by Luca Veste
Breakfast the next morning was nearly bearable.
‘I’ll have your car today,’ she said. ‘You know Mum likes the extra height of the people carrier.’
He nodded his head. Driving all the way to Harrogate in her Corsa wasn’t ideal, but he didn’t want an argument. There’d been too many lately.
He ached when he reached the hotel. Cracked ribs, small seats, no leg room and the heater stuck on full in June. He’d buy her a better car when he got back, it could only help.
The conference was good. All the old faces, stories of old, talks of recent mergers and closures. Dinner with his best supplier, they picked up the tab. The drink went to his head, he shouldn’t have drunk with the painkillers. A few shorts in the bar afterwards finished him off. His legs wobbly, he went to his ground floor bedroom. Opening the window, he slumped on the bed and slept.
The bedroom door crashed open waking him. Sheila stood in the doorway, eyes bulging out on sticks. ‘What the hell is this?’
She held up a bra. Huge red lacy thing. Definitely not hers on all counts.
‘I don’t know?’
‘It was in your glove box you dirty little man.’
She slapped him across the face as he tried to move. Her wedding ring caught his eye. He felt the lid close as the pain spread.
‘What’s wrong with you, you’re a bloody sex maniac. Mother was right, I...’ She stopped, her eyes staring wildly at something on the floor.
He rolled over, his side in agony, and looked through his good eye at the floor.
Lingerie, that’s what they called it. Not that he’d ever seen any this close up. Specifically, the knickers that matched the bra in her hand. Beside it an empty condom packet. Beside that, three used ones. Beside them, two vibrators. Pink and Blue. His and hers.
The bedside lamp was heavy. She put her golf swing to the test. He saw stars before darkness came.
***
He came round. Agony. Throbbing head. Hands and legs stiff. Aching. He couldn’t move either. Twisting his head, he saw a rope tied his arms to the headboard. Stood at the foot of the bed was Sheila. She walked forward and pulled the duvet off.
Naked, absolutely starkers. His legs were tied to the bottom of the bed too.
Outside the window, behind Sheila’s head, he saw another woman. All cleavage and dark-rooted, blonde hair. A curious smile on her face and an envelope in her hands. Laying her head on her left shoulder, she blew a kiss at him.
He looked back at his wife. Pruning shears in her hands. Blades open, her muscles clenched tightly.
‘I told you if I caught you again I’d chop it off,’ she said. ‘And mother says you should always keep your word.’
BIO: Charlie Wade is the author of three novels, Post credit crunch dystopia ‘The Bailout’, Comedy Spy Thriller – ‘The Spy With Eczema’ and Crime Thriller – ‘Seven Daze’. He has also written many short stories, some are online at The Flash Fiction Offensive, Shotgun Honey, Thrillers Killers and Chillers and Pulp Metal Magazine. His short story Das Slap has been published as an e-book by Trestle Press.
PURPLE HAZE
By
Iain Rowan
‘Christ. Do we have to go in there? It's like something from Stalingrad.’
Dan shook his head. ‘Welcome to the world outside your bubble, Adam.’
‘Fuck off,’ Adam said reflexively. ‘And you can't talk, your school cost more than mine. Christ, we'll be lucky to get out alive.’
‘Stop bickering, girls.’ Josh stared up at the block of flats. ‘In there is the key to the gates of righteous madness.’
‘Better be as good as it's cracked up to be,’ Adam said.
‘It's better than that,’ Josh said. ‘Best there is. And there's none around, not ever.’
Dan started walking towards the flats. He wanted to get this over and done with, get back to the college, get out of his head. Josh dropped acid because his persona at university was constructed around it, inner-space explorer, self-styled psychonaut. Adam followed along to convince himself and everyone else that he was not the nervous, twitchy boy that had spent his life until university dodging bullies at school and at home. Dan did it because life stretched out dull and colourless, and for just a few hours, it wouldn't be.
He was surprised when the lift worked. Adam fidgeted, the sweat shining on his face. Josh stood still, eyes closed, a slight smile on his lips. They spilled out on to the landing on the sixth floor, battered doors to the flats set in stained concrete on one side, a waist-high wall overlooking the concrete square below. Somewhere, a dog barked, and then there was a squeal of pain and it didn't bark any more.
‘Christ,’ Adam looked like he desperately wanted to be anywhere else in the world.
‘It's this one,’ Josh took a deep breath and knocked on the door. Silence for a moment, then a voice. ‘Aye?’
‘Hello,’ Josh said, like he was making an introduction at a party. ‘We're looking for uh, Crossa. Dean said he'd call you, let you know we were coming.’ Dean was one of Josh's tangled web of contacts, drummer boyfriend of the sister of a friend of a friend.
After a moment the door opened. ‘Best come in, then.’
Dan wasn't sure what he had expected, but this man in tracksuit bottoms and a stained tee-shirt wasn't it. They followed him down the narrow hall and into a kitchen that stank of fat and hash. Crossa leaned against the table, folded his arms, stared at them as if they were from another planet. We are, Dan thought. The way we dress, the way we speak. We're tourists.
‘What you after then, lads?’
Josh swallowed. ‘Heard you've got some Purple Haze in.’
‘First in a long, long time,’ Crossa said. ‘Never see it these days. Not the real thing.’
‘Heard it's the best there is.’
Crossa grinned, and it made Dan think of a fox. ‘Might be too much for you lads. You look like nice boys.’
‘You'd be surprised,’ Josh said.
Crossa laughed. ‘No, son, I don't think I would. Hope you've come with plenty of cash. How much y'after then? And you want owt else? Got some good pills in, do you a deal on them.’
Josh opened his mouth, and it was then that the front door came in, and everything happened. Crossa dived for one of the kitchen drawers, but Adam was in the way, and by the time he got out of it the other men were in the kitchen, and one of them hit Crossa hard in the face with something. Crossa dropped to the floor and Dan and Adam and Josh shrank back against the kitchen units as if they could become part of them.
‘Get him in the chair, tie him to it, turn one of those gas rings on.’ There were three of them. One tall, one scarred right across his face, as if he had been glassed at some time, and the one who spoke, hair pulled back in a ponytail. ‘And who the fuck are you?’
Adam looked as if he was going to be sick, and Josh just stared. Dan spoke, because he knew that if one of them didn't, they would be hurt. ‘Nobody,’ he said. ‘We'll go. This isn't our business.’
‘Here now,’ the man said.
‘We're just here to buy, that's all,’ Josh said. ‘We don't want any trouble.’
‘Oh, one does not want any trouble, does one?’ the man said. ‘Then one picked the wrong fucking night to pop down from uni. Seen our fucking faces.’
‘We'll forget them the moment we walk out of the door,’ Dan said.
‘Who said you're walking out the door?’
Dan ran out of things to say.
Crossa slumped in the chair, stopped from falling only by the electrical flex that tied him to it. The flame on the gas hob burned a beautiful blue.
‘Davey, take a walk round. Make sure none of Crossa's boys are about.’ The tall man left the flat. Despite all the noise, no-one had come out of the other flats. Maybe someone has rung the police, Dan thought, and then he gave up thinking it, because he knew no-one had. The man with the ponytail wandered over to a drawer in the kitchen, pulled it open, considered the things within it like an artist deciding
which brush to use.
‘Where is it, Crossa?’ he said.
The scarred man grabbed Crossa's hair, shook his head until he came awake with a groan and a dribble of blood from his mouth.
‘Where is it, Crossa?’
‘Nowt to do with me,’ Crossa said thickly. ‘I don't deal charlie.’
The man laughed. ‘So how do you know it's coke we're looking for, then?’
‘It's all over, man. That your stuff went missing. Everyone knows.’
The man pulled a bread knife from the drawer, started to heat the blade in the blue of the gas. ‘Didn't go missing, Crossa. Some fucker stole it.’
‘Wasn't me.’
‘Word says it is.’
‘Word's wrong.’
The man smiled again, took the blade from the flame. ‘Well, we'll find out, won't we.’ He took a step towards Crossa, and Dan jerked his head at Josh and Adam, hoped they would know what he meant, didn't have time to find out, because he just ran, sprinting down the hall and out of the door. He heard the footsteps behind him, looked back, saw it was Josh first, Adam behind, no-one coming after them.
They nearly got to the end of the landing. The door to the stairs opened, and the tall man who had been sent out came back through.
‘Don't think so, lads,’ he said. ‘Back to the flat.’
‘There's three of us,’ Josh said.
The man laughed and punched Josh in the stomach, making him fold in half and then spew on his pointy boots. The man moved a hand under his jacket, moved it back out and there was a blade pointing at Dan.
Dan took a step back.
The man took a step forward.
Then there was a blur of movement from the side, an animal scream, and Adam dived into him, waist high. The man was caught off balance and staggered into the edge of the wall over the courtyard. Adam howled like a dog, the man tried to kick him off, Adam grabbed his leg and pulled and the man pivoted, made a surprised noise, and disappeared over the wall with a sound of clothes flapping and then a second later a dull, wet thump.
They looked at each other. Adam's eyes were wild. Josh looked down into the courtyard, then looked away. ‘Fuck,’ he said. ‘Fucking hell.’
They ran again, down the stairs, and out of the flats, and through the streets until they got to Josh's car, and stood for a moment, panting, unbelieving.
‘You both OK?’ Dan said. ‘You OK to drive, Josh?’
Josh nodded, wiped a hand over his mouth.
‘Adam? You all right?’
Adam was staring off at something that wasn't there.
‘Adam?’
‘Can you feel it?’ Adam said.
‘What?’
‘The rush.’
‘Adam...’
Adam looked at Dan. ‘Better than any trip.’
‘Jesus, Adam.’
But as they drove back, they all knew what he meant.
BIO: Iain Rowan has over thirty short stories published, some of which have won awards.Eleven of those stories have been published as a collection of short crime fiction called ‘Nowhere To Go’.Another eight have been published as a collection of short stories of the strange and the chilling called ‘Ice Age’. .You can find more information about Iain on his website – www.iainrowan.com
FREE BIRD
by
Thomas Pluck
‘Yard’s not gonna rake itself,’ Marty’s old man had said from the recliner, Rheingold in hand. Watching the panelling like it was television. He crumpled the steel can and tossed it into the trash to rattle among its brothers.
The yard was mounded in leaves and the naked oak mocked Marty with its outstretched limbs. He dragged the rake from the garage, paused to lust over the Starlite Black ’77 Trans Am. Golden phoenix flaring across the hood, angry and free. A month until he turned sixteen.
Driving to school in it wouldn’t take the sting off hearing boys say they’d pissed on the floor of the john so Marty’s father had to clean it up.
He gathered a pile of leaves and dumped them in a steel drum. They’d burn them that night when Mom got back from teaching shut-ins how to paint at the VA hospital. Cinders weaving through the air like drunken fireflies.
The screen door slapped shut and his father sauntered to the car, rags and a tub of Turtle Wax in his hands. Marty’s hands throbbed, spotted with puffy white blisters. He wanted a break, but knew Harve Chundak’s attitude when there was work to be done. ‘Sympathy’s in the dictionary between shit and syphilis.’
Lean and shirtless, his son looked like the Vietnamese boys begging for candy in Dog Patch. Those kids were just as unlucky with land mines as they were. Harve buffed the paint until his younger self stared back from the abyss of the clear coat, deep and dark as jungle night. Early in ’67 he’d signed up, ink on his degree still wet, his father’s Korean War medals bright in his mind.
When he returned, he visited the folks of PFC Oscar Martins before his own. Cried over photographs. Told lies. Married the Andrea, the art teacher at his old school. Principal said he’d love to take him on. They already had a coach, but they needed a maintenance man. That was okay. Young men on the football field looked like corn for the thresher.
‘I’m done,’ Marty said. Woke him from it.
Harve held up a beer. ‘Cool off those hands,’ he said to his son’s back. He was already through the door.
‘I’m going to the Cort’s,’ he hollered.
The boys sprawled on pillows covering the cellar floor. Sweet weed didn’t hide the dank smell. Jerry Cort was Marty’s age. Rob, two years older, had dropped out. He stretched a veiny arm toward the bong. ‘Give it.’
Rob had newfound muscle from months of heaving crates of ‘cheap dago red for the spaghetti & meatball joints, and whiskey for the potato eater bars,’ as he called his tenure at the liquor depot, before being fired for theft.
‘Your father has a sweet ride for a janitor,’ he croaked. He rested his chin on the glass bong. Smoke curled above the water inside.
Marty shrunk in self-loathing. The purple blossoms down Jerry’s back kept him quiet.
‘You think he’s gonna let you drive it, the way he shits all over you? No fuckin’ way. You want that ride, you gotta take it. He’ll respect your ambition.’
Marty looked at his shoes.
Harve fired up the Trans Am. Reached under the seat to release the gas cutoff switch. Thought about driving the whole country with PFC Martins, like they’d talked about on endless nights when fear gripped your balls like the icy hand of death. Can’t drive with no legs, Big O. Missed the freedom bird by two months.
They’d met in Basic on Parris Island. Nothing was easy for Martins, but never quit, and always had a wisecrack. Harve would be flying up an obstacle ahead of him. ‘Sarge is right, the sun does shine out of your ass!’ The boy was living up to his namesake. Bitched a lot, but got it done. There wasn’t a leaf left in the grass. You just needed to ride him a bit hard.
Boy would be driving soon. He’d teach him to wax it, tame it, maintain it. He killed the engine, reset the switch. Snagged another Rheingold on the way to the La-Z-Boy.
‘Your old man’ll be passed out drunk,’ Jerry said. ‘He’ll never even know.’
Marty hoped his Dad would be putting a third coat of wax on the car, and tell the Corts to get the fuck out of his garage. They heard his snoring from out on the porch, and tiptoed in. He sprawled on the recliner like a sandstone Frankenstein’s monster on the slab. Man like that, who Marty had seen smash his thumb with a ball peen hammer and not even curse, woke up crying at night. Mopped up piss for a living. Marty wanted to tell Rob to go fuck himself, but every time he made to speak, it felt as if skeletal fingers played down his ribs like piano keys.
The keys were on the dresser, next to the box with the medals. Rob snagged the keys, Jerry plucked the Bronze Star from its case.
‘Don’t touch that,’ Marty mumbled.
‘Or what?’ Rob said. Took the star, pinned it to his denim jac
ket. Slid open the top dresser drawer like a born thief. ‘Jackpot,’ he said, and hefted the Colt M1911. Holding it put the curl to his smile, spread wrinkles around his eyes.
‘C’mon, we’ll shoot some cans. Maybe a cat, or a squirrel.’
‘Awesome,’ Jerry said, jaw open.
Harve felt a knot tighten from throat to asshole as the squad returned fire. Land mines in the road, ambush from the hooches. Some on fire, blown apart. Two V.C. remained taking cover and pot shots, making for the jungle. Medic tied off Martins’ stumps. Squad leader hollered in the radio for evac.
One untouched hooch, dead center. Muzzle flashes from the doorway. The mine took Martins apart like ripe fruit. Rifle up. Sight acquire, fire. Short controlled burst. Took a grenade off the flak jacket, underhanded it.
Thatch flew apart. Last of the panic fire cooked off. The empty silence after battle.
Inside the hut, a human octopus of too small limbs and a swollen belly. His wife and son’s faces in the mess. Drew the .45 from his web belt and put a round in every howling face.
He woke up gasping, to the exhaust note of the Trans Am. From too far off.
‘Damn it, boy.’ Harve tied his work boots.
Rob drove, the .45 stuck between his legs. Fishtailed up the two lane highway, the boys hooting as the posi-traction rear righted the car.
Marty felt the thrill easing his fear. ‘C’mon, you said you’d let me drive.’
‘In a bit,’ Rob said. ‘This is awesome.’
‘Let me up front,’ Jerry said.
‘Marty called shotgun, dickwad. Rules is rules. Next rule is cash, grass or ass. Nobody rides for free. I’m splitting town in style,’ Rob laughed. ‘You faggots wanna come along, you’d better grow some tits.’
‘This is my father’s car, Rob.’
‘Well it’s mine now, dickless.’ Rob laughed, pumped a fist to Marty’s ribs. ‘This car’s too good for a fucking janitor.’
Marty fought back tears and the urge to puke.
