Big City Blues - Paul D Brazill
Page 9
“The first time I came in here was on a coach trip from the north,” said Jacqui. “I was a teenager. We’d come down to see a local band play at The Nashville, and a couple of us headed to the King’s Road to buy a Siouxsie and the Banshees bootleg. It felt really adventurous. Bohemian.”
Jimmy started singing a song about part–time punks, and he and Jacqui burst out laughing again. Solitaire and Mikey were oblivious.
“It must be a British thing,” said Mikey. “Like having two faucets.”
“Yeah, what is that all about?” said Solitaire.
Jimmy tapped the side of his nose.
“Loose lips, sink ships,” he said.
“Non the wiser,” said Mikey, in a terrible London accent.
“God lord, who let Dick Van Dyke in?” said Jacqui.
“Which dyke are we talking about?” said Solitaire.
Everyone laughed.
“Old age catches up with you, though,” said Jimmy. “Don’t waste your time, son.”
He patted Mikey’s arm.
“The days run away like wild horses over the hill,” said Mikey.
“Charles Bukowski,” said Solitaire.
“Well spotted,” said Mikey.
“You know, it’s the little things,” said Jimmy. “Like, I can't remember what Harold Wilson sounded like but I can remember what Mike Yarwood sounded like while doing impressions of Harold Wilson.”
“Did Mike Yarwood really do Harold Wilson? Now there’s a scandal I missed out on,” said Jacqui.
Jimmy laughed. Solitaire and Mikey looked at each other and shrugged.
“Another round of drinks?” said Jacqui. “I’ll get them in.”
“A northerner getting a round in! Have you had a bit of a windfall recently?” said Jimmy.
Jacqui walked over to the bar and flicked through the brute’s wallet, pleased to find a wad of twenty pound notes amongst the Polish currency.
“Well, how else can I afford these bloody London prices,” said Jacqui, scraping dried blood from the wallet. “It’s criminal, it really bloody is.”
***
Wayne Robinson wiped the cappuccino froth from his top lip. He looked longingly out of the crowded café’s window at the glowing womb like pub on the opposite side of the road. The street’s flickering street lights reflected in the wet pavement. Chiswick High Road was bustling. Stressed out shoppers rushed by babbling into smartphones. A drunken Chelsea Pensioner pissed against a clamped BMW, a kebab held aloft to the evening drizzle. A black cab skidded onto the pavement and a drunken fat woman with a plastic guitar staggered out of the passenger seat and fell into the gutter.
Wayne caught his reflection in the window.
“God, I look rough. What do you think?”
“You look rough,” agreed Kevin.
“Fan– bloody– tastic,” said Wayne.
“That’s tmesis,” said Kevin.
“Bless you. Is it catching?” asked Wayne.
“No, tmesis is when you break one word up with another. Like you just did. It’s the only word in the English language that starts with the letters t and m.”
“Want about tmorrer?”
“Oh, yeah, I forgot about that.”
“Speaking of tomorrow, what are you up to?”
“Like you. Waiting for ‘Captain Cutlass’ to loan some of his boys to dad so I can piss of back to Spain.”
“Who’d have thought we’d be needing help from northerners.”
“Things change.”
A big man in a black Crombie barged past them and ran out of the café. He started yelling at the drunken Chelsea Pensioner.
“Excuse me, would be nice,” said Wayne.
He looked down and saw that he’d spilled his coffee over the table cloth. He picked up a couple of napkins to wipe it up and watched the fat man start jabbing the pensioner in the chest, causing the old man to puke. People walked past ignoring the scene.
“Jesus, is nobody going to help the old fucker? What a country this has turned into,” said Wayne.
“Are you going to step in and sort it out?” said Kevin.
Wayne sighed.
“Fair point. Fancy a pint?”
“Great minds drink alike,” said Kevin.
***
Solitaire was swaying a little and Mikey held her up. Jimmy and Jacqui were talking ten to the dozen as they wandered across a fog smothered Albert Bridge.
“It’s not prejudiced,” said a well sozzled Jimmy Robinson, becoming animated. “I’ve just never met a Welshman I didn’t want to twat. The Jocks and the fucking Micks are fine, but the Welsh are all whingers. Always bleatin’ like sheep.”
“Must be genetic,” said Jacqui.
“You’ve just reminded me of a geezer I used to know up north,” said Jimmy. “Mikey Mike Calloway. He was so far up his own arse, he could give himself an enema. He said he once met a Welsh cannibal.”
“It really is like a different language,” said Solitaire. “So, you were telling me about your first book.”
“Yeah. I gave my first novel to one of Howard’s cronies to read. For an appraisal. A smartass New York agent,” said Mikey.
“How did that work out?” said Solitaire.
“He said that there was too much tautology in the book and I said ‘it is what it is’!’’
Mikey started laughing. Solitaire thought she was going to vomit. She’d drank far too much.
Halfway across the bridge, a dark, dishevelled shape staggered out of the darkness. It stopped beneath a flickering lamp and made some sort of growling sound. It started to flap its arms.
“What the hell is that?” said Solitaire.
Jimmy squinted.
“That is, I believe, a young gentleman of my occasional employ. He is known as ‘Baghead’ Berry,” said Jimmy.
Baghead pointed a wobbly hand at Jacqui.
“It’s you! It’s you! You’re ‘The Black Crow’!” screamed ‘Baghead’ Berry who ran toward Jacqui waving a half empty cider bottle. “You killed my mate, Kenny!”
Jacqui easily sidestepped and tripped Baghead. He fell over the side of the bridge and into the Thames, screaming. His cider bottle bounced and followed him into the river.
“Shouldn’t we help him?” said Mikey, looking into the water.
Jimmy and Jacqui both shrugged.
“Naw. It’s just natural selection,” said Jimmy. “If he’s strong enough, he’ll survive.”
“Whatever will be, will be,” said Jacqui.
Solitaire shrugged and they all sang Que Sera Sera as they strolled across the bridge, arm in arm.
Just One More Thing
Somewhere in England
“It is a truth universally acknowledged,” said Philly Bailey, crushing his lager can. “That all Jane Austen needed was a bloody good shag.”
His brother Tom grunted, took off his spectacles, wiped them with his black, roll–neck sweater and tried to control his anger. To resist the baiting.
They were sat in the back seat of a battered BMW, heading north from Manchester airport. Their sister Molly was driving, thankfully oblivious to the conversation, earplugs stuffed in, listening to The Pixies’ Debaser. The lights of the passing cars and street lights were like streaks on the night sky. Rain poured down in sheets. It was grim up north, to be sure.
Philly was enjoying rattling Tom’s cage, though. He just couldn’t help it.
He took another can of Carling Black Label from the ice box and opened it, spilling a little over his already stained Bob Marley t–shirt as the car went over a road bump.
“I’m right though, aren’t I?” said Philly. “She was a frigid fucker.”
“I dare say a moment or two of coitus may have had a positive impact on her approach to …”
Philly smirked and drifted off. Not listening. He didn’t give a shit, one way or the other about Jane Austin. He’d barely read her stuff, though he hadn’t particularly liked what he had read. He was a Dickens man himself. Maybe
a bit of Balzac or Zola now and again.
Tom stopped his monologue and grunted louder. He raised an eyebrow, trying to look thoughtful, but looking more like Mr Spock from Star Trek. Philly took advantage of his brother’s silence to turn the screw further.
“It’s the emperor’s old clothes, though, innit?” said Philly. “If you say that something’s great for long enough and often enough, well, everyone believes it, unquestioning like.”
“Well, there may be…”
Again, Philly switched off. This was a topic guaranteed to needle Tom, like shooting fish in a barrel, really. Get him on one of his rants. Get the blood pressure pumping. At school, Tom had always been a brown nose. Kowtowing to the teachers and doffing his cap to anything they said. Pretending to laugh at the jokes in Shakespeare. Since he’d done the Open University English Literature course, Tom had got even worse. He’d even affected a pseudo toff voice when he talked about books. He sounded like Stephen friggin’ Fry for christ’s sake.
Tom was rabbiting on about ‘the literary canon’ and Philly was about to make a crack about Bobby Ball when the car stopped. They were on a side road next to a weeping willow tree. Philly could see a house lit up in the distance.
Molly took out her headphones. She turned around and glared at her brothers.
“Are you bitches ready to stop your yapping and bite, then?” she said and pulled a black balaclava over her shaven head.
Tom grunted again and got out. He put on a balaclava identical to Molly’s and Philly did the same.
Tom opened the car boot and took out three Kevlar bulletproof vests for the other two.
“Are you sure we’ll need the vests?” said Philly, taking a sawn–off shotgun out of the car boot. “They always make me itchy and he’s only an old bloke.”
Tom grunted.
“Phillip, he’s not just any old bloke. It’s Mike Malone, a gentleman that is quite accurately referred to as ‘Mike The Axe’. He’s been chopping up his rivals since God was a boy,” said Tom. “I’m certainly not taking any chances with him.”
“Yeah, but …”
Molly clicked her fingers. She pointed to a path and all three silently trudged up the muddy hill toward Malone’s mansion.
***
Molly actually grinned as he opened his eyes and struggled to take in what he saw. She pointed her Glock at him.
“A Father’s Day gift from your Nicky,” said Molly.
She winked and started shooting. Her brothers followed her cue. Expensive pillows exploded, filling the room with feathers. Glass shattered. And then there was calm as Malone’s bloody body slumped to the ground and Elton sang about an English Rose.
***
“It’s the emperors old clothes again, kidda,” confirmed Philly as he got in next to Tom.
Tom groaned.
“And another thing. That Mrs Dalloway can stick the friggin’ flowers up her fat arse, if you ask me,” said Philly. “Lazy cow.”
“Philip,” said Tom. “You really must …”
Molly’s phone buzzed. It was from Lee Winspear, the copper she shagged once in a while. She answered it.
“Yeah, Lee. What can I do you for?” she said.
She listened for a moment, grinding her teeth.
“Thanks, Lee,” she said. “I’ll be in touch.”
Molly dropped the phone and turned to her brothers.
“That was Leapy Lee. He said Mum’s dead and Scopey’s gone missing,” she said.
“Shit,” said Tom. “How?”
“Mum’s house blew up. She’d left the gas on and lit up a fag, apparently,” said Molly.
“That doesn’t sound like mum,” said Tom.
They were silent for a minute.
“This stinks of the Robinson Family,” said Philly. “Jimmy’s been after getting their hands on mum’s gaff for years. Let’s get back home. We might have to prepare for a gang war.”
Molly put her headphones on and turned Portishead’s Machine Gun up loud. It was going to be a long drive.
The End
Other Works
If you liked Big City Blues then you might be interested in the following novellas in the Knuckle Cracking Series, published by Close To The Bone.
1. Bad Luck City
Matt Phillips
2. One Day In The Life Of Jason Dean
Ian Ayris
3. Marwick’s Reckoning
Gareth Spark
4. Back To The World
Jim Shaffer
5. An Eye For An Eye
Paul Heatley
6. A Dish Served Cold
B R Stateham
7. Too Many Crooks
Paul D Brazill
8. A Case Of Noir
Paul D Brazill
Paladins
Various Authors
Down In The Devil Hole
David Jaggers
Rogue
An Anthology
Gloves Off
An Anthology
Tales From The Longcroft Estate Volumes 1,2 & 3
Darren Sant