I Love My Smith and Wesson

by David Bowker

  There was an Uzi submachine pistol on the dressing table. Keith picked it up, eyes watering as he turned back to the bed. Over the pounding music, he thought he could hear a woman screaming.

  “You idle fucking stinks, I’ve seen more convincing dykes in fucking pantomimes. Now make a fucking effort or I’ll shoot your tits off.”

  Uncowed, the girls continued to snigger. It was amazing, the ignorance of modern youth. Keith was glowering down at them, wondering which one to maim first, when he registered that the woman was still screaming. The sound was coming from outside.

  He looked out of the window and saw a man capering round in circles, blood fountaining from his cranium. It seemed impossible that he could be losing so much blood yet still keep upright. It looked like Barney, who used to play rugby for Salford. Barney was one of their best men.

  Barney flopped forward onto his hands and knees and Keith saw his open mouth and realized it was him who was screaming. There were shouts, more screams. There was a loud bang. Then a crowd of people surged away from the house, into the middle of the street. People panicking, fighting, pushing one another out of the way.

  A woman with blood on her face and dress took off her stilettos and ran away down the road. Keith didn’t know what the fuck was going on. He hurriedly pulled on a pair of jeans—the thought of being attacked in his boxer shorts appalled him.

  * * *

  Zippa Jay was in the long living room. He was using the smaller rig that he reserved for private houses, yet his speakers still reached the ceiling. These days, it was literally an act of charity for Zippa to play a house party. He made more money as a producer/mixer than he’d ever made as a club DJ. One of his own masterpieces was on the turntable, a fucked-up psycho remix of the theme from The Magic Roundabout, yet no one in the house seemed to realize how clever he’d been.

  From his place at the mixing desk Zippa could see all three entrances. He kept watching the doors, hoping that no one in the dance community would walk in to catch him playing a wanker’s private party. Gangsters were meant to be cool. But the Medinas weren’t cool. They looked like secondhand-car salesmen.

  A bruiser disguised as a waiter offered Zippa a glass of champagne from a tray. Zippa accepted, but he was bored and ill at ease. He didn’t feel safe. He was only playing the gig because Chris Medina had asked him and Zippa had heard distressing stories about what happened to people who disappointed the brothers.

  Chris Medina pushed his way over to Zippa with a request. As Chris bellowed in Zippa’s ear, hand dangling over Zippa’s right shoulder in an overfamiliar way, Zippa smelled rum on the gangster’s breath. “We got a problem, pal.”

  What? mimed Zippa.

  “None of us recognize one fucking tune you’ve played so far.”

  “Ah. That’s because tunes aren’t exactly my thing.”

  “Have you got any proper dance music? Like the Bee Gees or something?”

  “Er, no.”

  “What about northern soul?”

  “Mainly, I’ve got techno or trance.”

  “No northern soul?”

  “No.”

  “Well, what kind of fucking DJ are you?”

  Zippa glanced at the door, saw a man with a hood on his head pushing through the guests. Normally, Zippa would have found the sight alarming. But he was more concerned about how the conversation with Chris Medina was going.

  “If I gave you a pile of my own records, would you fucking play ’em?”

  “It’s kind of difficult…” said Zippa, squirming.

  “Yeah. And it’s also kinda difficult to talk when you’ve got no fucking teeth.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I said it’s … Oh, fucking forget it.…”

  The waiter who had served champagne to Zippa asked the man with the hood a question. The hooded man must have given the wrong answer, because the waiter tried to take a swing at him. Zippa didn’t see how it happened, but the next second there was a loud bang and the waiter seemed to vomit blood. Some of his blood hit Zippa in the face. People started screaming and running. In slow motion Chris Medina looked toward the sound, reaching into his jacket as he turned.

  Rawhead was holding a Magnum revolver in each hand. He shot Chris in the right thigh. Chris gasped and fell. The gunman walked over him, using his chest as a stepping-stone. Without even glancing down, he shot Chris Medina through the right eye, taking out the back of his head.

  Zippa went to the microphone and made a passionate appeal. “Please. Give peace a chance!”

  Rawhead gave peace a chance for precisely one second. It didn’t work for him. In order to inflict maximum pain, he shot the DJ’s beloved mixing desk. The music died, and Zippa wailed in mourning.

  All you could hear now was screaming. There were three staircases. Rawhead took the one to the left, climbing toward a rush of bodies coming downstairs. At the sight of Rawhead they turned round and charged back up. Rawhead ascended steadily, stepping on people, squeezing past bodies pinned against the wall.

  On the landing, he avoided the crush by turning into one of the bedrooms. Inside, two men and three women were fucking on a huge bed while three of their friends stood around and watched. One of the spectators was filming the action with a video camera. As Rawhead walked through, the guy with the camera turned to film him instead.

  With one swipe, Rawhead knocked the camera out of its owner’s hands. It fell to the floor and smashed. The cameramen was about to protest but fled when he saw who he was dealing with. The people on the bed just carried on fucking.

  When Rawhead reached the far door, two holes ripped open in the plaster above the doorjamb. An instant later the clatter of automatic fire filled the room. Rawhead turned and saw Keith Medina firing some kind of automatic weapon.

  Rawhead fired once, with his left, and saw a bite-sized chunk of fabric fly out of Keith’s right shoulder. The Uzi jerked in Keith’s hand and he kept firing, cutting down the three spectators standing by the bed but missing Rawhead. There was a pause; then Keith slithered down the wall and his twitching finger hit the trigger again. This time he shot four of the people on the bed.

  The survivor, a guy with a shrunken reproductive organ, was cowering on the floor behind the bed with his eyes closed. The thought crossed Rawhead’s mind that he’d be hiding, too, if he had a dick that small. He locked the bedroom door just as someone threw their full weight at it. The door quivered but held.

  Rawhead walked over to Keith Medina, who looked up at him helplessly. It was hard to see why a bullet in the shoulder should bring down such a hard man.

  But real life isn’t like the movies. Getting shot is a terrible ordeal for the body and the spirit.

  Rawhead reached into Keith’s jacket and withdrew a bulging wallet. Dad Cheeseman’s money, plus Rawhead’s expenses.

  Almost lazily, he tilted the gun in his left hand until it was pointing at Keith’s head. Then he squeezed the trigger.

  There was shouting outside the door, the bulldog sounds of angry men. Calmly Rawhead walked across the floor, stepping over the dead and dying.

  Soar in eternal bliss, my friends.

  At the far door, Rawhead peeled off his hood and threw it down. He thrust his guns back into his belt and buttoned down his coat. He walked out of the room, passed through a small, malodorous bathroom, and rejoined the landing. A woman who either was drunk or had fainted was lying in his path, moaning softly. Rawhead scooped her up as if she was a child and made for the stairs.

  People were sitting on the stairs, completely stunned by what they’d witnessed. Down below, a man with crazed eyes was waving a handgun about, creating fresh ripples of panic among the fifty or so guests remaining. “Nobody move. Nobody leaves this fucking house until I fucking say so.”

  Doing a perfect impersonation of a shocked, grief-stricken bystander, Rawhead staggered down, the woman murmuring in his arms, to the gun waver. “Why?” said Rawhead, tears in his eyes. “Why?”

  “Out of the fuck
ing way,” said the heavy irritably, waving Rawhead aside with the barrel of the gun.

  It was that easy.

  Still carrying the injured woman, Rawhead staggered out into the street.

  Emboldened by his action, others followed Rawhead out into the night. There was another henchman on the far pavement, pointing a shotgun at the house. He was a kid of seventeen, his eyes dilated by fear. The dead rugby player was lying in the middle of the road.

  “Why?” said Rawhead, appealing directly to the kid. “Why?” It was a perfectly reasonable question, to which the kid had no reply. Rawhead laid the injured woman at his feet like an offering. “Please. Please. Get her to hospital.”

  The kid nodded vaguely, not really interested. He was staring beyond Rawhead, back at the windows of the building where the tragedy had occurred. Rawhead joined the flood of terrified party guests and walked calmly away. Behind him, the man with crazed eyes was still shouting, “Nobody move! Nobody leaves this fucking house…”

  * * *

  As he drove into town Rawhead kept laughing to himself. He hadn’t had so much fun in a long time. He realized how much he’d missed killing, how vital it was to his well-being. It was what he was born for. Like earthquakes, tidal waves, and man-eating tigers, Rawhead’s sole purpose was to keep down the population.

  When he arrived at the car park behind Diva, he rolled a spliff, still smiling at the memory of the crazy-eyed tool who’d let him walk because he was carrying a woman. After a few minutes, Rawhead got out of the car.

  As he closed the door, something cold pressed against his face. He heard a man’s voice close to his ear.

  “Don’t you fucking move, you cheap fucking prick.”

  Rawhead remained perfectly still.

  “Get back in the car. The other door. As slow as you fucking like.”

  The man’s breath reeked of cigarettes and garlic. When Rawhead had unlocked the passenger door, the gunman instructed him to slide across slowly until he was behind the wheel. Then the gunman got in beside him and slammed the door. Now Rawhead could see who it was.

  It was Sirus. His left wrist was in plaster and he had gauze taped over his nose.

  “What’s this about?” asked Rawhead calmly.

  “It’s about you acting hard, fighting dirty, putting the boot in on me when I weren’t fucking ready. It’s about you putting me in fucking hospital. Start the motor.”

  Rawhead found his keys and switched on the engine. “You realize you’re about to die a horrible death?”

  “Fuck you, cunt!” Sirus jammed the gun barrel hard into Rawhead’s cheek. “You’re the one who’s gonna fucking die. Now drive.”

  Twelve

  I saw pale kings and princes too,

  Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;

  They cried—“La Belle Dame sans Merci

  Thee Hath in thrall!”

  —“LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI,” JOHN KEATS (1795–1821)

  Like the killings in Prestbury, the massacre in Salford made the national news. The British government was supposedly cracking down on gun culture, which made the story highly topical. The police remained coy about the precise death toll, but it was clear the Medinas had been the prime targets.

  Chef wasn’t particularly surprised. Sure, they’d put some good deals his way, which was why he’d given them work. But in his opinion, the Medinas had been arrogant punks with no manners. The brothers had many enemies.

  But the gunman had worn a hood. He had walked into a crowded party and killed several people. He had used two identical Magnum revolvers with long barrels. Then he had left without being observed.

  To Chef, this sounded worryingly familiar.

  Then he got a call from the Spirit of Darkness.

  * * *

  They met in the churchyard of St. Mary’s in Nether Alderley. It was a filthy black night, so cold and vile that Chef almost phoned to cancel. He knew that if he did, the Spirit would privately sneer at him, but he didn’t want to get wet, either. By way of compromise, he took an umbrella.

  He drove himself, not wanting anyone to know on whom the ultimate safety of his organization depended. As far as his men knew, the Spirit was a faceless, brooding giant with permanent five o’clock shadow.

  Chef stood in the churchyard under the square tower, watching the rain pounding off the path and dripping from the trees.

  Directly in front of him lay a fresh grave, piled high with flowers. The rain pattered on the cellophane covering the wreaths. Chef was slightly surprised to see the grave, didn’t even realize that people still got buried. Every corpse he had ever said good-bye to had been cremated.

  They had arranged to meet at eight. It was two minutes after the hour. Chef was beginning to wonder why someone so reliable would be late for such an important meeting when he glanced to his right and saw a woman standing next to him. She was about five foot eight, with dark hair, razored short. Chef was startled but tried not to show it. She’d walked right up to him without catching his eye or making a sound. No wonder they called her the Spirit.

  Chef towered above her. He had met her only once and had forgotten how she disoriented him. She looked and moved like a woman, but she was not quite like any woman Chef had ever seen. There was calm, self-contained menace in every movement she made.

  Chef coughed to mask his unease but only drew attention to it. “I’m alone.”

  “Not quite,” she said. “There are ghosts all around us. Every day of our lives.”

  “Meanwhile, back on Planet Earth,” said Chef.

  “You think we live and die and there’s nothing more?” she asked him.

  Chef was struck anew by her soft southern Irish lilt. Few would suspect a woman with such a voice of being a murderer. “I think we know nothing before we’re born,” he said. “We know nothing after we die.”

  “But knowing and existing aren’t the same things,” she said.

  Chef nodded as if he knew what she was talking about. He had always wanted to ask about her background but knew such questions were out-of-bounds. His knowing too much about her would endanger them both.

  “Let me buy you a drink,” he said. “Why not? There are some nice little drinkeries in this neck of the woods.”

  He almost blushed to hear himself, knowing he sounded like the office manager trying to get off with the young receptionist.

  “No,” she said, in a voice like sudden death.

  Absolutely fucking stone-faced.

  Chef was slightly in awe of the Spirit of Darkness. Despite his advancing years and general aura of greasiness, most women in Manchester would have crawled the length of the Arndale Centre on their hands and knees just to sniff his crotch.

  Not this woman. No flirtation in her eyes or voice. No winsome little smiles. Not only was she unimpressed by his power. She didn’t seem aware of his manhood.

  A lesbian. She had to be. There was no other explanation.

  “What if I buy you something to eat?” he asked her.

  (Did Spirits of Darkness eat?)

  She gazed up at him with genial contempt. “Why don’t we talk in your car?”

  * * *

  They sat in the pink Rolls-Royce Chef had inherited from Malcolm Priest Senior, talking quietly while the rain pounded the roof. The warm car smelled of soap and leather. They sat on the vast backseat with a whole body space between them, like would-be lovers that hadn’t yet taken the plunge.

  The Rolls was luxuriously upholstered in cream leather. There was a TV, two phones, and a small refrigerator. When Chef opened the fridge door, a light flashed on. He withdrew two bottles of iced Michelob and a bottle opener. He flipped the cap off one bottle and passed it to Spirit, then opened his own.

  She held the bottle in both hands, gazing down at it without drinking.

  “That shooting in Prestbury. That was you?” he asked her.

  “Partly.”

  “I paid you to watch Billy Dye. Not to shoot holes through spacks.”

/>   “I only shot one police officer. Nobody else.”

  She told him how it had been, watching Billy Dye’s house from the neighbors’ garden, then turning round to see PC Spack bearing down on her.

  Chef stared at her. “What did you do next?”

  “What do you think I did?”

  “You ran.”

  “Right.”

  “The way I imagined it,” said Chef, “the neighbors reported a prowler; you shot the neighbors and the guys in the patrol car.”

  “No, I didn’t kill those other people.”

  Chef nodded to himself. “So the spack who you thought was running at you was probably running away from our friend.”

  “That’s the conclusion I’ve come to.”

  “You were lucky,” said Chef. “If you’d stayed around any longer, you’d be dead.”

  “No,” she said, “he’d be dead.”

  Chef turned away, watched the rain streaming down the windows. “Because of Rawhead, I’ve had to rebuild this organization. From scratch. I don’t want to have to do that again.”

  “What’s your point?”

  When Chef’s wife talked to him that way, he slapped her in the mouth. But he needed the Spirit’s help.

  “The guy beat us. Now he’s beating you,” said Chef. “I pay you to stake out Billy Dye and what happens? You go all the way to Scotland, lay a trap for Rawhead, and end up stringing up some fat old poacher.”

  “These things happen.”

  “Oh, they do, do they? Well, listen. I’m not paying you to box innocent bystanders. You’re meant to be hitting Rawhead.”

  She said nothing.

  Chef took out a tissue and blew his nose. “I suppose you heard about the Medinas?”

  “Only what I saw on the news.”

  “I’m pretty sure that was him, too.”

  “A pair of pimps? Why?” She sounded skeptical. “Why would he bother?”

  “Boxed sets are this guy’s speciality.” Chef shrugged. “He did the same thing to us once. He came to the house when everyone was home. Didn’t bother to knock, just walked straight in and started shooting.”