Brit Grit!
Crime Fiction from Britain’s Grubby Underbelly
by
Paul D Brazill
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Published by Trestle Press
Copyright 2011 Paul D. Brazill
Kindle Edition, License Notes
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© Paul D Brazill, 2009,2010,2011.
Bio: Spinetingler Award nominee Paul D. Brazill was born in Hartlepool, England - yes, the place where they hung the monkey. He is currently on the lam in Bydgoszcz, Poland.
He started writing short stories at the end of 2008. Since then, his stuff has appeared in loads of classy print and electronic magazines and anthologies, such as A Twist Of Noir, Beat To A Pulp, Crime Factory, Dark Valentine, Deadly Treats, Dirty Noir, Needle, Powder Burn Flash, Thrillers, Killers n Chillers, Noir Nation, Pulp Ink, Radgepacket Volumes Four and Five, Shotgun Honey & The Mammoth Book Of Best British Crime 8.
He writes an irregular column for Pulp Metal Magazine and his blog, You Would Say That, Wouldn't You? is here: http://pdbrazill.blogspot.com/
He is the creator of the Drunk on the Moon series, published by Trestle Press.
Introduction: Brit Grit!
Guns Of Brixton
The Sharpest Tools In The Box
Thicker Than Blood
The Night Watchman
Everybody Loves Somebody, Sometime
Things To Do In Deptford When You’re Dead
The Gift That Keeps On Giving
White Ink
A Can Short Of A Six-Pack
Introduction
America may well be the official home of pulp and noir but the United Kingdom, long perceived as the land of Dame Agatha style cozies and stuck-up, Latin quoting police detectives, also has a grubby underbelly which has produced plenty of gritty crime writing. And there is a new wave of Brit Grit writers leaving their bloodstained footprints across this septic isle, too.
The godfathers of the new Brit Grit are probably Ted Lewis, Derek Raymond and Mark Timlin with Jake Arnott, Ian Rankin and Val McDermid as part of the next wave.
But in the last few years, more and more BRIT GRIT writers have been creeping out of the woodwork, through the cracks in the pavement, out of the dark and dingy alleyways.
Scottish crime writer Tony Black, for example, is the author of four novels featuring punch drunk, booze addled Gus Dury, an ex-journalist turned reluctant Private Investigator whose shoulder has more chips than Harry Ramsden. The books see Gus sniff around the back streets of Edinburgh and follow the rancid trail of crime and corruption right to the top.
They’re gruelling, intense and exciting journeys – not without moments of humour and tenderness. You may feel as if you’d like to give Gus a smack every few pages but the pit bull proves himself again and again.
Gus Dury may be in the gutter but he’s still looking at the stars, albeit through the bottom of a bottle of whisky. And it’s down to Black’s great writing that when you finish one of his novels you feel battered and bruised but can’t wait for the next round.
Pulp mastermind Otto Prenzler famously said that noir is about losers and not private investigators. Mr. Prenzler has probably never read any Tony Black - or fellow Scot Ray Banks, then. Banks’ Cal Inness quartet is the real deal. Inness is true loser. He’s a fuck up. A lush. A mess. A man so far in denial he’s in the Suez. In each brilliant tale, he bangs his head against as many brick walls as he can. And he feels the pain. And so do we. The quartet is as bitter and dark as an Irish coffee and leads to a shocking yet inevitable conclusion.
While we’re on about dark quartets, of course, we should mention David Peace’s Red Riding Quartet, dissecting the lives affected by the Yorkshire Ripper with dense prog-rock prose.
And there’s more: There’s Alan Guthrie who gave us the best novel of 2009 with SLAMMER; Nick Quantrill “Broken Dreams” which looks at a Northern English town that has had its fair share of kickings but still isn’t out for the count; Bad Penny Blues is CathiUnsworth’s ambitious look at the many facets of London in the late fifties and early sixties; Comic genius Charlie William’s and his nightclub bouncer hero Royston Blake help you see life in a way that Paulo Coelho never will!
There are BRIT GRIT publishers too: Newcastle’s Byker Books publish Industrial Strength Fiction such as the Radgepacket – Tales from the Inner Cities anthologies; Brighton based Pulp Press publish short, punchy novellas with the slogan “Turn Off Your T.V. and discover fiction like it used to be.”
And there’s even more...
There’s Martyn Waites, Danny Hogan, Gary Dobbs, Sheila Quigley, Ian Ayris, UV Ray, Dominic Milne, Danny King, Col Bury, Mark Billingham, Darren Sant, Alan Griffiths (whose blog is aptly called BRIT GRIT), Julie Morrigan, Nigel Bird, Steve Mosby, Richard Godwin, Colin Graham, Neil White, Andy Rivers . . . and more! There’s even comic BRIT GRIT from Donna Moore and Christopher Brookmyre, BRIT GRIT thrillers from Matt Hilton and surrealist BRIT GRIT from Jason Michel!
BRIT GRIT: There’s a lot of it about!
(Adapted from a piece written for the programme of the 2010 NoirCon, organised by Lou Boxer)
Guns of Brixton
ONE
“White and red, Richard!” said Caroline Sanderson as she lay prone on her massive four poster bed massaging her temples. She did this at the start of each day, saying that it helped her focus, as if White House level decisions awaited her. She propped herself up on her elbows and exhaled deeply.
“But, whatever you do, don’t buy bloody Chardonnay. Everybody hates Chardonnay now, you know? It’s so unfashionable,” she continued. “Remember, okay?”
Richard resisted the temptation to ask her how, pray tell, a human’s taste buds could be affected by the fickle whims of what was considered fashionable but he knew from experience that he’d be pissing in the wind.
Caroline was on a planet far, far away from him these days. And all the better for it, he thought. Her voice was starting to sound like a squeaking gate or a leaky tap dripping throughout a sleepless night.
Richard was bursting to get out of the house. His hangover was surprisingly mild; fighting the tedium of the previous night’s New Year’s Eve party at The Oxo Tower, he’d got sloshed and satisfied himself with a few sneaky tokes of wacky backy in the toilets with one of the glamorous Eastern European waitresses. Anyway, it wasn’t the drink that gave him headaches these days.
Richard walked into the migraine bright bathroom. The face in the bathroom mirror wasn’t exactly what you’d call handsome but neither was it particularly ugly. A lived in face, perhaps. With more lines than the London Underground, though.
Well, he was a kick in the arse off fifty and teetering on the precipice of a mid-life crisis. What did he expect? He was lucky, though, in that, unlike most of his mates, he hadn’t developed a beer belly.
The fake, black Hugo Boss suit fit him as well as it had fifteen years ago when he’d bought it in Bangkok. The fact that he still wore it, pissed Caroline off no end, which was an added bonus, of course.
Richard straightened his tie in the bedroom mirror, picked up his stainless steel briefcase and headed downstairs, barely noticing his long neglected guitar that was propped up in the corner.
“Oh, and Richard. Could you pop into Muji and get some of that string stuff?” shouted Caroline as he reached the bottom stair.
“Eh?
” said Richard.
“You know, it was in Australian Elle? To make the plant pots look more rustic.”
Richard grunted an affirmative but he was already on his way out of the door; the more he listened to Caroline, the more he felt as if he was drowning in a well of disappointment. He supposed he should have asked her a little more about who was going to be at the dinner party but the weight of numb indifference overwhelmed him. Probably the usual hodgepodge of fourth tier media tossers and middle management wankers, he guessed.
Richard got into his Mercedes, threw his briefcase into the back seat and opened up the glove compartment. He took out a fist sized hip flask. Drinking in the morning – especially when he had a drive south of the river to Winopolis – probably wasn’t the best idea in the world but it would help him keep his life at arm’s length. He thought of the WC Fields line: “She drove me to drink, it’s the one thing I’m indebted to her for.”
Richard pushed the hip flask into his jacket pocket and opened a packet of L&M cigarettes. He took a big hit and gazed up at his six bedroom West London home. There was only him and Caroline living there but it still felt claustrophobic, suffocating.
One of his old mates had referred to it as Xanadu – like the cavernous house in Citizen Kane; stuffed with “the loot of all the world” but containing nothing Kane’s wife “really cared about.”
Roxy Music’s “In Every Dream Home A Heartache” corkscrewed through Richard’s mind every night as he walked up the garden path after another uneventful day at work.
He buckled up, started the engine and switched on the radio. Dexy’s Midnight Runners were singing “Burn It Down” as he pulled out of the driveway into Sycamore Road. Not a bad idea, he thought. Not bad at all.
He turned into Bath Road and headed south. It was a cold, granite coloured morning. He stared out of the car window, barely focusing on the rows of detached houses being smudged by the January rain. For a while he drove aimlessly, listening to the music.
Ten years of this he thought. You’d get less for murder.
TWO
“Learned it from them Andy McNab books, didn’t I, Ken?” said Big Jim cleaning the blood from the dagger. He threw the stainless steel briefcase into the back seat of his Red Jag.
“You stab ‘em under the ribcage, see? So the blade isn’t deflected by bone and then you puncture the heart and twist,” he continued.
Kenny Rogan wheezed as he lifted Half-Pint Harry’s body from the ground.
“Shit, I’m out of condition,” he said.
He’d once been a semi-professional footballer but now a full time barfly. He’d even given up the Blue Anchor’s Sunday league and he got a hot flush when he bent down to fasten his shoe laces.
Big Jim nodded as he took Harry’s legs. Jim was as much use as a condom in a convent most of the time, thought Kenny, but when it came to the heavy lifting he was the man for the job, built like a brick shithouse and bearing more than a passing resemblance to one too. His face was so lived-in, even squatters wouldn’t stay there.
“Looks a mess, eh Kenny?” said Big Jim.
“Was no oil painting when he was alive, mind you. Would make a good Jackson Pollock, though, eh?” said Kenny. “Picasso, even ...”
“Jackson Bollocks, more like it.,” said Jim, with a 5000 watt grin.
“Very droll, James.Very sharp. You’ll be cutting yourself if you’re not too careful,” said Kenny.
They stuffed the body in the boot of the Jaguar and slammed it shut. The car was Jim’s pride and joy. He’d had it since it was new and he considered it a classic car from back in the good old days.
Jim was a man who didn’t like change. An aging Teddy Boy, his car even had an old eight track cartridge that exclusively played the two Eddys – Eddy Cochran and Duane Eddy.
“Right annoying fucker, though, eh? Non-stop motor mouth. Geordie twat,” said Jim.
He took the hose pipe and sprayed it around the lock up.
“Wasn’t a Geordie,” said Kenny.
“Eh?” said Jim.
Kenny grinned.
“Half-Pint Harry. He wasn’t from Newcastle. He was from Sunderland, James. Was a mackam,” he said.
“What’s a fucking mackam when it’s at home?” said Jim.
“A mackam ... is like a decaffeinated Geordie,” said Kenny, chuckling to himself.
“The north’s all the same to me,” said Big Jim.
“I wholeheartedly agree,” said Kenny. “Mushy peas, black pudding, Pease pudding, fishy-wishy-fuckin- dishy. I usually start to hear the duelling banjos from Deliverance as soon as I get north of Finchley.”
Jim wasn’t listening, though. He was rubbing a pair of black tights between the fingers of one hand and scrutinising a pair of black patent-leather high-heels like they were a magic eye painting.
“Not too keen on Plan B, then?” said Kenny with a grin as he dropped his trousers.
“Do we have to?” said Jim
“Not much choice now that Half-Pint Harry’s worm meat. This clobber is our best front door key,” said Kenny.
He clumsily stripped to his snowman boxer shorts and struggled to pull a gold sequined dress over his shaven head.
THREE
“You go The Lord Albert last night?” said Lynne, before using the Clarkeson’s Jewellers complimentary pen to snort a hill of cocaine. Eight o’clock on New Year’s Day wasn’t the best time for her to start work and she knew she’d need a little lift.
She passed the pen to George. It was mass produced shit and the Brixton address had be misspelled but then Clarkeson’s were cheap bastards. They’d made money hand over fist over the last few years but still cut costs wherever they could.
Lynne has been manager there for four years now and had only had one pay rise. It was a trap but there she was in her mid-forties, single and under qualified. She didn’t exactly have a bucket-load of choices.
“Oh, I did,” said George, “but it was completely dead. As much fun as Morissey’s stag night.” He took a big snort.
Lynne checked her make up in the mirror and pushed up her breasts, her best asset, she thought.
“Somewhere to park your bike,” said George looking at her cleavage.
Lynne tossed her dyed red hair back dramatically.
“Sure you don’t want me to turn you straight, Georgy Porgy?” she said, almost rubbing her breasts in George’s face.
She was only half joking. George was a good looking lad. Tall, blond and half her age. And he was always immaculately dressed. He was certainly a cut above the rough and tumble types she met in the Brixton Hill Arms. However he was as camp as Christmas, unfortunately.
“Mmmm,” said George. “Well, maybe if I can flip you over and play your B- side!” he guffawed, loud and vulgar, as Lynne battered him with a feather duster.
FOUR
“There ain’t no cure for the Summertime Blues.” sang Kenny and Big Jim at the top of their voices.
Kenny held the steering wheel in his left hand and checked his make up in the mirror. It was a good job he’d shaved that morning, he thought. The stubble still showed, though. He adjusted his curly blond wig as he pulled up at a Pelican Crossing and waited for a staggering smack head to wobble across the road.
Kenny usually loved driving in London on a Bank Holiday; there was almost no traffic, leaving the city to the real Londoners. But today was New Year’s Day and it was like a scene from Zombies Dawn of the Dead with the overspill from the previous night’s parties wandering the streets.
As he raced down Walworth Road he swerved around the Elephant and Castle roundabout, narrowly missing a group of rat-boys being chased by a red faced Santa Clause, he started to feel nostalgic.
“Remember the sixties, Jim?”
“Just about,” said Jim, opening up a can of Stella and handing one to Kenny who held the steering wheel with one hand as he opened it.
“August Bank Holiday Monday.Brighton Beach. Mods versus Rockers. Kicking ten bags of shi
t out of those little twats on hair driers.”
“Happy days”, said Jim.
Kenny sipped his can of Stella, gazed at the fading bat-wing tattoos on his hands and remembered a drunken night at a Brighton tattoo parlour that then segued into the time he first met his wife, Deborah. Ex-wife now, of course.
“Grab a bunch of them,” said Kenny. He threw a well stuffed wallet to Big Jim. Jim opened it up and pulled out a wad of cash.
“More leaves than you’d see in a cabbage patch, eh?” said Kenny. “Help yourself. Half-Pint Harry doesn’t need them.”
“Won’t Uncle Frank want this?” said Jim, an edge in his voice.
“It’s a little bonus from Frank, James. He doesn’t give a toss as long as he gets that back,” said Kenny. He gestured over his shoulder toward the shining metallic briefcase.
“After we get rid of Half-Pint Harry and do this next little job we can head off down the Blue for a gargle, eh?”
Jim fiddled with his bra strap and adjusted his long blond wig.
“Great minds drink alike, Kenny” he said.
FIVE
Lynne wiped her nose and looked up as a black Jaguar pulled up outside the shop.
“No way! Customer’s at this time of the morning?” said Lynne, putting on an extra layer of make-up.
“It’s New Year’s Day. We’re supposed to be shut.”
“Now, you know that Mrs. Clarkeson said that we have a no closing policy. Tight twat, that she is,” said George.
“They’ll have to wait until we’ve finished the stock taking, said Lynne, indignantly.
The car door slammed and two tall, glittery blonds got out, wearing more gold than you’d find in Fort Knox or on Jimmy Saville.
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