Off The Record

by Luca Veste

  RESPECT

  By

  Col Bury

  The marked police van sped past the gang of hoodies outside The Arch Bar, the vivid blue lights illuminating them. One stuck his middle finger up at rookie cop, Joe Walker, the others laughing.

  ‘It’s the Bullsmead Bad Bastards. Just ignore them, Joe.’

  Tutor Constable, Glen Lafferty’s crisp Glaswegian tones weren’t what Walker wanted to hear. But he was right. Their time would come.

  Walker shouted, over the sirens, ‘They can’t just get away with it, Laffs. Let’s stop an’ have a word? Let them know who’s in charge ‘round here.’

  ‘We need to get to this domestic. Anyway, the boyfriend’s their head honcho. Be a great lock up for you. Would get the Sarge off your back, lad.’

  Walker nodded, as he sent a text message.

  They weaved through the narrow streets of the Bullsmead estate, Walker’s frustration at the Job bubbling. Laffs was a good cop, had taught him the ropes. However, all this pussy-footing around was doing Walker’s head in. His colleagues seemed too ‘text-book’, too PC… too afraid? Having grown up on these tough Manchester streets himself, whenever he’d seen a cop, he’d just kept his head down. How times had changed.

  ***

  The thing about true respect is, like common sense, it ain’t very common. But that was about to change. Of course, if you throw fear into the mix, then there’s a whole lotta respect out there. The wrong kind.

  I’m talking arse-twitching fear. You know, the ‘Big I am’, running the gang because he ain’t scared of slugging you if he had to make a point, and all that crap. This concept ripples downstream, from the hierarchy to the drug-runners.

  The research, I was so compelled to complete, told me it was time these fuckwits learned. They’d chosen their life’s path and destroyed mine. Now I had a new mission. I owed it to arkid to complete it.

  ***

  ‘Will you respect me in the morning?’

  ‘Sure, babe. Course I will,’ Castro lied, as he gazed at Laticia’s rude mouth.

  Ten minutes later, he was spent, sweaty and wanting to leave her dingy, fuck-hole of a flat. The small talk always did his nut in. So did her whining kids. The fact that they were his kids, too, had no impression on Castro.

  ‘Stay with me.’

  He had to admit, he was tempted. He nestled into her cushiony Babylons one last time.

  ‘Wanna go again?’

  ‘Gotta see the boys. Business.’

  ‘Aw, hun, but you said…’

  ‘Don’t fuckin diss me, Tish!’ He gripped her throat and squeezed the point home. The forefinger of his free hand stroked gently across the shiner he’d given her earlier. Chatting to other lads on Facebook? The cheeky bitch.

  She spluttered something, her big brown eyes panicky, stirring his desires. Ignoring the urge, he released her. He pulled on his jeans, sweater and hoodie as she watched, those eyes sad now. He took the Browning 9mm from the bedside table and tucked it down the base of his back. Leaning over, he tweaked her right nipple and pecked her on the cheek, before heading for the door.

  ‘Call me.’

  Yeah, right.

  ***

  ‘Who called you?’

  ‘A neighbour heard you scream. Come on, let us in, Laticia.’ As Lafferty looked on, Walker spotted swelling to her left eye. ‘Did Castro do that?’

  Laticia peered round the half-open door. ‘Can’t say.’

  ‘You can! Don’t let him get away with it, or it’ll never stop. Can’t you see that?’

  ‘If I give a statement, he’ll kill me.’

  ‘Then tell us where he’s gone, so we can at least warn him off.’

  ‘He’s gone to meet ‘his beloved boys’.’

  ***

  Castro took his usual seat in the back room of the The Arch Bar, drew on the spliff and passed it to Shanks.

  The landlord, Tubs Tony came in collecting glasses.

  ‘Castro, can you, er… please not do that in here, mate.’

  Five hard looks later and Tony retreated to the door.

  Castro sneered, revealing his gold molar amid his goatee. ‘What have I fuckin’ told you, Tubs?’

  ‘But I’ve got other punters in here, and the smoke…’

  Castro stood up, his chair screeching on the tiled floor. ‘Don’t ever interrupt us in a meeting, got it?’

  Tony held up a placating palm. ‘Sorry. It’s just…’

  ‘You will be. Double payment for you this week.’

  ‘Come on, man. I make next to nowt anyway.’

  ‘It’s double, or the place goes up in smoke. Shanks, open that window, bro.’ Shanks obliged. ‘Happy now?’

  ‘Suppose so.’

  ‘Then fuck off.’ He did. ‘Now, where were we? Right, so Johnno and Shanks, you do the pick up, an’ Scoops does the cut with Grinder. I’ll do the distribution. Sorted. Let’s get fuckin hammered.’

  ‘I’ve got the munchies.’

  ‘Yeah, good shout, Johnno. A couple more pints an’ we’ll raid Chan’s chinky chippy. That slant-eyed twat owes us his rent, so he’s due a visit.’

  ***

  This degenerating society we all live in desperately needed change. Someone has to instigate that change. No Superhero was about to clean up the crime-ridden cities and rescue the innocents. For that is just mumbo jumbo, the consequence of fairy tales. And, anyway, I didn’t have a cape. Realism was required.

  The guilt and disgust I felt demanded it.

  A society dying like an ailing animal needs an injection pronto to make that animal strong again.

  I am that injection.

  ***

  ‘Didn’t come from me, okay? I overheard them saying, they were going to Chan’s chippy.’

  Lafferty and Walker thanked the landlord of The Arch Bar and returned to the van.

  ‘Texting again, Walker? You in love, lad?’

  ‘I wish.’

  ‘Do I know her?’

  ‘It’s just family stuff.’

  ‘Okay, shy boy. Let’s go get Castro.’

  ***

  I check no one else is around and make my move.

  At last.

  The aroma of curry greets me, as the door’s double-bleep makes five hooded lads pivot. They eyeball me. Despite bursts of adrenaline tingling in my belly, I play it cool. I avoid eye contact, which they think is out of respect. The wrong kind based on fear. Mr Chan looks flustered, as they spew verbal shit. Drugs and booze run through their bloodstreams. Amateurs. How little they know. I stroll to the left of the counter, pretend to look at the wall menu.

  One nudges me from behind, accidentally on purpose. I turn, seeing it’s the lanky Shanks, who has a rep for using a blade. I know all their names and traits. Johnno, Grinder, Scoops and, of course, Castro.

  Shanks grunts and his mates stifle laughter, egging him on because I’m weak, right?

  I know Mr Chan’s CCTV hasn’t worked for two weeks.

  ‘Do you mind not doing that, fella?’

  ‘Soz, mate. I didn’t see you there.’

  ‘No worries then.’

  ‘What do yer mean by that?’

  ‘I meant that you don’t have to worry because you've apologised and I accepted.’ I eyed him, unflinchingly.

  He scanned his mates and rolled his shoulders, before squaring up from five feet away. ‘You dissin me? Fancy yer chances, pussy?’

  I move to within an inch of him. ‘Yes, I fuckin do!’ I get a whiff of his breath. It makes my Labrador’s smell like roses. I see a flicker of fear in his eyes, clock his mates edging closer.

  Surprised, he retreats two paces back, into his comfort zone. ‘Hey, Big Man, I’m just joshing with yer. Chill.’

  Mr Chan smiles sympathetically, as I turn my back on the gang. Piss-taking Chinese accents make him dip his head.

  I’m pushed again and pivot like an owl on speed. A different face was in my face. Castro.

  ‘I remember you.’

&n
bsp; Unfazed, I know words are worthless and head-butt the fucker.

  People say, ‘Spark out the big one and the rest will run off’.

  They don’t.

  Tirades of expletives blitz me. Shanks flicks his lock-knife out. I step back, widening my fighting arc. Johnno lunges for me, bizarrely trying to bite my cheek. So I elbow him in the nose and it bursts tomato-style. Shanks jabs the blade at me. I jump back, then forward with a solid jab to his throat, making him yelp. Johnno closes to my right. I roundhouse him and he drops like a bag of shit. Back on my feet, I throw a flurry of punches at Grinder and Castro.

  Scoops does nothing, shit-scared in the corner. Sensible.

  ‘If you want to live, go now,’ I say casually.

  ‘Fuck you, man. You’re nothing.’ Shanks again, jabbing. I swiftly grab his knife hand, pull him in close. I twist and snap his wrist. He screams, the blade clatters on the tiled floor.

  Castro catches me with a glancing punch. I revert to old school, and kick him in the balls. He buckles and my knee impacts his skull. I shake my head and throw Mr Chan an apologetic glance.

  They clamber to their feet. All five stand before me, glaring.

  Castro looks pretty pissed, eyes manic. ‘Enough of this shit, muvver-fucker!’ He reaches into the rear of his waistband. I know he carries a Browning.

  I whip out my Glock 17 and execute the fuckers with five sharp cracks. Mr Chan gasps. They fall like dominoes. The Browning clinks to a standstill near the door.

  Strange how little blood spurts from a bullet to the forehead, isn’t it? Nice ‘n’ neat; less mopping for Mr Chan too. However, the main window was splattered with a dripping blood ‘n’ brain combo.

  Mr Chan stares in shock… then slowly nods. I knew he’d say he was in the back preparing orders, because he knew what I knew and what the police couldn’t prove. They‘d killed my kid brother, Jimmy, while I was in Kabul.

  ***

  As they pulled outside the chippy, Walker ignored the dark figure disappearing into the alley. One look at the chippy’s front window made him realise it had begun. Lafferty rushed to speak with the stunned-looking owner sitting on the kerb with his head in his hands. Walker headed for the door. It double-bleeped as he peered inside. His brother’s killers lay dead in a line.

  ***

  And this was just the start. I would outdo the inept politicians by going national… until I’d restored respect.

  BIO: Col Bury is the crime editor of award winning ezine, Thrillers, Killers ‘n’ Chillers, and his crime novels are being touted by a NY agent. His short stories can be found in anthologies, and scattered around the blogosphere. Col is the author of the eBook, Manchester 6. He blogs, reviews, and interviews crime authors at http://colburysnewcrimefiction.blogspot.com/ He lives in Manchester, UK with his wonderful wife and two beautiful children. When he is not working, being a daddy, writing, reading or editing, Col shoots pool or watches his beloved Manchester City FC.

  GOD MOVING OVER THE FACE OF THE WATERS

  By

  Steve Mosby

  The night before, I walked the coastline.

  I didn’t set out until after midnight, as I wanted to avoid the search parties. At that time, the sky, the sand and the sea in between were identical shades of black – indistinguishable except for the moonlight that caught the ridges of the waves, and a prickle of stars overhead. The beach was invisible. Pebbles crunched beneath my feet, the sound fading to the steady push of packed, wet sand as I reached the water itself.

  Everyone feels small, facing the sea. It’s the vast, open horizon, I think, and the sensation of how unimportant you are in the grand scheme of things. It’s like standing on the edge of an alien world – or perhaps like staring into the face of God, and suddenly realising how incomprehensible He actually is. How little he cares about you. If he even deigns to notice you at all.

  The sea noticed me, of course. I felt it in the rush of hiss and retreat, and the sudden waft of ice in the air as it came rolling up the beach at me before pulling back its swift, foaming fingers. The water feathered impotently around my shoes. If I ventured in then it would take me without hesitation, because that is what it does, but right here I was safe.

  I squatted down and flicked at the sea.

  The contempt in my message was clear, and I heard a deep, chained-dog rumble from out towards the horizon: an angry folding of faraway water that longed to reach out and take me but couldn’t.

  A moment later, the smell of coconut filled the air. The contempt in the sea’s reply was equally clear.

  “Fuck you,” I told it.

  Then stood up, hitching my rucksack higher for comfort, and started looking.

  ***

  The first coffee of the morning curdled.

  I stared down at the tatters and shreds of cream on the surface. The milk was in date, so it was probably something else. Perhaps it was even the rucksack, which rested in the corner of the kitchen now, stinking of fish and rot. Whatever, I tipped the coffee away and made a fresh cup, this time without milk.

  It was a little after eight-twenty; through the window, the sky was white as mist. I took the coffee out into the cold morning and wandered down the shivering grass of my back garden, opening the gate in the chain-link fence at the bottom. There were a few furrowed boulders out here, a short incline, and then the beach.

  I sat down on one of the boulders, wrapping my hands around the steaming cup for warmth. Beyond the beach, the fluttering, blue-grey sea, gulls wheeling overhead like flies. It was still half-asleep right now, but grumbling to itself. Bruised, but too dozy to remember why.

  I hoped it woke up soon.

  I hoped it saw me up here and knew what I’d done.

  In the meantime, I sipped my coffee and thought about Anna.

  ***

  People often wonder why I never moved.

  Sometimes they even ask me outright. The place must be so big for you now, they say, and it must contain so many difficult memories – and, surely, it’s painful to wake up every day, after what happened, and see the sea?

  They don’t know anything, these people.

  ***

  By the time I finished my coffee, I’d spotted the helicopter: a tiny orange speck hanging over the vast expanse of sea, the fluttering chop of its propellers sounding dull and insignificant, barely there. Down the beach to my left, a group of indistinct figures were moving steadily along,

  I sloshed the dregs from my cup onto the rocks in front of me.

  The sea had come to life a little by now. It was still groggy, pulling itself slowly up the beach, but I could sense the muscles it had: the tendons below the surface that were clawing this enormous, heavy thing up the sand towards me. It knew what I’d done. Eventually, it would tire and wash itself away again, drained of energy. For now, I enjoyed watching God struggling and crawling before me.

  I’m not afraid of you.

  Despite the disparity in their powers, the group of figures would reach me long before the sea did. Six policemen, with orange jackets over their normal uniforms, feeling their way slowly and uselessly along the braille of the coast.

  Hague, of course, was one of them.

  ***

  Eight months ago, a little boy went missing off the coast here. It was a familiar story. He was on the beach, playing with his older sister, and he went out too far into the waves. You can’t get away with that here. This stretch of coast is notorious for its unforgiving currents, and you’ll find few, if any, locals willing to swim in it. By the time the little girl alerted her parents, the boy had been swept out to sea and was presumed drowned.

  Hague was involved in the search. He walked the coastline with different volunteers for a period of two weeks. He knew the boy was dead, but finding the body was important to him. Not understanding the whims of the sea, the parents held out hope – and would no doubt continue to do so until their son was found. So Hague walked the coast.

  I watched him, day after day.

>   Finally, in the second week, I walked with him.

  ***

  As they approached now, his expression was grim. The others looked the same. It was as though they’d passed around an emotion to wear before heading out this morning, like Vaseline at an autopsy.

  I heard the scuff of their boots on the sand.

  “Jonathan.”

  Hague nodded as he drew to a halt in front of me, his fellow officers grouping behind.

  I nodded back. “Morning.”

  “It is morning, yes.” Hague looked over my shoulder at my house. “It is that. But not a good one. You’ll have been following the news?”

  “A little.”

  “You’ve heard about Charlotte Evans?”

  Yes. Ten years old, but she looked younger. Her photograph had been on the news the past few nights: curly blonde hair and plump, sun-red cheeks. She wouldn’t look like that anymore.

  “I saw something on the television.”

  “It’s been three days now.”

  “That’s bad.”

  “Real bad, yeah. So it’s not going to be a good result. But we’re walking the shore for her. There’s a lot of ground to cover.”

  “I don’t think you’ll find her.”

  I probably said that too quickly, but I didn’t care. He was making me sad – this man who always kept looking – and I wanted him to go away.

  Hague inclined his head. Looked at me curiously.

  “You don’t?”

  “You know what the sea’s like around here. It happens, and it’s awful, but I think that she’s probably gone.”

  “Well, maybe.” He frowned. “Maybe not. People have a way of turning up in all sorts of different places. Don’t they?”

  “Do they?”

  He looked at me.

  “Sometimes they do. They sure do.”