I Love My Smith and Wesson

by David Bowker

In his youth Dad Cheeseman was a locksmith. It was said of him that he could open any door or safe in the city. Now he runs a gym and a snooker hall on the outskirts of the city. Walk down Market Street in a straight line from Piccadilly, past St. Anne’s Square and Deansgate. Just as you’re wondering how an atomic bomb could have gone off in Manchester without you ever hearing about it, you come to an old redbrick Methodist church on a corner. The church stands alone in a desert of shit and rubble. This is Cheeseman’s place. The windows haven’t seen glass for some years. There are metal grilles over the window frames and boards under the grilles. The only hint that the building isn’t condemned comes from a peeling orange Day-Glo sign above the door. The sign reads: POOL ALL DAY, FULLY LICENCED.

  The snooker hall is upstairs. The lower floor is a shabby gym where amateur boxers train at weekends. The gym reeks of feet and armpits.

  Dad was once a boxer himself but started losing his hair at an early age. He took to wearing a wig. No matter how much adhesive he used, the wig kept falling off during bouts. Not wanting his fans to see him bald, Dad retired early. People liked and respected Dad, so had learned not to comment on the toupee or to ask why the toupee was bright orange when the hair at the back and sides of his head was iron gray.

  On the day Rawhead came to call, Dad was sat on a stool, smoking and chatting to the bored mother of five who served behind the bar. A couple of kids skiving off school were the only customers in the otherwise deserted hall. When Rawhead sat down on a stool next to Dad, the old man gave him a brief glance and flinched slightly. Then he remembered to smile, but it was too late. Rawhead had already seen fear in his eyes. “Steve,” said Dad. “How are you?”

  The old man had known Rawhead since he was a boy. But in his time, Dad had met many crazed and vicious men. Some of them turned the stomach; some of them—the truly dangerous ones—chilled the blood. Steve fell into the latter category. Dad knew in his heart that Steve was a killer. Steve knew that he knew. It was not a matter either man cared to discuss.

  “It’s been too long,” said Rawhead gently.

  “What’ve you been doing with yourself?”

  “I took a sabbatical,” said Rawhead.

  “That’s a big word,” said Dad, spinning round on the stool. “What the fucking hell does it mean?”

  Rawhead didn’t answer. He was looking at the purple and brown bruise around Dad’s left eye.

  “Fancy a drink?”

  “Thanks. Mineral water’d be fine.”

  Dad mumbled to the woman behind the bar, who went to the cooler and came back with a bottle of fizzy water and a glass. “Your health,” said Rawhead.

  “What can I do for you, Steven?”

  “Malcolm Priest Junior needs doormen for his club. Five quid an hour and all the drunks they can beat up. I need strong, honest guys with no extra additives. I’m definitely looking for the additive-free variety.”

  “A few names spring to mind.”

  Rawhead threw a notepad and pen onto the counter. “Write down their names and numbers on there.”

  Dad picked up the pen, holding it like it was a giant banana. He stuck his tongue out as he wrote.

  “What happened to your face, Dad?”

  “Oh, that.” Dad finished writing and took a pull of his cigarette. “You know what this place is like. We get some right fucking Tonys in here.”

  “I thought the Priesthood were supposed to protect you. Thought that was why you paid them.”

  “Yeah. So did I. But if you’re with Little Malc now, I’d better watch what I say.”

  “I’m not with anyone,” said Rawhead. “Say what you like to me. It’ll go no further.”

  Dad thought about it as he squashed his cigarette stub into an ashtray.

  “OK,” he said. “Here’s the story. When Chef took over, a lot of people said, ‘Great, now the city’s a safer place.’ Bullshit. Say what you like about Malcolm Priest Senior, but when he was around, no one pissed on your carpet. You paid for protection, that’s what you fucking got. Plus it didn’t cost the earth.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Then Chef’s in charge. He puts the fucking subs up, didn’t he? Two hundred a month. Doesn’t sound much, but it’s practically two and a half thou a year. That’s a nice holiday, presents for the grandkids, the car’s annual service and MOT. Worse thing is, when I got fucking bopped, Chef does fuck all about it.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Those two bastards who rule Salford. The Medinas.”

  Rawhead grimaced.

  “I see you’ve heard of them? They came in here before Christmas. Said that Chef said I was to give ’em hospitality, free drinks all fucking night. It’s the first I’ve fucking heard of it, but I give ’em a couple of pints to shut ’em up and phone Chef. One of his monkeys picks up the phone, listens to what I have to say, then goes off to ask the boss. Then he comes back and says Chef says I’ve not to worry, just run a tab, and he’ll settle up with me later. Two days pass. No fucking check.

  “The next Wednesday, they’re back again with a couple of ugly girlfriends. Do they pay for a single drink? Do they fuck. All this gracious hospitality comes out of my fucking pocket.

  “In the end, I get tired of this; I phone up Chef. This time I get him. I say I’ve got a drinks bill for six hundred quid here, and when’s he going to settle it? He says not to worry; he’ll see to it right away. Next Wednesday, in they come again. The older one, Keith, says ‘I hear you’ve been telling tales, but we’re prepared to overlook it if you keep on being nice to us.’ I said, ‘Sorry, lads, I’ll serve you, but only if you pay for your drinks.’

  “So Chris points a gun at me while Keith smacks me in the face. In the old days I’d have fought back, but I’m fucked if I’m going to get shot for six hundred notes.

  “So what do they do? They get me down, sadden me big-time.

  “I end up having to go to hospital … bruised ribs, stitches in me mouth where they knocked me fucking dentures into me gums. To top it all, I lose half the hearing in my left fucking ear. When I’m back in the club, in comes one of Chef’s boys. Big hefty lad, thinks he’s a cut above. They call him the Philosopher. In for the monthly sub, would you believe? I said, ‘You expect money for protection. Where the fuck were you when I was getting smacked around?’

  “This guy thinks it’s a real fucking joke. Know what he says to me? ‘Just because you’re covered for fire damage, it don’t mean the insurance man has to stand in your house while it fucking burns down.’”

  “I take it you haven’t seen your money yet?” said Rawhead.

  Dad scowled. “There’s no fucking chance of that. I suppose I could take it out of Chef’s monthly subs. But somehow I don’t think he’d like that.”

  Rawhead sipped his drink and thought for a moment. He turned his face to Dad, and his eyes glittered coldly. Dad knew he’d seen those eyes before. Deep in a dream, many years ago. A bad dream that had soaked his chest with sweat.

  Dad shivered.

  Rawhead gazed at him and through him. “What would you say if I told you I could get your money for you?”

  Dad didn’t say a word.

  Eight

  Follow a shaddow, it still flies you;

  Seeme to flye it, it will pursue:

  So court a mistris, shee denyes you;

  Let her alone, shee will court you.

  —“THAT WOMEN ARE BUT MENS SHADDOWES,” BEN JONSON (1572–1637)

  In the hall of the school at Dale Brow, Prestbury, Detective Superintendent Harrop made an announcement to the press. Because she knew the TV cameras would be there, her hair had been recently cut and colored. Talking to journalists was part of her job, despite her innate loathing for them. Her face remained impassive while the cameras rolled.

  “PC Mather and PC Broadhurst were two fine officers, cut down in their prime. They will be sorely missed, both by their families and by their fellow officers.

  “A postmortem examination has revealed the vita
l information that two separate attackers were involved. We are still trying to establish a motive for what happened, and it is vital for anyone who may have seen anything unusual in Prestbury on Friday evening to come forward.

  “We are following a number of lines of inquiry, and one of those is that the officers may have intercepted a robbery, but it is too soon to say.

  “Did you see or have you heard of anyone who was bloodstained on that Friday night, especially in the Macclesfield area? Did you see anybody acting in any way suspicious in the Old Prestbury road area on that evening?

  “Anyone who may be able to help is urged to contact the incident desk directly. Do not—I repeat: do not—attempt to confront any suspicious persons directly. It is believed that the men responsible for these crimes are highly dangerous and would have no compunction about killing again.”

  * * *

  After the broadcast, Harrop and Hughes drove to a pub for lunch. Harrop ordered a chicken sandwich. Hughes had cod and chips. While they were eating, Hughes opened his briefcase and took out a novel with a gaudy cover. The title was Complicated Monsters.

  “What’s this?” said Harrop.

  “A book by William Dye. I thought it might interest you.”

  “Oh.” She seemed disappointed. “So that little cunt actually gets stuff published, then?”

  “Yeah. I’ve flicked through it. There’s a scene that might interest you.”

  “I doubt that very much.”

  “It’s about zombies. And there’s this scene near the end where the zombies eat someone alive.”

  “Charming.”

  “Yeah. But the point is, the guy they eat is a police officer. They roast him over a slow fire and cut off the choice bits of meat while he’s screaming and begging for mercy.”

  “Do you mind? I’m trying to eat.”

  “All I’m saying is, you’ve already pointed out that Dye didn’t seem too upset when we told him about the murders. The murders of two innocent bobbies. On top of that, we now find he’s written a novel in which a police officer is sadistically murdered. So maybe he’s got a grudge against the service?”

  “Pardon?”

  “A grudge against the police service.”

  “Sorry, Hughes. For a mad fucking moment I thought you called the police force a service.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I’m not interested in being a service. I joined the police so I could push people around. Why did you join?”

  “Er, so I could help my fellow citizens and be a useful member of the community.”

  “Bollocks.”

  “I haven’t finished telling you about this book. The most sickening thing is the way it’s written. As if it’s all a bloody big joke. Every time they cut a slice off him, the bobby says, ‘I must caution you…’ Anyone who finds that funny has got to be warped.”

  “Is it selling?”

  “I shouldn’t think so. I mean, there’s only one review, and that’s from the Poynton Post: ‘A lot better than I expected.’”

  Harrop laughed, spraying white wine over the table.

  “Exactly,” sneered Hughes. “The Poynton Post is a bloody free paper.”

  “This is all very interesting, but it’s got fuck all to do with the inquiry.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I know,” said Harrop. “He doesn’t look like a murderer. He just looks like a prat. He’s got no form. No MO. I bet he doesn’t do anything with his life apart from write his wanky books.”

  Detective Sergeant Hughes was not convinced.

  * * *

  Little Malc called a lunchtime meeting, just for the door staff. They met on the dance floor, suspicious and resentful. Dressed, as instructed, in sports gear. The cleaners had finished early. There was no one about.

  Everyone turned up. Fats and Brando, Sirus and Rawhead. Little Malc was wearing a Manchester City strip, his short pink legs dangling from a pair of oversize shorts. “OK. Everyone listen up. As of now, I’m doubling your wages.”

  Blank stares and sardonic snorts. No one believed him. Little Malc was forced to repeat his pledge. “Whatever you’re earning now, times it by two. That’s the good news. The bad news is that you’re going to have to earn your fucking money. Firstly, by being able to stand up. It’s come to my attention that some of you aren’t as fit as you ought to be. For men in your line of work, that’s a fucking problem. So Stoker here has very kindly offered to act as our personal fucking trainer.”

  “What the fuck does he know?” demanded Sirus, speaking for the majority. He was wearing a black karate suit tied with a black belt.

  Rawhead, who was dressed in his normal clothes, walked to the center of the dance floor. “If you’ll give me a chance, I’ll show you. I need a volunteer.”

  No one offered.

  He pointed to Sirus. “You’ll do.”

  “You can’t teach me anything about fucking martial arts,” complained Sirus. “I was a karate black belt by the age of fucking ten.”

  “Give him a chance, Si,” said Little Malc quietly.

  When Sirus was standing in front of him, Rawhead pointed to his bleached hair.

  “Nice highlights.”

  Sirus sighed.

  “Did you go to John Frieda or Vidal Sassoon?”

  Sirus was about to answer when Rawhead punched him in the Adam’s apple. Sirus staggered, choking.

  Rawhead turned to the others. “Rule number one,” said Rawhead. “Don’t talk. Real life isn’t a spaghetti western.”

  Sirus was still gagging and clutching his throat. Before he had time to recover, Rawhead bounded forward and swung his right elbow up into Sirus’s face.

  Sirus opened his mouth to complain and a torrent of blood and teeth poured out. Afraid of looking helpless, he launched a respectable roundhouse kick. Rawhead caught the offending leg and swept it upward, throwing Sirus heavily onto his back.

  Fats, who didn’t like to watch an unfair fight, looked at his own feet. Brando chewed gum thoughtfully, surprised to see a fit man like Sirus dispatched with so little effort.

  “You fucking bastard!” screamed Sirus from the floor.

  Rawhead bent over and slapped him. “Shut up.”

  It should have been enough. But Sirus wouldn’t do what he was told. “Right! You cunt!” he yelled, blood lining the cracks between his remaining teeth. “My mates are going to hear about this.”

  Rawhead smashed his heel into Sirus’s ribs. Sirus doubled up with pain.

  “Tell them about that as well,” said Rawhead.

  It was violence as God intended. Fast, businesslike, and thoroughly unpleasant.

  Little Malc and Brando stared in amazement.

  “See that?” said Rawhead. “He knew I didn’t like blond hair. But he still bleached it. Rule number two: Don’t be a ponce.”

  Sirus was crawling away across the dance floor, mouthing threats.

  “You’re a fucking maniac,” marveled Little Malc, giving voice to the feelings of the majority.

  Rawhead smiled. “As long as that’s understood.”

  * * *

  Nikki got out of the bath to hear the doorbell ringing. She didn’t want to answer in case it was the police or another journalist. “Mrs. Dye, one of your neighbors has been murdered. How do you feel about that?” “Relieved.”

  Whoever it was wouldn’t go away. Nikki suspected the caller was her mother. It was meant to be Nikki’s time off, the day her mum looked after Maddy. It would have been just like the old cow to get bored and bring the child back early.

  The caller tired of the bell and resorted to the knocker. A volley of deafening raps rang through the house like pistol shots. Finally, overcome by curiosity, Nikki slipped into a dressing gown and went down. She stumbled on the stairs and had to clutch the banister for support. She was drunk. Although it was not yet noon, she was already on her fourth rum and Coke.

  It was only when she was unbolting the front door that she thought of the shootings.
What if the killer had returned? So fucking what, she thought. Her life was complete shit anyway.

  It took her a few seconds to recognize the tall man in the porch as Billy’s friend. Steve was dressed like a rock star. A long fur coat, a simple black top that showed off his hard chest and belly, jeans supported by a studded belt. He was holding a bottle of Taittinger. “Hi. Is Billy coming out to play?”

  He was standing side on, like he already knew the answer and was ready to walk away.

  “No,” she said. Suddenly feeling vulnerable.

  He smiled again. Like many people who habitually scowled at the world, Steve had a great smile.

  “He’s in town,” she said. “He’s gone to a meeting.”

  “Yeah? When will he be back?”

  “Good question.”

  “Oh. OK.” He seemed disappointed, gazing wistfully down at the champagne bottle. “Well, tell him I called, will you?”

  “Was it about anything in particular?”

  “No.”

  “You sure? What’s the champagne in aid of?”

  He laughed to himself and shook his head. “OK. I’ll tell you the truth.” I’m the greatest murderer who ever walked the earth.

  “Yes?” she said.

  “It’s my birthday,” he told her, “and I just thought it might be nice to share it with an old friend.”

  “Oh, no!” she said, holding her hands to her face. “And he isn’t even here.”

  “Oh, woe is me,” he said, clowning for her. “Woe, woe. When will he be back?”

  “This is Billy we’re talking about,” she said, as if no further explanation was required.

  “He must have given you some idea?”

  “Maybe teatime. Maybe midnight.”

  First he’d looked hopeful. Now he looked crushed.

  “But you must have something else planned,” she said. “On your birthday.”

  “Nope.”

  “No, you must.” Nikki was almost pleading with him. “You’ve got other friends, surely?”

  He gave her a shy smile. “Not like Billy.”

  “Aw! That’s so sweet.”

  When women talked this way, Rawhead wanted to slap them. He felt like tying them up with bows and ribbons and burying them alive. See how sweet they found the maggots and the worms.