Off The Record

by Luca Veste

  And it was good money. All I needed was their phone ya see. All of ‘em had these new phones, cost a fuckin’ fortune. And they all want the latest one. Good money in them phones, for the right people. And I knew just the guy for them. Started makin’ a bit of money for him. It was keepin’ me in weed for the week, Charlie for the weekend, with some left over.

  Students were the easiest. Park meself on Brownlow Hill or Mount Pleasant and wait for one on her own. Don’t even see me comin’. Just head down, walk up, grab, and fuckin’ run. They’re usually some posh bint from over the water, or further away, and have no fuckin’ idea what to do. Probably wonderin’ what they’d let themselves in for, movin’ to Liverpool an’ that. Goin’ home and cryin’ to mummy and daddy. Fuckin’ hate students, the lazy bastards.

  Takes the phones I’d got that week to Mickey, and he’d give me a good amount for them. One day Mickey gives us a bike. Said he gives everyone on the way up in his ‘crew’ a bike, and it’s so I can get away quicker. Wondered if I can ride it, tells him of course I can. I’m not a fuckin’ meff or anythin’. He says to move around a bit more. So I don’t get nicked that much. More bizzie patrols around the Uni now, but I’m always careful.

  So that day was no different. Comin’ up to Christmas, so it’s gettin’ dark early, which is perfect. Parked meself round the corner of the pub on Mount Pleasant. Sees this girl comin’ towards us, and have a quick shifty around. No one else near us. She’s just passed The Font on the corner. Purple fuckin’ hair she’s got. Purple. Fuckin’ quiffed up and lookin’ like a punk rocker. Only thirty years outta date love. And she’s carryin’ one of those big fuckin’ rucksack sized bags they all have these days. As if at any moment they might have to leave the country or somethin’. Fuckin’ students. It’s easier with the smaller bags, but I was just as happy to take the big ones. And I’ve got this bike thing down so well. Just ride up slow as you like, grab, and pedal away. No problem.

  I gets the bag, and she’s no different to the rest. Purple hair or not, she’s still a fuckin’ outsider. Not even said anythin’. Probably goin’ back home to rinse the stupid dye out her hair as we speak.

  Then the stupid big fuck-off bag gets caught in me back wheel.

  I took a header over the handlebars. Landed right on me fuckin’ head. Into the fuckin’ road. Saw headlights, then it all went black.

  Woke up a lot later in the Royal. In a coma I was for a while. Doc’ says it was touch and go whether I was gonna survive or not. Mum’s sat next to me bed, cryin’ her eyes out.

  Can’t ride bikes anymore. Broke me fuckin’ neck didn’t I, paralysed from the neck down I am. 24 hour care, in a home. Like I’m already on me ways out. Mum tried to look after me at her house, but she couldn’t do it for long. Said it was too much work at her age.

  Got me on good drugs though. Says it’s for phantom pains and shit. Don’t really listen to be honest. Supposed to keep me head straight and that, but mostly I just stare at the telly or somethin’. Which isn’t all that bad to be honest. There’s always somethin’ on.

  Might be numb from the neck down, but at least I’m comfortable.

  BIO: Luca Veste is a husband and father of two daughters. A mature student studying Psychology and Criminology, he spends most days walking to and from Uni up Brownlow Hill. He has stories at Thrillers Killers ‘n’ Chillers, in Brit Grit Too, The Lost Children Anthology, and the forthcoming Radgepacket Six. He is also the writer of Liverpool 5 and More Liverpool 5. He can be found at www.LucaVeste.com

  DEATH OR GLORY

  By

  Nick Quantrill

  The supermarket shutters snapped into place. I yawned and watched the flashing lights on the alarm work through their sequence before finishing, the darkness signalling the end of another twelve hour shift. I hated the place. The pub on the far corner of the quadrant was still open. It was where the evening’s shoplifters would be selling their stolen goods - bacon, coffee and cheese. Easy pickings for them, but what could I do? Take a kicking if I tried to stop them? Not likely. The Area Manager could go fuck himself, not that I could afford to tell him that tomorrow.

  I left the shop behind and put my headphones in. ‘London Calling’ by The Clash. It was always the same. I needed Strummer’s vocals and Jones’s guitar to get me in the zone for band practice with my brothers-in-law. It was what kept me going these days. We’d been a power-pop trio a lifetime ago, touring the country in our transit van, courting a bit of record industry interest here and there. We even made a demo tape in London. Even the great John Peel had played it, but all roads had led back to Hull for us.

  I’d met Laura eighteen years ago when we were in the same sixth form group, studying Politics and Social Science. I was growing dreadlocks, she’d dyed her hair purple. On the night of the first college disco, we’d sneaked off and found a quiet pub to drink cider and talk about the music we’d bought that week from Offbeat. Whilst the rest of the college had danced the night away to whatever was in the charts, we’d gone to the indie night at Sills before sealing things with a kiss on the long walk home.

  Laura fell pregnant. It was too much, too soon. I was up and down the M1 with the band and she was studying for a degree. Our flat was small and rundown, but at least it was ours. We made it into a home. Our friends would come round most Saturday nights. We’d drink and listen to music before heading to Spiders or Sills. That all changed when the twins arrived and she wanted us to better ourselves. I took on some shifts at the supermarket so she could continue to study. I worked the shifts no one else wanted. Early mornings and late nights. It felt like selling out, but I got used to it. The cycle of work, babies and gigs was tiring, but I survived. We survived.

  Laura passed her degree and trained to become an accountant. We bought a house. Prices in the city were at rock bottom. Even the band changed. All three of us needed the money and I had to concede the original material was leading us nowhere. My brothers-in-law insisted we play the local pub circuit instead. It was take it or leave it. The choice was mine. I swallowed my pride and learned the songs. These days we played anything and everything to please the drinkers – Oasis, Kaiser Chiefs, Muse. Everything I despised.

  The twins grew up fast. I’d looked after them when Laura was at work, organising my shifts around her. Laura’s career progressed and once she qualified and took on more responsibility at work, her profile increased. I’d reluctantly accompanied her to networking events, whilst continuing to put on gigs at the Adelphi, drifting nowhere with the day job, unable to make a change. We’d moved in different directions, the dreadlocks and purple hair long gone. She’d pushed the twins to do well at school. I’d taken a backseat until it was GCSE decision time. We’d argued before I left for work. Laura was pushing them towards studying ICT and Business Studies. I told them to study what made them happy, what made them think. One of the twins had laughed in my face, told me I worked in a supermarket. Worse still, I was only a supervisor, third in charge. What did I know about anything? Tears filled my eyes at the thought of what I’d done. I’d managed to uncurl my fist at the last moment, turn the action into a slap. The only sound in the house had been the impact of flesh on flesh.

  I turned The Clash off and stuffed the headphones back into my pocket. The rehearsal room was in darkness. I’d worked up some new melodies stood behind the till earlier in the day. When the time was right, I was going to play them, see if we could work them up into songs. Maybe we could start playing our own material again. Maybe even run two bands. One could finance the other. We were good enough. I knew we could make it work. There was still had time to leave all this behind. I stepped towards where my brothers-in-law stored my guitar. It was in pieces, the neck broken off. I saw two shadows move against the wall, heading towards me. I was about to become just another story.

  BIO: Nick Quantrill is a crime writer from Hull, East Yorkshire. His Joe Geraghty novels, ‘Broken Dreams’ and ‘The Late Greats’ are published by Caffeine Nights. His short stories ha
ve appeared in volumes eight and nine of ‘The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime’.

  TWO LITTLE BOYS

  By

  Helen FitzGerald

  It was only one of the toys that got them into trouble.

  Ben’s, to be exact.

  And it wasn’t little.

  After the initial telephone consultation, Hilary wondered if the size of the toy had caused the problem. Perhaps something with less girth would not have needed to be played with.

  Ben and Nathan had been together for fifteen years. After the first two, Ben suggested they have an open relationship.

  These were the rules:

  1. They must never sleep with someone more than once.

  2. Friday nights only.

  3. They must never fall in love.

  4. They must never share the details.

  Nathan took some persuading. He was content with their once-weekly bedroom-only encounters. But eventually, he agreed. He would not be pressured by an outmoded view of how a couple should behave, would he? Of course he wouldn’t.

  Nathan rang ‘The Road Ahead’, Hilary’s brand spanking new relationship counselling service, one rainy Thursday morning. It was thirteen years since he’d signed Ben’s ‘open-relationship’ contract (yes, signed, and dated, in black pen). ‘I’ve just read about your service,’ he said. ‘It sounds like just the thing.’

  Hilary was 46. With at least an inch of greying routes in the middle part of her long hair and twenty extra kilos of unevenly spread flab, she had not aged well. Her new business was her first employment in twenty years. She didn’t resent this fact – taking care of her husband and children had been a pleasure and a privilege.

  One year ago, Hilary’s husband left her for a 27 year old who came complete with firm breasts, slim ankles and a villa in Madrid.

  The ex-husband sold the house, gave Hilary enough money for a small flat in Queenspark, and moved to Spain.

  Ever optimistic, Hilary decided that revenge is her children’s happiness. She devoted herself to making Nicholas, 16, and Ruth, 18, beam with happiness.

  ‘We’re going to live with Dad and Mercedes,’ they said a month after the divorce was finalised. ‘We’re sick of chocolate fudge cake. We don’t want to share a sofa-bed. To be honest, we’re finding you a little strange.’

  Ever optimistic, Hilary decided revenge is indifference. To achieve this, she needed to occupy her mind. She completed seven adult learning courses in a year, gaining a Relate Counselling qualification, certificates in Introduction to Business and Advanced Driving, life membership of Queen’s Park Power Walking Club, expertise in cake decorating and the Chinese revolution, and seven Facebook friends, one of whom had messaged her directly last Friday at 11.05pm about the launch of a furniture shop.

  She practiced how her forthcoming indifference might look, checking out her mock-aloof reflection as she passed high street windows.

  One day, quite unexpectedly, she found herself hurling an empty bottle of Highland Spring mineral water at said reflection.

  Ever optimistic, Hilary told herself that revenge is success. Using the personal and professional skills she had acquired from her courses, she would make herself a millionaire and buy a big villa in a better and hotter country than Spain.

  She just needed a genius idea.

  Hmm.

  Hilary purchased a flip chart and a thick pad of flip chart paper, and brainstormed in her living-room-cum-dining-room-cum-kitchen.

  I like - Cake, Driving, Listening to people.

  I want - Cake, and Revenge which = Success.

  She looked at her flip chart for four and a half hours. About to give up, an idea arrived. She would start a business as a relationships counsellor… on wheels.

  She loved the idea of helping couples stay together. If only her ex-husband had agreed to getting some help.

  Her internet research showed that if you want someone to open up and tell you the truth in a non-threatening way, you should drive with them. Police use this tactic all the time - having no eye contact makes people more able to be honest.

  From her experience, this was certainly true.

  Ruth told her about the abortion in the car.

  Nicholas told her he’d dropped out of Uni in the car.

  In the car, her ex-husband told her this might not have happened if she’d taken care of herself. ‘I’m normal, good looking and well hung,’ he explained. ‘Someone like you can’t expect to hold on to a man like me.’

  The business would expand! Counsellors with cars, all over the world. Within a year, she would make £100,000. Within three years, one million. She’d seen Dragon’s Den.

  The following day, she paid a young man at a garage to spray paint the following words across the left side of her blue Ford Fiesta:

  The Road Ahead - Relationship Counselling - In a Non-Threatening Environment!

  Insurances paid, sole-trading status sorted, and Facebook page created, Hilary waited for the enquiries to flood in.

  Her first booking came two weeks later. Ben and Nathan.

  ***

  Ben was angry during the initial telephone consultation. ‘He’s been sticking his unnecessarily thick cock in some married guy’s gob for two years, two whole years! That’s a clear breach of our contract!’

  Eventually, Hilary calmed him down and explained how the sessions would work. They would take turns to drive. And, from her position in the backseat, she would facilitate.

  ‘I’d like to drive first,’ Nathan said. He’d been very particular about the time. 7.15 pm, and it had to be a Wednesday.

  Hilary felt excited when she jumped in the back. Revenge is success! she said to herself. And it’s here! Tonight, she would power walk around Queens Park wearing a massively indifferent expression on her face, then eat the marble cake she’d just baked and decorated.

  ‘First off, what are you hoping to get out of this?’ Hilary asked when Nathan reached Pollokshaws Road.

  ‘I’d like Ben to be honest with me.’

  Ben froze in the passenger seat. Still looking straight ahead, he eventually said: ‘No details, remember?’

  ‘Honesty is important,’ Hilary said, trying not to smile. She was LOVING herself. This was the best idea ever!

  ‘Honesty,’ Nathan sped up a little. ‘Okay then, let’s talk about Rule 1: Never sleep with someone more than once.’

  Ben didn’t even try to lie. ‘Thank God you know. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Rule 2: Only Fridays. When is it you see him? Wednesdays at 9?’

  ‘Nathan can you slow down please?’ This from Hilary.

  ‘Do you love him?’ Nathan was now doing 50 in a 30 zone, knuckles white on the wheel. He skidded to a halt on one side of St Andrew’s Drive. Sandstone houses with metal fences lined either side of the street. Ben looked out his window at the house opposite them. The front door opened. All three now watched as a man in a suit kissed his wife and exited the house.

  ‘Details.’ Nathan said. ‘Matthew Marshall. 31. Twelve years younger than me. Married. Three kids.’

  ‘Come here, please, come here,’ Ben sobbed, opening his arms to be held. ‘I’ve been trying to get away but it’s… I have tried to end it, I have.’

  ‘Every Wednesday, he walks out of his house and goes to the station and gets the train to town, where he meets you. Hilton at 9 Ben? Straight to the room is it? Or a pint at the Arches first? Will we be finished this in time you think?’

  ‘Please forgive me. Don’t leave me. Look at me! Tell me what you’re thinking!’

  Ben took his hands off the wheel and looked at Nathan. ‘All I can think about is revenge.’

  The word stabbed Hilary in the throat. She couldn’t breathe.

  ‘He’s just, I don’t know, like heroin? I’m ruined! Help me!’

  What was revenge, Hilary wondered? The happiness of her children? Ha. She could strangle the ungrateful little fuckers, after all she’d done for them.

  Indiffer
ence? She looked at her reflection in the rear view mirror. Her lips had turned green.

  Success? This business was the stupidest idea in the cunting world.

  Ben and Nathan were hugging now, weeping.

  ‘Session’s over,’ Hilary said. ‘Get in the back.’

  The man was walking along the pavement, all normal, like her ex-husband.

  He was pressing the button at the traffic lights, all good looking, like her ex-husband.

  Hilary started the car.

  Ben and Nathan were holding each other in the backseat, sobbing about growing old together, sorting this out somehow, somehow…

  The pedestrian lights had changed. The man was walking across the road, all smug, like that well-hung ex-husband of hers.

  Ever optimistic, Hilary slowly lifted the clutch, revved the engine, and drove full throttle towards the pedestrian crossing.

  Why had she never considered that revenge is watching an arsehole bounce off the windscreen?

  Why oh why oh why had she never guessed, not even for one tiny little minute, that revenge is watching an arsehole land with a squelch on the metal spikes of a fence?

  BIO: Aussie born Helen FitzGerald lives in Glasgow with her screenwriter husband, Sergio Casci, and their two children, Anna and Joe. She’s written five adult books, the most recent of which is The Donor (Faber, 2011) and is currently writing her second YA (The Shot, Sohoteen). The next book to be released is The Duplicate (Snubnose Press, 2012).

  GOD ONLY KNOWS

  By

  Ray Banks

  Back in the day, back when they were first together, Terry told her it was their song because Terry had a way of making important decisions without her input even then.

  The first time he played it to her, he talked all the way through it, telling her all sorts of stuff about how it was constructed, the complicated melodic structures, and how it wasn’t Brian Wilson singing, it was Carl, and how ground-breaking it was, and a whole load of other stuff that she didn’t really care about and didn’t want to hear. Instead, she nodded and closed her eyes. And while he fumbled on with her, she tuned him out so that the instruments became something else and she couldn’t differentiate between them. They became pure music, and it was like someone had thrown open the shutters on a bright California day, just like she’d seen on the telly. She felt the sun on her face. She could smell the beach, and it was a good smell, not like when she was down Whitley Bay. It made things better.