The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 9

by Maxim Jakubowski

  Gardy jutted out his chin, lips tight on his teeth as he looked me up and down.

  “You’re lookin’ fit, Alec. What are ya doin’ these days?”

  “Hod carrying,” I said. “Building site over Yorkshire way.”

  “Fuckin’ labouring?”

  “Carrying bricks beats carrying shit.”

  “Depends on your perspective. See, the shit pays better. Come to work for me, Alec. I’ll let Billy’s debt go.”

  “Kiss my arse.”

  “Not my style. I’ve kicked plenty in my time.” He laughed. “Kicked yours once, as I recall.”

  He had too. Gave me a right leathering. But that was then.

  I lowered the Browning.

  “Got a deal for you,” I said.

  “Shoot,” he said.

  Maybe I should have, but I’d a point to prove.

  “Ooh, bad choice of word, eh?” he grinned. “What I meant was—”

  “I know what you meant. Me an’ you, we get it on. I win, Billy’s debt is clear.”

  “What do I get outa the deal?”

  I lifted the gun. “You get to stay on living.”

  Gardy stuck the spliff back between his lips like it was a cheroot. Said, in his best Clint Eastwood, “You gonna use that gun or whistle Dixie?” He laughed. “Where? When?”

  “Right here right now, if you want?”

  He shook his head. “Where’s the money in that? I’m a fuckin’ businessman these days, Alec. Don’t fight for nothin’, you know.”

  He glanced round his four pals. “Which one of you pricks thinks Alec can take me?”

  They all grumbled out uneasy laughter. Like, what the fuck were they gonna say?

  “Put a ton on me, lads,” he said. “I win, I take the pot. Four hundred should do it. It’ll cover Billy’s debt.” He squinted up at me. “You want to put up a wedge, Alec?”

  “I carry bricks, not cash.”

  Somehow I got the impression that Gardy’s pals weren’t too happy about putting up the stake, not when it looked like a sure winner for their leader. But it was an out for them, a way of getting back into his good graces. They counted bills on to the corner of a pool table.

  Gardy picked up the stack of twenties and tens. Riffled them under his nose. “I love the smell of cash in the morning.” He mangled the Apocalypse Now quote, but his pals laughed with him. I shook my head. Wondered where we were doing it, so I asked him.

  “Where we doing it?”

  “Out the back,” he said. “We’ll pick up the others on the way down, get a real purse going.”

  I led the way down. Trusting Gardy was like I said earlier, like putting your head in a lion’s mouth, but I got the impression the money and the accolades meant more to him than if he cold-cocked me from behind like a bitch. Toad and the perfumed skank were nowhere to be seen and maybe that was a good thing. Blood spatters on the floor showed which way they’d gone. Into the pisser to clean up. Fuck ’em; I didn’t need any more enemies clamouring round me ’cause Gardy was dangerous enough for any man to contend with.

  We went out through the back of the pool hall and down a flight of metal steps. The young gangstas followed us out, brave now that their vaunted leader was among them. They were all talking excitedly, dissing me behind my back. Telling Gardy to fuck me over real good, like they’d been raised in South Central LA instead of here in northern England.

  There was a cobbled yard, dustbins, a shell of a car. Recognized it as an old Ford Escort like one my dad had back in the early eighties. Could’ve been the same one for all I knew ’cause someone boosted it from outside our house and we never saw it again. Couldn’t fathom how the car got here because the yard was fully enclosed by a high wall; maybe the car was here before the wall and they just built around it like it was a museum piece in need of protection. Right.

  Gardy took off his shirt. Threw a couple of lightning-fast punches, danced like Ali for the crowd. They were all cheering him, money passing back and forward.

  I put the Browning down on one of the bins. Took off my sweatshirt and piled it on top. Stood there in my vest like Bruce Willis. Some of the crowd shut the fuck up, ’cause I was a wiry bastard mesel. I shook the kinks out of my hands as I walked forward.

  Gardy bounced on the balls of his feet.

  I said, “Remember, I win, that’s it.”

  “My hand on it,” he said, like I was going to fall for that old trick.

  “Your word will do.”

  “OK, we’ve a deal.” He turned to the crowd. “No one steps in. No one does nothin’, got it?” He got sounds of assent from them. “If Alec beats me, then that’s everythin’ over with. No one touches Billy Reid.”

  I nodded at him. For old time’s sake.

  “Rules?” he asked.

  “You’ve seen Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid?”

  He nodded. “I have.”

  “Good,” I said and front-kicked him under the chin. As he picked himself up off his arse, hand massaging his jaw, I said, “You should’ve seen that one coming, Gardy.”

  He smiled at me, blood trickling from between his lips like he was a vampire fresh from a virgin’s throat.

  “Sneaky bastard,” he laughed. “That’s the way I got you the last time.”

  “We’re square now,” I told him. “We start from scratch.”

  “OK.” He came at me quick.

  He punched me in my chest, then hooked at my head with a left. His knuckles scraped my skull but I was ducking. I sunk a dig into his guts. It was like punching a drum. I folded my arm, slammed him with my elbow, and that had more effect. He arched his back, got a hold on my face with both hands. Dug his thumbs into my eyes.

  Could have tried to fight his hands off me, but while I was doing that he’d have demolished me. I rammed forward, hit my forehead against his. Kneed him in the bollocks. I’ve heard about guys on steroids; abuse makes their testicles shrivel. Maybe that was the case with Gardy ’cause he didn’t flinch, just came back at me with a knee of his own. Got me in the solar plexus and nearly knocked the wind clean out of me. But at least his thumbs were out of my eyes.

  We rattled round the yard, grunting and swearing, trading punches and kicks, none of them landing too cleanly. The crowd moved with us, baying for blood. All of it mine, of course. One of them spat on me; would’ve broken his nose given the chance but Gardy wasn’t giving me a second. I grappled him and we both rolled across the floor, digging and clawing. We spilled apart. Someone accidentally on purpose stepped on my hand. I swung a kick at him from the floor, caught him on his shins and the prick jumped back. Then it was back to Gardy. We had a hold on each other, his fists twisted in my vest, mine in his mouth and on his belt. We used that prop to struggle back to our feet.

  Gardy tried to bite my fingers and I jerked my hand free. We backed away a step. But that was all. Then we were back into it.

  I looped a right over the top of him, hit him in the back of the neck. Tried for his mastoid with the edge of my hand, missed but nearly tore his ear off. He backed away, touching his lug-hole like it was a prized possession. “Fuck me,” he said.

  I intended to.

  I threw a punch at his windpipe.

  Gardy stepped quickly to the side and caught my arm. Hand on wrist, hand on elbow. He rolled my arm, locked me tight, then pushed down on the joint. I felt a tendon rupture. Fuck me but it hurt. Gardy kept pressing, trying to give my arm a two-way hinge. I kicked my heel into his shins, and threw myself away. Nearly tore my arm out of its socket, but at least it wasn’t broken.

  Gardy didn’t stop to think how I’d got away, just monopolized, coming after me while I was still off balance. He kicked me in the arse with the toe of his boot. Dunno if you’ve ever been kicked there for real, but it’s not the playful admonishment that most people think of. A blast of pain went right up my spine to the crown of my head. Then it went all the way back down again.

  Could hardly stand.

  Couple of Gardy’s
pals were in my way and I grabbed at them to steady mesel. They shrugged me off, swung me round and Gardy planted his fist in my left eye socket.

  Jesus! White light, a taste of metal in my mouth, pain like a son of a bitch.

  They didn’t know it, but Gardy’s pals had helped me. Put me back on my feet and ready to give back everything I got. I jabbed Gardy in the mouth. Stuck a one in his gut, another in his ribs. He winced with every shot and I followed him. Palm under his chin, heel hooked round his knee in a judo trip.

  Gardy wouldn’t be caught so easily; he hooked me under an armpit, swung round, got his hips under me and threw me with a judo hip-toss of his own.

  Flat on my back there was no escape from the heel he stamped on my chest.

  It was like having the stuffing forced out of every orifice in my body. I must have yelled in agony, ’cause Gardy looked like he was pleased with himself and tried again. This time I was ready for him and I swept his leg over me with both arms. He straddled me, looking down at me with the red-rimmed eyes of a mad bull. I punched him in the balls.

  Maybe he wasn’t on steroids after all, or my knee hadn’t been on target last time, because the result here was the absolute opposite. He collapsed down on me, knees folding, and he spewed on the floor over my left shoulder. I got a hot and sticky wash all down my neck, and that kind of galvanized me to get the fucker off me. I grabbed his precious ears, twisting his head with them as if they were handlebars and Gardy went over on to his back. I rolled with him, let go with one hand so I could punch his face to mush. I landed one, two, going for the third when someone grabbed my bicep. Couldn’t help the natural reaction, I glanced up at who it was and got a smack in the teeth for my trouble.

  Toad was back.

  Bad Toad, bad.

  I was going to swarm up, give him some, when I was surprised to hear Gardy shouting, “The fuck you doin’? Didn’t you hear what

  I said?”

  He wasn’t shouting at me.

  To be fair Toad hadn’t been there when Gardy set the rules. But he got the message. Cowed, Toad let go of me and I swung back to Gardy, my fist cocked.

  He laughed through his split lips. “Fuckin’ hell, Alec, you’ve learned a thing or two since we last fought.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “How’s about this?”

  Forgot about the punch and dropped my elbow instead. Smashed his head into the floor. Three times I got him just like that, and I could see his eyes rolling in his head. Wasn’t finished though, so I bunched my fist, hit him again, seen his lips split under my knuckles. Rearing back again, I got ready, fist angled at his windpipe. Killer blow now that his throat was an open target.

  Gardy’s arms were by his sides. Not fighting now.

  I pressed the fist on his chest. Not to hold him down but to help mesel up.

  Standing over him, I looked around the crowd. They were like rabid things, all panting, their fingers twitching: the pack mentality about to let loose its fury. I coiled my hands, ready to give them as much as they brought.

  “Alec won.”

  I blinked down at Gardy. While I was distracted he could’ve got me in the bollocks or stamped my knee out of joint. He was just lying there, breathing heavily, wearing a whimsical look on his face as if he’d just had the best shag of his life.

  I held out my palm for him, and he took it. I hauled him to his feet. He wouldn’t release my hand and for a second I tensed, waiting for him to try and pull me on to a head-butt.

  “Take it easy, me ol’ mucker,” he said, his voice kind of John Lennon mixed with the Gallagher brothers. Don’t know what he was going for this time. “You beat me, fair and square.”

  He shook hands with me, then let me go. He patted me on the shoulders for all to see. Friends again.

  “We were good once,” he said, touching his swollen ear. “Let’s get back to the old days, huh?”

  “Can’t, Gardy. Not when you’re into this shite.”

  “All I’ve done is traded one pile of shit for another, Alec.”

  “You’re right there.” I stood back, massaging my elbow. I looked at my old sergeant. He’d taught me well, made me the bad-arse I’d turned out. He was the one who’d given me the physical tools to defend my family. Couldn’t help but feel he hadn’t been trying his hardest to break my arm. Once over he’d have done it in a second. He winked at me.

  “You won, Alec. A deal’s a deal in my book. Billy’s back in the black.”

  I stared at him, mindless of the crowd round us all looking on in dumbfounded silence.

  Gardy turned to his mates. “He won. Got it? Now give him the purse.”

  “Don’t want the money. Just knowing that Billy’s safe is enough.”

  He winked again, leaned in close to my ear. “Take the purse and you can give it to your ol’ pal Gardy when we meet for a drink later.”

  Couldn’t help but grin at the sneaky twat. Made himself a heap of cash, paid off Billy’s debt and got himself a whole lot more. And he’d done it in a way that bought me some respect and didn’t dent any of his. I winked back at him. “You’re on. The local, yeah?”

  “Got it.”

  Maybe I misjudged him. Maybe he wasn’t as far gone to the dark side as I’d assumed.

  Nah, he was still a bastard.

  I pulled my sweatshirt on. Tucked the Browning into my belt. Picked up the large stack of notes someone had put on the next bin along.

  When I looked back, Gardy and the others had all filed back up the stairs. Probably there’d be a celebratory spliff passed around in the Gods when he got back up there. I felt like it would be good to have a pint with my old friend, without the baggage of all the bullshit that life had served us lately.

  I didn’t go back through the pool hall. Didn’t want another runin with Toad or the perfumed skank; I was hurting too much. I climbed up on the bonnet of the Ford Escort, boosted mesel over the high wall and into a narrow alley running alongside the hall. Walked out, across the street towards the Spar shop.

  Billy’s Golf was still in the shadows. Some get-away driver, I thought, has he fallen asleep?

  The engine was purring, but that was it. Couldn’t hear any snoring.

  “Billy? Billy.” I shot forward, yanking open the driver’s door. “Oh, shit, Billy!”

  He was dead.

  Didn’t need to be a doctor to tell. His head was arched back over the headrest. Mouth open, full to the brim of spew. His left arm was splayed out across the gear stick, sleeve rolled up. Rubber tube hanging loosely round his bicep, bloody smear on his arm, among all the other scabby wounds where he’d jabbed needles. There was a hypodermic syringe lying in the foot-well, a burnt spoon and lighter, all the paraphernalia. To think I’d just fought the battle of my life for things to end this way. What good had I done?

  I stood there. My little cousin, Billy Reid. Seventeen years old, a junkie for the last four. Dead.

  “Billy, you stupid dumb fuck.”

  I massaged my elbow. Shook my head. Looked down at the forlorn waste of a young life. Why’d he do that? Obviously he didn’t trust me to make things right. Or he didn’t trust himself. Maybe Gardy wasn’t the only one unhappy with the skin he was in.

  Me neither if the truth was told.

  Only one consolation I could think of: my granny’s house wouldn’t be burgled by Billy now.

  The day was saved.

  Who dares wins?

  Yeah, right.

  Some fucking hero me.

  LITTLE RUSSIA

  Andrew Taylor

  * * *

  “LITTLE RUSSIA?” JILL said. “Where?”

  Amy Gwyn-Thomas looked up from her shorthand pad. “It’s on the other side of the river. You can see it from the road to the Forest.”

  “That can’t be its real name.”

  “It’s what everyone calls it. It’s a little valley that doesn’t get much sun even in summer. It’s always cold. Anyway, it’s where Stalin lives.”

  “What are you talkin
g about?”

  “His real name’s Mr Joseph, but people call him Stalin or Uncle Joe. He’s a widower – and a frightful stick-in-the-mud. He’s always writing to us about how awful everything is. You know the sort.”

  Jill did. “What’s this about a crash?”

  “It’s the children I feel sorry for,” Amy continued, turning the pages of her notebook. “The girl’s a sweet little thing. I hear she’s in the accounts department at Broadbent’s. At least the boy’s got away from home – there’s something to be said for National Service.”

  “But this crash?” Jill said.

  “I made a note here.” Amy tapped the tip of her pencil on the page. “They think the driver took the bend too fast – it’s a hairpin – and the car went over the edge. It’s a steep drop.”

  Jill glanced at her watch. “When did it happen?”

  “Yesterday evening.”

  “I think I’ll go to the press briefing.” Jill avoided Amy’s eyes and opened a drawer of her desk. “The police must know more by now, and it would do as the lead. It’s not as if we’ve got much else.”

  “But Miss Francis – we haven’t done the post yet, and I know Mr Marr wanted to see you about the advertising figures.”

  “Later.” Jill found her notebook, slammed the drawer shut and stood up. “Everyone else is out. You might as well type those letters now.”

  Amy departed, tight-lipped with suppressed irritation. Jill put on her coat and adjusted her hat in front of the mirror. It was only a few hundred yards from the Gazette office to police headquarters. She walked quickly down the High Street. She had spent the last few days in London and by comparison Lydmouth looked grubby and undersized, like a slum child who has never had much of a chance in life.

  At the police station the desk sergeant gave her a nod of recognition and waved her into the conference room. The press briefing had already started. Jill’s arrival caused heads to twitch around the big mahogany table; after several years in London she had only recently returned to Lydmouth to edit the Gazette. She took a seat near the door, unbuttoned her coat and let it fall behind her on the chair. A fog of smoke blurred the outlines of the uniformed officer at the head of the table, who was talking in a soft Welsh accent.