever you want," she said. He drove her back. Stopping the car she said, "you look after yourself Bob." "And you!" he said. "You take care of yourself" And they looked at each other. "Give us a kiss," she said and he put his head forward to kiss her cheek but she kissed him on the mouth and he felt her mouth was 146

cold. After he dropped her off he made his way over the roundabout and waited patiently to join the slip road that would take him up on to the motorway and home. She remained on the road walking up and down in the cold waiting for business.

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Mark Boardman Mark Boardman lives in Bolton, Lancs. By day he is a mild-mannered library worker, by night he fronts crazed Crypt Records inspired rock'n'rollers The Kiss Off (www.myspace.com/thebloodykissoff). Both activities require contact with some decidedly odd people. This is his first published work.

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PLEASE KILL ME A gang. Four of us outside the door and I can hear drums pounding in my head. Rob already has his mask on. He reaches under leather for his gun, checks we’ve covered our faces and strides into the bank shouting, “1-2-3-4!” Jim pushes past, straight into his opening riff: “Ok, punks! We’re here for your money, NOT your lives! Piss about and we’ll take both! Now - all you punters - OVER THERE AND LET’S SEE YOUR HANDS!” He gestures towards the back wall. One old chap starts to cry. Everyone else shuffles backwards, eyes fixed cold on Jim’s gun. Hoping my walk looks determined, I stride past him. I feel his stare on my back for a second and then hear him turn, shouting at the nearest cashier. I scan each pair of wide eyes, put on my best “you can trust me, but don’t piss me off” voice: “Ok! I don’t want to kill any of you. I’m sure none of you want to die. Behave yourselves and we can all have a nice day. ” I roll my gaze slowly over them one by one. My words seem to have hit the spot. Apart from the blubber, it’s like Madame Tussauds at midnight. Using my gun barrel, I push him gently back towards the rest. Luckily, the latex smell in my nose dulls the stink that rises from his tweed trousers. The only time I’ve been grateful for this stoopid mask. Behind me I can hear the rest of the guys getting on with their jobs. Filling the sports bags. I smile. Fourth time out, smooth as. And then someone speaks. “You’ve got it wrong!” I swing my eyes across the group. A young girl. 19, 20? Brunette. Pierced nose. Standard briefcase hiding a faded Metallic K.O. Tshirt. Good taste and a better figure. “What?” “You heard. You’ve got it wrong.” “Shut it!” “You shut it! You don’t know your punk. How tall are you? Five seven, six? The other guy. Psycho. He should be Joey, you

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should be Johnny. In fact, I think you’re more Tommy!” “What?” I begin to sweat beneath my mask. A trickle down my back. Leather jacket sticking to my arms. Stoopid disguise. I hear drums again. Pounding. “Look love, I know my punk. Joey may have been the singer, but Johnny was the leader and….” A shotgun nudge in the back. I stop mid-flow. Jim. “What you doing? Shooting your mouth off? And you…” He strides towards the girl. “Shut up, you mouthy cow!” He pushes her back with his gun. Hard. “What’s this? I’ll have that!” He grabs the briefcase. “Hey! Ho! Let’s Go!” Rob’s signal. Time to go. As we back up, I see her eyes, laughing. Buzzsaw guitars fill the car. Tom, foot down. Rob and Paul bellow the words. Jim, wild eyed, through the racket: “Jesus H! The mouthy cow must get paid by the word! Rich bitch!” A deformed Joey Ramone leers up from my lap as the streets speed by. Laughing. Later on. Wired. A change of clothes at the lockup. A couple of beers to cool down, a first tiny nibble at the tension, then home. Halfway there, the offy. Lifesaver. Nip in for some more cans and there it is. Staring up from the counter, front page, black and white: “Leather Clad Punks Strike Again! - Is Your Daddy A Bank Robber? Baffled Police appeal.” I crack the first can there and then; choke down laughter with a mouthful of lager. Later. Still wired. Pouring down pints as some snotty bunch kick out the jams. Last song and the local Keith Moon pounds his drums into the pub carpet. The singer spits and writhes in front of a wall of pure noise. Magic. Back to the bar, up to the top shelf, 150

then on to the club. Through the double doors. Jesus and Mary Chain – I Hate Rock ’n’ Roll. Slight nod at Jim in the booth, then I head for the bar. “A pint, a Wild Turkey. No Ice. And yourself, Karen.” Karen smiles. “Been working hard, Tone?” “Me, Karen? You know I’m allergic.” Wink. Weave to an alcove. Later. On the dance floor. Lost in music. Spacemen 3- Revolution. Jim’s on form tonight. Straighten that buzz out. The last strands of fuzz fade. I open my eyes. Look straight into hers. Mouthy cow. In a Suicide T-shirt. She holds out a whiskey. “For you. Wild Turkey. Is that right? The girl …” She gestures at the bar. Karen seems to wink. Hard to say in this gloom, Choke. Feel Jim’s eyes on me. Dry mouth. “I’m sorry. Do I know you?” “Nah, I just thought you had great taste. Every record you’ve danced to has been bloody brilliant. Not many like you about. Especially my mates.” A vague gesture behind her. Could be at anyone. Panic drops a notch. “Thought I might have met you while I was drunk. You know how it is.” My laugh sounds strangled. She doesn’t seem to notice. “DJ’s good, isn’t he?” “Errrm…. yeah, I suppose.” “This record’s great an’ all. Wanna dance? I don’t get much chance with my mates…” Another vague hand wave. The tune’s half way through, but I haven’t heard a beat. Please Don’t Touch, Johnny Kidd. A favourite. If I don’t go, then…. I glance at the bar. Karen watching. Been trying to fix me up for years. “Errrrm….yeah.” For the next hour Jim achieves something new. A full complement of tunes I like. Not even on my bloody birthday. Worse than that, tunes that she likes too. From the fifties to last week, spot on every time. As Love Me Like A Reptile fades out, I’m frantic. With a capital FUCK. Then, hallelujah! Some shite by Pete Doherty. 151

“Shite!” One of us is not happy. A chance. “Yeah. Shite. Errm. Listen. I need the lav and err..owe you a drink. Meet you over there?” My turn for the vague hand gesture. “Sure. Brandy. Don’t sneak off!” At the urinal I can’t piss. Instead I’m acting out Johnny Kidd’s other hit, when I hear someone behind me. “Tony. What the hell…” Grabbed and in a cubicle. Jim. “..is going on. Does she know?” “No. At least, she’s not said. Says she “likes my taste”. What are you playing at? All those crap records I’ve endured over the years, then when I need them you’re John bloody Peel. Pity there’s no scouts from Radio 6!” “Sorry, I’m panicking a bit. Trying to act natural.” “Natural!” “Look, leave it! What you gonna do?” “Out the window!” This gesture is specific. “Are you mad? That’s like saying you did it! She might know nothing. You need to find out.” “What!” “Trust me” He glares straight at me. Back from the bar, Johnny Kidding again. Spilling the drinks. I spot her in my alcove from earlier. She smiles as she sees me. “Look, I’m really sorry, but my mates have gone.” The vague hand gesture. “Would you mind walking me to a taxi? That’s all though. I mean, I can see you next week, but…” Don’t smile. Don’t laugh. “No. That’s fine.” As I set my empty glass down, I’m helping her on with her coat. Then double doors, Bridge Street. Sharp pain. Black. * I’m strapped to a chair. Some old warehouse. I try to make out some noise. Traffic. Machinery. Anything. Nothing. Once you’ve seen one disused warehouse… “It’s alive!” She’s wearing a boiler suit. She notices me looking. “I like the Suicide T-shirt. My favourite. Didn’t want to…ruin it.” 152

Frantic. “What do you want? What did I do?” “C’mon, don’t play innocent! If you won’t say it, then I will. The bank.” Choke. “Look, your case. I’m sorry. I’ll get it back.” Laughs. “It wasn’t mine.” “The money. I’ll have a word. I might even be able to sort a sixth share.” Laughs. “Don’t worry. The guy who owns the case AND the money’s got everything now.” Choke. “The guy?” “My boss. Gerard Mosley.” Gerard Mosley. Shit. The local Mr. Big. Shit. Shit. SHIT! She sees the fear in my eyes. Laughs “The manager of that branch likes - strange things. Gerard helped him then took pictures, to make him do our laundry.” Choke. “Don’t worry, Gerard’s with your friends. It’s just you and me.” I’m confused. She walks over to a desk in the corner of the room “So….” “…why are we here? Don’t you know, Mr Ramones expert?” She switches on a standard lamp. Illuminates the desk. Objects. Baseball bat Car battery Bottles of pills Stain remover. Glue. Chainsaw. A long sharp metal object. She sees me looking at the last one. “That’s a leucotome. For lobotomies.” She looks straight at me. Her nose stud glitters in the lamplight. Later. Choking. “Last question. Legs McNeill’s book on New York Punk. What is it called?” I know this. Can’t wait to shout it out.

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Scott Cassidy Scott is 24 and is a firefighter in Edinburgh. He has a psychology degree but is yet to use it. He has been many things - grave digger, bouncer and green keeper. Scott has been writing short stories for the past couple of years and is about to tackle his first novel. Watch this space....

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THE PALACE It has been said that The Palace is a wee bit rough. That’s like saying Mike Tyson is a wee bit tasty with his fists. It isn’t rough it’s crazy; crazy in a Beirut meets Baghdad sort of way. You can go in looking like Brad Pitt and come out looking, walking and talking like the elephant man’s uglier brother. The customers don’t go to impress the opposite sex with their slick moves or polished chat. They go to drink cheap vodka and warm beer, get pissed, have a fight and get shagged. Simple. It was, therefore, with a racing pulse and a weak bladder that Neil (Jackie) Jackson pulled his Audi TT into The Palace’s pot-holed car park. He took a few deep breaths and stepped from his car. He looked up. The neon lights made him wince. In the queue somebody was sick. Ownerless hands launched a drunk through an open fire escape and a bevy of people bayed to get past a monster on the door. At least the building wasn’t scary, just an ugly box of grey metal. It nestled between the various DIY stores that completed the Fort Bosworth Business Park. Jackie’s mind struggled to grasp the reality of the situation. He was the player, he was the man, the ‘hump them and dump them’ king. Christ, the trainees in his office worshipped the ground he swaggered on and his wife, well, his wife understood and accepted that late nights were part and parcel of his latest promotion. “Eh, alright mate I’m here to see Sally, could you let her know Jackie’s here please?” Jackie thought he’d done alright, enough to fit in, he’d roughed his voice up and dropped his t’s. The Monster on the door stared back, more than a little cock-eyed. He curled his lips back and sneered. His teeth sat like condemned houses, and when he spoke spittle flew outwards. Jackie blinked, painfully resisting the urge to wipe his face. “Pull the other one Jacqueline,” the brute hissed, “you’ll queue with the rest!” Despite his fear Jackie felt his face flush with anger, “who did this moron think he was?” Jackie tried again. “She’s expecting me, we…” He was stopped mid sentence by Sally herself. Her petite frame appeared from a nondescript door behind the Monster and she waved him through. Jackie felt himself relax a little, smug in his minor victory and nearly laughed when he heard a mumbled “Sorry Boss, have a good night Sir.” “I see you’ve got the monkey well trained” A nervous icebreaker. 155

Sally grinned, “Aye, Davies a wanker but he knows better than to fuck with me, I pay his wages and the job keeps him from a holiday at Her Majesty’s pleasure”. Jackie flinched, his usual choice of female companion: fellow solicitors and other city types wouldn’t dream of using such language. Sally was different, she looked like butter wouldn’t melt but she had a gutter mouth and a list of put-downs that a comedian would sell his Granny for. Jackie had seen this as a turn on at first, he liked common birds and in his eyes men deserved a bit of rough just as much as women. Anyway, conquests like Sally made for great chat over his post-work gin and tonic. But somewhere along the line the dynamics had taken a somersault and here Jackie was, at the beck and call of a 1st class nut job, Sally Scott, owner of The Palace, daughter of a psycho and officially the date from hell. Jackie felt Sally take his hand. She led him towards a wall of smoke; they skirted a dance floor reminiscent of a battlefield and headed for an empty cloakroom. The rancid smell of sweat was overpowering and already Jackie’s head hurt. The strobe light stabbed his eyes and the music spun like a wrecking ball inside his head. Sally lifted a hatch giving them access to her office and almost tripped over two sprawling figures. Jackie looked down just in time to see tangled limbs futilely grasping for clothing, clothing that Sally already held and proceeded to rip with a knife pulled from thin air. “What the…? Where the…? Oh Shit!” “If I catch you ugly fuckwits at it again you’ll be shagging in wheelchairs!” Sally’s eyes were manic. In the blink of an eye her yelling turned physical. Stiletto heels were raised and driven towards the hapless couple, fists were clenched and a horrific beating was dished out before Jackie could even think of intervening. Then, as quickly as it began, the attack stopped. Sally flashed Jackie a toothy smile, pulled him into her office and locked the door. Despite his attempted protest Sally had attached herself to Jackie, left hand pulling his head towards her, right hand shooting straight for his fly. He was dreaming, had to be dreaming, his wife’s magazines never mentioned violence as a form of foreplay. Her hand was inside his trousers now, the same hand that thirty seconds ago held a knife. His mind was reeling, her perfume filled his nose and despite his shock and fear Jackie found he was turned on; a smile formed briefly, quickly buried in an avalanche of kisses. 156

“No, wait Sally, wait, get off me!” he clamoured, his conscience winning the battle. “You just kicked the…that doesn’t matter; this isn’t what I came here for, I mean, we can’t do this, I’m sorry but we were drunk on Monday, you’re a lovely girl but….” “You Bastard, You absolute fucking pig!” The words were spat through clenched teeth. “Fine for a bit of fun, huh? A pissed up knee trembler after a club. Well fuck you! Don’t want to see me? Fair enough, but no one and I mean no one comes here, to my club and makes a fool of me. My Dad would eat you alive if I told him but …” The rant continued but the mention of Sally’s father had stolen the strength from Jackie’s legs. He grasped a filing cabinet, will power alone keeping him upright. Fear coursed through him and his mind flashed back to the fateful morning, five days previous, when a certain Archibald Scott strolled into his office. “Mr Jackson, There’s a gentleman here to see you, I’ve explained that you’re busy but he’s adamant he won’t keep you more than five minutes” “No probs Lynne, I can give him a couple of minutes, do you have a name?” The office door was already opening. “Archibald Scott” the stranger said, voice deep, right hand extended. He looked immaculate, a man of at least sixty yet obviously fit. His three-piece suit hung perfectly from an enormous frame, short silver hair was combed neatly to one side and he took Jackie’s hand in a vice-like grip. He was smiling as he introduced himself and Jackie smiled back. “Neil Jackson. Please, take a seat Mr Scott. What can I do for you?” Both men were now sitting face to face and despite Archibald Scott’s warm smile Jackie caught his first glimpse of malice lurking behind the friendly façade. “You shagged my daughter last night.” It wasn’t a question. “Eh…say again sir. I mean, right eh Sarah, no Sandra, the lovely Sandra. Yes I was with Sandra last night. Lets not get crude though. We were both consenting adults and I care for her.” Jackie wasn’t fazed. He had been in bother before with past lovers’ parents, partners and even their kids. A few choice words and a friendly smile would see the old man on his way. Wrong. “It’s Sally, her name is Sally.” Voice steady, eyes burning. “What was she, a bit of fun, an easy target, a slag? YOU 157

THINK MY DAUGHTER’S A SLAG?” The man’s voice hit Jackie like a punch to the face “Not at all Mr Scott.” Voice shaking, eyes to the floor. “She’s lovely, a real gem, in fact I was planning on phoning her tonight.” He lied. He didn’t know why but this man, this pensioner, seriously gave him the shits. “Likely fucking story you stuck up shite. If it was up to me I’d tear you apart for even looking at her. She’s leagues above you; Man United to your Dundee United. For some stupid reason she thinks she likes you, she thinks you’re different. She wants to see you again and believe me you will see her and you won’t fucking hurt her. Oh, and she’ll never, ever know about this wee chat” Jackie was confused. He was in his office, his territory and he gave out the beastings, but he was shaking like a beaten dog, terrified of this man. He wanted Archibald Scott to leave. He wanted to wind the clock back and stay at home last night. “I’ll call her tonight, go for a drink or something. She’s a special girl and…” “You didn’t even know her name.” Voice quiet, back turned. The psycho’s parting shot. The meeting had lasted all of one minute. Jackie’s left hand massaged his temples and his right reached into his bottom drawer and lifted out a green bottle. His trembling hands removed the lid and he took three large gulps. Much better. The whisky caressed his nerves, he giggled like a scolded child and his mind whirred, looking for a way out. An early finish and an appointment with the remaining whisky gave Jackie the courage to make the call. “…so did I, it was great and yes of course I want to see you again. The only thing is Sally, I’m away on business until Friday.” He’d bought some time. “Well it’ll just have to be Friday night if you can wait that long. We’ll be at it like rabbits; fucking magic!” Cringe. He hated her already. The days passed and unanswered questions pushed the fear from Jackie’s mind. Why had he been so stupid? How did she know where he worked? Why’d she tell her dad? And why did he let a pensioner scare him witless? The answer landed on his office desk on Thursday morning. Amongst his usual mail sat an A4 envelope. He ripped it open without a second thought and was surprised when he found newspaper cuttings, some old, some recent. They all had one thing in common: Archibald Scott. The message was clear. 158

With a sinking heart and rising pulse Jackie read tale after tale of the man’s violent past; cases won and cases lost. He’d done a lot of time. The less reputable tabloids gave gory descriptions of his crimes; copper pipes and barbed wire, blowtorches and acid, victims that would never walk, victims that refused to talk and victims that were never found. The lunatic was free because of police error. They’d taken a journalist with them when they raided his house, a journalist who subsequently contaminated key evidence that tied the latest attack to Archibald Scott. Coincidence? Jackie didn’t think so. A slap from Sally brought him back to reality. She was still ranting at him. His conscience crumpled and he changed his mind. “I just didn’t want to rush things Sally, I don’t want to end things, and I want to get to know you better!” She stopped mid sentence, confusion spreading over her face, slowly turning into a grin. BANG! Her lips smacked onto his and her hands moved south. “I knew you wouldn’t hurt me” Jackie couldn’t move. She was nuts, had to be, nobody flicked through emotions like this. Sally Scott was a whirlwind; if you got too close she’d suck you up. If you tried to run she’d leave havoc in your wake. Jackie was caught in a no-win situation. He had two choices: tell her it’s over and face Scotland’s scariest man or fall deeper into this current mess, no chink of light, no way out. In the end the decision wasn’t his to make. Sally pulled away. He wasn’t kissing her. She looked hurt. The penny had dropped. “Wait a minute Casanova.” The sarcasm, intended to sting. “You didn’t want to know me a minute ago and now you want to play happy fucking families! Do I need to ask why the change of heart or should I just ask when and where you met my Dad?” “ What you talking about? I’ve never met your father.” His eyes shifted to the floor. “Don’t try and kid a kidder, I’ve grown up with liars; good ones, you’re a bloody amateur! And anyway he has a word with all my boyfriends.” Jackie was astounded. He couldn’t believe she’d called him her boyfriend. He’d only met her twice. “That’s because he’s nuts!” Another flashback. Too late. Archibald Scott in Jackie’s 159

office; “…she’ll never, ever know about this wee chat.” She did now. Jackie waited for a reaction. He’d as good as told her he wasn’t here through choice. Would she attack him? He thought he could handle that. He could get past her and out of the club. But what then? Would Daddy pick up the trail and go to work? He waited. She stared. The passing seconds unnerved him and he was surprised when finally, Sally spoke. “Wait here.” Her voice, barely a whisper had rooted Jackie to the spot. His body had been tense, ready for fight or flight but she had looked so hurt. He had caught a glimpse of the real Sally Scott, a vulnerable girl behind the tough talking front. And then she left, locking the door. Surprise subsided, panic grew and eventually his body reacted. Nobody to fight, no room for flight; Jackie was trapped. His mind raced. What was she doing? Where was she? He slumped, coming to rest in a leather chair facing the door. His imagination ran riot. Image after horrific image plagued his thoughts. Who would come through the door and what on earth would they do? Archibald Scott, the monster on the door, Sally with her knife? All terrifying outcomes to a very sticky situation. His memory wandered to Newspaper cuttings, stories of torture and missing victims. How the hell had he ended up here? Jackie fished for his mobile. No signal. He smashed it off the door. He got up and began pacing. The office was bare, purely functional, no creature comforts. The phone line was dead. Three hours passed, the music in the club stopped and Jackie feared the worst. An empty club meant no witnesses. Tears formed and were quickly fought back. He might get off with a beating and a warning not to hurt Sally again. She might even let him go; three hours of confinement was surely punishment enough. His hands began drumming on his thighs, nervous energy finding an outlet. Then he heard voices. Footsteps echoed in the empty club. The sound amplified in Jackie’s terrified mind. Monsters were coming. He backed into a corner, put the desk between him and the door, too scared to feel ashamed of his weakness. Keys rattled, the lock opened, but the door stayed firmly shut. An eternity passed. Enough was enough. “Come on you bastards, get in here and finish it, no one deserves this!” The door opened. “Oh it’s already finished and you deserve this Jackie” The 160

voice was quiet, yet carried venom far deadlier than any monster. Jackie looked up. His world imploded. The tears escaped and the door closed. Jackie was alone. His wife had gone.

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