Booze and Burn

by Charlie Williams

  I ignored it and says: ‘Where’s the fuckin’ hardware, then?’

  He frowned and reached down on the floor. A bit of grunting and groaning and he comes up with a holdall. ‘Be careful with this, now,’ he says. ‘It’s a powerful weapon.’

  ‘How would you know?’ Jonah says, sneering. ‘You ain’t fired it.’

  ‘I knows cos Big…er, Chief Cadwallader telled us.’

  ‘He ain’t fired it neither.’

  ‘How’d you know?’

  I took the holdall while they was squabbling and had a gander inside. It were there all right. Nice holdall and all. Reckon I’d hang on to that after.

  ‘Just remember,’ says Jonah. ‘Nopoly first. An’ don’t miss him.’

  ‘Just remember,’ I says. ‘Fuck off. An’ giz yer fags first.’ Me reaching a paw out.

  He shook his head but I knew I had him. Had to give us everything I needed to get the job done, didn’t they? And that meant smokes. He got em out and tossed em back to us.

  ‘Nice one.’ I got out, leaving him searching himself for the lighter I had here in me pocket.

  I knew how to get into Hoppers. Course I fucking knew. No one had spent more time there than I had over the years. I knew every crook and nanny of that place. I’d had to learn em, hadn’t I? You’d not believe some of the shite I’d been involved in down there. So I won’t bother telling you. I’ll just get on with this bit here, me standing round the side alley, having a go at the window to Nick Wossname’s office.

  Only it weren’t opening this time, were it? He’d changed the fucking latch or summat, cos I’d been there for three fags and I still hadn’t got it budging.

  I shook me swede and leaned on the wall, wondering what to do for the best, still feeling like the minder I’d always known meself to be in my heart. Except I were more than a minder now, weren’t I, when you looked at it a bit? I had a gun. Minder never had no gun. He had a Ford Capri and his mitts and that were all a minder required. But I needed a bit extra now, and I had it here in me holdall. So I weren’t no minder really.

  I were a fucking Clint Eastwood.

  And do you know what? Soon as I realised it, I knew I were doing the right thing. I know the coppers had pushed us into it, but it were like they’d been led to it. Clint had shown em the way, so they could show me the way. I just knew that’s how it had happened.

  I felt it in me bollocks.

  I knew that this were it and all. A proper showdown, just like what Clint has with bandits all the time. You never saw him nor the bandits wlking away with cuts and bruises. You walked away a harder man. Or you squirmed in the sand till the blood ran out of you.

  Well, come on then.

  Cos I weren’t afraid.

  I got the gun out. It were a big one all right. I stuck it down the inside of me leather, which the coppers had been kind enough to give us back. It clinked and jangled next to the monkey wrench. I liked that sound. Made us feel like a pro. You needs your wrench for looking after yourself, but you needs summat more for the special job I had to do. I were standing there, clinking and jangling and thinking how to get in when I heard summat out back.

  I crouched low against the wall, knees cracking, head aching, guts whining from not having no scran for so long. I reached for the pistol but it were tangled and jangled up with the monkey wrench and weren’t budging. I got it out finally but only after ripping the fucking coat lining. Have to get a shoulder holster or summat later, although I couldn’t think of no shoulder holster shops in Mangel. Maybe Sal could make one for us. She could make us a nice poncho and all. And a hat.

  The noise again, right down the back of the car park in the scrub between it and the Wall Road. Twigs cracking. Dry leaves crunching.

  I crept on, keeping low and tight to the wall, feeling proper hard with the cold metal in me paw. I flicked the safety off—I ain’t thick, you know. A little tree down there were waving about a bit when it oughtn’t to be, the wind being low. I crossed to the other side and crept down that wall, then tippy-toed down the back, eyes on the tree, gun out front, gut sucked in. A motor revved behind us.

  I spun and near fell over. Long lights pointing at the alley entrance. Headlights. A motor turning just now.

  I ran across the alley and hid behind them big tin bins in the corner. Stinks down there but I’d smelt worse. Furry bastards scuttling away as I settle down on me haunches. I fucking hates rats but I hates the idea of Mangel Jail worse. Long lights pointed up the car park now, getting brighter. Motor comes in, parks herself slap bang centre, turns herself off. 1.3 Capri. Lawnmower engine ticking. Door opens. Bird comes out.

  No fucking kit on.

  Leg in plaster.

  Fuck me, I’m thinking. Bit skinny, ain’t she?

  You could tell it were Mona from looking at her face. Like a mask on her, it were, blank and dozy and hiding summat under it. She stands there blocking the motor’s open shotgun door. A foot comes out and finds her arse, spilling her on the hard stuff. She looks sideways, face all twisted up and not happy with her grazed knees and tits and bust leg and that. But then it’s back to blank and dozy and hiding summat under it.

  Boots touching gravel. Feller stands up: Cosh.

  Then Nick Wossname comes out the same door.

  Nobby getting out driver side.

  Nick stands next to the fallen Mona, looking her over and shaking his head. He’s wearing a long leather coat now that brushes the ground. It don’t suit him. But then no togs ever did suit Nick Wossname. ‘Get her up,’ he says, moving on, not happy. ‘Fuck sake, get her inside.’ He goes to the back door, lets himself in.

  Nobby runs after, catching the door before it swings to. He holds it open for Cosh who’s picked her up, holding her to him face-to-face like he’s doing her. Only he can’t be, cos his knob ain’t out. One grimy paw reaches round her back. The other’s squeezing her arse cheek. He goes in.

  The door starts creaking shut behind him, warning us that this is it, this is your last chance else it’s Mangel Jail for you, mate. I get up and spring meself from behind the bins, not even clattering one of em. The Hoppers door is creaking and squeaking, warning. I’m quick over twenty yard so I get there no problem, this being only ten or so. I slot me boot in nice and soft.

  I stay like so for a bit—not moving, hardly breathing. Let em get in and settled, pour a drink and spark up and that. I’m a pro, me. I’m Clint and I got bandits in me sights.

  Watch and learn.

  ‘…ninety-eight, ninety-nine, hundred,’ I says under me puff. I open the door ever so quiet. Creaky fucker, it is, but I ain’t having none of it. I peers in. Light comes on in the main bit, showing the wood floor and a few chairs and that. I could hear grunting and banging. Grunt-bang-grunt-bang-grunt, like. I step in, gun up high.

  I let the door swing to, nice and slow, then have a thought and reach into me leather.

  Monkey wrench out.

  But not for twocking heads this time. I bend me knees and set it down quiet in the doorway, stopping the door shutting for proper. The push-down bar is bust, as I recall, and I might wanna get out sharpish.

  Clint were in us, see. I fucking swear he were.

  It’s Nobby doing the grunting-banging-shagging. I knows it cos it can’t be Nick. Don’t ask us why but I just knows it ain’t Nick Wossname shagging Mona out there in the main bit. Just ain’t got it in him, has he? And I knows it ain’t Cosh cos here he is now, walking across the floor in the main bit, turning his head to us in slow motion.

  ‘Hoy,’ he says, clocking us and stopping dead. ‘Hoy, you f—’

  But he shuts up there. I shuts him up. I shuts him up dead with a bullet in his head. And I don’t even know about it till it’s done. The trigger’s pulled and the bullet’s off and so’s his head. I mean, it’s gone, not on him no more like. He’s stood swedeless, paws still reaching for his cosh, splatter spraying out behind him like a bucket of slops tossed out the back yard. Legs and arms is going jelly but he pulls out hi
s cosh and lobs it a couple o’ yards on the wood floor. Then he goes down.

  ‘Fuckin’ hell,’ I says, looking at the gun. Plim said it were powerful, but for fuck sake.

  No more grunting-banging now. Only footsliding and whimpering. That’s Mona with the whimpering, and it’s muffled, like a bar towel’s in her gob or summat. She’s trying to scream but it ain’t happening for her. That’s Nobby with the footsliding, trying to get hid before I gets him and all. But he ain’t going nowhere. I got my gun and it’s a powerful one. I stride into Hoppers, big and hard with a big hard gun.

  Having a laugh, ain’t I?

  Too late, mate, I’m thinking as I clocks his socked ankle slying off behind the bar. The bird’s staying put, face down on the raised drinking area with her legs hanging off it and arse in the air, arms tied to a table with a pair of jeans. ‘Yer all right, love,’ I says, winking at her. But she don’t clock us, gagged and shagged and fuck knows what else like she is.

  I gets to the one end of the bar now and looks down behind it.

  And there he is, curled up tight with no strides nor trolleys, hands over head like that’s gonna help him. But it ain’t. Nothing’s gonna help the ginger-haired cunt now. ‘Here’s for makin’ us ride in a 1.3,’ I says. ‘An’ slappin’ our Rache.’

  I shoots him in the head.

  Only there ain’t no bullet coming out this time.

  ‘Hang on a sec,’ I says, pulling the trigger again and again. Clickety-click it’s going but no bang. ‘Cunt,’ I’m saying, thinking of Jonah’s narky eyes in the rear-view. Make sure you gets Nick Wossname first time.

  Nobby’s hands is coming off his head now. He’s eyeing us up and working it out. I’m clicking and clicking while he gets back on his feet, smirk turning his chops up at the corners, showing a line of gappy gnashers like a big bruised banana. He’s wearing a footie top and white socks with a blue stripe round the top and fuck all besides. But he ain’t bothered by it. The smirk turns into summat not so agreeable. To be honest it weren’t so pleasant beforehand, but this is worser, nastier. He’s still eyeing us as he picks an optic off the side and smashes it on the bar. Pernod, I reckon, by the whiff. I’d know that smell anywhere—our Sal used to drink it when she were on a bender.

  I were saying just now he had a lairy look on his face. But it’s summat else now. Can’t make up his mind, he can’t. His eyes is glistening and his gob turned down like he’s trying hard not to blubber. ‘You fuckin’ killed Cosh,’ he says, all quiet, holding the jagged Pernod bottle high.

  ‘Aye,’ I says.

  Him coming closer.

  Me clicking the trigger.

  No bullet coming out.

  ‘Aye, but…’

  He goes to vault over the bar. I don’t reckon he can do it but he does, not even dropping his bottle. I turn and peg it. I ain’t scaredy of him but that bottle don’t look friendly. I’ve seen enough glassings to know how that goes, and I ain’t having none of it. So I’m off into the main bit, picking up a chair and lobbing it at him.

  It misses, but it’s all right cos there’s plenty more. In the corner of me eye I clocks Nick coming out to check the commotion. He’s saying summat but me and Nob ain’t listening. Me and Nob got a little game going and no one else can play. Nobby stands six yard off, glass jaggedy in front of him, legs bent, shifting side to side. I toss another chair but he dodges easy. I’m still holding the gun so I lobs that and all. It gets to him quicker but he still dodges it. I reach pocketward for me monkey. But it ain’t there.

  Holding the back door open, ennit?

  He’s closer now, looking lairy and a bit sad. But mostly lairy, what with that bottle-end in his paw. I gets another chair and holds it out like he’s a lion and I don’t wanna get ate. But them chairs is getting heavy and me arms is getting knackered.

  I lobs the chair and climbs up on stage.

  He moves in sharpish and takes a stab at me poor leg. ‘Aaargh,’ I says. Cos he’s got us a good one there. Things ain’t looking too rosy for us, to be honest. I find a few more chairs on stage and start chucking em at him. Cos I gotta do summat, ain’t I? None of em hit him but they hold him off for a bit. Mona’s lying still between us, but I ain’t bothered about her.

  Only two chairs left now and I’m slowing down, arms going jelly. I go to pick the one up but summat hits us hard. A fucking chair. Nobby’s lobbed a chair of his own and gets us first time, the jammy fucker. That ain’t fair, I’m thinking, falling over.

  He’s on stage himself now, me on the deck, knackered and with a table atop us like a big shield. Then the shield’s off as he kicks it aside. He’s stood over us with his jaggedy Pernod and his lairy frown.

  I sit on my arse, gob agape, paws palm-out to him.

  He throws himself on us and pins me arms down.

  I’m thinking about Finney, tied up in Doug’s shop.

  ‘Sausages,’ I says.

  Nobby frowns a bit more, says: ‘You what?’

  ‘Bang,’ some other feller says.

  But it ain’t a feller at all—it’s an actual bang, like a gun. Nobby coughs up some blood and drops the Pernod. Then he carks it.

  I shoves him off us and looks down at him. There’s a hole between his shoulders like a horse pissed for half hour in the snow.

  ‘Fuck,’ says Nick Wossname, down there holding the gun. Long and pointy cowboy one from t’other day, by the looks of him.

  ‘Fuckin’ fuck.’

  19

  MANGEL’S WAYWARD SON

  Malcolm Pigg, Chief Editor

  Years ago, when I was but a fresh-faced reporter with snot running out of his nose and gumming up in his bum-fluff moustache, we on the local news desk got wind of a young lad in trouble with the coppers for something or other. Come to think of it I wasn’t so young at the time. But I did have a cold, so I’m not wrong about the snot.

  Turns out the lad wasn’t in trouble after all. His old man, pissed, fell down the stairs and knocked himself dead, leaving the lad an orphan. I wrote it up and went down the pub. As I sat there fondling my glass I thought about that call coming in back there, and why my first thought had been of trouble. Cynical I might well be, but I don’t suspect foul play every time an accident crops up. So why did I this time? I’ll tell you why: it were the lad’s name. Summat about his name told us it couldn’t be anything but foul play.

  Royston Blake.

  Of course, if you’ve been a reader of this here paper any length of time you’ll know that name well. Royston this, Blake that…Anything bad happens in Mangel, he’s right there with his name all over it.

  There’s the time Hoppers burned down, taking the life of a young woman with it. Whose wife was it? Royston Blake’s. Who got arrested for it? Royston Blake. Who got off on a technical?

  You guessed him.

  Then there’s the goings on with the Munton brothers a couple of year back. Folks dying left, right, and middle there was, including Blake’s cohort Tyrone Finney (multiple chainsaw injuries). Blake was in the frame around that time, too, and I’ll admit that this newspaper used up a lot of ink telling you about it. But what happened? He got off again. Munton brothers got the blame for the lot of it, along with Blake’s other cohort Nigel Leghorne—the lot of them believed to have absconded into the world beyond our town.

  All right, perhaps I’m being a mite unfair on the man. Nothing ever sticks to him, so on paper he hasn’t done much wrong. But whenever something bad happens…rest assured the name Royston Blake will be all over it.

  And now this, the murders of a young doorman barely out of school, and our very own dearly departed fellow Mangel Informant, Stephen Dowie. That’s right—something bad is happening again, right under our noses. And whose name is all over it, yet again?

  ‘You what?’ I says. Not cos I didn’t hear it. I just couldn’t understand it. The whole situation here, like.

  Nick Wossname started to say summat, but it weren’t coming out right. So he shook his head and says: ‘Nev
er mind. Come down here.’

  I came down careful. He had a gun and I were here to kill him, weren’t I? But I knew he wouldn’t shoot us. I just knew.

  ‘You all right?’ he says, shuffling that stupid leather coat off his weedy shoulders. He sat on a stool and put the gun on the bar, and a little blue bag next to it. Bit like my new holdall, that bag were, but blue and little. He looked over at Mona. She were bent over the stage still. Nick didn’t look too happy about it.

  I still couldn’t understand. I didn’t reckon I ever would. I sat meself on a stool two up from him. ‘Aye,’ I says, ignoring all the cuts and bruises and ruptures and slashes and everything else giving us grief just then. ‘I’m all right, ain’t I?’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry about that earlier on. Me threatening you and that.’

  I shrugged.

  He clocked us close and says: ‘You know, don’t you.’

  ̵Know what?’

  ‘Come on, man…’

  I were clocking him now. ‘What the fuck is you on about?’

  ‘You serious?’ He got a fag out and offered us one.

  I took it and says: ‘Ta.’

  We smoked.

  ‘You know who I am. You must do.’

  ‘Telled you already,’ I says, ‘I never remembers yer last name. Can’t help it.’ Cos you just don’t call folks by their last name, does you? You don’t go round shouting, ‘Hoy, Davis,’ or what have you. More like ‘Hoy, Keith.’ Mind you, there’s always exceptions. There’s meself, for one. But Royston’s a hard name for some folks to say, so I gets called Blake. Then there’s Finney…

  ‘Fuck my last name. It’s a bollocks name anyway. Who the hell calls himself Nopoly? My real name is…I can trust you, can’t I, Blake? Not like these two bastards here, Nobby and Cosh. Fuckin’ losers. I sort of hoped they’d end up like this, and when I saw you here tonight doing it I thought, yeah, Blake’s the man. I don’t blame you for a second, Blake. I know how they provoked you.’

  ‘Aye,’ I says. But I weren’t really listening now. I were thinking of Finney. I slied a gander at me watch. Quarter past one. ‘Fuck,’ I says under me breath, feeling the sap seeping south.