Acts of Violence

by Ross Harrison

  ACTS OF VIOLENCE

  ROSS HARRISON

  Copyright © 2014 Ross Harrison

  Cover by Mark Williams, copyright © 2014 Ross Harrison

  The right of Ross Harrison to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents act 1988.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author.

  ONE | QUITTING TIME

  As his nose cracked under my knuckles, I reflected on how much I hated violence. Not violence stemming from my own unresolved anger issues. That I was fine with. It was violence against women that I hated. I didn’t know why, but the prettier the girl the more I hated it. Maybe I was shallow.

  This worthless little shit lost his cool when she put too much ice in his drink. Lost his top altogether when she tried to take one cube back out with those little tongs and it fell back in. Pulled her halfway over the bar to explain to her real close how she was going to pay for the splash on his silk shirt. Maybe if he’d explained who his daddy was, it would have actually rung a bell. Less of a drug store tinkle, more of a gong furiously beaten with a hammer. Cole Webster owned the club. Owned her. Little Dick Webster – though he probably preferred ‘Rich’ or ‘Richie’ – didn’t think to mention that. She gave his left cheek a bright red hue that didn’t match the sprayed on tan. He repaid the favour.

  That’s when I stepped in. Wrong foot first.

  The bar stool followed Little Dick to the sticky floor. His shiny purple shirt hissed at me as his movements tore a seam. Then hindsight grabbed my shoulder. Hindsight was a six-three, two-fifty-pound bouncer with egg-shaped eyes. His boss’ jumped up boy was lying on the ground and he wasn’t about to risk his job by reacting too slow.

  ‘Big mistake,’ was all he said. The only words he knew, maybe.

  ‘I noticed,’ I said. I didn’t know why. A witty one-liner always seemed the way to go at a time like that. Problem was, I was never particularly witty under pressure.

  The bouncer wasn’t trained. He made a mistake. I’d like to say choosing me to play the punch bag was the mistake, but that wasn’t it. He threw me into the side of the bar. Little Dick was just clambering to his feet beside me. I banged the back of my head on the shiny steel, but if I’d let the bright white flash in my eyes deter me, I’d have woken up in hospital. Or in my car. Halfway to the bottom of the lake.

  I wrapped both hands around the legs of the nearest bar stool. Made out I was dazed and pulling myself up. The bouncer didn’t see it coming. Felt it though, when the stool hit his jaw. With that bulk, there wouldn’t have been much I could have done if he hadn’t thrown me aside like an empty steroid needle. Now he was unconscious. And fired. Maybe for that failure, he’d wake up in his car, halfway to the bottom of the lake. I didn’t feel bad.

  ‘Do you have any idea what you just did?’ Little Dick was referring to his own humiliation. He didn’t care about the bouncer. ‘You just signed your own death w—’

  As his nose cracked under my knuckles a second time, I reflected on how much I hated violence. I hated violence directed towards women. I hated violence directed towards me. I hated the threat of violence directed towards women or me. I decided then that I hated Little Dick Webster.

  The drunk, drugged up social elite, such as it was in this pitiful town, continued to thrash about on the dance floors. No one but Little Dick’s friends took any notice of what just happened. Them and the other bouncers. His friends were as much of a joke as him. Rough with girls perhaps, but not with someone who’d hit back. They weren’t prepared to risk denting their pretty faces on my fists. Just as well. One more punch like those two and my hand would have probably shattered.

  The bouncers were another story. Three of them were shoving their way through all the spoiled teens barely old enough to set foot in this place. They looked angry. And their faces definitely weren’t pretty. I decided it was time to pull out my safety blanket.

  ‘Harem P.D.’ The dull brass shield made them hesitate. ‘We’ve had reports of underage barmaids working in this…establishment.’ Swanky shithole didn’t seem like a wise term to use just then. ‘I’m taking the girl with me.’

  ‘Ain’t no one here underage,’ the middle bouncer said.

  I shrugged. No point discussing it. I was making it up as I went, and it wasn’t a good lie. The barmaid, wherever she’d disappeared to, maybe could have passed for as young as twenty-two. Maybe.

  I flicked a five-credit chip in Little Dick’s direction.

  ‘For the shirt.’ He was unconscious, but his friends would pass on my humorous remark.

  I stepped past the bouncers. Kept my badge held high. I didn’t know how long a hired goon’s memory lasted. The barmaid pushed through the toilet door ahead. Her eyes were as red as Little Dick’s nose. I grabbed her arm. She saw the badge.

  ‘I didn’t do anything!’ she shouted. Or nearly did. Crying had chased off her voice.

  ‘Then what are you worried about,’ I said.

  She glanced back at the bouncers. They weren’t going to help her.

  On the way out, some bleached blonde tried to dance on me like a pole. I didn’t know what these idiots were on. That was a problem for another time. Or for someone who gave a damn. That wasn’t why I was in the club that night. My little stakeout was over the moment I clenched my fist. I was going home with nothing but bruises.

  Outside, the sounds of the city were like gentle caresses after whatever noise they were blasting inside. The streets were shiny under the moon, but the rain had stopped for now. I manhandled the barmaid away from the club. Only let go of her arm when we were out of sight of the bouncers.

  ‘You know goddamn well I’m not underage,’ she said. Pulled away from my open hand to make a statement. ‘Why’d you drag me out here?’

  She probably thought I had something bad in mind for her. She didn’t run though. Yet.

  ‘You’re welcome to go back if you want to get slapped around some more,’ I said. I patted my coat pockets out of habit. ‘End up in a dumpster somewhere.’

  Her brow furrowed. Dark brown eyes narrowed for a second. She didn’t say anything.

  She wore too much lipstick. Her lips were smooth red, like the side of a car. If I tapped my nail on them, it would probably echo back at me from across the street. One corner was smudged by the back of an over-tanned hand.

  ‘That was Dick Webster,’ I said. ‘Cole Webster’s boy. You hit him, the next time anyone sees you is the E.R. or the morgue.’

  She stared at me for a while. We crossed the street in silence. Was this even her way home? My night’s investigation might have been blown, but I wondered if she might know something useful. The fact that she’d hit Little Dick told me it was unlikely. I didn’t mind squeezing her anyway.

  ‘Underage.’ She was smiling this time. She reached into her bag. ‘That’s the best you could come up with?’

  ‘When you have a badge, you just open your mouth and whatever falls out usually works. I couldn’t exactly tell them I was investigating Little Dick Webster.’ I shouldn’t have told her that. I noticed a hesitation though.

  Finally she found what she was looking for. She pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Looked me up and down. ‘I think I have what you want.’

  She offered me one from the pack. She’d seen me pat my pockets but…did I imagine the innuendo? Maybe I’d bumped my head harder than I thought. I looked past the half-empty p
ack to where her fawn-coloured breasts forced the tight black top so thin it was nearly transparent. Webster’s staff rules said no bras. They were pretty derogatory and didn’t exactly favour women, but right then I liked those rules.

  ‘You do.’ Finally, a cab came into sight. I signalled it to stop. ‘But I quit.’

  The cab pulled up beside us. The driver was thoughtful enough to keep the static thrusters away from the big puddle at the kerb. He didn’t want to splash his customers before they paid. I opened the door and held it for her.

  ‘You want me to go home?’ She asked. She made her chocolate eyes look sad. Like a scolded puppy’s. ‘But what if Webster’s waiting for me?’ Maybe she was going for frightened. She was a bad actress, but it wasn’t meant to convince. ‘According to you, you saved my life tonight. I’d feel much safer with you. Then again, I only have your word for it. Maybe all you did was lose me my job. Maybe you owe me a drink and a nice, warm place for the night.’

  ‘You lost your job the second you raised your hand against Little Dick.’ My eyes moved to the see-through top again. ‘But you’re right, he might go looking for payback tonight. And you do have what I want.’

  I took the cigarette out of her mouth and took one drag. It was against the law to smoke in a cab. I threw it at the gutter and climbed in behind her. It made me want more.

  TWO | DÉJÀ VU

  I stared out the patrol car window. My neighbours lined the wall, pointing, and whispering in each other’s ear. The blue and red lights made the rain glow. The rubberneckers had to squint against them to see in the car. The cuffs were too tight. The magnets were too strong for someone twice my size to pull apart. I tried anyway. Hurt my shoulders.

  The driver got in first. Then his partner. The partner turned in his seat and waved his little bracelet at me. One touch of the red button and I’d get some free electroshock therapy.

  A third uniform climbed in beside me. This one preferred the splatter my insides all over the car door approach. I didn’t think the compact shard gun was a regulation police weapon. I didn’t feel the need to share my doubt.

  The detectives would follow behind. Keeping a close eye on me. The blue lights flashed on the hoverbike in front. It pulled off, leading the way. A lot of manpower for just me. But I was a special case. A special kind of sick scum.

  ‘Come on, Jack,’ the electroshock cop said. ‘You’re not going to let us drag you away like this, are you? Where’s that famous anger of yours? You burn it all up on the girl?’

  He wanted an excuse to shock me. I looked at the strip on his shirt with his name sewn on: Holt. I didn’t know the name. He obviously knew of me. I closed my eyes. I didn’t want to look at his any more. Didn’t want me eyeballing him to be that excuse, either.

  Out of nowhere, my bones started vibrating. Every muscle tensed. I hit my head on the padded car ceiling. It was like jumping in an ice cold shower and hitting my funny bone at the same time. Except my whole body was the funny bone. And it wasn’t funny.

  Beside me, the cop with the stupidly powerful weapon pointed at my stomach jumped too. He brought the gun up more. Nearly squeezed the trigger I thought.

  ‘Jesus, Holt!’ he shouted. ‘Don’t do that. I thought he was trying something. I nearly shot him!’

  ‘You do that again, Holt, and you’d best hope he shoots me.’ That’s what I wanted to say. But I couldn’t get my tongue to move and my teeth ached. The only sound I could produce was a groan.

  Holt smirked as the car pulled away from the kerb. I wanted to remove the smirk. But there was nothing I could do with my muscles pulsing every few seconds and the sensation of needles sticking through my skin. Just as well. The shard gun cop didn’t want to shoot me for no reason, but he wouldn’t hesitate if I gave him one.

  I settled for watching the grey city pass by on the other side of the rain-streaked glass. Yeah, the rain had started again. It never seemed to stop for long. Pathetic fallacy I thought it was called. The rain mimicked the city perfectly. Barely a ray of sunshine ever seemed to break through those clouds.

  Here and there, entrepreneurs slinked casually into the alleys as the cop cars passed. Their customers were less casual. The cops had something more important in their back seat. They didn’t care about pushers or users today. Not that they cared much any day.

  We passed Cole Webster’s club, The Web. Little Dick stood outside, talking on his comm. One of the bouncers held an umbrella over the spoilt shit’s head. There was technology to render those needless, but Little Dick liked to have someone wait on him like that. Added to his delusion of power.

  Little Dick looked up from his call. He waved into the back of the cruiser with a grin.

  The smell of the wet city drifted in through the air vents. It wasn’t a refreshing smell. It smelled of the sewers. Human waste. That was the all-pervading stink of Harem. At least it overpowered the smell of blood still in my nostrils.

  The drive took about ten minutes. Every time we stopped at traffic lights, the shard gun would rise a little. The cop’s finger would get tighter on the trigger. Holt would turn and smirk at me. I’d do my best to not even blink. Just in case. These cuffs had to come off sometime and I didn’t want to be charged with killing a cop too.

  Eventually, we pulled off the road. Into the yard of the police precinct. Three cops stood outside in the rain, waiting. Their windbreakers glistened. They looked tense. Each gripped a shotgun. They’d been told exactly what kind of monster was being brought in.

  The cruiser pulled up near them. Holt didn’t take his eyes off me while the driver got out. The rain drummed gently on the car’s roof. The smell of sewage was renewed through the open door. That was the stink of the Harem Police Department.

  My door opened. The driver stood back and told me to get out. He wasn’t going to touch me. Not with the shock cuffs on me. If Holt decided to have some more fun, he didn’t want to get shocked too.

  I carefully climbed out. Holt followed suit. Stayed level with me until we were both standing in the rain. It was a warm rain. The air between the drops was stuffy.

  I had an idea how this was going to go. There was nothing I could do, though, so I tried not to think about it. Thinking about it wouldn’t change it. I tried to stay in the present. Somehow, the pattering on the tarmac increased the nerves I was trying to control. Maybe it was so gentle and relaxed, it just reminded me that my foreseeable future wouldn’t be either of those things. Or maybe I just knew that if Holt shocked me again while I was wet, it would hurt a lot more. I liked the idea that, if he did, I’d lunge at him and let him share the sensation. But I wouldn’t. I’d be on the ground before I knew what was happening. Like an epileptic puppet with cut strings.

  ‘Get him inside,’ a voice said. It was one of the detectives. They’d pulled up behind us. I hadn’t noticed. So much for staying in the present.

  Holt smirked for the hundredth time. He held up the little bracelet. Nodded towards the big metal door into the precinct. I started walking. The three shotguns followed me carefully. The driver was already at the door, and pulled it open. Kept one hand on his pistol grip.

  Inside was cooler. It smelled of bleach and coffee.

  ‘Take him straight to interview two.’ That was the same detective. He had a distinctive voice. It was kind of wheezy, but strong. He could yell like a drill sergeant when he wanted.

  Someone had their hand on my shoulder now, directing me down the white corridor. We turned a corner. The corridor went down past a few offices. Cops stood in every doorway, waiting to get a look at me. I felt like a celebrity. A celebrity that everyone wants to see hanged with his own bootlaces in a dirty cell. It felt like they were going to start applauding any second, but one by one they disappeared back into their offices or sat back down at their desks.

  I was pushed to a door. Faded golden lettering told me this was interview room two. The door’s veneer was peeling at the bottom. There was a dent in the middle, with a crack in it. Someone’s face had
probably done that.

  The door sat ajar. Whoever had his hand on me opened it with my chest and face. But it was a light door. Didn’t hurt like he’d probably hoped.

  The hand immediately grasped me again. Dragged me to a metal chair bolted to the floor. Pushed me into it. I didn’t bother to check whom the hand belonged to. Probably Holt, but it didn’t matter.

  Behind me, footsteps disappeared back into the corridor and the door slammed shut.

  Was I alone? There was no sound in the room. No more footsteps behind me.

  A cream folder slapped down on the table from over my shoulder. It had the intended effect. I jumped an inch off the chair.

  The detective stepped around the desk. Took his time. The hard soles of his boots thumped in the quiet. He pulled out the chair on the other side. Scraped it along the floor. It screeched. Set my teeth on edge. I couldn’t stop the shudder.

  I’d been determined to play it cool. I was playing it anything but.

  He sat. White, about fifty, in shape. Except for a healthy bulge of the stomach. And familiar. Not just from earlier this morning. Something about the creased face told me he smoked too much. Detective Lawrence. The man with a first name for a last name.

  ‘Jack Mason,’ he wheezed. Said it like he was seeing an old acquaintance again after a long time. An acquaintance he didn’t like. That was about the truth, actually.

  Lawrence placed a battered datapad on the table in front of him. Beside it, he put a clear evidence box. Slid that into the middle. I could sit and stare at the evidence of my misdeeds while he took his time getting ready. I could sit and wonder if there was any way out of it this time.

  Next, he held his thumb to a patch on the desk. Words spread out across the surface. They were upside down to me, but I could see that it was his name as interviewer, my name as suspect, and the time: 11.57am.

  ‘Place your hands palms down on the table, Jack.’ He tapped a green circle on the table display and my cuffs popped open.