But the question that bothered me was, just how naughty had Father Stamp really been? That he had problems was clear. That he’d been foolish enough to grope Young Clem I didn’t doubt.
But it wasn’t his fault that I’d flung myself almost naked into his arms. And it had been me who’d been desperate to cling on to him, at least to start with. For all I know his intention was simply to carry me out of the crypt and take me home. However it had looked to Young Clem and my mam, there’d been no time for him to actually do anything.
No, it wasn’t a memory of childhood sexual abuse that had dictated the pattern of my life. It was quite another memory, one that I’d only been able to bear because I could pretend to myself that it might after all just be the product of a sick child’s fevered imagination.
My half hour listening to Young Clem had removed that fragile barrier for ever.
I don’t know how long Mam and me have before us living like this. Granny Longbottom lasted into her nineties so there could be a good few years yet.
There it is then. Night after night, month after month, year after year, I’m going to be sitting here in this room, still able to hear the click-click-clicking of her knitting no matter how loud the telly.
And every time I glance across at her to share a smile, I’m going to see her as I saw her from Clem’s arms in the fitful light of the torch rolling around the crypt floor, I’m going to see her kneeling astride the recumbent body of Father Stamp with those same click-click-clicking needles raised high, one in either hand, before she drives them down with all the strength of a mother’s love, a mother’s hate, into his despairing, uncomprehending and vainly pleading eyes.
A BULLET FOR BAUSER
Jay Stringer
* * *
“IS THAT—?”
“Yes.”
“For real?”
“Yes.”
“Fuuuuuck.”
“Uh huh.”
Bauser looked at the cold steel in his hand. Funny, he thought it would be heavier. He’d always thought holding a gun would be like holding a cannon, a real sign that you had some fucking strength in you.
He’d held an air pistol once, at his best mate Dex’s house after school. He’d shot Dex in the balls and he’d walked with a limp for six months. Thing was, that air pistol was pretty much the same weight as this gun. It was a disappointment to say the least.
His little brother Marcus was staring at the gun as if it was the greatest thing he’d ever seen. Bauser had never heard Marcus swear before. He cuffed him round the ear proudly.
“Listen to you, swearing like Granny.”
“I’m a man now, just like you.”
Bauser laughed. Marcus was only a week past twelve years old. Which put him two weeks past the eighth anniversary of their daddy walking out. Stood there in second-hand pyjamas, a faded Power Ranger on the belly, and swearing with pride.
“Is that right? When you going to start working for a living, then?”
Marcus smiled and pulled a face. When he was younger, that had been the face he pulled if he didn’t like the food he was given. Now it just made do for any time he wanted to be funny.
“Working’s for looooosers.” Marcus stretched it out in a high whine. “I aye never seen granny working, and she’s always got money for magazines and shit.”
“Shit? You’re really getting the hang of these words. You been watching my DVDs?”
Marcus rolled his eyes.
“Nah. I get the words from school, man. I only watch your DVDs if I want to see boobies.” He paused while his big brother gave him a high five. “But one thing? What’s a clit?”
Bauser blushed and looked at the floor. Then at the wall. Then at everything else in the room other than his brother.
“I, uh, I dunno.”
“Nobody ever seems to know.” Marcus shook his head. Then his eyes fell to the gun again and his face lit up once more. “Why you got a gun, Eric?”
Bauser tucked the gun into the waistline of his jeans at the small of his back. He usually wore them a size up, but he needed the waistband to be tight today so he’d worn an old pair. He flinched when his brother used his first name.
“Cuz today’s a big day for me.” He checked himself out in the mirror to make sure the gun was concealed. “I’m getting promoted.”
* * *
He stopped in the kitchen to kiss his mum on the cheek before going out.
She was stirring a pot while trying to stop something under the grill from turning to charcoal. From the living room Bauser’s granny was shouting in a running commentary in her Caribbean lilt. Bauser and his mum shared a laugh at the old woman’s rantings.
“Where you off to?”
“Doing overtime at work. They say they’re gonna teach me to drive the forklift.”
His mum smiled at him with a sad tilt to her mouth. She didn’t call him a liar. She didn’t need to.
“You’ll stay for breakfast first though?”
“Nah, can’t. I’ll be late if I don’t get off now. I’ll get a pot noodle or something, don’t worry about it.”
“I saw Dex at the supermarket last night, he was asking about you. You don’t spend any time with him any more?”
“Nah, he’s with a bad lot. Gotta keep my head in the work, you know?”
Dex was working at the warehouse that Bauser was pretending to work at. He was on the straight and boring, and Bauser had new friends now.
“Mwah.” His mum kissed him on the forehead and waited until he returned the sentiment on her cheek, then turned back to her cooking.
“Don’t work too hard, Eric,” she said.
“Mum, don’t go calling me that. That’s his name, I don’t want it.”
Bauser had almost made it through the living room before his granny caught him. She was settled in her usual armchair, directly in front of the telly and below a photograph of her husband. She rose out of her chair in a mass of flailing arms and legs, making a funny squealing noise at the thought of not getting a kiss. He gave her a hug and a kiss on the cheek, and then made it out the door before any more family members appeared to molest him.
* * *
On the tram ride into town, he could feel the lump against his back. A sweat was trickling down there, sticking between the metal and his skin. This never seemed to be a problem in the films. Not once had he seen a character pull out a concealed weapon and then have to wipe the sweat off before using it.
The conductor was someone he knew from school. Tony or Timmy, something like that. One of those faceless kids he used to steal lunch money off. Look at him now in his cheap blue blazer, tie buttoned up as if he was proud of it. Faceless Timmy saw Bauser but left him alone. The schoolyard never left some people. It would have been a free journey if some old lady hadn’t taken offence at the idea and pointed Bauser out to the conductor again.
He wanted to say, Oi, bitch, I got a gun. Shut the fuck up. He wanted to say a lot, but words had never been his thing. And after today, he wouldn’t need them. He wouldn’t be riding the tram to work, he’d get picked up any time he wanted.
After today, if he needed bullets for the gun, he’d be able to get them. The Mann brothers would let him have all the ammunition he needed.
The tram station in the city centre was in front of the police station. Bauser caught a thrill. His spine tingled and his shoulders felt a hundred feet wide as he stood and looked up at the front door. For the first time, he started to feel a little bit of weight in the metal he was carrying.
* * *
Two men frisked Bauser at the door before letting him into the restaurant.
Later on it would be full of drunken football fans and students, but right now it was playing host to a board meeting. The tables in the middle of the room had been pushed to one side, clearing a space for them all to stand. The stereo was already playing the generic Indian music that would fill the room later on. Bauser suppressed a smile.
They were all there. Both Mann b
rothers, Gav and Channy. They had to be there to give their approval. Teek and Marvin, the guys who called the shots on the streets. Pepsi and Letisha, the two team leaders who had recommended Bauser. They all greeted him with smiles when he walked in, handshakes and backslaps, a hug from Latisha. The talking seemed to have already been done.
“So you ready to step up?” Channy Mann looked Bauser up and down as he spoke. “You think you’re ready to run a team?”
“Hell yeah.”
His confidence was only about fifty per cent bravado. The rest was naivety. But the Mann brothers seemed to like his answer. Channy continued.
“How long have you been with us now?”
“Four years.”
“Started young.”
“He aye never missed a count.” Marv spoke up. “Never called in sick. Kept his mouth shut when the police pulled him.”
“Yeah.” Gav smiled and looked Bauser up and down as if he was sizing up a pitbull. “I think you are. You’re bursting for it.”
Bauser nodded, hoping he looked cool and relaxed but his heart was breaking out of his chest.
“This means, you get arrested? We’ll get you bail and a good lawyer. You don’t have to carry that on your own. You need to go anywhere? You get a man to drive you. You need anything? They can fetch it for you.”
Bauser was liking this. It sounded like being a king.
“But, and we tell you this now, you’re the man we come to. One of your boys fucks up? You carry that. You put your fingers in the till? Marv and Teek here will fuck you up.”
“Totally, man. I’d never do you guys like that.”
Channy nodded his head toward the door at the back of the room. Letisha tapped Bauser on the shoulder and motioned for him to follow and she and Pepsi headed over to the door. It led to the kitchen at the back of the building. It was spotless and smelled of cleaning fluids. Aside from a ratty old sofa against the wall, it was the very model of a well-run kitchen. Letisha and Pepsi slouched down into the sofa, but Bauser stayed on his feet.
“They’re talking about me, right?”
“Yup.”
“They like me though, right? I mean, they wouldn’t have me here if they wasn’t going to give me the job, right?”
Letisha shrugged and Pepsi started replying to a text message on his phone.
“What if they change their minds?”
Pepsi didn’t take his eyes off the phone. “Probably kill you.”
They let Bauser hang there for a moment feeling his heart stop until they started laughing. Letisha stuck out her hand and Pepsi slapped it. Bauser kicked them both in the shins.
The laughter stopped when Marv stepped into the kitchen and shut the door again after him. He was a quiet man and stillness seemed to settle in around him wherever he was.
“There’s a problem.” He said it in a low voice, and the room seemed to suck in around his words and drain the air away.
“Wha—?”
He pulled a gun out from the folds of his hoodie. It was Bauser’s gun, the one that had been taken off him at the door.
“Did you get this from Sukhi?”
“Nah, some guy in West Brom.”
“Let me tell you, it worries us. Kids come into this wanting to play gangsta? They don’t last very long. What made you get a gun?”
“I thought that was how it worked. I seen Pepsi carries a gun and, you know, I thought that all you team leaders did?”
Marv stared off into space for a moment, lining things up in his mind. Then he nodded and smiled down at the gun.
“I trust you, son. That’s why we’re promoting you.” Bauser’s face lit up and he was about to speak but Marv continued. “But a gun? That’s something else. This aye Birmingham. Bullets are expensive, man. You only carry if we say so, and you’re not there yet.”
He turned the gun over in his hand.
“Nice. Sweaty though. You nervous today, huh?”
Bauser shrugged.
“It’s OK, you can admit it. We’re all nervous the first time. To be honest, it’s always there, just a little bit. You put it behind your back, right? Don’t do that. You got a hoodie?”
Bauser nodded. He had lots of hoodies. He’d always liked them, and when the men on TV started saying hoodies were evil, he’d liked them even more.
“Cool. Wear ones with big pockets, like mine. You can carry a gun in front of you and it don’t have to get wet. Or in your hood, unless there’s police around. A good trick? Carry it in your sleeve a couple of times, let people see it. Then always keep your right hand covered by your sleeve and people will think you’ve always got it.” He held up a bullet and slipped it into the cartridge. “I want you to prove yourself before you carry, and that’s going to take time. But let’s see if you’ve got what it takes.”
He turned in the direction of the kitchen door and pushed through. Bauser followed. The Mann brothers had left, and in the centre of the room was a man tied to a chair. He was doing his best to shout, but the sock that they’d forced down his throat meant it was coming out as a choking sound.
He was old and tired, and his face was swollen from a beating. Through the swelling, though, Bauser could still recognize him.
He was the face from pictures on his mum’s dressing table, and half-remembered trips to the cinema and McDonald’s. He was a name on a birthday card every few years. His name was Eric, and he was Bauser’s father. Marv handed him the gun.
“Your old man here’s been running up a tab that he never intended to pay. We was going to let you talk him round, but this is a better way. All yours.”
Marv went and stood by the kitchen door. Bauser felt his gut turn and try to climb its way out through his ass. His feet were made of lead. The gun in his hand felt real now, it was a serious fucking cannon. He looked down at it, at the way it shone in the dim light, and at how the outside world fell away when he stared at the metal.
His father’s eyes were wide as golf balls, bloodshot and terrified. He was shaking his head and the choking sounds now sounded pleading rather than angry. As the gun came into view, he twisted and toppled the chair, and began trying to wriggle his way to the front door. It was a pathetic sight, and he didn’t have the energy to move too far. Bauser just stood and watched for a moment, waiting until the old man gave up before he knelt and pressed the gun against his temple. The smell of warm piss filled the room, followed by one last whimper.
This felt fucking amazing.
Bauser’s finger tightened against the trigger and he closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them and looked back down, he noticed just how much his father resembled Marcus.
“Fuck you,” he said into the old man’s ear.
He got to his feet and walked over to stand with his boss.
“Why didn’t you shoot him?” Marvin said.
“Like you said, bullets are expensive.”
WHOLE LIFE
Liza Cody
* * *
IF EYES WERE knives she’d have cut me stone dead. Instead she gave me that look and then spat. I hate passing the bus shelter. But I have to pass it by because I can’t wait for a bus there any more.
They took the shoe off of the roof of the shelter, but they still haven’t mended the crazy crack where Jamie’s board hit the safety plastic. It was a drenching night, that night, so when the Law arrived they say there was hardly any blood left. It gurgled away down the gutter as fast as it spilled out of Jamie’s body and there’s not even a stain left. Poor ginger lamb.
That’s what I’d tell the woman with the eyes – poor ginger lamb. He was red-headed, plump, gay, and that night he was carrying a new skateboard. If she was even talking to me she’d tell me he was a sweet kid who never did anyone any harm. And she’d say he had “his whole life ahead of him”. That’s what they always say: “Whole life ahead …”
What’s a whole life? Is my life without my son a whole life? Is it a whole life when I can’t use the nearest bus stop? My life, minus my kid and
a bus stop; my life minus respect, my reputation, two of my three jobs and all my friends, isn’t a whole life, is it? It’s a life full of holes.
Jamie’s whole life ran red – from his eyes, mouth, ears, nose and groin. It ran away from him down a storm drain never to return. And Ben came home and said, “Can you wash my shirt, Mum? A kid had a nosebleed and it went all over me.” It was his school uniform so I stuffed his clothes into the washing machine and he had a hot bath because he was shivering from the rain and cold. I left him alone to do his homework with half a pizza in the oven and some chocolate pud in the fridge. His whole life was ahead of him. Then I went to the Saracen’s Head to serve drinks to drunks.
You see, I thought I was a good mother. I washed Ben’s clothes and I left a hot supper for him – I didn’t just bung him a couple of quid and expect him to go back out into the rain for a takeaway.
The Law said, “Your son comes in covered in a murdered boy’s blood and all you do is wash his clothes? You must’ve known something was up. We could charge you as an accessory.”
Mary Sharp didn’t wash her twins’ shirts. The Law found their clothes in a soggy tangle under the bunk beds. Roseen Hardesty didn’t even come home that night. Rocky Hardesty tried to wash his own uniform but the machine was bust. He ate his beans cold, straight from the can, and stayed up till five in the morning playing computer games.
There wasn’t even a speck on Jamal’s clothes. I think cleanness is part of Jamal’s mum’s religion, but I don’t really know because her English won’t stand up to an ordinary conversation.
Me? I was home by half past midnight. I asked Ben if he’d done his homework and he said, “Yes – why do you always go on at me?”
I told him to go to bed and I transferred his clothes from the washer to the dryer because he’d forgotten. Then I tidied the kitchen and was in bed by a quarter past one myself. I was tired and I had to be up and out at six-thirty to clean three offices by nine.
The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 9 Page 6
