by D A Walmsley
“Wanna bet?”
The young man tries to stop him but he is connected to the phone and is pulled back by the lead. Matthew opens the door and enters. A man in his late thirties or early forties is sitting behind a desk. He almost jumps out of his seat when this strange man bursts in on him.
“Wha… What are you doing in he… here, wh… who are you?”
“We spoke on the phone a few minutes ago, about a Mr Milo.”
Matthew slaps down his government licence and Dave’s employment contract, causing the man to jump again.
“Now, I do have the right to the information, Mr?…”
“Johnson.”
“Mr Johnson, if you will tell me about the policy my DEAD employee had with you.”
With his hands shaking the man looks it up on the computer.
“The policy is a home contents, plus he had just renewed his car with us.”
“Contents, good. I need someone to come round and assess the place, it’s been completely trashed.”
Mr Johnson has seen the gun on Matthew’s belt and can’t stop staring at it.
“Are you listening?”
“Oh, sorry, I’ll send someone round in the next couple of days. We’re very busy just now. If you leave a contact number someone will be in touch.”
Matthew isn’t going to be fobbed off like this.
“What! A few days. I want it done now.”
“I don’t have anyone available,” Mr Johnson splutters.
“You can do it?” says Matthew, pointing at him.
“No, I… I’m…”
“Get what you need and come with me.”
Johnson stands up, and with as much authority his five foot something frame can muster, reaches for the phone saying. “I’m calling the police, I think you should leave.”
Matthew, his nostrils still filled with the smell of death from the morgue, is not in the mood. He knocks the phone off the desk before Johnson can pick it up.
“You want to play it like this, fine,” Matthew grabs hold of Johnson’s arm. Johnson tries to pull away, but Matthew’s grip is too tight. When Johnson has the nerve to throw a punch, Matthew shoves him against a wall, and then squeezes Johnson’s throat, whispering. “You are so lucky I’m here and not Dave Milo. He would have put a bullet in your skull by now.”
This time, Matthew doesn’t grab an arm but gets hold of Johnson’s thinning hair, “Why would you make it so hard for yourself? Why? This time, you won’t put up a struggle will you?”
“No… No… aargh.”
Matthew drags Johnson by the hair, out of the office and passed his employees, who stare with open mouths. Pointing to the young man with his spare hand Matthew says “You, go get some assessment forms and whatever else your boss will need for a home insurance claim and follow me, NOW. And nobody be so stupid as to call the police.”
Matthew marches out of the building with a bent double Johnson being dragged behind him. The young man starts to collect what he needs and runs after Matthew.
“Please let go, you’ve made your point.”
“I could, but then if you tried to run away I would be forced to shoot you, so I’m actually doing you a favour.”
Just before they arrive at Dave’s place, the young man catches them up.
“This is the place,” Matthew gestures towards the building. As they get up to the door he lets go of Johnson’s hair, who pulls away feeling his head very gently. The young man gives his boss a form on a clipboard and a pen. Johnson snatches them, giving his young employee a glare.
“You don’t have to include the door, I did that.” Matthew informs them.
All three men then walk through the property, room by room, going over what is damaged or has been stolen.
Matthew’s phone rings. It’s Adam Samuels, the undertaker.
“Hi, your secretary has explained the urgency. I’ve already been on to the police and got a priest. The body is being collected as we speak and will be taken to the plot. I’m guessing there won’t be a funeral.”
“No, just the usual, can you get it done today?
“Well if there’s no one going to attend, then of course, no problem… Oh there was just one thing, for speed I promised the priest and the gravediggers an extra two hundred, is that OK?”
“Of course, just add it to the bill.” As Matthew puts his phone away the young man asks.
“Will it be a big funeral?”
Matthew shakes his head, “what’s your name kid?”
“Timothy, er… Tim.”
“Well Tim, apart from being violent bastards, we collectors are also superstitious. We don’t go to funerals because we think it’s bad luck, like we may be next. Hey when you’re dead you’re dead, no one gets another go, right, no one! Who cares if a few people gather round crying.”
Matthew pauses for a moment, thinking of the last and only funeral he’s ever been to, that of his parents. Before old Eli died, he made Matthew promise he wouldn’t attend, “Just let me be, kid. Just let me be.”
“No Tim, tonight I’ll just have a drink and be glad it wasn’t me.”
Chapter 7
“Kill, kill, kill” chant the packed crowd as two rappers strut around the stage encouraging their audience to respond and wave their arms in the air. With the lines my knife in your back and your death is my glory their message is clear. Wearing large gold chains round their necks and very baggy clothes, like millions of others around the world, you’d be forgiven for thinking this is just a gimmick. Violence sells as they say and maybe for many of the kids who buy the CDs and T-shirts that’s all it is - the latest cool.
But let’s be in no doubt, this is more than slogans, these are threats, and many have been on the receiving end. Steve aka Flatpack and Simon the Zealot, are just two of the death rappers who back up their lyrics with real action. Even their names, while on the face of it seem harmless, have darker meanings. Flatpack is a slang term for a cheap coffin and Zealot is taken from Simon’s weapon of choice, the brand name of the knife he carries.
“We want our country back, we want our country back,” chants Simon.
At the same time, Flatpack raps “It’s time we get these foreign dogs outta our, b-lov-ed land. We will not rest, nor will we sleep, til we have our own country, BACK! The day will come, when we will see, blood, of every Union oppressor and Jewish traitor and Israel WILL BE FREE.”
“We want our country back, we want our country back.” The crowd join in.
Flatpack usually works solo, preferring to have the stage all to himself. Simon, while still having a decent following in Capernaum, his home town, is usually the support act. Tonight though, Flatpack was his guest, these his people.
When they come off stage it takes half an hour just to get to the door. Everyone wants an autograph or a photo. Simon gets the number of a brunette he wants to meet later. Later is in the Angels Club where he has a private table and can chill without being interrupted by fans.
“Did you notice we had unwanted visitors?” Flatpack says as they enter the Club.
Simon hadn’t. When he’s on stage, with the lights shining on him, everything becomes a blur.
At the bar a group of young attractive girls are talking and sipping cocktails. Flatpack has a word in the ear of a friend who goes over to them.
The lads are shown to their booth and order the usual drinks.
“So did you get a good look at those men?” Simon asks.
“What? No. my eyes aren’t that good, but shit, they won’t dare mess with us, right!”
Three girls are shown to their booth and slide in next to them. This is the best way to relax Simon thinks, as one of the girls leans over and kisses him. A waiter brings Simon his Hennessey cognac and Flatpack a whisky. Flatpack, his arms round the two other girls, orders them champagne and points to two mates standing near the dance floor, chatting up some twins. “Get them whatever they want.” The waiter nods.
This is a far cry from how Simon
thought his life would go. He was shy as a child and would never have thought he’d be on stage in front of hundreds of people. His mother had wanted him to study and go to university. She hated living in the Neziah district of Capernaum. A run down estate famous only for its violence and high crime rate. Growing up without a father had been tough for both of them. His mum worked long hours in a factory just to feed them. He knew she hated it, but she got up everyday and never once complained. One day while travelling south between Capernaum and Magdala she hadn’t enough money to pay the toll. If only she’d lied, given them a false name and address they wouldn’t have kept calling. Even after she’d paid it all back - including the interest, they kept harassing her. No, mum would never have lied, she was too honest. She’d never had a day off sick until that incident. But the cancer spread quickly and Simon has no doubt what caused it. Even up to her death she urged him to study, make something of himself. If he’d studied hard the best he could have hoped for would have been a job in an office. As the girl nibbles on his ear, he wonders if by now he’d have been married and stuck at home with a wife and kids. He can’t help thinking back to that one incident that changed him forever.
A few coins that’s all it took to alter his path. If his mum had had enough money to pay the toll, he might have been that office worker and his mum still alive today.
“Hey cheer up, you look like shit.” Flatpack brings him back from the memories.
“Oh, was just thinking about mum.”
“This guy,” Flatpack tells the girls “This guy here, is a legend. Stuck a knife in a collector who was harassing his mum, yeah, stuck it in, twisted it nice and good.”
“My hero,” says the girl.
A friend comes over to the table and leans over and says something in Flatpack’s ear. Simon can’t quite hear what is being said, but it seems serious as Flatpack’s demeanour changes and he pushes the girls out of the way and beckons Simon to follow him.
“What is it?” Simon asks as he tries to catch up.
“An unwanted visitor.”
Their friend points to the back door where another man is waiting for them.
“He has a gun! What should we do? ” asks the man.
“I only came out for a smoke, and saw him - I don’t think he saw me though.”
Simon carefully pushes open the door slightly and looks out.
“Car headlights, I can’t see anything for the headlights.” With the continuous thud of bass from the music inside seeping through the walls and the noise from the car engine, it appears their presence has gone unnoticed. Simon again peers out down the alley; this time Flatpack does the same. Between them and the light two men are in what looks like a very one sided fight, with one guy on the floor being kicked almost to unconsciousness.
Flatpack whispers “When I arrived I noticed a black BMW, ring any bells?”
Simon nods, “same car that was seen speeding away from Adam’s.”
“Right, word is he’s a collector, a real psycho, kills for fun.”
Simon bends down, taking his knife from his ankle holster. He hesitates, maybe this isn’t the time, better play safe. Instead he reaches for the gun on his belt. Flatpack pats his back.
“Right, we need to put a stop to this. Everybody, after three just start firing at the bastard, but watch out for the kid on the ground. Aim high.
Another kick lands into the ribs of the young man curled up on the ground, before the assailant presses his gun hard into the man’s forehead and laughs.
“NOW!” Flatpack yells.
A hail of bullets hit the man and also knock out the car headlights. plunging the alley into darkness.
They stop firing. “Think we got’ im?” asks one of the men.
“Oh yeah,” says Flatpack.
They move slowly down the alley, trying to see in the dark. There is movement and then a voice “Ith’s me, don’t thoot.”
“Toothless?” Simon asks.
“Yeth, I think, you got’ im.”
“Come to us, slowly,” says Flatpack.
A battered and bloodied Toothless approaches them and he is ushered inside the club.
“Am I tho glad to thee you.”
Simon and Flatpack go to look at the mess they’ve just made.
They hear the last gasps of a desperate man. When they get to him, he has managed to pull out his phone. He has been hit several times but unbelievably is still alive - just.
“Matt, aargh, oh shit, Matt,” with each word taking all of his strength he is trying to call for help. “Aargh, I didn’t see them, I didn’t see…”
Flatpack stands over him, raises his gun and finishes him off.
Chapter 8
“Can you hear music?”
“No!”
“Listen.”
“Oh yeah.”
It’s dawn and two men are fishing over the side of Capernaum harbour wall, well away from the hustle and bustle of the commercial businesses operating on the opposite side.
“It sounds like it’s coming from out there,” one of them says, pointing out towards the middle of the lake.
A morning fog has descended on Lake Galilee and although it’s now starting to lift around the shore, the centre of the lake is still covered in a thick dense blanket.
“I can also hear an engine, oh, it’ll be from a trawler.”
The engine noise grows louder and they hear voices.
‘The time is six fifteen and you’re listening to Capernaum 106, with me, Sparky In The Morning. A big hello to James and John fishing out on the lake. The weather centre says the fog will lift, but not until mid-morning. The guys say that the fish love Sparky In The Morning so much they jump into the boat. Nice one guys, you’ll be receiving Sparky In The Morning mugs and baseball caps.’
“We got a mention, we got a mention. I can’t believe it, that is so cool, and we’re getting free stuff…yes!”
“What do you mean we? I texted in, so I’m getting the stuff.”
“Eh, no way, you can’t do that, my name was mentioned as well. James, come on.”
“Ha, ha, ha, you’re so easy to wind up.”
James and John are on their way back to the harbour from a long night’s work.
At night the lake is one of the best sights. Above are thousands of stars twinkling. The hills surrounding the lake are scattered with orange dots from the street lamps; it’s an awesome sight. When it’s bad weather, it can be a rough place to work and when there’s fog there is an eerie feeling of being all alone. So closed in that even after a few hours some fishermen can become weary and disorientated.
The boys cope with the long hours and hard going any way they can. James had wanted to text something about Simon Peter being a slave driver, but John had wisely talked him out of it, as they were thirty minutes late and didn’t want Simon Peter to be any angrier.
They had set their course for home but had got distracted when they were mentioned on the radio, so hadn’t noticed that their position was nearer the harbour than they thought. They burst through the fog, with their lights blazing and engine at full power, still arguing.
John looks up to see they have come out of the fog and are very close to the harbour, unfortunately aiming straight for the wall.
“Quick, turn left.”
James turns hard left.
“This is gonna be close.”
The loud scraping noise of boat hull sliding along the entrance makes everyone in the harbour stop and stare. But the lads are going way too fast for a trawler in a harbour. John kills the speed but the momentum has them heading for two other trawlers unloading at the quayside. Everyone watching braces themselves for a crash. James turns hard left again, steering the boat into a gap between the two trawlers with inches to spare. The buoys on the side gently bounce off the quay as the boat comes to a calm rest, in perfect position. James and John give each other a high five and pump their fists.
“Yes! come on. Nice control.”
The sudde
n stop creates a wave that travels through the harbour, lifting up boats as it passes underneath them. The two men on the wall watch as it starts to get near them. They start running, but they can’t escape it and the wave hits the wall sending water high into the air and drenching them. James and John are oblivious to this, they’re congratulating each other and are still excited at getting a mention on the radio.
Zebedee, having seen and heard them make their entrance, strolls over. He studies the trawler, looking for damage, shakes his head and tuts.
John jumps down from the boat on to the quay. “Relax Dad, it’s only a scratch.”
“You’d better have good numbers, or were you too busy trying to get on the radio?”
“You heard?”
Zebedee nods.
John calls out to James, “Hey, Dad heard the radio.”
James laughs.
“You know it was me who thought of the line about the fish jumping into the boat.”
“Thought it might have been.”
John stands next to his dad and they watch as James and two other employees unload the catch.
Zebedee turns to John and looks at him; John’s deep in thought. They stand in silence for a moment.
“James wanted to say hello to all you losers on the shore, and slag off S P, but it makes more sense to be nice if you want to get a mention, you know, kiss up a bit.”
From out of nowhere Simon Peters voice booms “Don’t just stand there John, get to work.” Again Zebedee shakes his head. “You’d better help unload, the fish might have jumped in but they’ll need help getting out.”
* * *
Simon Peter looks out of the first floor window overlooking the harbour, keeping an eye on James and John.
“Relax, Zeb’s down there, everything will get sorted.”
“Yeah, but what about the boat, maybe I should go down and have a look at it.”
