Animal

by Paul Jones

  ANIMAL

  Bad Things Happen When Good Men Do Nothing

  PAUL JONES

  Copyright © 2012 Paul Jones

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study,

  or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents

  Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in

  any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the

  publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with

  the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries

  concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  Matador

  9 Priory Business Park,

  Wistow Road, Kibworth Beauchamp,

  Leicestershire. LE8 0RX

  Tel: (+44) 116 279 2299

  Fax: (+44) 116 279 2277

  Email: books@troubador.co.uk

  Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador

  ISBN 978 1780888 385

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  For Pat, Katie, Thomas and little one

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Although I have used a very popular seaside resort for the location of this book, the story is a work of fiction, and is not based upon any person or persons, or any actual events. The theme of vigilantes and the anti-social issues depicted in the novel only exist within these pages.

  PREFACE

  Reaching for the door handle, Dobson was grabbed from behind in a choke hold and shoved head-first into the front of the car.

  ‘What the hell?’ he gasped.

  The car sped off up the road and turned left at the junction where it suddenly stopped.

  There in wait stood the banged up estate and Dobson was swiftly bundled out of one car and into the front of another. The three occupants with him were all clad in beanie hats and sunglasses to conceal their identities then they took off with their hostage. The car, they left abandoned at the side of the road. There was no sign of his mates.

  Still held in a tight choke hold, Dobson struggled and gagged. ‘Who the hell are you? What do you want?’

  A head butt full in the face knocked the batteries out of his voice box. A second butt caused him to fight out in panic. The strangle hold was tightened and a series of short punches beat him into submission.

  Dobson tried to shield himself with pleading hands. ‘OK, OK, what have I done?’

  The punishment ceased for a second and a pair of sunglasses snarled in his face. ‘What have you done? What have you done? So you like beating up old men, do yer?’

  A spark of discernment registered in Dobson’s eyes, although the rest of his face was reddening-up like chopped meat.

  ‘No! No! I was drunk, I didn’t mean to.’ He choked against the hold.

  The attack on him resumed, each new blow coming with a disciplinary reminder. ‘Feel good does it? Feel good does it? Now you know how Fred felt and all the other innocent people you’ve battered over the years. All seem worth it now, does it?’

  To Dobson, everything was just a blur of white light and thudding pain, it must have been the longest few minutes of his young life. Finally, the car pulled up down a quiet road on the outskirts of the town. The front door was thrown open, and Dobson was shoved out semi-consciously. As he rolled on the pavement the car skidded off with the door flipping shut again. Dobson lay sprawled on his back, bloodied, battered and finally punished for all the atrocities he had ever committed.

  Justice had been served. The vigilantes had claimed their first victim.

  CHAPTER 1

  It was just after nine pm as Will Thomas stepped down on to the platform at Llandudno train station. Will was forty-one-years-old, stood a shade under six foot and had raven-black short hair that never seemed to grow over a certain length, like a front lawn in the winter time. He was well built, but not too brawny, more like a retired boxer who had kept himself in shape. He had dark brooding eyes and some minor scar tissue around his brow. But what really set him apart was the large black crab he had tattooed at the back of his neck, its jointed pincers gripping each side of his neck and lower jaw.

  The keen late-November breeze cut into him and drew out the soporific warmth of the long train journey. Heavy backpack in tow, he steadily made his way with the other passengers towards the main entrance gates. Once through, he stopped for a moment to reflect on his first time back in his home town for nearly twelve years. Feelings of nostalgia caused a mild smirk. The Chinese chippy across the road was still there, although whether or not it was still occupied by the same owners remained to be seen. However, the Indian restaurant a couple of doors away, had now become another Chinese called East. Will sniffed to himself and headed towards a block of flats on Lloyd’s street.

  So far everything else remained the same, except for one or two shops that had changed trades. The old Albert pub was still there, so was the Cross-keys, and, ahh, he welcomed the sight – a one-stop store that used to be a grocery shop, and it was only yards away from his destination. Get something to eat after the long train ride, he sniffed to himself.

  Geoff Harrison called time on his karate class, his voice hollowed out by the cream walls of the dance hall. It was a regular Monday evening with his usual eight students, six men and two women, ranging in grades from green belt up to brown. Geoff was a 4th Dan black belt who had trained in Shokokai karate for twenty years and during that time had been running his children and adult classes in the basement dance hall of the Risbo hotel at the top end of town.

  Geoff was a youthful looking forty-year-old who had a shaved head, with a small mole on the cranium. He was a reasonably handsome man, slim, leaning towards muscular, and a cheeky smile that could charm the apples off the trees. He lived in a semi-detached bungalow with Jan, his wife of sixteen years. They didn’t have any children and were quite happy living as DINKYS (double income no kiddies).

  During the day he worked in the local Asda store as a D. O. (dispensing optician) a position that required 3 years of his life in university.

  Geoff’s students all lined up and bowed their heads in respect for their sensei; Geoff returned the bow, and ended the class. Everybody returned to their sports bags strewn around the edges of the dance hall. Geoff and a few of the male students returned to their training bags and began disrobing.

  Phil Walker, one of his 3rd Kyu brown belt students, was a tall, sinewy 39 year-old with a permanent frown befitting his job as a police officer. He had short greying hair and rich chestnut coloured eyes. Phil had known Geoff since childhood.

  ‘Had another one at the weekend,’ he said turning to Geoff

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Geoff.

  ‘Chap on his way home from the Washington pub, couple of hoodies asked him for a ciggie, he didn’t have one so they battered the poor sod, the five of them. Left him unconscious.’ He said towelling the sweat off his brow and neck.

  Geoff shared his disgust with Tom Perry, one of his 1st Kyu brown-belt students. Tom was a short 32 year-old body builder and bouncer who had lashings of styling gel to tame his curly fair hair. His most striking feature was his piercing blue eyes which were close set under his balcony of a forehead, making them blaze like feral creatures peering out from the rocks.

  ‘I know it’s getting bad out there,’ Tom said. ‘The street violence is really getting out of hand.’ He turned to Phil, the copper, ‘can’t you lot do anything about it?’

  ‘What can we do? Even
if we catch the bastards, courts aren’t gonna waste their time with it. They’ll probably get off with a caution and that’s it.’

  Geoff began spraying some deodorant over his bare toned torso. ‘It’s becoming an awkward situation. Even if you can defend yourself, the chances are they’ll probably end up suing you. You can’t win.’

  Phil sniffed thoughtfully. ‘Well if it ever comes to that, defending yourself that is, just make sure you say you acted in self-defence because you genuinely feared for your safety. But you didn’t hear that from me.’

  The two blonde students, quite pretty girls in their late twenties shouted over to Geoff and the others, ‘See you next week,’ as they made their exit.

  ‘Yeah, see you, Carol, Sandra,’ Geoff called over.

  Phil continued. ‘I have to admit the only thing our governors seem to be interested in at the moment are the bloody traffic offences, because they know they’ll definitely get their convictions. It is a bit disheartening though, I’m feeling it myself. I mean my grandfather was a policeman, a real old fashioned bobby with a truncheon and he whacked a few heads in his time, I can tell you. He’d be turning in his grave today if he saw how this scum get away with what is happening. Or, if he was a cop himself today, I’m sure he would have quit in disgust.’

  ‘I don’t blame him.” Tom sneered. ‘I mean what with these happy-slappings on the mobile phones as well. These kids in school filming each other kicking the crap out of some poor kid. What’s wrong with them? Just all standing there watching it, enjoying it. Tell you what, if I had a kid who was doing that on his mobile I’d crucify him. Or if he was a victim, I’d murder the bastards that did it, kids or not. Pain! That’s the only thing they know.’

  Geoff turned to them as he zipped up his grey tracksuit top. ‘Everyday now you switch on the news, or open a newspaper and there’s another stabbing, mugging, beating. Something’s got to be done about it.’

  Tom snorted. ‘Yeah, start up your own vigilante group and clean up the mess out there.”

  For a moment, his words seemed to stun everyone. Whether he was joking or not, or testing the waters, didn’t really matter. It was as if everybody had been thinking the very same thing, but didn’t dare mention it. Phil reached down for his brown backpack and said uncomfortably. ‘I didn’t hear that.’

  ‘Yeah, Tom,’ Geoff lightened the mood. ‘We’ll send you out in your Batman suit to round them up.’

  Everyone chuckled to themselves and stood ready to leave.

  *

  Outside with his purchased goods, Will crossed the road, and headed towards the three-storey building converted into rented flats, where he was intending to stay. Standing outside for a moment, he wondered how he would cope in his new living quarters.

  ‘Give us a cigarette, mate.’

  Will turned to find three adolescents standing before him, and another on a mountain bike.

  ‘Pardon?’ Will asked.

  ‘Give us a fag.’ A blob of a lad with an explosion of acne on his face spoke up. Like a machine switching on, a mental visor came over Will’s senses.

  ‘I don’t smoke,’ he replied, making a particular note of the lads standing by and how they were positioned.

  ‘Well, borrow us a couple of quid then, and I can go and buy me some, can’t I?’

  Will shifted his position, but disguised it with a reply. ‘Now why on earth should I give you any money? Why do you deserve such generosity?’

  The lad paused, confused for a second then uttered nonchalantly. ‘Because I do.’

  Will smirked to himself, his little mind games had worked. His question was designed to assess exactly what artillery this group of youths had. Basically, what Will was saying to him was, what if I don’t give you any money, what are you going to do about it? And, had these cheeky lads really intended to intimidate him into handing over anything, the reply would surely have been an aggressive one. Evidently, they were just a bunch of harmless rascals trying it on.

  But not wanting to appear too harsh on them, he offered them a bag of cheese and onion crisps instead. The lad shrugged and snatched the bag away from him without so much as a thank you. And as they left, he was already munching into them. Will watched them for a second then turned back to the flat.

  ‘Will,’ someone shouted from across the street.

  Will swung around, and found a man in a grey track-suit standing outside the shop. Will couldn’t quite place who it was, then it came back to him, Geoff? Geoff scuttled across the road to meet him. Will knew Geoff back in their early twenties, when they both trained together in martial arts. This training partnership lasted for about six years, until Will began to pursue other more extreme forms of combat, and they drifted apart.

  Geoff held out his hand. Will shook it firmly. ‘Good to see you again, Geoff. Doing a bit of late night shopping?’

  ‘Yeah, just going to pick up some stuff after my class.’

  ‘Still training then?’

  ‘Got my own club now.’ Geoff said proudly. ‘Been going for ten years.’

  Will nodded, impressed. ‘So what grade are you now?’

  ‘Fourth Dan… taking my fifth next year.’

  Will shook his head amazed. ‘Doing well. I’m happy for you.’

  ‘Cheers,’

  Will sighed uncomfortably, not knowing how Geoff would react about what he had to confess. ‘I’ve been in prison for the last three years.’

  ‘Shit, honestly. I never knew that. What happened?’

  Will hesitated. ‘It’s a long story, I’ll tell it to you another time?’

  ‘Yeah, no problem. Shit, if I’d have known, I’d have at least come to visit you.’

  Will smiled in appreciation. ‘I know.’

  ‘Listen, Will, I’m gonna go, the wife will think I’m having an affair. Can I give you my mobile number?’ He said getting his phone out ready to add Will’s number on to his list.

  Will forced an apologetic grin. ‘I don’t have one.’

  ‘Oh… OK, is this where you’re staying then?’

  Will threw a glance at the tenement flats and nodded.

  ‘OK, we’ve got to get together and catch up on the last ten years or so. How about I pop over sometime in the week?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ Will replied.

  ‘Or if you want to come over to the club on training nights, Monday and Thursday 6.30 to 9pm in the basement of the Risbo?’

  ‘Yeah, I may do that. Great!’

  Geoff tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Nice to see you again, Will.’

  ‘You too.’

  He watched his old mate jog back over the road and disappear into the shop, then turned back to the flats and climbed the stone steps to the entrance. He pressed the illuminated doorbell and waited. Soon an image formed behind the crinkle glass PVC door, and he heard a muffled cough. The door cracked open, and a grey-bearded man with glasses glared at him almost disdainfully.

  ‘Hello, my name is Will Thomas. You have a flat reserved for me?’

  The man finished off something he was eating. ‘Ah… yes come in.’

  Will removed his backpack and entered. Immediately, he caught an odour, most probably just the scent of someone else’s home, a smell he would soon get used to. There was a short hallway with stairs leading to the next floor, and midway down the hall the man shook his keys out and dug one into the lock of one of the rooms. He shoved it open with his knee and entered. Will followed him in. Inside the one-roomed flat there was a furnished kitchen, bedroom, and the living room. There was even a 21” TV.

  The landlord, who looked a bit like Jim Royale from the TV, began his usual introductory spiel. ‘OK, the kitchen, the cooker is gas, fairly straight-forward.’ He flicked the switches and turns. ‘The tap – watch the hot water – almost turns to lava in a second. Urm, your bed, settee, TV. Bathroom, shower on the second floor. Washing machine downstairs in the basement. OK?’ He held up two keys on a key ring. ‘O
ne for the door to your room, the other for the main door outside. Your first month’s rent is paid, OK?’

  Will nodded and took the keys.

  ‘By the way, my name is John, the wife’s is Mary – she’ll introduce herself to you when she sees you. Any problems, press the doorbell down the hall on your right.’

  ‘Cheers.’ Will said. He waited for the door to clunk shut, then laid down his backpack, and drifted over to the window. Outside he could see the one-stop store he’d just visited, and straight down Madoc street where he’d walked up earlier. Something – a racket outside – caught his attention. It sounded like animals in a zoo at feeding time. It was only a group of adolescents coming out of the one-stop. Will drew the curtains shut.

  *

  Driving back home, Tom stopped to pick up his mate Charlie on the way so they could to go back to his flat for a couple of beers and watch a dvd. Charlie was one of Tom’s bouncer mates, he was a six-foot three slab of meat with a slight resemblance to the boxer Joe Calzaghe. But what really tickled Tom about him was that everything Charlie said or described was usually accompanied by the phrases, “wos his name, blah blah and boom boom.”

  Charlie was already familiar with Geoff and the others at the Karate club as he often turned up at the end of the session to meet up with Tom.

  ‘Got an idea,’ Tom turned to his mate as he accelerated away.

  ‘What’s that then?’

  ‘What if we started our own vigilante group?’

  Charlie gave him a funny look. ‘What do you mean?’

  Tom sniffed the air cannily. ‘What if we could provide some sort of service to people who have been victimised by thugs. What if we stepped in to protect people who couldn’t help themselves. You know, people who are too afraid to go to the police. Or people who have just lost faith in them to even try.’

  Charlie blew at such an audacious scheme. ‘It’s a bit wos his name, risky don’t you think?’