Gloves Off

by Gareth Spark

  Joe walked to the pub door, grabbed his jacket off the hook and walked out into the frosty December night.

  ***

  Three hooded youths sat in the living room of the council flat. The more common term these days for such a place is ‘apartment’ but that would suggest clean and tidy, well decorated with nice furniture. It was certainly a flat, and right in the middle of a rundown council estate. They each sat on filthy armchairs, the stuffing protruding from the arm rests where they had been picked at by agitated and paranoid fingers.

  “Are you fucking sure nobody saw us? Because if anyone did we’ve had it, you know? We’ll be well fucked.”

  “Calm down, Paul. No-one saw us. And, even if they did, they won’t know who we are ‘cause we had our ‘clavas on. Stop worrying and have some of this.”

  The ring leader, Phil Brady, threw a small bag of white powder across the room to Paul Simms and another bag to the third member, Johnny Watson.

  “It’s gonna be a white Christmas boys.”

  The three youths all started laughing. They all opened their bags and emptied a small amount of the white powder onto the backs of their hands and snorted it.

  “This is the good stuff, boys,” Phil told them in between sniffing and licking the excess powder from the back of his hand. “Pure as pure can be. There’ll be plenty more of this when we sell that pile of beauties.”

  They all looked over to the corner of the room at the pile of presents, flat screen TV and the other valuables they had stolen.

  “A few grand’s worth of stuff there boys. We buy more of this, cut it in with some baking powder or talc. Double our money.”

  “Yes, but don’t forget to save some of the good stuff for us, Phil.”

  “Would I ever? I always look after my boys, don’t I?”

  The two other youths threw a quick glance at each other and both said, “Yes.”

  ***

  Joe flicked up his collar against the biting cold, holding it closed around his neck. Thick plumes of steam escaped from his mouth with each exhalation as he walked down deserted streets, the plummeting temperatures making people stay indoors. He was only a few hundred yards from the crossroads at the end of his street when he heard the familiar voice.

  “I can help you with your problem, Joe.”

  Joe spun around. The thin man was standing behind him, his black hooded top pulled tight around his face.

  “Who are you?”

  “Don’t worry about that at the moment. You’ll find out later. What you need to know is that I can sort out your problem. I can make your Christmas happy again.”

  “How?” Joe asked, the thought of getting some kind of retribution bouncing around inside his head.

  “You need to make a deal with me. I help you and then you help me.”

  “What do I need to do for you?”

  “We’ll discuss that another time. Are you up for it? Do you want to get your things back?”

  Joe pushed his hands deeper into his pockets, the cold biting into him. He thought about what he’d love to do to whoever it was who’d stolen his family’s Christmas. It didn’t take long to decide.

  “Yes, you’ve got a deal.”

  “Follow me.”

  ***

  “Where are we going?” Joe asked, following the thin man up the stairwell.

  “Come on. You’ll know soon enough.”

  They got to the top floor of the building and walked outside along the top balcony. How do people live like this? Joe thought as they walked past doors covered in graffiti. One had even been kicked in.

  “We’re here. Are you ready?” the man asked, stopping at a window. There was a slight gap in the curtains and a light on inside.

  “Ready for what?” Joe asked.

  “Revenge,” the thin man said producing a handgun fitted with a suppressor.

  “Wh…wh…where did that come from? What’s going on?” Joe hissed.

  “It’s your prize, Joe. You get to take back what is yours. Look,” the thin man said.

  He stepped out of the way as Joe approached. Through the gap in the curtains he could see a pile of wrapped Christmas presents in one corner of the room. Sat off to the left, on ragged armchairs were three youths, their heads leaning back and their eyes closed. A small bag of white powder lay on the floor next to one of them.

  “They’re high as kites. They won’t know what’s hit them,” the thin man said. Joe turned to him and looked at the handgun he was holding out.

  “I...I’m not sure...”

  “Nonsense. A deal is a deal. I’m taking a big risk bringing you here. Go in there and take back what is yours.” There was malice in the man’s voice and something more in his eyes. They seemed to burn into Joe’s.

  “Wh...who are you to be speaking to me like that? I’m...”

  “Just do it...for your wife and children,” the man said, pushing the handgun against Joe’s chest.

  Joe looked down at the weapon and reluctantly took it from the scrawny fingers that held it. The grip was hot in Joe’s hand as he gripped it, his finger resting on the trigger.

  “H...how do I get in?” Joe asked.

  The thin man walked to the door and gripped the handle. He closed his eyes for a second or two and then turned it. The door opened and he gently pushed it wider.

  “There. Now go in and don’t hesitate. You can have the three of them done within seconds.”

  Joe stepped forward and hesitated at the threshold. He turned to the man and then looked into the hallway of the flat. Fear was making his heart pound in his chest. He walked in and headed towards the door at the end of the hallway. Reaching the door he gripped the handle with his left hand, the handgun held firmly in his right. He turned it slowly and pushed the door open. The room was dimly lit, the energy saving bulb giving little light. Joe entered, looking at the pile of presents and other items that had been taken from his home. His anger began to rise again as he turned his attention to the three stoned youths in the armchairs. He inched towards them and came to a stop a few feet from where they sat.

  “Do it.”

  Joe turned to see the man standing in the doorway. There was something different about him – something strange that Joe couldn’t quite put his finger on. He seemed to be bigger, almost filling the whole door way. Joe blinked a couple of times and shook his head. The man was back to normal and Joe put it down to the situation and his mind playing tricks.

  “Do it.”

  Joe raised the gun, his hand trembling. He squeezed the trigger slightly but then eased off. His heart felt like it was beating in his throat. He stood there, the gun aimed at one of the youths.

  “I can’t do it,” he whispered.

  The reply came from right behind him. “Yes you can.” A hand gripped his hand and there was pressure on his index finger.

  “No,” Joe whispered, trying to force his finger off the trigger but the bony fingers were much stronger than they looked. An unnatural heat was enveloping the whole of his right arm, from the tip of his index finger all the way up to his shoulder.

  PFFT! The gun went off and the first of the youths sagged in his armchair, a dark stain spreading on the front of his grubby t-shirt.

  “No, I don’t want this. I’ve got insurance that will replace the stolen things. Please...stop!” Joe’s voice was louder than a whisper now and one of the other boys murmured. Joe’s arm was moved to aim the gun at him.

  “No!”

  PFFT! A bullet ripped through the boy’s forehead.

  “Last one, Joe,” the man said and moved Joe’s aim.

  Joe fought hard to stop what was happening but the man was too strong for him. The last youth stirred and opened his eyes. It took him a moment to focus his vision and realise what was happening. He turned to Joe and his eyes settled on the gun that was aimed at his head.

  “Wh...what’s going on? P...please don’t shoot!”

  Joe stared at him and tried to lower the gun but he was unable to.
At that moment the gun went off and a third bullet took part of the boy’s head off, throwing him back against the chair.

  “Oh shit! Oh shit! Wh...what have I done?” Joe stood in the middle of the room, his eyes scanning the three dead youths.

  “Give me the gun, Joe, and get going home. I’ll sort this mess out,” the man said.

  Joe just stood there, his eyes wide, staring at the blood.

  “JOE! Give me the gun and go. I’ll be in touch.”

  Joe turned to the man and handed the gun over. He walked out of the flat, his legs barely able to keep him up. On the balcony the cold air bit into his face but he was too numbed by what had just happened to feel it.

  “What have I done?” he whispered to himself.

  ***

  The next few days were the hardest time of Joe’s life. He was off work and spent most of the time checking the TV for any news on the deaths of 3 youths in the Manchester area. There was nothing, not even in the local newspapers. Had he dreamt the whole thing? Had it really happened? He was beginning to think that it was all a part of his imagination.

  There was a knock at the front door. His wife was and children were in the living room watching a Christmas movie.

  “I’ll get it, honey,” Joe said, walking to the front door. He opened it and was taken aback by the visitor.

  “Hello, Joe. How are you feeling?”

  The thin man stood in front of him, the hood of his black top pulled tight around his face.

  “Wha...? H...ow have you found where I live? I was...”

  “I’ve always known where you live, Joe.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I’ve got something for you,” the man said, pointing to a small, white van. “I’ve brought your stuff from the flat, remember?”

  “I...I...don...”

  “Listen, Joe. Don’t worry about anything. Nobody knows anything about what happened. Relax. Now,” he said, blowing into his hands, “about my end of the deal. Come outside and I’ll show you something.”

  Joe stepped outside, the cold biting into him. He followed the man to his living room window and stopped.

  “What’s going on?” Joe asked.

  The man turned and stared intently at Joe. Something burned in the thin man’s eyes.

  “Take a look, Joe. That’s my part of the deal.”

  Joe looked through the window into his own living room. Inside he could see his wife and children watching the TV, all laughing together. It was a beautiful sight. Then, slowly, a strange orange haze began to build around the three of them before turning into a kind of flickering glow. Then Joe realised what the orange glow was. Some kind of aura was surrounding his wife and children and it was slowly turning into flames. Within the flames he could still see his family laughing together.

  “What the...”

  “Yes, they belong to me now. Be careful what you wish for, Joe,” the thin man said. “Were you never told that it’s a bad idea to make a deal with the Devil?”

  “No, no, no!” Joe cried, “You can’t do this. I want my family...”

  The thin man had gone and so had the white van. Joe looked back into his living room and the flames had also disappeared. There was no aura surrounding his family. His wife turned and looked at Joe, a smile spreading across her mouth. She beckoned him in and Joe nodded, wondering if he would ever see the thin man again.

  David Barber was born and bred in Manchester, England, but after 39 years of city life decided to up sticks and move to Crieff in Scotland with his wife, Lisa, and their two daughters, Imogen and Melissa.

  Having written for a few years when he was younger, fatherhood took hold and, being self employed, earning money suddenly became more important so mindless scribbling had to take a back seat.

  It was after a visit back down to Manchester that his childhood friend and fellow writer, Col Bury, invited him to submit something for a magazine he was assistant editor of – the award winning Thrillers, Killers ‘n’ Chillers. He rattled off a six sentence story called Sorry Love and sent it off. That piece then went off to win a 2nd place Bullet Award.

  Since that day his writing has flowed from fingers to keyboard and onto other magazines, such as A Twist of Noir, Near To The Knuckle, The New Flesh and Blink Ink. He has also had the honour of having stories published in print and in e-book anthologies, True Brit Grit, Action: Pulse Pounding Tales, Off The Record and The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology.

  He was, for 18 months, the editor of The Flash Fiction Offensive. During that time his eye for detail vastly improved and the editing side of the industry has helped his own writing enormously. He is a crime editor at Thrillers, Killers ‘n’ Chillers.

  He is currently working on a few projects including a novel and a new e-book short story collection.

  His first short story collection, From A Crowded Mind, is available at amazon.co.uk and amazon.com.

  He can be found lurking at davidjbarber.wordpress.com

  On Twitter at @thetwoblokes

  On Facebook at facebook.com/david.barber

  By Vic Errington

  “Someone has to do something, John,” I said to the dog’s owner, “Don’t you agree?” As I awaited the man’s response I gave yet another sharp tug on the leash and heard the usual faint yelp in response. The first couple of times I had done that the dog had looked up at me with a curious look on her face. She soon got used to it though and, I think, understood the need for it. John, looking somewhat confused, managed a begrudging ‘yes’ in answer to my question, but didn’t seem convinced.

  We’d only been walking for three quarters of a mile and the man was already exhausted. To me, a former special services operative, the distance was nothing. “Let’s have a breather – SIT!” I commanded. The dog responded instantly and his owner gave a soft sigh of relief as we stopped to take in the view.

  The beach was deserted at dawn. The only sounds were of the sea washing up onto shingle and stones and the distant hum and clatter of a milk-float in the town. I pressed my point. “If the people who commit these abuses aren’t retrained then they’ll just go on committing them … someone has to stick up for the vulnerable … the underdog.” I breathed in the early morning air with gusto. The sun’s golden fingers were rising above the horizon as though saluting my worthy efforts. The thought braced me. “let’s go,” I said, giving another sharp pull on the leash.

  “The way I see it,” I continued, “The law in this country only serves the rich and powerful. It does nothing to help those who have no voice. I am their voice.” The man grunted, whether in agreement or not I didn’t know, but he still appeared bewildered and very tired. I had predicted a mile long walk would be too far for him. It had to be, 'no pain, no gain'. The dog was obviously enjoying it though. “Let’s carry on. Not far now, John. You can see the pier. Look.”

  We carried on in silence, moving slowly along the beach towards the pier. I pondered on my attempts to win the man over to my philosophy. Had he agreed with me and seen the light? Had he even understood? I couldn’t tell, but other dog walkers would soon start to appear and I had other jobs to do, so with a final yank on the leash we powered on to the pier.

  Underneath the pier I called the dog over and gave her a fuss. “Beautiful girl,” I crooned in her ear as she wagged her tail and jabbed at my face with her tongue.

  “Right, John,” I said, leaning down to remove the leash from around his badly blistered neck, “I'll be keeping my eye on you. If I ever see you kick your dog again because you're in a bad mood I’ll take you for another walk. Your last walk. Do you understand?”

  The man, his skinless, bloody knees poking through the holes in his trousers, his hands ripped and pierced by razor-sharp shingle, stood up shakily. Tears dropped from his bloodshot eyes as he stood before me nodding his head, suitably chastened.

  I handed him the leash, turned, and headed for the town. I never could stand animal abusers.

  I used to make a living writing essays a
nd reports for clients. I only did that for a year and a half though. The money was pucker but the work didn't do my brain any good as I ended up mentally fried and vowing never to write an essay again. Then flash fiction turned up. After stumbling on a couple of short shorts that left a deep impression on me I started Flash Fiction World, an online resource for flash fiction/short story writers. That way I get to enjoy a constant influx of stories, as well as the chance to help aspiring writers embrace the craft. Occasionally I get to write a story myself.

  Previously working in a variety of roles, from soldier to social worker, cleaner to computer technician, and too many other jobs to mention, I'm now a wage-slave with the local council - making sure all the bins are emptied and streets kept clean. I actually hope to retire at the age of 55. But as that particular birthday is only 8 months away, and with no nest egg hidden away, it seems highly unlikely.

  No worries - as long as I am still able to read and write when I retire at 70, all will be well. If circumstances dictate that you can't live your life exactly how you want to, then live it through stories - your own or those written by others. Long live short fiction!

  You can find Vic at:

  Flash-Fiction-World.com Flash Fiction World Collections:

  Amazon - viewAuthor.at/VicErrington

  And also at Smashwords.

  By Graham Smith

  Author's Note

  It's an emotive subject I've tackled but the ending kinda fits in my opinion. I wanted to show the damage that can be caused by women crying rape just to get at a man.

  ‘You ruined my life, you lying bitch.’ The woman tied to the chair in front of me fought against her bindings without success.

  ‘Mmummppff,’ was the only sound which got past the gag.

  ‘Tonight, I’m gonna get my revenge. I spent five long years in prison because of your lies. Rape, you cried. Rapist they called me. I was the one who was raped. Twice a week for five long years in Barlinnie. I caught fucking AIDS in there because of your lies.’ I stopped talking and walked round her a couple of times.