Hymn From A Village

by Nigel Bird

Doesn’t look like I’ll make it to the end, huh? And I had so much to tell you.

  You’ll be lucky if there’s enough here for a short story.

  I can hear her giving orders. She might well use her quiet voice, the bloody traitor. I’d know that accent anywhere. Aduke! No doubt she’s used her dental skills for the odd unrequested extraction.

  She’s not getting any of my teeth.

  There’s a carving knife in the drawer. I’ve been saving it for an occasion such as this. It’s got her name on it. Unless I see Harris, in which case he’s first.

  Should have paid attention to that bloody horoscope. “Aquarius - Watch out for strangers and nasty surprises.”

  Later friend. Later.

  Stones In Me Pockets

  Lefty had planned it like he were military.

  First target were the police van that’s always there at weekends waiting for the clubs to spill their guts.

  Turk’s crew went across all casual. Soon had it over. Smashed the windscreen and went at the outside like it were a steel drum.

  Didn’t take long for the riot squad to arrive. One bus from the left, another from the right. It were going to be the pincer movement just like Lefty said.

  They poured out of them buses like I’d seen down at the quarry, only this time it weren’t no practice. Visors down and shields up, they ran into neat lines and stood their ground.

  Now it were our turn. The cops might have the pincer move, but we were the crabs’ claws.

  Useless buggers from the Broadgate started up with their petrol bombs. Every one of them landed short. I were going to show them how our crew from the Tardy Gate handled things.

  I lit mine off Raj’s zippo. Black flames curled into me eyes. Saw the bottle were a Bacardi Breezer. A bloody girl’s drink. Threw it like it were the Olympic games I were so pissed. Landed smack on the head of a copper who were facing the other way.

  The flames covered him like someone were pouring orange paint. He span around on fire, hands pawing the air like he were swatting mozzies.

  Another copper went over. Screamed at him above the sounds of brick on Perspex. Probably didn’t get the message. Hardly surprising when his ears had just melted onto the road.

  I were ready for high-fives, only the lot of them were pegging it over to the cenotaph.

  Me, I were rooted to the spot, like the North End were about to take a penalty.

  Watched as someone popped an extinguisher and covered the guy in foam like he were the winner at the Grand Prix.

  Show were over. Left the other gangs on the High Street clearing stores like it were the January sales.

  ****

  Slept like a log. Woke up like it were any other day.

  Then I turned on the news. Were just like an action replay. Camera zoomed in. Me, bandana slipping low and me face filling the screen.

  The copper were dead. Left a wife and three daughters. They showed a picture of his girls all sweet and happy. Heard them screaming, I did. Put me fingers in me ears – just made them louder.

  Couldn’t say where the tears were from, just that they came out of me eyes and nose and mouth all at once.

  Took a shower. Scrubbed me fingers hoping they’d to disappear.

  Then me mum were at me. “What’s taking so long?” She coughed up some of the night before. “Give over playing with yerself.”

  Couldn’t look her in the eye when I came out. Just stared at the tattoo on her shoulder, the big heart and me name underneath. Like I meant something.

  Grabbed a few bits and bobs from me room and headed to mass.

  Sneaked in the back and dipped me hand in the font. Didn’t make things any better.

  I looked up at the cross. His eyes were cold. No way he were going to forgive me this time.

  Went to me usual place at the docks. Broke in to the portacabin and curled into a corner. Tried to work out what next. Realized there were no next, not for me.

  Filled me pockets with stones. Climbed up to the top of the crane.

  Can see right into the posh flats with the view.

  I want to jump, but me hands wrap round the bar. Soon as I get one off, the other tightens. And then I remind them what they did and me fingers go slack.

  When they let go, I’m off.

  The wind shouts in me ears but not loud enough to kill them screams.

  I watch me life pass by. Don’t think there’s anything worth watching. First shag, maybe, or the day we got promotion.

  Doesn’t take long. There’s hardly time to blink.

  I pinch me nose and close me eyes.

  Second splash I’ve made today.

  And the water fills me ears and the screams get louder.

  And louder.

  Sugar And Spice

  Tommy Atkins was made of bad things. Frogs and snails and puppy dog tails.

  His parents knew it soon as he came out of the womb.

  Bruce Robertson knew it more than most. He’d been Tommy’s muscle for a good while, twisting an arm here and there. Breaking or chopping them off if things got out of hand.

  But Bruce didn’t mind. He was made of bad things, too.

  People said he was rotten to the core.

  Might have been better for him if he was. Wouldn’t have got himself into the mess he was in if they’d been right.

  Somewhere in Bruce’s soul was sugar and spice and only Tommy knew it.

  Most of the time Bruce’s nice side was about as easy to spot as a zebra on a crossing.

  The night they went after Barnsey it was like an enormous zit on the end of a tiny nose.

  Putting a bullet through a man’s head meant nothing to either of them.

  Tommy took Barnesy out with a shot to the temple, no sweat.

  It was the same with Barnesy’s wife. Bruce gave it to her while she slept. Let the pillow soak up blood and brains.

  When it came to the kid, Bruce didn’t have it in him.

  Hiding under the bed the child was a loose end that needed tying. But Bruce couldn’t tie it.

  Sure, he squeezed the trigger, just not as hard as it required.

  Instead of taking her out, Bruce walked away.

  How was he to know she’d made them both? Was able to describe them to the police down to the finest detail as if it had been tattooed onto her eyeballs.

  And now Tommy was coming for Bruce with everything he had.

  They’d cornered him in the industrial estate on the outside of town.

  Bruce laid-up. Hid in the attic of Cheeky Charlie’s. Only went down to buy food from the machines or when he needed the lavvy.

  Three days and three nights he’d been there.

  The diet of sweets and fizzy drinks had taken its toll and he was experiencing cramps from lying still for hours on end.

  On the fourth day, he decided to give up. Lay and closed his eyes and willed himself to death. Only problem was his lungs wouldn’t stop and his pulse went on no matter how hard he tried.

  And that’s when he saw it.

  A spider wove its silken strands, threading and circling until a web was made.

  Bruce felt a tear in his eye as the spider stood at the edge of its home waiting for unsuspecting visitors to call for dinner.

  Patient it was, like a fisherman on the banks of the Tyne.

  That night a storm pounded Charlie’s place. Made it rattle and shake as if it were about to cave in, but the metal sheets remained in place, not a bolt removed or out of sorts.

  Only casualty was the spider’s web, ripped apart by a gust that whistled through the gaps.

  The spider didn’t sit and mope, oh no. Just waited for the wind to end and started over, spinning and weaving like nothing had happened.

  And Bruce was inspired.

  Decided the only way to make a life was to get up off his arse and run for it. Start over in another town.

  Besides, Tommy and his gang would have given up the ghost way before.

  Took the spider in his palm and squeezed
the life from it, then jumped to the floor, opened the door and ignored the alarm that sang out loud.

  The first pop halted him where he stood. The second dropped him to his knees. The third, he knew nothing about.

  Super Trooper

  I don’t step on the cracks.

  I’m not the only one.

  Watch kids on the pavement and they know, too, short steps and long to stay on the stones.

  I have the time to notice these things, see. All the time in the world.

  The High Street’s empty. Better that way. It’s why I get in early. No distractions.

  Straight down the middle is my line, a metre from the walls and one from the road.

  Oncoming vehicle, Ford Mondeo. One passenger, male, shouting at the driver. One driver, female, focusing on the road and wiping away tears.

  Clear.

  Opposite side, old lady (clear), two power cleaners taking a smoke between stripping gum from the stones (clear), group of students (just out of bed, lazy fuckers, clear).

  Baby’s buggy ahead. No baby. Stop. Look for wires, lumps, anything out of the ordinary. Clear.

  Check back down at the cracks. Step carefully. There’s a speck of something on my boot. Stop. Bend. Wipe. Stand. Look ahead. Step.

  St Georges Shopping Centre. Turn right.

  Automatic doors slide open. My mind whirrs with the stimulus of change. Settle. Take it slowly. Deep breaths. Easy does it.

  Two security, too fat for ex-forces, playing with their walkie-talkies. Mothers and toddlers.

  Nothing to see here.

  Too early for the hoodies. Too late for the business rush.

  Pulse slows. 90, 80, 70, 60. Clear.

  Todd’s Sports on the right. Turn right. Onto carpet. Relax.

  Heaven, this place. All the trainers you could want in the one shop. Smells new and shines white.

  I’m straight round the back to the classy stock. The imports. The must be seen in. Kept round there just in case anyone daft enough rips the chain from the wall to run off with a left shoe.

  There’s a soft-topped box by the rack. I sit on it and just look at them all. Reminds me of the time I went into an art gallery. People there did the same.

  This is my safe place. I come here often. Never buy. Never talk. Just feel the peace inside.

  Maybe I drift off, but the voice is a shock.

  “Sir,” someone says. “Sir. Are you all right, sir?” The voice is high for a man. Probably a teenager.

  I’m all eyes and ears soon as. Bright and ready for action.

  Looks like the old guys sent the new, young buck over to sort things. Reminds me of my first days.

  “I’m thinking about getting a pair,” I tell him.

  The boy straightens. Squares the shoulders inside the shell-suit. Trying to be a man.

  I’d tell him that men don’t need the tramlines in their hair, but what’d be the point?

  “They’re beauties, aren’t they? You won’t see a better selection outside of London.”

  He goes over and handles one of them from the top row, the Gold Nike, Super-Soles range. Way he’s taken control impresses me. Sort of guy my unit’s always looking for.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I’m thinking about the Silver Puma retro. Two-twenty-nine-ninety-nine.” It’s like my serial number.

  “Top of the range, brother.” He picks it from the stand. Rubs the leather uppers with the right amount of respect. “Want to try them on?”

  “Size 13,” I nod. Reckon he’s impressed.

  I set to unlacing my boots. Check my reflection in the toe. Beaut.

  When the kid returns, he’s got the box, lid open.

  Reflex kicks in. I look it over. Tissue. Shoe. Clear.

  He hands to me. I take it. Bend and smell the thing before putting it on. There’s nothing like the whiff of new kit.

  “Oh yeah,” the kid says. “Nobody’s going to miss you in these. You know your footwear, sir.”

  “I know my footwear all right.” I’ve seen all kinds. “Came across something like this in Afghanistan.” It all flows back. The heat and the glare of the sun from the dirt. The kids watching like we’re the entertainment. “Didn’t need the metal detector or a dog to tell me that one was a wrong-un.”

  The boy says nothing. Just looks confused.

  “Clever buggers had changed the laces for wire.” Hadn’t seen one like it before. Took a good look around it like I was taking a photo of it in my mind. Alerted the rest of the team and we got together. “Told the boss all about it and he went in. Cocky sod, he is, Tony. Tony the Tiger we call him.”

  The kids face hasn’t changed. Just looks confused.

  “Thing is, I missed something. Missed it because I’d got complacent. Buried in the wall a couple of feet away another device. The real sting in the tail. Blew Tony’s legs clean off. Bugger didn’t even scream.”

  “Jesus.” I like the kid. He cares.

  “Hence, the thing with shoes.”

  I get hold of my boots and stand. Walk over to the display, grab the chain on the Puma and pull it from the wall.

  I put my foot into the shoe and admire the pair. “Thanks,” I say, and leave.

  “Enjoy the shoes, sir,” the kid says. He’d make a great searcher one day.

  The security-men seem alert, pulling in their stomachs and getting ready for business.

  I walk straight over to them, the chain following me on the floor like a pet snake.

  The guys in uniform take a step forward.

  I stop. Look at each in turn. Watch them step back.

  I walk straight between them as if they’re not there.

  Out on the street, I head for home. I walk quickly now, careful all the time to keep my feet in the centre of each slab.

  Acknowledgements

  There are many things to love about the short story. Among them is the way a short story can be a social animal in the way a novel rarely can. It rubs shoulders with other stories in magazines, on blogs, in anthologies and collections. The placing of a story in different positions gives it a slightly different feel and that’s a wonderful thing.

  I’ve been lucky and delighted by the success of my work. It’s appeared in places that still make me very proud and occasionally rather disbelieving. To thank individuals scares me, for they are so many and my mind is so small.

  What I can do is try and list titles and homes to which I’m extremely grateful.

  Mammoth Best British Crime Stories

  The Reader Magazine

  A Twist Of Noir

  Snubnose Press

  Untreed Reads

  Shotgun Honey

  Things I’d Rather Be Doing

  Beat To A Pulp

  Nightfalls

  Protectors (stories to benefit Protect)

  Off The Record

  True Brit Grit

  Crimespree Magazine

  Crime Factory

  All Due Respect

  The Drowning Machine

  In On The Tide

  I’m grateful to all the good folk involved in these projects for their time and energy as well as for their inspiration.

  I’d like to also acknowledge the short-story community, particularly in the noir community, for their ability to see the word from so many different angles and to be able to write about them with such originality.

  Thanks also to any readers out there who’ve stuck with me – you keep me going, so please don’t stop hanging around.

  a Sea Minor Publication

  © 2013

 

 

 
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