For some reason, he was angry.
More visions flashed in front of his eyes. He shook his head.
“More flashbacks?”
“I don’t know. As I said, they’re a mish–mash of dreams and memories. It’s hard to say what’s real.”
Anna laughed.
“I’ve had that feeling most of my life,” she said.
“Me too,” said McGuffin . “I think!”
“Another toast” said Anna.
Anna chinked glasses with McGuffin.
“Like they said in that old American film, this could be the start of a beautiful friendship,” said Anna.
“Oh, I’m very sure of that,” said McGuffin. “And by the way, it seems to me that you have had some interesting co–workers in your time.”
***
“The trouble with me is that I never realise how deep in the shit I am until I’m choking on the stuff,” said Cormac Brown. He was in his pots, leaning on the bar in Champions Sports Bar. A small group of English businessmen sat nearby watching a cricket match that was showing on all of the bar’s television screens.
“Is that so?” said Dimitri. He sipped his pint of Guinness. Cormac knocked back his Jack Daniels and tried to catch the barman’s eye.
“Aye, it is. Take last summer, for example. It started, as usual, in a pub but it was a bird that landed me in it. And not just any bird, mind you. It was the boss’s bird.”
“Oh dear,” said Dimitri.
“Yes, I know what you’re thinking; never shit on your own doorstep. And I’d normally agree. Shagging a married woman is a no–no for survival reasons, if nothing else. And if that married woman happened to be hitched to an aging psychopath who had aptly earned the nickname Carl Carnage before his balls had dropped, well, you’d be forgiven for thinking that I had some sort of a death wish. But then you’ve never met Velvet, have you?” said Cormac.
“Can’t say I have. So, how did you get involved with her?” said Dimitri
The barman put another drink in front of Cormac.
“Well, I was in The Blue Anchor on a Tuesday afternoon. It was about as lively as a Coldplay b–side. I was zoning out from the barflies’ heated conversation – the smoking ban, for the thousandth time – when my phone rang. It was a number that I didn’t recognise, which always set my spider senses tingling. But, anyway, I answered and it was Kenny Cokehead.”
“A friend of yours?”
“More of a business acquaintance. He wasn’t known as Kenny Cokehead for nothing and was clearly on the Jolly Dandruff already. Turns out he had a job offer. Working for Carl Carnage. And he was paying top friggin’ dollar, I can tell you.
“So far, so good.”
“Yeah. I’d worked for Carl a few times over the years and he’d always paid well. Carl was out where the buses don’t run in both meanings of the phrase. He lived in a swanky mock Tudor detached house in the depths of Deptford – far away from where public transport ceased. And he was also mental. Barking; and I don’t mean the town in Essex. Of course, Carl had always been a little, er, off the wall, but, over the years, the Old Timer’s disease had spread like a plague and his behaviour was becoming more and more erratic.
The last couple of times I’d seen him, Carl was just gazing out of the window with a Teddy Bear in his arms. Velvet had done all the talking. And I’d done all the looking.
When I got to Carl’s gaff, Velvet answered the door in a red leather dress that was made with just about enough material to make a wallet, and looking like a long limbed drink of water calling out to a thirsty man.
I followed her into the main room and thought about my brief fling with Velvet back in the days when she was just an up–and–coming glamour model. Emphasis on the coming.
Carl and Velvet’s interior design taste was clearly similar to that of Jimmy Saville and Lily Savage and I considered putting my sunglasses back on.
And then I saw Carl.
He was sat drooling in a leather armchair, the Teddy Bear ripped to shreds in his arms. He looked old. He was old, true, but he looked a lot older.
We followed the usual routine.
Velvet poured me a drink, I kept my eyes away from her Grand Canyon of a cleavage, and Carl handed me a large brown envelope.”
“And what was the job exactly?”
“Ah, well, I can’t tell you that. Professional that I am. But that wasn’t the problem. It was when I got caught playing hide the salami with Velvet. Which is how I ended up doing a runner to Poland.”
“Another drink?”
“I shouldn’t but I will.”
The barman put the drink in front of Cormac.
“It’s raining again,” said Dimitri.
As Cormac turned to look out of the window, Dimitri dropped a Rophenol in his drink.
“I’ll just pop outside for a cigarette,” said Dimitri.
Cormac nodded. His eyes were closing.
Dimitri walked into the bar lobby and took out his phone.
He waited for it to answer.
“Hello Carl. Yes, I have him here.”
He listed for a moment.
“Yes, I will. Not a trace. Goodbye.”
He went back to the bar and Cormac was already drooling in his sleep.
Dimitri wrapped an arm around Cormac and guided him out of the bar. As he did, he saw McGuffin and Anna walk past.
***
“What I particularly loathe,” said Sidney, resting his half pint of Shepheard’s Neame on his stomach. “Is people who say that they loathe something when in fact they merely dislike it.”
“And you never exaggerate,” said Leslie, smirking.
“Never, ever,” said Sidney.
They both laughed.
They were sat in The Lord Clyde, a country pub that was located on the outskirts of London. Sidney and Leslie were drinking real ale and eating Thai food. It had been a pleasant Saturday afternoon. Until Sidney noticed a man watching him.
At first he’d thought he was imagining it but every time he looked up the man was looking at him. And smiling. The man was dressed all black leather and carrying a white cyclists helmet. He looked familiar. Perhaps he was a local? Sidney visited the pub at least twice a month. However, there seemed to be something unnerving about the man and Sidney assumed he was a former client. He realised he’d been very lucky not bumping into the punters at the pub. So many of them were pissheads and it was obvious they’d head straight to the nearest pub as soon as they checked out of the nearby private clinic. He was tempted to go up to the man in black but decided to ignore him.
Leslie came back from the bar with two more bottles of beer.
“I thought we’d try this,” she said, putting down the bottles of Orchard’s Edge. “It was recommended in The Observer.”
“Looks good.”
Sidney looked up. The man in black had gone.
Leslie sat down.
“Who the bloody hell was that?” said Sidney.
“Who was who?” said Leslie.
“The man in black.”
“Johnny Cash was here?”
Sidney swigged his beer.
“It was probably nothing,” he said.
“Well I have some good news.”
“Yes?”
“I’ve just had a text message from Dimitri. He knows where my brother is.”
“I’ll be two ticks,” said Leslie. As she walked to the toilet, Sidney watched her, admiring her arse, as usual.
He was halfway through his drink when she returned.
“So what did you find out about Satan’s Souls?” he said.
“Quite a bit,” said Leslie. “And none of it good.”
***
Sir Kenneth was sobbing like a scalded child. Begging forgiveness. Whimpering and whining, as usual. He was blindfolded and naked, face down on Magda Lech’s four–poster bed. The whip marks on his flabby back and chubby buttocks were still red. Magda had been spitting venom at him for the last hour or so and was get
ting hoarse. Getting bored.
She stood over him, dressed in black leather, her lipstick blood red, her blonde hair short cropped. High heels accentuating her long muscular legs. She wished the asshole would hurry up and spill his seed so that she could get rid of him and have a drink. She needed a jolt but Kenneth was one of those twelve–step losers and he’d freak if he smelt a trace of booze on her breath. Especially so early in the morning. As she finished whipping his ass, Magda wondered if she were the higher force that they talked about at his AA meetings, but doubted it.
Still, he was a very important and influential person and he certainly paid well enough. He was visiting her more and more these days too, and her little nest egg wasn’t so little any more. She turned the whip around, coated the handle in KY jelly and slowly inserted it into Kenneth’s anus. She blanked out his screams and looked out of her window as a firework exploded and filled the night sky with a cascade of colours. At the same moment, Kenneth made a familiar, pathetic whining sound. She eased the whip out of his backside and placed it in a black bin liner.
“Okey dokey?” she whispered.
Kenneth grunted.
She went over to the television and switched it on. Sat in front of it watching Lovejoy as Kenneth shuffled off, shame–faced, to the bathroom.
She heard the shower run and Kenneth scream with pain. She grinned for a moment, then got tired of his whinging. She tried to concentrate on Ian McShane’s latest scam. A few minutes later, Kenneth came out of the bathroom, dressed quickly in jeans and a hoodie and left quietly.
Magda went over to the bedside table and saw her money and a packet of white powder. Kenneth was one of the few of her regular clients who paid in cash these days, which suited her. Her last tax bill had been massive and she wondered who was actually screwing who. She walked over to the drinks cabinet and poured a large Jack Daniels. She filled the rest of the glass with Pepsi and drank it down. She looked at the money and felt good quick. She looked at the money again and poured another drink. It tasted like freedom.
It’s A Knockout
London, England
The man was very tall and painfully thin. He wore black cyclists’ clothes and a crisp white helmet that is almost as pale as his face. He didn’t smile. He looked like he should be famine but said his name is War.
“Like the band?” said Bernie. “Lowrider and the like.”
War didn’t smile.
Perhaps inspired by War’s appearance, The Old Iron Horse’s barman put a pint of Guinness in front of him, and his dour face turns into a smile.
“Oh, bugger,” said War. “It’s been donkey’s years since I had a decent pint of Guinness.”
War puts his racing bike keys on the bar.
“Have you ever been to Hell,” said War.
He sipped his stout.
“Well, there’s a place in Norway and another in Poland. I’ve never fancied either. Too chilly for the old rheumatism,” said Bernie
“Don’t be flippant. Lucy’s joint. The nightclub in Acton.”
“I heard it was all death metal and punk. Not my cup of whisky,” said Bernie. “I’m more old school.”
Moore finished his drink and wiped his mouth.
“Aye, well they’re going to start doing oldies nights. Progressive rock. Classic rock.”
He took a handful of leaflets from his man bag and plonked them on the bar.
“Get yourself down there,” he said.
“Will do,” said Bernie. “Want another pint?”
“Naw. Best not. Safety first and all that.”
He tapped the helmet.
“So, what have you got on the posh bird that glassed my sister?” said Bernie.
“Leslie Hawkins. Married to a high class fence called Sidney. Dodgy types with dodgy connections.”
“Well, keep an eye on them. Hattie’s getting out of the funny farm soon and it’s going to be payback time.”
***
Peter was starting to feel a lot more confident since he’d got his new identity documents. He felt safer, for sure. He’d even let his blond hair grow out a little and started to wear his old biker jacket again. Of course, he was he was also feeling good because he’d had a good boozing session with a couple of his old drinking cronies, too.
Robert Kowalski watched Peter stagger out of The Princess Of Wales and saunter towards the Embankment Tube Station. The man’s overconfidence, his bravado, disgusted him.
Peter was checking his emails on his smartphone when Robert slammed into him.
“Oh, sorry,” said Robert.
His Polish accent was as sharp as a razor. “I think I have had a little too much to drink. I’m just not used to it these days.”
Peter smiled. “No problem,” he said.
It wasn’t until Robert walked away that Peter felt the pain in his crotch. He looked down and saw the blood. And then he crashed to the ground.
Warsaw, Poland
A shadowy melody lapped at the shore of Jim McGuffin’s sleep until he awoke drowning in sweat and stained by sour memories. It took him a moment to remember where he was.
The Japanese music student in the apartment above was practicing one of Chopin’ s Nocturnes over and over again and McGuffin could smell the pizza restaurant that had recently opened up near the flat. There was a loud knock at the door. McGuffin dragged himself from the depths of sleep. He heard Pani Maria shuffle from the kitchen and opened the door. There were muffled voices and then Panni Maria laughed. A woman spoke in Polish and then a man spoke in English. And then they all laughed.
McGuffin got off the bed and used a walking stick to get around the bedroom. It had become easier and easier over the last few days. The pain in his legs was subsiding. His memories were hurtling back at him, too. Not all of them pleasant.
He checked his Smartwatch. It was just before midnight. He’d slept for more than twenty four hours. He dressed in a black Joy Division t–shirt and jeans and went into the living room.
Sidney Hawkins sat on the sofa sipping a bottle of water and nursing his first Polish hangover. Leslie Hawkins sat beside him looking much more sprightly. As McGuffin came into the room they looked at each other and nodded. Panni Maria brought a tray full of tea cups and a tea pot and placed it onto the table.
McGuffin smiled and held out a hand.
“Sidney,” said Sidney, shaking McGuffin’s hand.
McGuffin shook hands with Leslie. “I’m Leslie,” she said.
“Jim McGuffin .”
Leslie laughed.
“I know,” she said.
“You do?” said McGuffin .
“I do,” said Leslie. “I think I can help you find out more about who you are, if you want?” said Leslie.
She took out her Smartphone and tapped the screen. She showed a series of photographs to McGuffin. In a few of them he was with Sarah and Sidney. His throat and mouth were suddenly as dry as the Sahara.
“Yep,” said McGuffin. “That certainly looks like me in the pictures. Do you have any more information about… who I am?” He rubbed his head.
“Indeed,” said Leslie. “For a start, you’re my brother.”
“Aha,” said McGuffin .
He turned to Panni Maria.
“Maybe we should crack open the vodka?” he said. “I think I’m going to need it.”
What A Palaver!
London, England
The heavy hail battered the steamed up windows of Madge’s Mini Café. Inside, it was hot and jam–packed. Behind the counter, Madge, a midget with a withered arm, was serving tea in half pint glasses to a couple of diminutive bridesmaids. A sound system that was twice as big as Madge blasted out an Alice Cooper song from a pair of raspy speakers. Wilting and fading Christmas decorations adorned the place: tinsel, balloons, party streamers,
Detective Sergeant Steve Toshack was watching the streamers of steam rise from his muddy coffee.
“What’s the SP on that writer geezer that got killed, Tosh?” said Madge, a
s she refilled his mug.
“The one over Embankment way?” said Tosh.
“Yeah,” said Madge. “Unless there’s been more.”
She wiped down a Formica table.
“He was shot in the head,” said Tosh. “Looks like he’d been in there a few weeks. There’s no suspect at the moment but… ”
“But?” said Madge.
Tosh stroked his long, ragged black moustache.
“He wasn’t actually a real writer, mind you,” he said. “His dad was, though. A pretty successful one, too. And he also died under mysterious circumstances. I even investigated the case myself.”
“Ooh! What do you think? A contract hit?” said Madge. “Or a family grudge?”
“Well, it’s funny you should say that. I always fancied the wife for croaking Julian Rhatigan senior but I doubt she’d have offed her own son.”
“A tissue of webs,” said Madge.
“Indeed,” said Tosh.
“Will you be working on the case?” said Madge.
“Not officially but I am a consultant. I’ll be interviewing somebody about it in a short while, actually,” he said.
“Another coffee?”
“Yeah but maybe sneak a hot toddy in there, eh?”
“The full Irish it is?” said Madge. She took a bottle of Jim Walker from under the counter.
“Yes please And the top of the morning to you!” said Tosh.
Warsaw, Poland
McGuffin smiled. The tram rattled down a street that was named after a former Pope but was lined with peep shows, kebab shops and 24–hour pubs. The tram was so crowded that McGuffin and Anna were standing, swaying with its jerking movements.
“Yes, I love Spain. The last time I was in Madrid I was so drunk I fell into the fountain in Sol,” said McGuffin. “I made a real fool of myself, to be sure. That’s a memory I wish hadn’t come flashing back so quickly.”
Anna groaned. An old woman with a mohair beret barged past her to get to the doors, digging a sharp elbow into her ribs.
Too Many Crooks - Paul D Brazill Page 6