Gloves Off

by Gareth Spark

  Malcolm and his wife had been a very insular couple, they were both quite shy and didn’t have many friends. The few that they did have had not made much effort to stay in touch with him after the split. He still went to play Cricket every Sunday, only now he didn’t stay for the two pints he would allow himself in the pavilion afterwards. Mostly, though, he carried on as normal. He had been raised with the classic English mentality that you should keep a stiff upper lip, talk about the weather and always be polite. He would make chit-chat with shop assistants, smile at his colleagues and give up his seat on the train for older passengers. When he got home to his empty little bedsit however, he could no longer keep up the charade. It was a very small space in which to live, yet each evening when he sat down on his two-seater settee, he looked round at the walls and felt like a little child sat alone in the middle of an empty aircraft hangar. The loneliness and silence terrified him. Although he was far from a big drinker, he had discovered the anaesthetic powers of whisky. He would allow himself two doubles whilst he slumped in his armchair, watching his old Test Match videos and desperately trying to think of happier times; then he would become maudlin and sit there looking at his photos of Lucy by the light of the electric bar fire. The wine-stain birthmark on her neck that the other kids had picked on her for during her first few weeks at school; he remembered all the times he had sat her on his knee and told her to be proud of it because she was the only person in the world who had one. Her pigtails, her little swimming costume on the beach at Withernsea, her deep brown eyes. Every single night he had hoisted himself up onto his bunk and drank his last double whisky in the dark. And every single night he cried himself to sleep.

  He continued to do his job to the best of his ability and worked conscientiously and efficiently. His colleagues continued to exude sympathy without showing any particular interest in helping him and if Malcolm had been judged entirely on his work then no-one would have guessed the sadness he had experienced. Yet the little things had started to give it away; his raincoat, once so pristinely hung around his shoulders, was now crumpled and torn in one or two places, from where he dropped it on the floor every night when he got home. He no longer had the vanity to apply his contact lenses each morning, so he wore a pair of rather harsh steel-rimmed glasses instead. He used to Brylcreem his hair back, RAF style, but now it just sat there unkempt on his flaking scalp, and those who passed by him at close quarters would have noticed a faintly sour smell, a sign of someone who doesn’t shower as much as they should. He came to be viewed with slight suspicion by his neighbours, particularly the white-van-owning tradesmen who moved their families to this rather more affluent area of the city as status that they had now made enough money to be able to move away from the council estates. The winter, and Christmas in particular, had been the hardest time. On his walk home from the station he would see all the local children being lead around by the kids’ club assistant from the nearby church, knocking on each front door and singing carols, raising money for Dove House. He had promised Lucy, as she knelt on the window sill at their old house looking out at scenes such as these, that next year she’d be old enough to do the same, and he promised to take her personally, hand-in-hand to each front door and sing the carols with her. He saw families putting their trees and their trimmings up looking so happy, yet every night he made his way back to this enormous gothic stalag and looked up at the tiny little window in the roof where he lived and saw no Christmas lights, no cards, nothing but emptiness. One night he found himself at a particularly low ebb and texted his ex-wife, asking if she wanted to go for a drink and maybe give each other a bit of support during this difficult time. She never replied.

  The days crawled past and the routine remained the same. Malcolm still behaved in an exemplary manner at work and put a brave face on out in public. His boss got him in the office one day in March, asking very delicately if there was anything he needed help with, gently hinting that his appearance could do with tidying up a bit. Malcolm didn’t quite pick up on the hint and his boss let it go. The nights got lighter and around about April time he started taking a new route home from work so that he could watch the local kids playing in the park. He would occasionally sit on a bench and throw some bread to the ducks that waddled around the small pond next to the playground area, all the while taking equal amounts of joy and despair from watching the children running around. They seemed so free, so innocent, so utterly untouched by any sort of unhappiness. He initially thought it would make him even sadder for the loss of his daughter, yet it seemed to somehow galvanize him and cleanse his mind, being close to such beautiful scenes. Before long he was going to the park every evening and the sense of loss he felt had somehow started to fade. There were still these young rosy-cheeked wide-eyed creatures with everything to live for, they just weren’t his. After a few nights he noticed one kid in particular who he half-recognized. He seemed to remember that she’d been Lucy’s friend and she had come to their old house for tea once. Hayley, he thought her name was. She smiled at him as she ran past, with teeth missing and NHS glasses and a ponytail. Her mother followed and, as Malcolm smiled back, she looked him up and down without recognizing him, smiled curtly, took the little girl by the hand and sharply pulled her away.

  The next night was the same, Hayley was playing as Malcolm sat on the bench feeding the ducks. She walked up to him slowly, looked at him and said, “Do you know me mister?” Malcolm looked at her. Her eyes were different colours. One blue, one green. “No I don’t think so,” he said. He smiled, stood up and walked towards the road. He crossed and started to make his way to the newsagents when he heard Hayley shouting from the other side of the road “Hey Mister! You’re Lucy’s Daddy! Lucy was my friend!” He looked back and she was running towards him, running towards the road, running towards the traffic. His mind became a screaming electrical storm of flashbacks, funerals and his daughter’s face and it all spiralled together and he ran back towards her so fast that he couldn’t feel the ground beneath his feet. He charged out into the traffic, as she ran onto the road, completely disregarding his surroundings. He dived out in front of the oncoming transit van and caught her a split-second before it would have hit her. The front corner smashed into the right hand side of his torso as he threw her to the kerb, and spun him with such force that he was thrown into a railing head first. There was no pain, but the impact of both blows was overwhelming. Through the colours and shapes he saw Hayley running over to him, crying so loudly, tears flowing down her face. He used all of his strength to haul himself up and he knelt on his uninjured knee. She threw herself at him and he held her. He had a fractured pelvis, a punctured lung and a huge laceration on his head, but he felt nothing other than this tiny girl in his arms. She cried intensely, huge heaving sobs of distress. He stroked her head and whispered over and over, “It’s alright, it’s alright….” If he did nothing for the rest of his days, he had saved this girl’s life. If he had been to blame for his own daughter’s death, he had stopped it from happening again. Somehow, in whatever way made sense in this moment of judgement, he had, in that split second, exorcised those demons that had smothered his mind since Lucy was killed. He had saved this child’s life. Then through the noise and confusion and bright circles forming in front of his eyes he heard a cry. A brutal, barbaric bellow cutting violently through the haze.

  “EY!! GET AWAY FROM MY BAIN!!!” He looked up to see a huge, crew cutted thug harshly jerking Hayley away from his embrace. Then he twisted back to Malcolm and kicked him savagely in the chin.

  “FUCKIN’ NONCE! PUTTING YOUR HANDS ON MY BAIN!” He felt several of his teeth break and he flew backwards into the gutter. He then felt the colossal force of a steel toe capped work boot smash into his already broken rib cage.

  “FUCKIN’ NONCE!!” Another made crushing contact with the side of his face and he heard Hayley screaming, “DADDY!! DADDY!! STOP!!” All he could see was Lucy’s face as the blood streamed from his mouth onto the road, but he couldn’t fe
el any pain. The sounds started to fade and his breathing got more rapid and shallow. He thought he could hear sirens and the last thing he heard before his eyes closed for the last time was, “NO!! LUCY’S DADDY SAVED ME!!!”

  Allen Miles is thirty-one years old and lives in hull with his wife and baby daughter. He spends most of his spare time drinking wine and watching films that star Humphrey Bogart. After a fledgling career in sports journalism he started writing short stories and prose pieces, several of which were published online. After signing with independent publishing house Byker Books, his first e-book, 18 Days, was released in 2012. It has sold literally dozens of copies worldwide. He can be found online at Twitter.com/ManicOwl and at sittingontheswings.wordpress.com

  By Jim Spry

  Brushing rain from my short cropped hair, I pushed open The Doughnut Den's heavy glass door. Breathing in the smell of cinnamon, coffee, and assorted baked goods, I raked a glance across the punters seated around Formica-topped tables.

  The usual crowd of blue-rinsed grannies, giggling school girls and righteous students sat gossiping, laughing and playing on smart phones. Each of them had at least one glazed or sprinkled doughnut and a steaming beverage of choice. None of them looked like trouble. I don't know what I'd been expecting.

  Eyes making out with candy pink floor tiles, I slipped through the crowd. I found a seat at the empty window bar. I slung my jacket over the back of a wooden chair and slumped down. I stared out to the rain drenched window and my heart beat like a Little Drummer Boy pumped on amphetamines. I stuck a hand into my uniform trousers, pulled out crumpled box of Stirling and stuck the cigarette between my lips.

  "Dale," she said in a tone like a school ma'am scolding a mischievous child. "You know you can't do that here."

  With my death stick drooping from my mouth like a comedy thermometer, I shifted my stare off the waterlogged street. Her pretty green eyes beamed at me from beneath a mop of golden hair. Her button nose wrinkled like true love over her easy white grin.

  "Hey Jess," I said, trying a smile of my own on for size, not liking the fit.

  "Sorry. I forget sometimes."

  I snatched the cigarette from my lips and tucked it behind my ear.

  "That's okay old-timer," she said, small hands fidgeting around her order pad.

  "I heard in history class they used to let people smoke indoors. It must have been great experiencing the industrial revolution."

  I gave her fish eyes a blank stare while my brain did its thing over what she'd said. By the time her smile had drooped into forced discomfort I still hadn't worked it out.

  "Never mind," she said, killing the mild unease crawling between us.

  "Two fudge and chocolate doughnuts. One grande coffee. Black and strong?"

  "Easy on the doughnuts," I said, pawing my diminished gut. "But I'll take that coffee."

  "Okay, one bucket of swamp tar coming up. Anything else?"

  The rumble in my gut told me to go for something with chocolate sprinkles; paternal instinct told me to go for something else. "Yeah, can I get a hot chocolate with those little marshmallows too?"

  "Niki's coming down?"

  Her eyes widened as she scribbled down my order, not looking at the pad as she did it.

  "Yeah," I said, subconsciously turning my left shoulder to her. "But it's between you and me, okay?"

  "Okay," she said, that fake smile taking front and centre.

  "It'll be good to see her. One coffee and one hot chocolate coming up."

  "Thanks," I said as she turned away, feeling bad for noticing the way her ass jiggled with every step under her pink pleated skirt.

  "Oh, and Jess."

  She stopped, turned, scratched her head with the base of her pen.

  "I'm not that old."

  "You keep telling yourself that, Granddad," she said, showing me the tip of her bright pink tongue.

  I snorted a laugh and turned back to the window. Heavy rain streaked down toughened glass, taking my humour with it. Like an impatient teen suitor, I hunched over the wooden plank serving as a bar and squinted at the rubber boots, the raincoats and umbrellas. Watched. Waited. Just another day at the office.

  I checked my watch at one fifteen, grimaced at the pain arching through my healing clavicle. While spiders crawled through my growling belly, I snatched the Stirling from behind my ear and rolled it around my fingers.

  "Come on, Niki," I muttered.

  A throaty V8 growl chewed up my grumbling and set glass rattling in its frame. Forgetting my daughter's tardiness for a moment, I gave in to my petrol head instincts, drooled like a tit-stricken baby at the massive chunk of American engineering that slipped like a hot hammer through butter, up to the kerb. My eyes fixed on the mustang, eating up its beautiful lines. I slipped on my jacket, pulled a ten from my wallet and put it on the bar.

  "Jess," I called, diverting her attention from a quartet of foaming Communist Party wannabes.

  "Two minutes."

  Not waiting for her response, I half-jogged into the street, nearly flattening a sour-faced emo kid who cursed me out at about the same volume as a buzzing mosquito.

  I hunched in the doorway and lit up. Taking a hit of bitter smoke I stared hard at the black beast. Two more Fords, identical colour and spec, growled up either side. A pair of guys, young and smartly dressed, climbed out of each vehicle and slammed doors with a thunk. They huddled smoking around the centre mustang.

  "Dad!"

  A shit eater grin split my face even before my head turned. Niki, dressed in a sensible black coat, red boots and woolly hat, stood on the opposite pavement. Her right hand waved self consciously at her shoulder while she studied the oncoming traffic, looking for a break in the flow of cars and buses.

  "Niki!" I shouted, flinging my cigarette to the floor.

  Gripping the collar of my jacket closed, I threw a cursory look up and down the street and ducked in front of a busted up Nissan. I tossed the driver the finger when he hit his horn. Centre of the road, I took a breather and let the number 21 shoot past. Taking a rush of stinking exhaust fumes and icy spray was a better option than wearing the bus like an over-coat.

  The vehicle chugged past, opening a path to the other side. I half stepped across the tarmac, felt my brow furrow and brain slide into neutral. My head flicked left, then right. The spiders in my guts turned into lions. Lightning ripped through my shoulders.

  "Niki?"

  A BMW braked hard, wheels screeching to a stop, inches from my hip. I ignored it and ran across the street. Panic settled in for a ride through my nervous system.

  "Niki!" I roared, hands balling to fists.

  The bellow of V8s devoured my voice, puked it out in a cloud of exhaust fumes and smoking wheels. I was frozen to the spot like a freshly licensed rookie at knife point. I twisted my head round to the Mustangs and watched that herd of wild ponies roar off down Kingston Road.

  My guts flipped at the familiar face stretched into a rictus in the car's back window. Burning, paternal rage erupted in my guts as one of the black clad punks laid a hand across my little girl.

  Seething and pissed, I physically shook off the paralysis. I Tore off after the retreating vehicles and lost them at the junction of London and Chichester. I screamed rage and vengeance at a crowd of passersby.

  Panting like a dog, I turned into Chichester and caught site of a Mustang's retreating back end as I rounded the corner. Adrenaline laced energy flashed fried my carcass as the blue and white Tesco's delivery truck pulled into the street, blocking traffic in both directions.

  Elbowing pedestrians out of the way, I reached the Mustang in three long strides. I yanked at the door handle. I couldn't budge it. Matched stares with the wrinkle free prick gawking at me behind the wheel. I leaned back and smashed my foot through the driver's door window. I heard glass sing as it shattered and dragging red nails across his face.

  "The fuck.." he screamed, his bloody face a tribute to George's cross.

  I dragged him o
ut across jagged glass and Leaned inside. I smashed my knuckles into his mate's jaw and scanned the back seat.

  "Where the fuck is she?"

  I slammed him up against the bonnet and pushed my face close enough to smell his cologne. I drove my forearm into his throat. He clawed my arm as blood tricked into his bulging eyes. He gasped and choked. I upped the pressure on his trachea.

  "Where is she?"

  Sirens blared in the distance. Pedestrians stared at me with terror-glazed eyes. I felt the guy on my arm go limp and slump against the body work.

  "If you know where she is..."

  Blue-lipped, he tapped my arm. I let him go.

  "Roosters. She's at Roosters, you mad fuck."

  "See," I said, grinning into his face and mussing his hair. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

  Emergency sirens wailed onto Chichester, painting the rain blue. Two coppers, white shirts straining against their fat guts, rolled from the squad car. The assembled crowd yelled and pointed in my direction. I tapped the driver's cheek and threw him at the plod. I took off down London Road.

  I jumped a cab, gave the driver an address and a twenty quid tip to forget he'd ever picked me up. I took the ride in silence, thinking.

  Roosters, the dirtiest shit hole I'd ever worked, loomed like a tumour on the corner of Lawrence Road. Some joker had decided to paint the place black.

  The two goons standing sentinel at its entrance had me checking my watch. They were a good six hours early for their shift.