by Nigel Bird
Brutus sprang right back.
The crunch of bone as they met was like a motorbike smashing into a lorry head on.
Jimmy felt his knees wobble. Had to lean on the counter. Dug his nails into his thumbs.
It was the sound that did it. Or maybe the show of teeth. Felt like he was back in the woods all over again. Fangs and slobber all over his face. Like his life was coming to an end.
His fingers reached for the cheek guard. Made sure it was there. That none of what he imagined was really happening.
"All right mate?" Eddie asked, rubbing his shoulders. "Your money's safe."
The dogs snapped and pawed at each other's skin looking for a hold. Leo got there first. Low down, right by the wind-pipe. All Brutus could do was stare at the barn roof. Didn't whimper once. Kept trying to get out of the hold, swiping with his paw, dipping and arching his back. None of it did any good.
Blood dripped to the floor. Leo's teeth, the ones Jimmy could see, were pink as his gums. Jimmy had seen him working the tyres the day before. Knew he'd never let go.
Then Brutus stopped. Stopped doing anything.
"No more," Pat shouted as he jumped in. Another ciggy stuck to his lip as if it had been glued in place. "No more. Fuck's sake."
"Let him go, Leo." Mikey didn't even have to raise his voice. Leo turned and headed to his owner, jumped up like he'd just collected a stick or something. "Attaboy," Mikey said, rubbing his head and patting his side.
The Irishman's muscles bulged as he picked up his dog. He had hate in his eyes where Jimmy had expected to see regret. Blood, thinned by sweat, trickled onto his forearms as the dog's head lolled, like someone had removed its vertebrae.
He strode over to the metal wall, stepped over it straight-legged and barged through the people he'd been laughing and joking with before the bout.
"Tioch faidh ar lagh," came a voice from the back of the room.
The big man raised an arm, spat out his smoke and lifted his middle finger.
"You sure that was a dog?" a little guy called out as he passed.
Pat turned and stared at him. Didn't say a word. Didn't have to. Everyone could see what he meant.
The little guy stepped back and kept his mouth shut.
***
Jimmy needed to puke.
Eddie gave him a nod and he went outside for some fresh air.
Didn't do any good. He leaned against the wall and hurled his guts up against it. Little splatters of vomit landed on his shoes and trousers, peach coloured like the soup he'd had for his lunch.
He waited for the water to clear from his eyes then stood up.
First thing he saw was Brutus lying in front of an enormous off-roader with its bonnet open. Soon as he was able to focus properly, he saw jump leads. The black was attached to one of the dog's ears, the red to his tail. The cables went up into the engine and Pat stood at the driver's door, leaning in as if trying to get to something.
The ignition sparked the engine. Pat bobbed up and down. Each time he did so, the revs of the motor roared.
The dog practically did a cartwheel. Looked like he'd been given the paddles in a hospital drama.
"Stupid fuckin' animal," Pat was shouting. "After all I did for you, ya cunt." He revved up again and slammed the door shut. "Think I'm made of money, ya mangy beast?" He stomped over to Brutus and looked down for a moment, lifted his leg and hammered the heel of his boot into the dog's head.
There was no more twitching.
"Fuck you looking at?" Pat shouted over at Jimmy. "Want some?"
Jimmy turned his head back to the wall and splattered his trousers a little bit more.
He made sure he didn't look back.
Instead, he watched Thurston and Mulligan dropping off bags into the flatbed they used when they were working.
Still had a pile of scaffolding poles in there.
They turned and went back into the building.
Jimmy sprinted over to the lorry, stepped onto the rear wheel and jumped right into the back. Found a space under the poles that were propped up onto the cab. Lay there waiting for Mulligan to return, as snug as if he'd built himself a little tent in the countryside.
Carlo
Tranent was one of the few places that, to Carlo, looked better in the fog.
Outside the chip-shop, he turned on his torch, set the chair at full speed and pulled up the fur collar on his coat.
Took less than five minutes to get to the Cross Keys. He ordered a double dram and retired to the table next to the imitation log-fire. He hadn't meant to order alcohol. The words came out without him having to think. It would mean the end of the longest spell Carlo had been sober since he was thirteen.
Didn't think he should drink pints – couldn't face manoeuvring his chair in the toilet every ten minutes and pissing into his plastic bottle wasn't an option in public.
The whisky would get him where he wanted without him needing a trip to the bathroom.
"How's it going Carlo?" Billy brought the drink over. He wore the same gear he always did when he was working, a black, brewery tee-shirt with Belhaven Best written across his chest in gold. He was clean shaven and reeked of Old Spice. He adjusted the position of the beer-mat on his table and put the drink on top of it.
Billy could get hold of pretty much anything in exchange for a small percentage. He was a human Yellow Pages. "You manage to see OK?"
"Could get here with me eyes closed. It's getting home that's the problem."
"Same here and I only live up the stairs." Billy dropped a newspaper down next to the whisky. "Steve says he's going to be late. On account of the weather. Reckons it'll be half past by the time he gets here."
Didn't matter much when he arrived, just so long as he had the gun with him when he did.
Carlo knocked the drink back in one. His first real drink since the Ramsays ruined his life. Burned his throat and his insides and made him shiver. Wondered what he'd ever seen in the stuff. Decided he should try another to find out. "Again," he said and took a look at the headline. 'MAN SHOT AND STABBED IN BAR.' Whoever did that must have been really pissed.
Billy filled the glass and a second customer entered the lounge, a young woman who swayed over to the bar, her hips round and rolling, her steps barely managing a straight line. Her blond hair was long and clean, her complexion without blemish.
Billy and the woman spoke for a moment. She lit up a fag and puffed out as if she needed it to live. Billy made a token effort of pointing to the No Smoking sign on the wall just under No Drugs and No Drunks. Not that it mattered. Nobody was going to be slapping Billy's knuckles — he paid the coppers too much to have to worry about that. He turned his back and pulled her a pint. Cider as far as Carlo could tell. Looked good the way the glass misted and the bubbles fizzed to the top.
"I'll take one of those," he called over. The Whisky was giving him heartburn already and he wanted something to cool him down. "And put the lady's on my tab."
The woman turned to him and scrunched her eyes as if trying to focus. Her mascara had smudged, but it didn't stop her blue eyes from shining bright. A smile appeared on her face and she walked over to Carlo's table, spilling a good few slurps worth onto the carpet as she moved.
"True gentleman," she said. "A rare breed, that."
She offered her hand. Carlo picked it up and kissed it.
"Guys I came out with pissed off home. Left me wandering the streets all alone. A night like this. What do you think of that?"
"Wankers," he said. "You should be more careful when you choose your friends."
"Colleagues. From the High School. Celebrating my promotion."
"Congratulations."
"Kate Turner, Head of Guidance. Pleased to meet you."
Carlo's drink arrived at the table. He picked up the pint. They touched glasses.
"Cheers," they both said.
"Carlo Salvino, one armed and one legged proprietor of the local fish and chips establishment, at your service."
<
br /> They laughed. Drank. Talked.
Carlo liked the way her lips curled when she smiled. Her skin was pale and smooth the way it could only be on a younger woman. Wouldn't last long if she kept at the drink and the fags like she was, though she swore she spent most of her evenings at home marking books.
Poured out her life story punctuated by sips and drags. Nothing interesting.
"That's enough about me," she announced. They always said that in the end, like it was important to share the time or something. Carlo preferred listening. Made him seem sympathetic. Didn't feel quite so easy when it was his turn to talk. "How'd you lose your leg?" That was a question he'd have no problems answering.
The door opened and in walked a young man dressed in a sparkling-white shell suit and baseball cap. Didn't look old enough to be drinking in a pub. Probably hadn't started shaving.
Billy gave him the nod and Carlo excused himself to go over and do the business.
"When they told me you were after arms, I thought they meant weapons." Steve's voice was high, like a girl's. Made Carlo feel confident he'd get the upper hand.
"Got what I need?"
"You tell me." He un-wrapped a bundle of cloth under the table and revealed a pistol.
"Looks like a gun."
"Nothing wrong with your sight then." Steve tapped his heels on the ground, making his knees bob up and down. Created ripples on top of the pints on the table.
"No."
"Shame. Lose and eye and you'd be a ringer for Nelson."
The boy was making jokes. Didn't seem bothered about the business they were conducting. "What can it do?"
"Hold it in someone's face and they'll do anything you want."
"That all."
"Load it, you can kill as many people as you can hit."
"Two's plenty."
"Makes a bang when it pops, know what I mean?" Carlo looked puzzled. "Expect attention when she blows."
Kate Turner stood at the jukebox flicking through the tunes and wiggling as if the music was already playing. Carlo wanted to get back to her sharpish.
"It's a Marakov PM," the kid said. "Straight blowback. Fixed barrel. Semi-automatic. 8 rounds per mag. Fires as quickly as you can pull the trigger. Old, basic and reliable. Just don't drop the fucker."
"How much?"
"Cos it's not in vogue, a grand. Shells thrown in."
Carlo reached over and took it in his hand.
It was heavier than he'd expected. Made him think of old-fashioned engineering. Had to be good.
"I'll take it." He took the bag from the back of his chair and removed one of the envelopes he'd stuffed with a hundred tenners. "Keep the change."
He wrapped up the gun and box and put them in his bag next to his pissing bottle.
'It's Raining Men' blasted through the speakers. Made Carlo feel good. The whisky and the rhythm blended as if they were pumping through his veins as one.
Kate danced with her back to the men at the table then, after a not-so-delicate spin, face to face with them. All she needed was a pole.
Steve looked her up and down and took his time about it.
"She's with me," Carlo told him. Pushed a button on his chair and performed moves that could have got him into the Para-Olympics.
***
He could hardly believe his luck. He'd got pissed and shagged a woman on the same night. Not just any old shag either.
Kate had really gone for his stumps. Took ages licking the scar tissue, talking to it as if she could make it better.
There were other advantages to missing limbs, too. She had to do pretty much all the work. Put her body and soul into it. The way she rode him it was like he was a wild pony needing to be broken. Gentle thrusts, hard jabs and lots of moaning. Just the way he liked it.
He pictured the nurses in the hospital as she writhed. Imagined they were right on top of him. He thought of Lily, her cleavage and a bed bath. Drove him crazy.
When Kate came, it was like she was singing opera at the Albert Hall and making sure that those at the back could hear every note. Brought him to a climax, no problem.
She slept across his chest, pinning him down to the mattress. He lay awake and thought about the Ramsays. Imagined blowing holes in them. Watching them burst.
He looked down at the way Kate's breast spilled out over him. Made him realise he'd rather not get caught after all.
Jimmy
His last effort at housebreaking had ended in disaster and Jimmy was determined to get it right this time.
First off, he sorted an alibi. Cried off working in the van with Eddie and took a shift at the chip shop. Stayed until closing time and went home to shower — didn't want to leave the stink of frying at the Ramsay's place; would have been a dead give-away.
Didn't bother blacking up or anything, just hid his face as best he could with the hood of his jacket. Stuck his tools in his pocket just in case.
When he got to the Ramsays' house he walked up the path as quietly as he could manage. Took a puff from his inhaler half way. The garden was full of junk that was almost hidden by the knee-high grass.
Through the window he saw the back of Nan's head above the back of her armchair. The lights of the TV screen sent flickering colours onto the sitting room walls.
There was plenty of security at the house. Out the back and side were lights bright enough to land an aircraft. Bad enough for the neighbours to create a stink at the council until Mikey and Kris did a bit of leaning here and there; after that, those neighbours bought black-out curtains and kept their mouths shut.
There were alarms too, not that anybody was going to touch the Ramsay's place.
Jimmy's plan meant he didn't need to worry about any of that. He went right up to the front door, pushed it open and went in.
He pushed the door closed behind him. Let it click.
Needn't have worried about the smell of his clothes. Place reeked of kippers.
Nan's bedroom was straight ahead. Used to be upstairs until her lungs turned bad. Now she only used the stairs to give the boys a clip round the ear if they weren't awake by noon.
Jimmy wished that the family had bought the carpet they'd talked about since he'd known them. Would have made his steps easier to keep quiet. Luckily, the noise of the TV seemed enough to cover up the creaks he made.
He walked up nice and slow, pushed the handle of Nan's door and he was in. Simple.
First thing he saw was the dressing table, covered in enough potions and lotions to moisturise an elephant.
Clothes littered one corner of the room like she'd been trying them on to see what to wear for the day.
In the opposite corner was another pile, probably laundry. Top of the pile was a pair of thongs the likes of which he'd never even imagined. Enormous they were, big enough to make a catapult for a giant. The thought of where the elastic had been made Jimmy retch. He picked up the dressing gown hanging from the nail on the back of the door and flung it over to hide them from view.
Jimmy picked up the duvet that sagged to the floor, then shone his torch under the bed.
"Halle-fucking-lujah," he said quietly. "Come to Daddy."
Stupid fucks had left a couple of the bags as they were, just ready to be lifted. He dragged those out first, pulled the zips and looked inside. There was enough cash for him to buy a car or maybe take a holiday.
He took another look under the bed.
A large metal case with a skull and crossbones painted on the side sat flush against the wall. Jimmy reached in. Felt for the handle. Gave it a pull.
The bugger hardly budged.
Tried again with two hands. This time it slid towards him until coming to a sudden halt.
He checked it out and felt a chain. It had been padlocked to the bed-frame.
Good job the bed was made of wood. Daft sods hadn't thought about that.
He could saw through in a matter of minutes.
If he had a saw.
He put his ear to the wall. Heard co
uples discussing things on the TV. Sounded like 'Wifeswap'. Near to the end of the programme, too. Probably had five minutes left.
Meant he had time to try and liberate the cash.
He checked the bed for weak spots in the frame.
Whole thing seemed to be a weak spot when he looked closer. It was a wonder such cheap tat managed to keep the woman off the floor.
Easiest points of attack were the corners. Mortice, tenon and glue, nothing more.
He pulled the bed out from against the wall, got onto his back and pushed at the frame, feet on one side, back on the other.
Felt it shift with the first push.
Pushed again and it gave a little.
A third time and the timber separated completely.
Felt good for a moment, until the whole thing came crashing down around him.
Made a hell of a racket.
Even with the TV turned loud, Nan couldn't have missed it.
He imagined her pushing her weight from the chair at that very moment.
"Kris? Mikey? That you?" Nan's voice from the next room.
He pushed the bed away. Practically launched it over to the door.
He shifted things around. Jammed the bed between wall and door then pushed it up to the handle so Nan wouldn't be able to get in.
Heard her moving in the room next door, scrabbling about.
Jimmy put the rucksacks of money on his shoulder and strained to pick up the pirate box.
Only way out was through the back, security lights or no.
He kicked the glass door to the garden. Smashed it to pieces. Hauled the bag out and stepped to freedom.
Explosions boomed from inside. Gunshots. Six in succession.
He looked back.
Light poured through the holes in the walls, six beams filling the room like a strobe.
He thought he saw the credits roll on the TV.
Didn't stop for another glance. Moved as fast as he could to the fence.
The lights clicked on as he got half way.
He sprinted to the fence and hauled the box over.
A couple of bullets whistled past his ears. One of them hit the tree next to him.
He thought about leaving the box where it lay. Getting to safety without it.
