by Keith Nixon
After a moment the hubbub subsided though people sat on the edges of their chairs with that wild look in their eyes, like horses about to bolt. Kiki cleared her throat. “How many of you are packing?” Her gaze swept the room. The only sound was the hum of the air conditioning and something frying in the kitchen. Eventually some hands went up. “Well, if you don’t want to be responsible for the death of your pal here, I suggest you bring your weapons over to the table here.
“You won’t get away with this,” the elderly waitress warned her as she dropped a tiny derringer on the table that looked like a family heirloom. A few more dropped their weapons on the table and scurried back to their seats.
“Hey, no pictures!” Kiki aimed her gun at a pimply teen with a phone in hand, which immediately slipped out of his sweaty palm and clattered to the floor.
Somebody must have tripped an alarm though because they heard sirens approaching. Heads turned to regard the sheriff car as it arrived, lights flashing.
“Pour out some more coffee for everyone,” Kiki said with a laugh as she sat back down. “We got us a hostage situation.”
“Are we going to make a list of demands?” Marie asked.
“Why not?” Kiki pointed toward the greasy windows. “Turn those shades down. No need for the sheriff to get all nosy in here. Let’s keep him guessing.”
The waitress stepped gingerly across the room with the coffee pot and refilled their mugs, then scurried away. Kiki sipped the hot black nectar with pleasure. There were so few real pleasures in this life.
“So how’s this going to go?” Marie asked. For the first time, her confidence seemed to waver.
“You ever see Dog Day Afternoon?”
“Nope.”
Kiki grinned. “For a minute there I thought we might be in trouble. You ever been to Bolivia?”
Marie shrugged. “I hear it’s nice.”
“Write it down. We have to get ready for the sheriff.”
“You think we’ll come out of this all right?”
Kiki kissed her. “I love you, hon. Now let’s make history.”
SECURITY OF SUPPLY
Robert Cowan
The recession had hit hard, sucking all colour from the town, leaving only the most stubborn of greys. Amidst this new reality emerged a rebooted high street of charity shops, bookies, pound shops and legal if not legitimate payday loan sharks. The only bank dealt in the currency of food. Outside the local branch a bald middle-aged man smoked the latest in a six-month run of last cigarettes. He watched the giant approach, a six foot four brick shithouse, wrapped in a black trench coat, long black hair dragged back in a ponytail to reveal a face, drained by simmering rage.
“What you got for me this time Eddie?” he asked, nodding to the carrier bag in the giant's hand.
“Just the usual Ray. Tins of meat, soup, cleaning stuff…bog paper too.”
“Nice touch. Nobody brings that. Must think poor people wipe there arses with leaves.”
“Busy?”
“Always. It’s getting worse.”
“Needs a fucking revolution.”
“Not gonna happen. This must be the only business that wants to go out of business.”
Just at that a young woman approached, a modern day Dicken's character, stooped by shame, silent as she entered.
Ray shook his head. “Too embarrassed to say hello…thanks…anything. Can’t get out quick enough. But you still get ignorant pricks demonising them, pardon my French.”
“You also get people like you Ray. Anyway, need to go. Take care…and give those things up, they’ll kill you. Who’d feed your flock then.”
Ray chuckled. “Last one Eddie, honest, last one.”
***
Eddie strode back to his ageing blue Renault Clio, got in and drove the two miles to his destination, a concrete box of pain. Three stories up, he knocked on number 37B and waited…and waited. He knocked again, harder this time. Eventually a voice.
“Who is it?”
Eddie didn’t reply, knocking again, harder still.
“If it’s you…”
Harder again.
“Look…I…”
Harder.
The sound of the chain sliding back, a lock turning, and then silence. Eddie opened the door and entered, following the woman into the living room with its atmosphere of stale sweat and food, hygiene an early casualty of the occupant’s neglect of all but the one essential.
“It’s two hundred and twenty now.”
She shrugged; despair etched in her eyes, palms outstretched. “You know I don’t have it.”
Eddie reciprocated the gesture, his coat opening as he did, revealing the machete inside. The woman’s eyes widened in terror. “Please God. Eddie, no…”
Momentarily confused he quickly pulled the coat closed, tying it tight. “No, no that’s…sorry Irene. Look…just sit down.”
They both cleared a space amidst the clutter to sit opposite each, falling silent for a moment, a brief time out for remorse, before the games inevitable re-start. Eddie sighed heavily, looking around the room, then across at the frail, worn out woman, twenty going on fifty, his ‘client’. “Where’s the TV? Irene.”
She lowered her head. “It’s gone. Sold it. Was getting sick. Needed….”
“I need some money Irene, now…or Arthur. You…we need to give him something, today.”
“What about if I let you…you can do whatever you want.”
“No! Fuck sake Irene. Money. That telly would have got you a couple of hundred. Easy.”
“It’s gone. I swear, Eddie. Another week. Please.”
Eddie steeled himself, clenching his fists to choke all remnants of his humanity for a moment, to take care of business, Arthur’s business. “The TV’s gone, I can see that. But it was here two days ago. You can’t have spent all the money in that time,” he said, before…“And if you’ve been whoring yourself you’ll have cash from that too.” Eddie winced inside.
Irene stopped crying, angry now. “You bastard! You know I don’t… ”
“Cash or gear. That’s the only currencies here. You’ve got one or the other. You either give it to me or Arthur. If I leave here empty handed we’re both…”
“Okay!” She screamed. “Okay.” Softer now, what little fight she’d had was now spent. She got up and walked towards the kitchen.
“Don’t get any idea’s Irene. I can match any kitchen knife you’ve got.”
A moment later she returned, defeated. “I don’t have any money. This is all I’ve got. That’s the God's honest truth, Eddie.”
“I know, Irene. I know.” Eddie estimated about fifty pounds worth of heroin and a hundred of crack. “When did you start on this? Fuck sake, Irene, you not got enough problems with smack?”
“Don’t come the social worker, Eddie. Like you give a fuck.”
“That’s not fair, if it was someone else here week after week… ”
“Just take it and fuck off!”
Eddie reigned in his frustration, staying seated, aware that this was just temporary respite. “You can keep the smack, that’s not his thing.”
Irene gasped with relief, grabbing it back with a junkies mistrust. “Thanks Eddie, you’re a good man, I didn’t mean… ”
Eddie, raised his palm to stop her. “Stop…Like you said, I’m not your social worker. This isn’t over, Irene. It’ll never be fucking over. I’ll be back next week, and the next. Same game, same shit. And then what? What have you got left to sell?”
Irene sat silently, rubbing the package between her fingers like a class A security blanket. Next week? The week after meant nothing. There was only now. Junkies don’t do pension plans. Tomorrow’s problem was just that. For now the future was securely grasped in the palm of her hand. “I’m fine, Eddie. I’ll see you next week then, eh? We can have a proper catch up.”
Even Eddie had to smile at that. He knew if he paid the debt off out of his own pocket, her addiction would create a new one, with God
only knows who.
“Better the devil you know, eh?” He mumbled, rising to leave.
Back in his car he reached over to the glove compartment, took out the pipe, didn’t look around, didn’t care. Lit up.
***
Later that night Eddie leaned back in the rickety kitchen chair, a tingle of relief as he felt the wall's support. The crack's rush had long worn off, leaving him weary and agitated. He closed his eyes, wished he could close everything, but here he was. Two voices, one table, one bystander. Arthur, the older man, lowered the pipe, resting his calloused hand amidst the scattered debris. He inhaled deeply, partly to draw in oxygen, increasing the potency of the hit. Mainly however it was to puff out his chest, expand his stature before continuing his monologue before a rapt young audience of one. “You know people…straight people, look down on drug users…illegal drug users that is, without knowing the hypocrisy…actually no…their not even hypocrites, they're just fucking ignorant. They can’t see the addiction all around them, at the very fucking heart of their sad, desperate lives. I mean they’re all weekend alkies for a start. They think because they only get shitfaced at the weekend they're not addicted, but imagine if you even suggested to someone around here, around fucking anywhere for that matter, that they go out and not drink. They’d think you were off your fucking head. It would be like…what the fuck am I supposed to do then? Can’t do without. Fucking addiction right there. Am I right?”
Eddie grimaced, hating the arrogant prickness of that expression.
Arthur continued, not even noticing, too caught up in his flow. “Then there’s tea, coffee, ‘oh I can’t get out of bed without my morning cuppa’…that’s because you’re a fucking junkie bastard.”
“True,” mumbled the young boy, his eyes flicking between the older man's weathered face and the pipe in his hand. His gaze pleading, gimme one suck and I’ll listen to you all night, I promise. All damn night.
The man smiled, creases deepening further…and continued. “Then there’s smoking, cigarettes that is, kills millions and legal. Why? Because they were too slow to shut the door on that one. Too many junkies before they knew about cancer…or till the lawsuits started.“ He paused for a second, glanced at Eddie, then the boy before slowly sliding the pipe and packet over. “There you go David, help yourself.” He turned back to Eddie. “That’s some good stuff you got from that dirty little cunt. You must be banging her good.”
Eddie said nothing.
“Where was I? …Yeah, then there’s the taxes.”
“Yeah people have got fuckin lazy man,” replied David, distracted for a moment, sparking the lighter. “That’s why they're so fat.”
“You’ve lost me there boy.”
“Won’t go anywhere without a taxi.”
“What the?…You fucking muppet!”
Eddie winced like a dog kicked too often, knuckles turning white on the chair, eyes closing tighter.
“Government taxes! Jesus H… They make a mint from ciggies…and booze for that matter. Governments, just fucking junkies too…not that there’s anything wrong with addiction as long as you’ve got whatever it is you’re addicted to. Well, apart from dying…but putting that to one side…and if its illegal you’ve got the law climbing up your arse…Ah, if it was legal, well, what a burden lifted from your average smack jagging, coke snorting, crack whore. Finally left to get on with his or her own euphoric oblivion. If he can pay, he can play all night long. Am I right? Fuck yeah!…But that’s never gonna happen. So anyway…where the fuck was I?…Yeah, the secret. The secret of my success. What is it?”
“Pray tell?” enquired his newly hot-wired disciple.
“Security of supply! That’s it, right there! That’s what you need to know. What I want to teach you, because I learned from the best, just by watching them. Know who I’m talking about?”
David shook his head.
“Governments. Big motherfucking junkies all of them. America in particular, but not just the yanks, every other fucking western country. Super addicted, all of them. To what?” Arthur paused, more for effect than any expectation of an answer. “Oil! Can’t do without it. And what’s the government’s number one priority on energy? Security of supply. If you don’t have that you’re fucked. Some cunt’s always got you by the balls. So what do you do? First you stockpile, keep a reserve intact…Make hay while the motherfucking sun, motherfucking shines!”
“That’s a lot of mothers being fucked.”
“Fuck yeah! Indeed it is David my boy, indeed it fucking is. Now your talking the old man's language.”
“Fuck sake, do you need to fill his head with this shit?” Said Eddie through clenched teeth. “He’s a thirteen your old kid, for Christ sake.”
“And? I was scoring when I was ten. I'm just telling him how things work. A bit of education. Stuff I had to learn the hard way because he’s obviously learning fuck all from you…Now don’t interrupt me again unless you want a fucking slap.”
“Yeah, we're just talking Da, Having fun.”
“Yeah lighten up…or I'll lock you in the cupboard.”
“Ha ha, cupboard. Good one, Granddad.”
“Just like in the old days, eh, Edward?” Said Arthur, letting his spite hang in the air for a moment. “But we digress…as you always do. Always have enough stuff to keep you going for a while. Stick it in a box and don’t touch it. Money too. Stash away for a rainy day. For a what?”
“A rainy day, Granddad.”
“Good. Just checking you were paying attention. That way you don’t stink of desperation when you’re buying. Don’t pay over the odds. And don’t be dependent on any one source. Today’s mate is tomorrows failed state. One minute it’s all handshakes, banquets and arms deals, the next, they’re blowing up your fucking embassy.”
“You're losing me there Granddad. You had me, but now it's man overboard and I’m sinking fast.”
Eddie turned, eyes wide. Saw his son. Heard his father.
Arthur continued. “You get your dope from Mister X. All is well with the world. Then he finds out you fucked his good lady and wants to cut your balls off. With that knowledge, you aren’t going to be knocking at his door at three in the morning for a quarter ounce of black and a gram of Charlie.”
“Good point well made.”
“Noted. Anyway, now you're back on board, get your gear from different suppliers. Take your Da there. Even he gets smart now and again. Getting stuff from lots of little skanks, like Irene. Least you got a little of your old man in you.” He waited for a reaction but his son's shuttered eyes gave up nothing. “Looks like your Da’s gone AWOL on us Davie boy…Like we fucking need him. Next, it doesn’t get any better than producing your own. Whatever you can. Renewable energy. Fuck all to do with saving the planet; all to do with not having to suck off Mr Arab. Nuclear…fuck the planet anyway, because what do you need more than anything in this ever-changing world in which we live in? You can give it a try?… Rhymes with live and let die?”
“Security of supply?”
“Now you're on the train. Not that I’m suggesting you build an ICI plant in your garden shed.”
“Mam will be pleased.”
“She was last night boy,” chuckled Arthur malevolently.
“Motherfucker!” Snarled Eddie.
“There he is…and yes I was.” Arthur winked, running his fingers through his lank grey hair. “Nice MILF you got there son. Little Amy's been giving me the eye too truth be told, and it must, as unsavoury as that truth may be. Was thinking about her last night. Best wank for years…But back to more important matters. I'm talking about growing a few plants that’s all. Gives you a bit of independence. Saves your money for the pharmaceuticals, the good stuff. Sell some homegrown weed, make some cash, smoke it. Speaking of which.” His dandruff specked hand reached out across the table to the pipe… but the machete stopped it in its tracks.
“Looks like you'll be wanking with Mr Left tonight, you cunt!”
OLD TIMES
Benedict J Jones
The dirt had got into Danny’s nose and mouth. For a moment the taste and smell of the earth comforted him, like a bear snug in its cave, until he remembered that it was the grave dirt of the death pit. He managed to raise his head and retch. Yellow bile mixed with the dark earth. Danny turned his head to the other side and found himself looking into Angie’s face. A single glassy eye stared back at him. His lover was dead and the bullet that had taken her in the back of her head had exited through her left eye taking a chunk of her face with it. Her curly black hair was thick with dried blood.
Danny sat up and touched his fingers to the back of his head — sparks danced in front of his eyes as though the night had suddenly been lit up by dozens of fire flies. His stomach turned over and Danny waited before raising his fingers again, gingerly this time, to the groove that ran, deep, across the back of his skull. Shot in the head, should be dead, it sounded like a lyric from a bad rock song and Danny laughed despite himself. The laughter brought fresh pain.
He managed to roll Angie over so that her face looked skyward and then stroked her ruined face before he planted a kiss on her mouth. Her lips were cold. It was nothing like it had been before. He leaned further down and kissed her stomach. Danny looked up at the dark sky. A single snow flake pirouetted down on the wind before coming to rest on the tip of Angie’s nose. Danny stared at the snow flake and thought back on how he had ended up in a God–forsaken ditch in the Rocky Mountains.
***
Ever since he could remember Danny had wanted to be an American; he had dreamt of the Manhatten skyline, spoke in sound bites from Hollywood movies, read every Western he could get while he waited for the day when he could set foot in the one place that he thought of as home. Home, in reality, was a one room studio flat in a council block on a rundown estate near the Elephant and Castle in south–east London. Danny waited for the chance that would set him free in the home of the brave.