The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 9

by Maxim Jakubowski

  Niall grabbed Lewis’s head with two hands. He leaned in closer and looked his dog in his brown eyes. He earned a slobbery face for his efforts.

  “Ach, thanks, you big bitch. Right in the mouth too.”

  Lewis used to be Uncle Peter’s dog. According to his da, Peter had bought him as a pup from a Donegal breeder, the year Lennox Lewis retired from boxing for good. Peter kept him for two years. He’d wanted to train him as a fighter. But Lewis hadn’t the heart for that game. It didn’t matter how long Peter starved him nor how many times he poked him through chicken wire with a walking stick. Lewis refused to snap. In a last-ditch effort to build the dog’s confidence, Peter had thrown him into a makeshift ring with a wee Cairn terrier. Lewis pissed all over the place and backed into a corner while the wee dog barked for Ireland.

  Peter gave the dog to Niall’s da after that. Niall asked if he could walk him for pocket money, thinking he’d look hard with a black pit bull on a thick chain. His da didn’t really want the responsibility anyway, and said Niall could have him.

  Niall slipped his sweaty baseball cap back on. The stiletto weighed his pocket down. Lewis had lived the fortnight of his dreams since the amnesty was announced. Fed well and spoiled for attention every day. But each day went by quicker than the last and Niall’s guilt increased with each passing minute. He’d woken the night before, hyperventilating after a nightmare involving a ninja with a pit bull’s head and a sword with a folding blade.

  “OK, Lewis. Let’s just do this now. Any longer and I’ll bottle out.”

  Niall pulled the flick knife out. The schnick-schnack of the blade unfolding ripped through the peaceful forest soundtrack. The dog growled.

  “Come here, boy.”

  Niall reached out for Lewis’s collar. Lewis lowered his haunches and growled another warning. Niall hesitated. Animal instincts?

  “Stop it, Lewis. This is hard enough. Come here!”

  Niall reached out again and Lewis laid back his ears and barked. Niall retreated a few steps. Lewis curled back his lips and a line of drool escaped from his maw. More barking. It bounced around the woods like gunfire.

  “Take it easy, Lewis.”

  Niall stepped back again and stumbled over a tree root. As he pinwheeled his arms for balance the knife slipped out of his grasp. He caught himself but Lewis reacted to the sudden movement by bounding forward, stopping inches shy of his master.

  “Sit, Lewis. Sit!”

  Lewis jumped and toppled him.

  Stunned and breathless, Niall rolled about in the mulch. He wrestled to hold off the slavering, scrabbling pit bull. Thoughts of Lewis’s powerful jaws around his throat chilled him. His struggling arms shook then folded. Lewis’s breath warmed his face. Then his cheek went warm and wet. Lewis slurped on his master like he’d been dipped in honey. Niall chuckled.

  “No way I’m going to kill you. Da must be soft in the head.”

  Eventually Lewis tired of slathering Niall in saliva, wandered over to a tree and raised a leg in salute. Niall dug the flick-knife out of a nearby mound of leaves and pocketed it again. He’d hand it to his da and then tell him Lewis was going back to Donegal where Niall would visit him every Christmas and every twelfth of July. His Uncle Peter would get in touch with the dog breeder there as a favour for his favourite nephew. Problem solved. Piece of piss.

  Niall travelled home via the cover of the dense redbrick housing estates from the Suffolk Road to the Lenadoon estate. He was worried that a dander down the Glen Road might attract the attention of a passing PSNI patrol.

  He could smell the sausages sizzling under the grill as soon as he pushed open the front door. The oven fan droned irregularly. He led Lewis through the house and out into the mossy concrete backyard. As was his ritual, Lewis sniffed the pile of cigarette butts in the far corner by the big wooden gate, then padded back towards the scent of cooking. Niall pointed at the cushioned wicker basket against the yard’s wall and the dog obediently curled up in it for a nap. Niall closed the back door and turned to find his ma shadowing him. She leaned forward until their noses almost touched.

  “Your da is going to freak out if he sees that dog here tonight.” She whispered as if Da was in the next room, rather than stuck in the rush-hour traffic on the M1.

  “Chill out. I have a plan.”

  “Oh, a plan? Well that’s OK then.” She shook her head and went back to poking the dinner with a fork.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll talk to Da when he gets home.”

  “Aye, dead on.” His ma clattered a lid on to the steaming pot of potatoes and drained the starchy water into the sink.

  Niall left her to it. He flipped on the TV and went straight to Sky One for a Simpsons repeat.

  Halfway through the episode, his da barged in the front door and stormed into the kitchen, blanking his son and wife, focused only on the fridge. The source of Harp lager. Niall stood up but didn’t know what to do with himself. His heart beat like a dinger and his armpits got sticky. Instinct ordered him to slip out the front door and disappear for a few hours, but his loyalty to Lewis froze him in place. He waited for the crack and hiss of the ringpull and gave his da a few seconds to gulp down a mouthful. Deep breath. He baby-stepped into the kitchen to face the music.

  “Hiya, Da.”

  His da shot him a little head flick. Acknowledgement of his presence without an invitation to chat. Niall’s hands instinctively crept towards his tracksuit bottom pockets as his shoulders slumped. His fingers brushed the cold, tubular knife handle and he shook himself out of his natural silence.

  “Lewis is out back, Da.”

  Niall flinched as his da’s dark eyes widened. The big man planted his Harp tin on the kitchen worktop and jutted his chin.

  “You what?”

  “Lewis.” Niall swallowed hard. “He’s out sleeping in his basket.”

  “I told you to get that done today!”

  “I don’t want to do it.”

  “You mean you can’t.” He rubbed at the SNIPER AT WORK tattoo. “Good job nobody was relying on you when our streets needed the Provos.”

  “Leave him alone, Frank.” His ma twisted the tea towel in her bony hands. “You’re too hard on him.”

  “You too, Trish?” He turned back to Niall. “Have you finally turned your ma against me?”

  Niall struggled to breathe without sobbing. “No. I just want to look out for my dog.” He sniffed back watery snot.

  “You mean you’re standing up for that yellah bastard of a useless fleabag? Standing up to me? Your da!”

  Niall went against every instinct in his body and inched forward. Towards the man who’d taught him fear. “That’s right. You got a problem?” It would have been a perfect moment of defiance if he’d dropped his voice an octave or two.

  His da fired the uppercut from his hip. It moved in a blur and stopped less than an inch from Niall’s chin. It would have popped Niall’s head right off his neck if it had completed its arc. Niall barely had time to blink. His da misinterpreted his lack of reaction.

  “Fucking hell, son.” He flashed his crooked, nicotine-stained teeth. “You’ve found your spine.” He clapped a heavy bricklayer’s hand on Niall’s shoulder.

  “Get yourself another beer, Frank,” Niall’s ma said. “I’ll put your dinner out in a minute. Niall, go you upstairs and get out of them tracky bottoms. I’ve just noticed how stinking they are. What were you doing today?” She went on and on, diluting the atmosphere with chatter. Her voice sounded normal, but Niall thought her complexion paler than usual. He gave her a nervous grin and retreated to his bedroom.

  * * *

  After he’d pulled on a fresh pair of jeans, Niall flopped on to his bed. He lay spread-eagled atop the faded duvet his ma patted straight with military precision every morning, and waited for his heart to slow down and his mind to catch up. He’d just stood up to his da and saved his dog’s life. In that moment, he felt like he could do anything. Then the mingled shouts of his parents arguing cut
through his victory buzz.

  Niall sat up on the bed and cocked his ear. He couldn’t make out the words, but his da seemed to be making most of the noise. His scalp tightened when he heard the back door slam shut. Lewis. He bounced to his feet and thundered down the stairs.

  He stormed past his apologizing ma and yanked open the back door. Lewis cowered in the fag butt corner. Blood trickled down his shoulder. His da gripped the chef’s knife from the wooden block in the kitchen. He glanced over his shoulder at Niall and sneered.

  “You should have been man enough to do this yourself.”

  “Da, don’t.”

  “Or what?”

  Niall went for the flick-knife in his pocket. Empty. He’d left it in his tracky bottoms, now in a heap on his bedroom floor. Before common sense could freeze him in place, he darted forward and grabbed two handfuls of his da’s thick black curls. He jerked back hard and smiled when his da yelped. Then his breath whooshed out as a vicious elbow caught him in his solar plexus. He stumbled back.

  His da turned to face him, rubbing his scalp. “You’re going to regret that, you wee bastard.”

  Niall got swept up in an adrenalin wave. He sucked in as much air as his winded lungs could take and wheezed his words. “Come on then, you fucking psycho. Teach me a lesson.”

  Niall heard a sharp growl. He looked beyond his da to see Lewis had come out of his corner. His peeled-back lips framed his canine maw. Twin lines of drool swayed back and forth. Niall’s da tutted.

  “Jesus Christ. Now the mutt is going to stand up to me. Fuck this shit.” Niall’s da kicked out. He cracked Lewis’s jaw. Lewis backed up and shook his big head.

  “Go on, Lewis,” Niall said. “Sic the bastard!”

  Lewis loosed an aggressive bark. Niall’s da backed away from the dog, into his son’s reach. Niall punched him low in the back. His da wheeled on him and grabbed the front of his T-shirt with his free hand.

  “You wee fucker!” He head-butted his son.

  Niall felt his nose crack. Warm blood streamed over his mouth. His head lit up with pain and his legs buckled beneath him. He crumpled on to the concrete. Instinctively, he raised his hands to his face then recoiled from his own touch. He closed his watering eyes and curled into a foetal position, sure his da would kick lumps out of him.

  Lewis barked louder then yelped with pain. The bastard had hurt his dog again. Somewhere in the midst of his own pain, he registered his ma’s screaming protests. He felt bony but warm hands on his cheeks and risked opening his eyes. His ma gazed down on him with concern. He gripped her wrists and tugged on them. She nodded and helped him to his feet.

  Then Lewis attacked.

  Niall watched as his wounded dog leapt at his da. Lewis took down his target with blinding speed and accuracy, leaping higher than Niall thought possible. As the powerful jaws clamped down on his throat, Niall’s da screamed then gurgled. He fell back under Lewis’s weight and passed out with shock. The bloody chef’s knife tumbled from his grasp. Lewis ripped at his fallen prey.

  “Oh Jesus, Niall, stop him.”

  Niall knew it was too late, but he called his dog’s name.

  Lewis ignored him.

  Slowly, he approached the wild animal tearing chunks out of his father. As he did, he couldn’t believe how calm he felt.

  Blood ran down Lewis’s heaving flank, spattering the ground. Niall’s da had inflicted a lot of damage before Lewis finally snapped. Careful to avoid the wounds, Niall reached out to Lewis. On contact the dog scuttled backwards, away from his kill. He hunkered low on his hind legs and rumbled a warning through his bloody teeth. Niall made soothing sounds and approached Lewis, presenting open palms.

  Master and dog faced each other, both bleeding. Niall saw only fear and anger in his pet’s brown eyes. Lewis had been replaced by a feral beast and Niall wouldn’t risk his wrath.

  “Mummy.” Niall spoke in a soft tone, aware that the slightest hint of a threat would set off another murderous attack. “Get in the house.”

  “You first.”

  “No, he’s watching me. Get in while you can.”

  “I’m not leaving you here.”

  “I’ll be right behind you.” He tried hard to keep his voice calm. “Please, get inside.”

  “No!”

  Lewis flinched and shifted his focus to Niall’s ma. His muscled haunches twitched. Niall cursed and smashed his shin into the dog’s throat to buy time. Lewis huffed and wheezed.

  “Run!”

  Niall grabbed his ma by the arm and pulled her into the house. He heard the scrabble of Lewis’s claws on the concrete but didn’t look back. They charged through the house and out the front. Niall cursed himself when he realized he’d left the front and back doors open. Too late to go back. He dragged his ma up the middle of the street. Lewis’s screeching barks bounced off the redbrick terraces lining their escape route. Niall felt his balls shrink. His ma’s arm slipped out of his sweaty-palmed grip. She stumbled and fell. Niall looked around for help. Ahead, two small boys on chrome folding scooters watched the commotion. Further up a little girl peeked out from behind a parked car. Niall’s heart thudded.

  He heard Lewis growl. His dog was close. His dog, his responsibility.

  Niall thought of the little kids, less than fifty yards away. Too close and too slow to be safe from an enraged pit bull. He looked down. His ma struggled to her feet, but he could see the fight was out of her. No time to think. Niall took a deep breath and turned to face his dog.

  Lewis was on top of him in a streak of black fury. They collapsed on to the potholed macadam side-by-side. Niall beat at the dog’s muscled side with one fist as he tried to keep him at bay with his other hand. He felt the heat of fresh blood with each punch. Lewis whined but wriggled closer and fought harder. Niall pushed his head against Lewis’s neck to avoid gnashing teeth. The dog wriggled and snapped its jaws. Niall screamed. He wrapped his arms around Lewis’s body, hugging him close.

  Niall bit into his dog’s neck. It tasted awful.

  The slippery pit bull skittered backwards, bleeding hard from a fresh wound and yelping. Niall spat out a hunk of flesh and fur, then scraped at his tongue with clawed fingers. He clambered to his hands and knees and braced himself for Lewis’s next attack. He could hear the kids screaming and his ma crying, but he didn’t dare spare them a glance.

  Niall raised one hand and inched forward slowly on his knees. Lewis backed up. The end of his lowered tail whipped softly across his hind legs. Niall stood and Lewis seemed to shrink as he lowered his head and looked up at Niall like a scolded toddler. The big brown eyes almost distracted him from the pinkish blood and slobber foam on Lewis’s black muzzle.

  “Shush, Lewis. Shush-shush-shush.”

  Lewis peeled back his lips and flopped his tongue over his lower teeth.

  “Shush-shush-shush-shush-shush.” He lowered a splay-fingered hand to Lewis’s head.

  “Niall. Stop that.” His ma almost broke the spell with her gravelly whisper.

  “You shush too, Mummy.” He kept his voice light and Lewis tilted his head to direct Niall’s hand to the sweet spot. He cupped Lewis’s ear and gave it a gentle jiggle. Lewis wagged his tail and lapped at his master’s wrist. Niall shuddered at the thought of how much of his da’s blood Lewis had lapped up with that tongue.

  Still shushing and calming, Niall hooked his fingers under Lewis’s collar and led him off the street and back to the open front door. He glanced over his shoulder to see his ma following at a safe distance. She pinched an unlit, white-filtered cigarette in her shrunken slit of a mouth.

  “Just wait there until I come back out, Mummy.”

  She drew her plastic lighter from her hip pocket and gripped it between two shaking hands. The flint sparked and God held back the breeze to allow her a wee puff.

  Niall wanted to go to her. Comfort her. But he had to get Lewis’s chain. He wasn’t ready to let go. One last walk. His ma needed time to grieve for her husband and Niall needed to
take Lewis for one last walk. Tears welled in his eyes.

  He didn’t know who to cry for first.

  A TOUR OF THE TOWER

  Christine Poulson

  * * *

  THE FIVE O’CLOCK tour was the last of the day.

  Sadly, for Miriam it was to be the last one ever.

  The grey-haired American – in his early sixties, Miriam judged, around her own age – had been the first to arrive. He was wearing a cream linen jacket: good material and very nicely cut. Miriam’s working life had been spent in the menswear department of a big store and she couldn’t help noticing what people were wearing. She glanced down at her chocolate-brown linen shirt and trousers: a devil to iron but worth it.

  She stole another glance at the American. He was talking to a middle-aged couple (matching red anoraks) and their teenage son (hooded blue sweatshirt). There was also an older couple: a T-shirt that he really shouldn’t be wearing with a paunch like that, and a pale-blue cotton sweater for her. The Australian couple in their twenties (chinos and a short skirt with high-heeled slingbacks) looked like newly-weds. There were a couple of French girls (cropped top and shift dress), who were probably from the local language school. The two young men, a tall blond (ancient Fruit of the Loom T-shirt), and a shorter, shaggy-haired youth (blue waterproof) were campers, she guessed, judging by their wrinkled clothes.

  The group was a typical mix of nationalities and ages and Miriam had seen hundreds like them in her time as a cathedral guide. She was already leading them across the nave to the locker room, when two late-comers, a middle-aged woman in a cream raincoat and a stocky young man in a blue anorak, came hurrying up. That made fourteen – fortunately. She didn’t like having thirteen in a group. After rucksacks and umbrellas had been placed in lockers, Miriam asked for a volunteer to stay at the back of the group so that she could be sure that no one was left behind. The American raised his hand and she smiled her thanks. He’d probably ask the best questions, too. She led the way to a door in the corner of the locker room. From there a spiral staircase wound up through the wall of the west front.