The cold January evening had long since waned and Father Tim was outside St Martin’s locking up as a shoeless Mad Mack shambled toward the church looking like a duffed up Worzel Gummidge. He was sporting a split lip, bloody feet and a torn AC/DC T-shirt. Now, even on his best days Mack wasn’t exactly what you would call a handsome man, and looking at him bathed in the light from the stained glass windows Father Tim once again doubted whether the Good Lord had, indeed, created Mad Mack in His image.
‘I need to confess something, Father,’ said Mack, spitting and spraying blood.
‘Mortal or venal?’ said Father Tim, glancing at his watch.
‘Venal, I think,’ said Mack.
‘Come on then,’ said Tim.
They went inside and Tim nodded toward the confessional.
‘Hold on,’ he said and started laying down a path of paper towels.
‘Walk on this lad, it’s a right pain in the whotsit getting blood from mahogany,’ said Father Tim.
‘I feel a bit like that Kwai Chang Cain from Kung Fu,’ said Mack, chuckling nervously.
‘Sharpish, lad,’ said Father Tim, looking at his watch, ‘Antiques Roadshow’s on in a minute.’
‘Bless me Father, for I have sinned,’ said Mad Mack ‘It’s been five weeks since my last confession.’
‘Go on,’ said Tim, leaning his head against the lattice grid and closing his eyes. ‘Get to the good stuff.’
‘Well, it all started when I went up north,’ said Mack.
‘Aaah,’ said Father Tim, nodding ‘The north. Where up north exactly? Birmingham? Sheffield?’
‘Oh, no. The real north,’ said Mack. ‘Newcastle. You know, where men are men and so are the women. Some right rough arsed boilers up there, I can tell you. I wouldn’t touch ’em with Roman Polanski or any other five foot Pole.’
Tim coughed. ‘Language’.
‘Sorry,’ said Mack, crossing himself.
‘Anyway, your Uncle Tony sent me to collect some dosh from this wannabe Champions League whiz-kid who owed him a fortune from back in the day. So, off I skedaddled, and ,using my well known negotiation techniques...,’ he tapped the cold Glock under his arm, ‘everything went tickety boo. Then, I booked myself into a Travellers’ Inn for the night. I knocked back a few pints of Newcastle Brown, had a few spliffs and slept the sleep of the just.’
‘How very nice for you,’ said Tim, eyes glazing over.
‘But the next day, it all went tits up. I had a fair fry up and headed off before noon but on the A1 (M), just outside Leeds – and I really effing hate Leeds by the way – the car only goes and breaks down. Of course, it’s a ringer – one of those mish-mash jobs from Anarchy Al – and I’m up sh … flip creek without a paddle. I can’t exactly call the AA – well not that AA – and I don’t want to run the risk of being spotted by the filth. So, like Felix The Cat, I pick up my bag of tricks and set off on shanks’ pony.’
Father Tim opened his wallet and took out a scratch card he’d bought from News & Booze earlier in the day. He fished in his pocket for a coin.
‘Two hours later,’ said Mack, ‘there I am, trudging along the motorway sweating like Gary Glitter in an orphanage and trying to hitch a lift. I was feeling well sorry for myself, I can tell you. After a bit, this big flash camper van thing pulls up. It looks just like the one in that George Clooney film. You know the one about the vampires?’
‘Oh yes, of course,’ yawned Father Tim, taking out his iPhone and starting a game of Snake. ’I know it well.’
‘So, I get in and behind the wheel there’s this big, red-faced Scouser who introduces himself as Eddy Hill and poking her head from the back is this well fit Latino looking bird who he says is his wife, Luba.’
Father Tim leaned forward, concentrating on getting the top score on his phone game.
‘Anyway,’ continued Mack. ‘He puts on a bit of music – ‘Roundabout’ by Yes, classic cut, that – and then he passes over a bit of happy talc and before you know we’re chatting away and have a right old chinwag.’
‘Sounds quite idyllic.’
‘Yeah, well, just outside Milton Keynes, Luba shouts that lunch is ready and we pull up at a lay-by near them concrete friggin’ cows. I hate them friggin’ cows almost as much as I hate Leeds. Now, when I get in the back Luba’s lying flat on her back, legs akimbo, on a zebra striped bed and she’s all done up in sussies and that, like Joan Collins in The Bitch. I look over at Eddy and what does he say? ‘Go on lad, fill yer boots!’ And what am I supposed to do?’
‘A dilemma, indeed,’ said Tim.
‘Now, you know, I’ve never been what you’d call lucky in love, and I’m a shit card player too, so, I pulls off my shoes and socks and before I know it she’s on her knees doing come blow your horn.’
Tim stops playing his game, his interest piqued.
‘Well, I’m on my way to shootin’ my load when I spies Eddy and he’s got a camcorder on his shoulder. And then it dawns on me. This is one of those ‘Dogging’ things I’ve read about in the Sunday Sport. You know what Dogging is Father?’
‘Of course I know,’ said Father Tim, distracted from his phone game ‘Dogging is a euphemism for engaging in sexual acts in a semi-public place or watching others doing so. A lot of these activities appear on the Internet, on You Tube and the like.’
‘Spot on,’ said Mad Mack ‘ Now, normally I wouldn’t give a monkeys but I think that if this ends up on You Tube and your Uncle Tony finds out – well the excrement really will hit the fan.’
‘So, what happened?’
‘Well, I told Eddy to put the camera down but he says: ‘No, get stuck in there la’. So we argue a bit and scuffle a bit more and then, before I know it, him and her push me out of the back of the van and drive off. And they took my bag, my gun and the money with them. And me best Nikes. Frig knows what’ll happen if they go to the police ...’
‘Exactly how much money are we talking about here, Mack?’ said Father Tim, looking concerned.
‘About fifty grand but it’s the coppers I’m worried about. I’ve been caught on Candid Camera like Beadle’s still about, God rest his soul. Anyway, the thing is, I was hoping you’d absolve me of my sins before I go and tell your Uncle Tony. And maybe even put in a good word for me? I know you and him are close, like.’
Father Tim shrugged. ‘Have you told anyone else about this?”
‘Not a dicky bird,’ said Mad Mack.
Father Tim nodded.
‘Dominus noster Jesus Christus te absolvat; et ego auctoritate ipsius te absolvo ab omni vinculo excommunicationis ...’ said Father Tim.
If Mad Mack was startled when he saw the shining barrel of a Glock 29 pointing straight at him through the lattice grid, he was certainly too shocked to react before Father Tim Cook muttered: ‘Sic transit Gloria friggin’ Gaynor,’ and blasted Mack’s brains all over the confessional.
Cleanliness is next to Godliness, thought Father Tim as he scraped the splashes of blood from his dog collar. He’d need to phone Uncle Tony straight away and let him know that Eddie and Luba were back on the scene, which was going to be a right pain in the bastard arse.
It was a good job tonight’s Antiques Roadshow was a repeat.
***
‘Thanks for that, Tim,’ said Tony. ‘We’ll deal with that little matter soon enough.’
He put his phone on silent and pushed it back into his pocket.
‘You see, there’s one thing I’ve never understood about Get Carter,’ said Be-Bop, as he and Keith dangled Bilko over the side of the shark tank. ‘And I bloody love the film, I do. But how the hell was Michael Caine supposed to be a Geordie? I mean he was living down London for all of five minutes and he came back talking like Chas ’n’ Dave.’
‘Bollocks,’ said Bilko, as his gun fell from his pocket and dropped into the water below him.
‘Perhaps a bit far-fetched but it is a classic film, though. And there’s a line that was used in that film which is quite pertinent to this situat
ion. It’s when Carter meets that gadgy that used to be in Coronation Street and he says: ‘You’re a big man but you’re out of condition. I do this for a living’.’
Be-Bop tightened his grip on Bilko’s left ankle and Keith unsteadily held on to the right.
‘But one problem for me is that I’m getting on a bit. And I’m a big man but I’m also out of condition. So, you see, mebbes I could lose my grip and drop you, if I have to hold on to you for much longer.’
‘Jeeeeeez!’ shouted Bilko, as he swung from side to side.
‘Alright?’ said Be-Bop.
Bilko had turned white. He gripped the briefcase in his clammy hand and tried not to look at the sharks swimming in the water just below his face. He was sure he saw one of them lick its lips, although he wasn’t sure if sharks had tongues.
‘Mr. De Luca, I think my old friend was a little rash in his actions,’ said Tony. ‘I’m sure he didn’t recognise you, since he’s been retired for so long.’
‘What do you want me to do, Mr. Cook?’ said Be-Bop.
‘Well, it is a bit of a conundrum but…’
Everyone turned as Bilko screamed and watched as the briefcase slipped from his sweaty grasp into the shark infested water.
‘Oh, shit, shit, shit,’ said Bilko as it sank below the surface. The sharks swam toward it and then ignored it.
‘You plonker, Bilko,’ said Tony.
‘Er, shall I let him up,’ said Be-Bop, ‘or send him in after it?’
‘Well, I’m not so sure,’ said a seriously pissed-off looking Tony. ‘That pathetic attempt at extortion he was trying to pull earlier has definitely put him in my bad books.’
‘It’s your call, Mr. Cook,’ said Be-Bop.
‘What do you think, Richard? He’s your father.’
Richard frowned. ‘Dunno. I never really liked the bloke to be honest. And after what you and mum told me earlier…’’
Tony looked at his watch.
‘Yeah, alright, let’s have him back. We don’t want to give the sharks food poisoning. It wouldn’t be environmentally friendly, would it? And I do hate cruelty toward animals.’
Keith and Be-Bop pulled up Bilko and dropped him heavily on the ground.
‘Jesus H Priest,’ said Bilko, hitting the floor with a thump.
‘Here’s the payment from Captain Cutlass,’ said Be-Bop, taking the brown envelope from his pocket. ‘He said thanks very much for getting rid of Half-Pint Harry so sharpish and so efficiently. Cutlass had been wanting rid of him for ages. Harry’s been dipping his fingers in too many tills for donkey’s years.’
Kenny let out a breath but looked a little flummoxed.
‘What? So, you were going to do him in, anyway?’ he said.
Tony grinned.
‘All’s swell that ends swell,’ he said as he stuffed the envelope into his jacket pocket.
‘Right, come with me, Richard,’ said Tony. ‘Let’s go and collect your mum and that nice Polish girlfriend of yours from the hotel and we’ll all have a little chat over a very expensive meal.’
‘Suits me, Uncle Tony,’ said Richard.
‘But who’s gonna get the briefcase?’ said Kenny.
‘I’m not particularly interested in who retrieves it, gents. Or how. But be very certain that if it’s not in my possession by the time I’ve finished lunch, at least one of you will be in that tank swimming with the sharks. If you’re lucky. And you can kiss your finder’s fee goodbye, Bilko.’ He jabbed his fingers at Bilko, as if he was playing darts with words.
‘Well, don’t look at us, Mr. Cook,’ said Be-Bop. ‘We’ve done what were paid for and we’ve got a train to catch.’
‘So, it’s down to you two highly trained professionals, then,’ said Tony, looking at Bilko and Kenny.
Kenny looked at Bilko, who shrugged.
‘Toss a coin?’ he said.
‘Maybe try rock, scissors, paper?’ said Be-Bop.
Kenny and Bilko glared at him.
‘Either that or pop outside for a six pack of cheap lager,’ said Richard, much to the confusion of everyone else.
***
Richard had to bite his cheeks to stop from giggling. Kenny, wrapped up in bandages and covered with plasters, looked like something out of a cartoon. But Bilko looked even worse. He was white as a sheet, rocking backwards and forwards, muttering to himself. Shaking like a chainsaw.
One of his fingers was missing and Richard assumed that was what was in the bag of frozen peas that Bilko clutched to his stomach.
Tony was sat at his desk, sipping brandy. Ron Moody had been fiddling with the battered silver briefcase for over half an hour and had a sweat on.
There was a click and Ron gave an Osmond of a grin.
‘Thank bollocks for that,’ he said.
He slid the briefcase across the desk to Tony, who gulped. Looked up at the photo of Pope John Paul and made the sign of the cross. Did the same to the Alf Ramsey photo.
‘Open sez me,’ said Tony. He clicked open the briefcase. His eyes widened. The contents seemed to glow.
‘Is that what I think it is?’ said Kenny, leaning over Tony.
‘It is,’ said Tony, nodding slowly. ‘I been trying to get this back from those Brazilian bastards for years.’
‘It’s beautiful,’ said Kenny.
Tony carefully put his trembling hands into the suitcase and took out the Jules Rimet Trophy. Held it up to the light. It glinted.
‘Some people are on the pitch. They think it’s all over,’ said Kenny.
He looked at Bilko, who collapsed in an unconscious heap onto the floor.
Kenny grinned.
‘It is now.’
The End
About the author
Paul D. Brazill is the author of A Case Of Noir, Guns Of Brixton and Roman Dalton - Werewolf PI. He was born in Hartlepool, England and lives in Bydgoszcz, Poland. His writing has been translated into Italian and Slovene and has been published in various magazines and anthologies, including The Mammoth Books of Best British Crime 8, 10 and 11. His blog is here.
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