Bone Breakers (A Stanton brothers thriller)

by Martin Stanley

  At the top of the stairs they stopped to catch their breath. It took awhile. Once their heart rates had settled down to a mild pounding they moved to the front door and knocked.

  “Tel?” a soft voice asked.

  Eric grunted an affirmative.

  The door opened.

  A man with a face like a squeezed party balloon looked out, realised his mistake and went wide-eyed. He hesitated for a second then tried to slam the door shut. Derek caught the door with his shoulder, put his full weight behind it, and sent the man tumbling backwards into the hallway of the flat. He landed on his arse with a yelp and sat blinking, his mouth a round “O” of surprise.

  The three men entered the flat and closed the door. They all wrinkled their noses at the smell of old fast-food grease, recently smoked grass, and the underlying odour of an unclean toilet.

  The man cringed on a carpet strewn with empty chicken and pizza boxes and drew his knees close to his chest. He was breathing hard, as if just trying to close the door was more exertion than his fat body could stand. The man’s eyes focused on a greasy chicken box by his feet. He pushed it with the toe of his slipper and heard the discarded thigh bones rattle around inside. He hoped for a second that if he didn’t look up the three men would go away or disappear. They didn’t.

  “Now then, Bell End,” Eric said. “I believe you have something for us.”

  “Nah, mate,” Bellman replied, shaking his head. “Just expecting Tel, was all.”

  Eric raised his eyebrows. “Must’ve been a lucky guess.”

  Bellman cracked an uncomfortable grin, revealing teeth like weatherworn tent pegs. “Fuckin’ uncanny.” He ran a hand over his bleach blonde hair and tried to stand up. It took him several attempts to get his twenty-stone bulk off the floor and when he finally managed it he had to rest against a wall so he could catch his breath. He wore what was supposed to be a baggy tracksuit, but on him it resembled a silver sausage skin. “You must. Be. Like. Derren Brown. Or summat,” he managed between gasps. “Fuckin’ mind reader.”

  Eric grinned at Mark, walked into the living room, which was as dirty as the hallway, and looked out of the window. The faint glint of nearby streetlights reflected off the roofs of the vehicles in the car park. It was a fair drop to the ground, just over fifty feet; the kind of drop that came in handy when threatening people. When he came back into the hallway he tipped Mark a wink.

  “You know something, mate; I’ve been thinking that maybe Isaac Newton was wrong about things.”

  Mark smirked. “Might be worth testing.”

  “What floor we on again?”

  “That’d be the fifth, mate.”

  “It’d make an interesting experiment.”

  “If a tad messy.”

  Eric prodded Bellman’s chest. “Whaddayou think about Newton?”

  Bellman scrunched his rubbery face and shook his head, confused. “Who’s Isaac Newton?”

  Mark looked away in disgust. “Jesus!”

  Eric’s jaw dropped for a second. “You’re fuckin’ kidding me, right?”

  Derek scoffed. “Fuckin’ dozy cunt. Even I know that ‘un, like. He was that gadgie what invented gravity.”

  Mark stared at the big lad. “Invented gravity?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Invented?”

  Derek shrugged. “That what I said, didn’t I?”

  “You really are too fuckin’ stupid to live,” Eric said.

  “What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means if you don’t already know by now, you’re never gonna know.”

  “What’s that, like? Some sorta triptych thing?”

  “The word you’re looking for is cryptic, you fuckin’ moron.”

  Derek stepped towards his brother with fists raised. “I’ll fuckin’ batter you if you say that again.”

  Eric mirrored his stance. “You couldn’t batter a fish, you thick twat.”

  Bellman looked on in disbelief as the two men badmouthed each other, then glanced at Mark, watching the scene with an ever-souring expression of disgust. This was a golden opportunity for escape, to slink out while they were too busy fighting among themselves to notice. He took one deep breath, held it and stepped backwards.

  Nobody noticed.

  Exhaling quietly, he took another step and turned slowly towards the door.

  Nothing.

  The door handle was now only a couple of feet away. He reached for it.

  Somebody coughed. The noise was loud enough to get Bellman’s attention. He stopped moving and winced. Then he realised that the flat was silent, that the only thing he could hear was the sound of his breathing. He screwed his eyes shut momentarily, grimaced, and finally turned around.

  All three men watched him. Eric stepped forward.

  “Where you going, Bell End?”

  “Nowhere.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. You’re going out of the fuckin’ window if you don’t produce some money quick-smart.”

  “What money?”

  Eric pointed towards the living room. “Right, open the window. Let’s toss this fat cunt like a caber.”

  Derek rushed towards Bellman at a speed that suggested he really wanted to see him fall to his death. Bellman backed into the door, holding his hands high. “Whoa, whoa, alright. I’ll go and gerrit.”

  “Right,” Mark said. “So what’re you waiting for – a fuckin’ invitation?”

  “It’s in me bedroom,” Bellman said, hoisting his thumb in the direction of one of the doors. “Gissa minute and I’ll gerrit for youse.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Mark said.

  “No need,” Bellman replied. “It’s in the wardrobe. Just gimme a sec’.”

  “Along with a sawn-off shotgun, no doubt?”

  Bellman scoffed. “Anybody who knows us, knows I don’t pack.”

  Mark lifted up his T-shirt, revealing a gun butt that jutted up past the waistband of his jeans. “Well, I do. And if I see you come back through that door with anything other than the money, I’m gonna fuckin’ end you.”

  Bellman stared bug-eyed at the gun handle and nodded. He turned and walked to bedroom slowly, hesitated for a couple of seconds in the doorway, then went inside and closed the door.

  Something about Bellman’s demeanour made Mark nervous, so he rushed towards the room. Just as he touched the handle, Mark heard the door lock, and he followed through with a shoulder charge. A bolt of sharp pain rushed down his arm as he struck the wood and bounced off without any effect. Another jolt of pain travelled up his spine as he landed awkwardly on his back.

  Mark tried to make himself small as Derek rushed past and attempted to throw himself at the door, but he didn’t do it fast enough. The big lad caught Mark’s foot, lost his balance and slammed face first into the door frame. He staggered back, holding his face in pain, tripped over Mark again and ended up in a heap on top of him.

  Eric watched in slack-jawed horror as it all unfolded. He clapped his hands as Derek rolled off Mark and onto the carpet. “Bravo! Fuckin’ comic genius. All we need now’s a fuckin’ banana skin and the Keystone Cops.”

  Scowling, Derek snapped his head in his brother’s direction. “Get fucked, you Keystone Cunt. I didn’t see you busting a nut to get in.”

  Inside the bedroom, something heavy crashed down into the door. Then they heard something else getting dragged across the floor and slammed against the wood.

  Mark got to his feet and leaned against the door frame. “What are you doing Bell End?”

  “Fuck you,” Bellman said through heavy panting. “Have fun. Getting in.”

  “Don’t worry, we will,” Derek replied.

  A mobile phone started to vibrate. Eric took it out of his pocket, looked at the display, grinned, and held it up for all to see. It was Terry Albright’s phone and the display read: David Bellend.

  11.

  Al covered his ears with his hands to drown out the yells, but still they filtered through. H
e paced around the shop and mumbled constantly, trying to conceal their voices with his own, but that didn’t work either. He knew they were in there and that was enough. He stopped moving and sat down at the table. Tears ran down his cheeks and splashed onto the Formica. He lowered his right hand and spread the drips across the table. He tried to focus all his attention on this, but every few seconds he let out a sob that he cut off almost as quickly as it began.

  “…swear down I’ll rape your fuckin’ lass, Al. I’ll fuck all her holes. I’ll make her suck herself off me dick and then tear out her fuckin’ eyes with the business end of a heated fuckin’ spoon. And that’ll be nothing compared to what I’ll do with your fuckin’ kids, you piece of shite.”

  And what Terry’s heavies had to say was just as unpleasant.

  Al’s face twitched at every word, until it looked like he was going into meltdown. He looked up from his tear tableau and stared at the storeroom door. It shook continuously; they were banging on it now. The din was unbearable. Al sobbed into his hands for a while, smothering the noise. When he finished, he took slow steps towards the door, all the while muttering under his breath like a crazy man.

  He knocked on the door and the clamour stopped.

  “If I let you out, will you just go away,” Al said, forcing back another sob.

  “Swear down. All I want is the Stantons and their beardy cunt of a mate,” Terry answered, his voice cracking. “You play right by me and I’ll do right by you.”

  “Swear on it,” Al shouted. “Swear you’ll leave me family alone, leave me alone. We’ve done nothing to you. All I wanna do is run me business in peace.”

  Terry hissed and shuffled close to the door.

  “You have my fuckin’ word, Al. You open this door and we’re through; all business between us is over; I swear I’ll leave you and yours alone. But, swear down, if you don’t open this door, I’m gonna rain down on you like a fuckin’ hurricane.”

  Al unlocked the door and stepped back. Tears rolled down his cheeks, even though he didn’t seem to be crying, and his face quivered.

  The door opened.

  Terry staggered through the door holding his hand. Sweat glistened on his skin and ran down his face. Dark flowers of perspiration had bloomed on his suit. He struggled to make it to the counter and when he got there he leaned his body against it, barely able to stand.

  Joe propped up Mikey, helped him to the table, and came back to counter for a towel, which he wrapped around his mate’s wound. Blood soaked through the fabric, but other than the odd drip, the worst of the bleeding had stopped.

  Terry wiped his forehead and pointed at the sink. “Water.”

  Al brought him a glass and retreated back along the counter.

  Terry’s hand shook as he necked the glass in one gulp. He gasped and asked for another. Al whimpered, but did as he was told. Terry polished that one off just as quickly. He looked like he was about to ask for a third, but put down the glass and looked beneath the counter

  “Where’s your shop phone?” Terry asked, wiping sweat from his forehead with his good hand.

  Al pulled a portable handset from beneath the counter and held it out towards Terry.

  “I want you to make a call for me.”

  Al’s face folded like wrapping paper. “I thought you said we were done?”

  “Get a grip, man. Just want you make a call for us, that’s all.”

  “But…”

  Terry held up his bad hand. “I can’t fuckin’ dial,” he said, and gave Al the number.

  Because he was shaking so much, Al’s first attempt was a disaster. He hit the wrong numbers in the wrong order, and when all he got for his trouble was a voice telling him the number he’d dialled didn’t exist, he let out a sob and tried dialling again, but his body was having none of it. He couldn’t control his hands and hit the wrong buttons repeatedly. Finally, he shrieked and threw the phone across the shop. It landed on the floor, bounced off the far wall and skittered across the lino until it came to a rest near the door. Al looked at the phone and then twitched a glance in the direction of Terry and his men. His body drew tight, as if expecting a beating.

  Terry seemed more worried than angry. “You... okay?”

  The shop owner trembled and started moaning softly. Gradually, the volume increased until he was screaming and shaking like he had no control of his body. Drool and tears ran down his chin and dripped onto the counter.

  Terry turned and looked at Joe and Mikey. Judging by their open-mouthed expressions they were as confused as he was and seemed at a loss for words. Terry focused his attention back on the shopkeeper.

  “Al, mate, you okay?”

  The shop owner let out a final shriek, dropped to the floor and curled into a ball. He snivelled so quietly he hardly seemed to be making any noise at all, and his body jittered every few seconds. Terry touched Al lightly with the tip of his toe. Hissing like a cornered cat, he drew himself into a tighter ball.

  “Fuck! I think we’ve broken Al,” Terry said and glared at Joe. “Ow, Judas, why don’t you try and redeem yourself.”

  “Aw, come on, mate…”

  “Don’t fuckin’ mate me, Judas. You’ve got a lotta work to do before you can mate me again, a lotta work.”

  Joe stabbed a finger in the direction of Terry’s hand. “Look at you, man. They’ve given you a fuckin’ Beadle hand. That shit’s permanent. You think I wanted to follow you into the fuckin’ fryer?”

  “Fuckin’ coward.”

  “Oh, come on…”

  “Pick that fuckin’ phone up now and get John Karagounis on the line if you wanna start making amends.”

  “The Karagouni?” Joe said, making a face. “You sure you want them involved?”

  Terry locked eyes with him. “You got any better ideas?”

  “Not turning this into a fuckin’ horror movie would be a good start.”

  “They get shit done.”

  “They’re psychos.”

  “Listen Judas, just shut the fuck up and dial.”

  12.

  Eric put the phone to his face and said hello in a high-pitched lisp. Mark and Derek leaned in close to listen and smothered laughter with their hands.

  “Er, I’m looking. For Terry Albright? Think I’ve got. The wrong number,” Bellman said, panting heavily into the line

  “The number’s right, sweetie. You just got the wrong boy. Terry’s not here, lovely,” Eric replied, wincing as he murdered the sibilants, “Can I take a message?”

  “Er, wh… who is this?”

  “Myron, lovely.”

  A short pause. “Myron?”

  “Terry’s boyfriend.”

  The big lad’s body rocked. He tightened the hand over his mouth.

  “Ah, er, uh… His boyfriend? Er, we are talking. About the same Terry Albright?”

  “Lovely head of curls, big florid face, Gemini. A huge cuddly bear of a man – that Terry Albright?”

  “Ah, er, I mean that. Sounds a bit. Like him, but… boyfriend?”

  “What’s wrong with you? You sound breathless.”

  “Been exercising.”

  “Oh dear, I bet you’re buff, aren’t you? Bet you’ve got lovely big muscles?”

  “Ah, er, uh…”

  “I bet you’re well muscled everywhere.”

  Bellman practically gagged. Derek mewled into his hand, drawing a look from the others.

  “You sound just like Terry and me after a really heavy session.”

  “Ugh… man, no, seriously…”

  “Oh God, you’re not disgusted are you? It’s the twenty-first century, sweetie.”

  “Ah, uh, I’m not being funny… got nothing against bum… band… er, homos nor nowt. Just saying.”

  “Just saying what exactly? And the preferred nomenclature is gay.”

  “Gnome… noman… norman?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, it means description.”

  “Not being funny or nowt. Just didn’t figure. Him for a
quee… ah, uh, gay.”

  “Just because Terry likes putting it in my bottom doesn’t mean he’s any less of a man.”

  Mark spluttered into his hand.

  “Ugh! Ah, I don’t wanna know that, man.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Ah, er, I’ve got nothing against. What you guys do. Behind closed doors. Just don’t be putting it in my face.”

  The big lad laughed out loud. Eric gave him a look.

  The line went dead. Footsteps approached the bedroom door.

  “Hahaha, very funny,” Bellman said and took a deep breath. “Go fuck yourselves.”

  “Sure you don’t want Myron to come in and do it for you?”

  “You’d hafta get in here first. Don’t fancy your chances, like,” he said, finally sounding like his heart rate was returning to normal.

  “I’d put down good money that we will.”

  “What’re you doing with Terry’s phone?”

  “He gave me it.”

  “Gave?”

  “Well, not gave exactly.”

  “Then what?”

  “Guess.”

  “Fuckin’ savages.”

  “Now, now, Bell End. Let’s keep it polite.”

  “Go fuck yourselves.”

  Something scraped along the bedroom floor as Bellman groaned loudly. Whatever was going on in the room, he was putting a lot of effort into it. The sound of wood on wood could be heard clearly as something else struck the door.

  Mark gnawed at his fingernails. “Fuck knows what he’s throwing around in there, but it sounds heavy.”

  The two brothers looked at each other.

  “Fancy breaking it down?” Eric said.

  “With pleasure.”

  Eric approached the bedroom door and knocked. “Listen, Dave. Whatever shite you’re throwing in front of that door you’d better unthrow it and fast.”

  “Or. What. Dickheads?” Bellman said between gasps.

  “We’ll break it down and batter seven shades of shite outta you.”

  “Try. It.”

  “You’ve got five minutes. For every minute longer you make us wait, we’re gonna make it a ‘kick the shit out of Bell End’ minute once we smash our way in.”

  “Like. I. Said. Try it.”