Dirty Old Town

by KUBOA

  She had a big grin pasted over her face.

  Must’ve got some of the sludge on her high heels. She took them off, staggered barefoot over to the barrier and chucked them down. Danny and Truck went straight over.

  “Oi, watch what you’re throwing off that bloody roof.”

  The voice were loud and clear.

  Whole lot of them went over to see who was shouting. If we’d been on a ship we’d have been fucked.

  Bet the guy wished he’d kept his mouth shut. Glasses and bottles were hurled over at him. Someone even pushed me off the chair and chucked it into the night. And the language were choice.

  I was dripping with stink. Guess I felt my heart break watching Mandy screaming obscenities like that.

  Glanced over at Tina. She were off down the stairs. Reckon she were better off wherever she were going. Thought about going with her for a moment, but then I had a better idea.

  Seeing Danny and Mandy like that, there arses sticking up in the air and slobber dripping from their mouths, I couldn’t resist. It were like they had big targets painted on their backsides.

  Took nothing at all to push them over.

  I held on to their belts for a moment until I had to let go. It gave them just enough time to get a good look at my face. My turn to smile it were.

  Then I let go. Watched them in the air with their arms out like they were trying to fly.

  And that’s the way it were. Beginning to end.

  I’ll never forget the sound they made when they landed. It were like I’d dropped two sacks of melons. Soft and hard at the same time.

  Could tell they were never coming back straight away, the way their bodies spread out on the concrete all crooked.

  Silver Street

  He’d started saving just after they met. Jars overflowed with his allowance and lunch money in those early days.

  Coffers were swelled by a milk round for a while, but it was when he got involved with Charlie Feathers that the cash really piled up.

  Charlie had given him the little jobs to begin with, selling DVD copies to his customers as he collected for the week’s deliveries. He had a knack for it that would have earned him a fortune as a trader in The City had he ever heard of it. He’d moved up the ladder rung by rung, running the machines that churned out copies, overseeing the bagging up of coke and grass and in the end keeping an eye out for the girls who worked out of the Polish clubs in Leith.

  When Charlie moved into semi-retirement on account of being banged up for selling arms, Brad became the youngest pimp on the block.

  For a seventeen year old, he handled himself pretty well. Not that he’d ever laid a hand on the women. His dad had managed to bang one thing and one thing only into his skull - you never hit a girl, not ever. Seemed ironic that he chose the back of his hand to make sure he got his point across.

  Had never taken any perks from his job either. Sure, he’d look every so often, but looking didn’t count.

  No, he only had eyes for Isla. It had been that way since the first time they’d met. It was on the ice beneath the castle that he’d bumped into her. It wasn’t his fault exactly. She was on the end of a chain that was going too fast and he was showing off some fancy spins. Brad, big for his age, knocked Isla, thin and petite, clean off her feet. The rest was pure bad luck.

  Luckily Brad had the presence of mind to go looking for the tip as soon as he noticed it was missing. Found it in a groove under the perimeter wall.

  Stabbing the floor with the back of his blade, he chipped enough ice to fill his hat and pushed the finger into the middle. He wasn’t going to let it go for anyone. It was his passport into the ambulance.

  As they sped to the hospital Brad rubbed the back of her intact hand all the way.

  “Don’t worry,” he told her. “They’ll fix it, you’ll see.”

  And he was right.

  The tip took without problem. If it hadn’t been for the thickness of the scarring, nobody would have noticed anything was amiss. It was why she wore gloves all the time.

  ***

  Brad and Isla had forged themselves together before they’d even left the hospital. Isla lost all sense of perspective when they gave her a pre-med injection. Made her feel all at one with the universe in general and with Brad in particular. They kissed behind the closed curtains around her bed. Brad even let his hand brush her breast before the night was out. Told his mates all about it the next day, but never gave them anything else ever again.

  It was their destiny to be together they told each other. Soon as they were eighteen they’d marry. Their futures were decided before they’d even hit their teenage years.

 

  ***

  The jeweller on Silver Street worked from a back room in his cottage to supplement his income. It wasn’t that he needed the money; it satisfied his creative desires.

  His nine to five clients were all money, no flair. This way, he had the best of everything.

  First time Brad took Isla round, he could tell he was interested. Wasn’t every day an engagement ring had to fit around a bend and a hump.

  Nor was it every day that a lady wanted something fit for a French Queen. A heart shaped stone, she told him, surrounded by small beads of Onyx.

  Yellow gold would be no good - had to be white, 18 carat on account of it not wearing. Barbed-wire patterned all the way round was her icing on the cake.

  Brad held her hand the whole time he watched the jeweller sketch from her words. Ended up as a work of art. Looked like you could pick it right off the page.

  ***

  Eleven grand he said it would cost. Gave his word he’d have it ready for Valentine’s Day and the engagement party.

  Brad knocked him down to ten, cash.

  He had the stash to cover it but, what with the party and everything, there wasn’t going to be a hell of a lot left for a dress and a honeymoon. Reminded himself there was more than one way to skin a cat.

  ***

  Night of the thirteenth, Brad told Isla he wouldn’t be home. Something had come up. She knew the drill, he said. Anyone asked, he’d been there all night.

  Soon as the clubs emptied he headed round the back. Smashed the window with his boot, opened the latch just like he’d planned then felt his way through the kitchen. He’d not been there as frequently as Isla to work through the design, but he still knew it as if it were his own place. Along the hall, up the steps, left past the bedroom and voila, he’d be there.

  He did just fine. No creaks on the stairs, no trips and no traps.

  Almost the last thing he’d expected was the door to open at his side.

  The last thing was the sight of Isla standing naked in front of him.

  “Jesus.” Took a moment to work it out. “Jesus, Isla.”

  He hadn’t thought it through, just raised his hand and made to slap it down.

  Who knows whether he’d have gone through with it?

  When the jeweller pulled the trigger, he put paid to any chance there was of anyone finding out.

  Acknowledgements

  “Sea Minor” first appeared in The Reader Magazine Issue 36 Emotional Surges in 2009

  “Drinking Wine (Spo-Dee-Oh-Dee)” has appeared at A TWIST OF NOIR and in the collection CAUGHT BY DARKNESS (STATIC MOVEMENT PRESS)

  “Sisterhood” first appeared at A TWIST OF NOIR in 2010

  “One Hundred And Ten Per Cent” first appeared at TITLE FIGHTS in 2010

  “Merry Christmas (I Don’t Want To Fight Tonight)” was produced for DONNA MOORE’S Ramones Titled Theme in 2010

  “Silver Street” first appeared in DARK VALENTINE MAGAZINE issue 2

  Personal Remarks

  I love writing as much as I love anything outside of my family. It’s something I’ve done for a long time and something I hope to go on doing.

  It’s only in the last three or four years that I’ve seen it as a craft, an art form w
hich needs to be studied and practised and improved at every stage. It’s since that realisation that I’ve improved to the point at which you find me now. There are still rough edges and you’ll still see the raw materials, but I hope you’ve been able to see evidence of the careful polishing every once in a while.

  The processes that have brought me here have been invigorating, challenging, exciting and sometimes painful. Here’s hoping it was worth it.

  ***

  The collection of stories included here was, in the main, written during 2010.

  The exception to that is Sea Minor, which first appeared in The Reader Magazine in 2009. I owe a great deal of thanks to The Reader Organisation for giving me the confidence to submit work to other outlets.

  Since then Crimespree, A Twist Of Noir, Needle Magazine, Crime Factory Magazine, Pattinase, Pulp Metal, Static Movement, Dark Valentine, All Due Respect, Chin Wag at the Slaughterhouse, Spinetingler, The Drowning Machine, Death By Killing, MiCrow, Crimeficwriters, You Would Say That Wouldn’t You and Beat To A Pulp have provided a mouthpiece for my stories or for my opinions. Behind each of these titles is a person or people whom I’d like to thank for their faith, support and encouragement. To some I owe thanks for providing the reasons to write the stories in the first place, to others for a kind word here or there. My writing wouldn’t work in a vacuum so I’m grateful to each and every one.

  Thanks, too, to all the bloggers and folk who’ve taken the time to comment or add a link or a line along the way.

  In general I’m a big fan of those who go out and do things rather than just talk about them, the kind of folk who put in a lot of effort for people like me. Having run a magazine for 5 years, I know just how difficult it is to keep things going. Hats off to all for making things possible.

  I’ve also had a lot of fun and been inspired by the interviews over at my blog. I’m grateful to all those who’ve taken part.

  It’s not long now until I have a story published in The Best Of British Crime Stories and I’m going to celebrate it as if it is the pinnacle of my writing achievements – one never knows. Thanks to Maxim Jakubowski for having me.

  In the context of what I’ve said on these pages it seems churlish to single out individuals for their support and kindness, but here goes anyway.

  Allan Guthrie for inspiration, advice, endless patience and the soup.

  Naomi Johnson and Patti Abbott for their understanding, encouragement and for making me feel like I had wings to shelter under.

  Mike Stocks for keeping the faith.

  The Christophers Grant and Rhatigan.

  Brian Lindenmuth, Steve Weddle, the Jodan’s, Ian Ayris and Richard Godwin.

  AJ Hayes, online friend, a rock to stand on and a reader of practically everything I’ve posted at my blog, Sea Minor.

  In the style of Bukowski, but without a drink in my hand, to all my friends.

  About the author

  Nigel Bird is a Support For Learning teacher in a primary school near Edinburgh. Co-Producer of the Rue Bella magazine between 1998 and 2003, he has recently had work published by ‘The Reader’, ‘Crimespree’ and 'Needle'. He was interviewed by ‘Spinetingler’ for their ‘Conversations With The Bookless’ and by ‘Richard Godwin’ at ‘Chinwag at the Slaughterhouse’, won the ‘Watery Grave Invitational 2010’ contest over at ‘The Drowning Machine’, has recently made debuts at ‘A Twist Of Noir’, 'Pulp Metal Magazine and ‘Dark Valentine Magazine’. Two of his stories were listed in Top Five Stories of 2010 in the end of year round-ups. His work ‘An Arm And A Leg’ will appear in the ‘Best Of British Crime’ anthology (edited by Maxim Jakubowski) in 2011. Stories have recently been accepted by ‘Crimefactory’ and ‘All Due Respect’.

  If you’ve enjoyed what you’ve read, a further e-book, ‘Into Thin Air’ is to be released in March by ‘Untreed Reads’.

  His blog ‘Sea Minor’ is currently running the ‘Dancing With Myself’ series of interviews. He hopes to complete his novel by the end of 2011.