by Gareth Spark
Thinking: The gang’s all here.
Five minutes pass until Syd the Syrup and his eponymous ill-fitting toupee enter the darkened room.
“Boys. You there?”
“They’re on ice,” Priest says, cutting Syd’s throat with a bread knife as easily as slicing a ripe peach. Syd lets out a little surprised gasp and slumps at the knees. The wig gives up the ghost, slips to half-mast and covers Syd’s lifeless eyes.
“Hair today, gone tomorrow,” Priest says by way of a eulogy.
The Nonce climbs the stairs talking loudly into a mobile phone. He looks up and his pinched features and piggy eyes put Priest in mind of sour, spoiled milk. A face only a mother can love.
Priest’s smile is wolverine as he says, “Hello, Nonce. You’ve got something of mine.” He swings a steel toe capped Doc Martin. “And I want it back my old son.”
The Nonce comes to, bound to one of his Georgian dining room chairs. He’s strapped down tighter than a death row con to Old Smokey. Naked save a pair of black-on-white polka dot budgie smugglers.
“A fine morning for it, Nonce,” Priest says. He winks and adds, “Nice undies.”
The Nonce’s piggy eyes blaze. He spits broken teeth and, “For what? You fuckin’ hooligan?”
“A spot of pruning,” Priest says and snips off the Nonce’s left little pinky at the knuckle with a pair of wire cutters.
The Nonce roars. Curses flow like an avalanche. He wails like an overly tight fan belt.
“Swallow the pain you pussy and grow yourself a pair,” Priest says, shredding the Nonce’s discarded shirt. “You’re gonna take this like a man and then you’ll tell me where the gems are hidden.” Stuffing cotton strips between the Nonce’s swollen lips he adds, “So cowboy up partner!”
Whistling ‘This Little Piggy’ tunelessly, Priest delicately trims off the right pinky.
The Nonce bucks and squirms like a rodeo cowboy. Pees his pants and does his level best to swallow the gag. Eventually passes out as his bloody thumbs fall onto the luxurious shag-pile.
Priest sucks a Silk Cut down to the filter. He chases it with another and surveys his handiwork. He removes the gag and slaps the Nonce around until he revives.
“Now for the tiny todger,” Priest says.
The Nonce promptly soils the snazzy budgie smugglers some more and starts to blub. When he’s finished Priest says cheerfully, “Back in a jiffy my old son.”
The jewellery is in the safe along with thick wads of lovely greasy, cold, hard cash. Priest’s mood brightens with each passing second and he says joyously, “It’s all friggin’ gravy!”
Firing up another cigarette he gleefully scoops the contents of the Peter into a holdall. To celebrate he pours a large glass of whisky and eats the rest of the cheese and pickle sarnie.
Sated and solvent Priest returns to the dining room.
“Nice doing business,” Priest says and drops the bag of swag onto the blood stained carpet. “I’d shake on it but you’re all fingers and thumbs.”
The Nonce’s face is sweaty and drawn as he croaks, “You can’t leave me like this you fuckin’ psychopath.”
“Too right,” Priest says covering the Nonce’s kisser with a cushion. He feathers the Glock's trigger and in half a heartbeat puts a .45 bullet into the Nonce’s canister.
The dear old fat lady sings her sad song for the Nonce.
Priest tosses the smouldering cushion away and says, “No loose ends or happy endings my old son.”
On the way out Priest hears muffled sounds coming from the garage. He points the ignition fob and pops the boot of the Beamer, the semi-automatic at the ready.
Trussed up like a Christmas turkey a young girl stares up at him with big, teary and fearful eyes.
Thinking: Just like my own precious daughter, wherever she may be.
Cracking what he hopes is a warm, winning smile he quickly loosens the rope around her wrists and gently helps her out of the trunk.
She stands on wobbly legs, reaches out thin arms and wraps them around him. He hears her first sobs of sheer relief and feels a lump form in his dry throat. His eyes moisten. He wraps his own hairy, muscular, prison tattooed arms around her. He pulls her close.
It’s all very unnatural for a grizzled, old South London gangster.
Looking up to the heavens Priest says, “A happy ending, my old son? Okay just this friggin’ once!”
Alan Griffiths, a rookie writer, hails from the badlands of South London. His criminal writing can be found in the e-book anthology Discount Noir published by Untreed Reads. Also in the Byker Books anthologies: Radgepacket – Tales from the Inner Cities, Volumes 5 and 6. His literary hero is Ernie Wise: ‘Nuff said really!
