Near To The Knuckle presents Rogue: The second anthology

by Keith Nixon

  The back fender was cold on my cheek. I’ll never forget that chill. My heart pounded in my chest, the white paint chipped and rusting on the edges. I waited for that door to open, for the shouting, for gunshots. The exhaust choked me. My throat burned. Jack kept nudging me on.

  We made it across fine. We waited till another alley ended and we saw the glint of shop windows before the celebrations went around. We were alone here.

  Most of those stores had drawn–down iron gates over their windows. The place was empty, dark, the brick ground sprinkled with paper–bags and beer cans that’d be picked up in the morning before anything opened. A flat garden in the middle of the plaza, park benches under leafless trees.

  The Radioshack had its metal gate pulled down, locked. Same with the jewelry shop, the art gallery, the paint studio. We wouldn’t have made no money off of them anyway. Far away from the street, under the flickering piss–yellow light of a street lamp, stood the pawn shop.

  The door was gated. But the windows weren’t. The little sticker under the door logo said they were insured by an alarm company. Ted gave us his bag, stood back and peeled his eyes on the courtyard and the street beyond.

  I pulled the hat over my head and pushed my face on the glass. I didn’t see an alarm keypad.

  “Nothing there,” I called out. “We’re good.”

  Aidan nodded, turned to Jack.

  “Got your brick, Jackie?”

  Jack unzipped his bag, came out with the grey cinder block he’d taken from the bushes behind his house.

  Aidan stepped back. Everyone unzipped their bags, open like mouths, the zippers rows of teeth.

  “Do your thing.”

  The brick flew straight into the window. The logo shattered. Glass collapsed on the bike display and glittered like snow.

  We didn’t need a cue to go ham. Jack was first in, ripping through the bike rack. He went straight for the computers at the far end. Aidan took a rock from his pocket and turned left for the necklaces.

  I went for the phones. I put my elbow into breaking the glass. Nothing but a sting. There was a hammer on the ground. I shoved it through the display. Glass flew, I started shoving everything I could see inside. The memory is a blur. I remember my heart racing and feeling numb and dreaming about trying to sell these. Ten/fifteen seconds of grabbing, trying not to get sliced on the shards littering the case and the floor.

  My bag was barely half full when the alarm blared. I left the hammer in there.

  “Come on!” Aidan screamed. “You got something now let’s go!”

  We catapulted out the window display. Ted heard the chaos and started leading us through the back alley. He ran like we were chasing him.

  I guess his ankle didn’t hurt anymore. We didn’t stop at the street where the cop’d been before. We went for maybe a mile before Aidan screamed “stop.” The parking lot was empty. Three or four cars scattered around the edges, black pavement, fading lines, no light.

  We all turned to look back at him.

  Jack opened his mouth to ask why. Aidan shot him in the chest with his father’s revolver. The brick felt out of his hand and clunked beside him.

  Blood oozed out of him. The hole in his chest started whistling.

  Ted raised his hands and faked left and darted right. The phones in his bag weighed him down. He couldn’t move like usual. Aidan got him in the hip and he collapsed on the ground grabbing the red spot on his jeans. He went to get back up and Aidan blew his dome off.

  It took him four seconds to kill two people. I stood frozen in my spot. Something about a gun barrel pointed at a person turns them into a coward.

  I’d left my pocket knife at home.

  I wasn’t stupid enough to wrestle for it. No way in hell could I outrun someone three years older/half foot taller than me with the PS4’s and phones on my back. I shot my hands up at the sky. The bag dropped behind me with a sick crunch.

  “Don’t” was all I could say.

  The barrel looked long and dark and deep. Smoke came out of it.

  “Thanks for making me money,” he said. “Makes my job a hell of a lot easier.”

  I tested him, inched left. The brick was there, somewhere, on the other side of the body and all the blood.

  “You know they’re gonna ask you a shitload of questions, right?” I snapped at him. I inched left. The gun moved with me. He knew what I was going for. His face screamed it. His right eye twitched in anticipation.

  “Sure they will.” He grinned and I got sick to my stomach. His eyes glowed. “They’ll ask how I’m gonna live when all of my friends are dead. They’ll feel so bad for me since all o’you were murdered so savagely.”

  A corpse touched my toe. I stopped in my tracks. I tried to breathe normal. I couldn’t panic. Not here. Not now. Forget the best friend you were talking to five minutes ago is lying dead with a hole in his chest next to your foot. Forget your other one is pointing that gun at you.

  Aidan stepped in my face. I stood frozen, arms at my side.

  The barrel burned my forehead.

  “They’ll start talking about what criminals you all were,” he hissed.

  I said nothing. I gulped. He grinned again. His index finger moved out of the trigger guard.

  My right arm chopped at his throat. He stumbled backwards. He was too shocked to push back. My other arm was long enough to reach the brick and throw it for my life.

  The gun faced the other side of the street. He was trying to aim it back. My brick hit him first. Something crunched, he doubled over, I lunged for his leg and pulled out.

  He fell back and slammed his head on the asphalt. Nothing but tears in his wide eyes. The gun clattered ten feet away from him. The brick at my feet. He tried standing up and I kicked him in the jaw. Teeth fell out.

  He tried crawling. Blood trailed behind him. I kicked him in the ribs, flipped him on his back with my toe, held his throat down with my foot. He gagged and choked. I dropped the brick on his head and picked it up and dropped it again till I heard something mushy and his sounds stopped.

  I didn’t bother looking. I left the brick next to him. I grabbed the bags, left his under him, and walked home. When they came asking questions a week later I pretended to cry for them. I told them I was home. My father backed my story. I went to two funerals and didn’t bother showing up for Aidan’s.

  Nobody asked why.

  For once the black kid didn’t die.

  He didn’t even get caught.

  TOO MUCH TOO YOUNG

  Alan Griffiths

  Things might’ve turned out a lot different if I’d found Mickey Fallon when I was paid to. But, as my granddad would say, if ifs and ands were pots and pans there’d be a shit–pile of washing up… When people like Mickey’s mum give me their hard earned cash I try not to let them down. But I did.

  The guy with the dark brown floppy centre parted hair, wearing a navy blue double breasted suit a size too big, sat down uninvited. He looked around the bar furtively, gave a little twitch of his mouth and pushed a folded copy of The Daily Mail across the table top.

  Nudge, nudge, wink, wink I thought, say no more.

  He’d either been reading too much Raymond Chandler or he had me down as a UKIP voter. Perish the ruddy thought. You know the type; a notch or two to the right of Genghis Khan. More avariciousness, nepotism and dodgy dealing than you can conceal in a Swiss bank account. Unbutton the camelhair topcoat, loosen the old public school necktie and a twisted Tory heart beats beneath a Maggie Thatcher tee shirt. Tax dodging, soulless bastards, they and their millionaire fat cat cronies know the cost of everything but the value of nothing.

  The Winchester was getting busy but I’d bagged a good seat to watch the footie. On the Sony forty two inch screen the captains of Queens Park Rangers and Manchester United tossed a coin prior to the early evening kick–off. I supped my pint of Stella. Not sure why it’s fondly referred to as ‘the old wife beater’. I didn’t have a
wife anymore and after a couple more of these I wouldn’t be able to beat the skin off a cold rice pudding.

  Floppy hair cleared his throat impatiently: “Mr Valentine? My name is Fields… Phillip Fields.” A smile as genuine as a politician’s expenses claim spread across his unshaven chops but got nowhere near his eyes. “You were recommended by a friend of a friend.” Sods law strikes again. I spend a small fortune on advertising but it’s always a friend of a friend. Go figure.

  I gave him a wink: “Don’t tell me. It’s a wedge of cold, hard cash.” I opened the newspaper revealing a wedge of cold, hard cash. I let go a low whistle. There was enough money to water down the red column of my bank account to a lighter shade of pink.

  “I assume,” his tone was very matter–of–fact. “There is enough there to secure your services.”

  Ka–Ching! I thought. I gave him my best smile, saying: “Ka–Ching!”

  He didn’t look amused and did the little twitch of his mouth thing again. “Are you free to discuss business?”

  I pushed my luck, draining my glass in one long fluid swallow. “First things first, pal.” I burped, following it with: “Same again, squire. Knock your pipe out and have one yourself.”

  Back in the day my Metropolitan Police career was cut abruptly short. A gangster called Pork Pie runs this God forsaken part of South London including the bookies where I’d run up a considerable tab. Some smaller countries have less debt. If you owe Pork Pie and you’re useful he pulls your strings. When you’re no longer useful he cuts the strings and your throat. Officially I resigned for personal reasons. Between you and me I jumped ship like a rat when the Met top brass sniffed greed and corruption. Gradually increasing the heat until I was about to get burnt. Nowadays I scrape a living with mostly divorce work, insurance scams and a bit of debt collecting. It says Enquiry Agent on my ‘Pronto–Print’ business card. I’ve been called a lot worse.

  Phil returned with my pint and his choice of tipple, a small scotch with too much water. Queens Park Rangers were already one nil down by way of an own goal with more to come. The Daily Mail and its lurid, wholly inaccurate headlines were unread. It’s a newspaper best left that way.

  Phil’s sob story was his wife Barbara and his suspicions of a torrid affair with her boss. “I want to save my marriage, Valentine. But I have to be sure,” he said earnestly. They always do. Experience tells me the pseudo downbeats and downtrodden and I’m–so–fucking–hard–done–by all sing a similar song. And, as I say, the devil has all the best tunes. Floppy Phil finished telling his tale and after declining my offer of another drink concluded with: “I’ll look forward to your progress report and trust you’ll be suitably discreet,” all business–like as if he was wrapping up a corporate meeting.

  The small things are the giveaways. Floppy Phil’s tics and tells were his designer salt–n–pepper stubble and styled floppy hair, which was too long and too highlighted. The cold, hard cash stood toe to toe with my moral compass. The wedge won on a technical knockout. I slipped Phil’s dosh into my sky–rocket, washing my principles down with a mouthful of Stella. Hey, as Groucho would say, those are my principles, and if you don't like them… well, I have others. I shook Phil’s hand and watched him creep away, unable to shake an uneasy feeling. An itch I couldn’t reach to scratch.

  I ordered a double whiskey. Poppy, a petite and lithe Australian barmaid, poured my drink from the optic. A striking and vibrant floral tattoo was partially visible between her shoulder blades, disappearing tantalizingly beneath her body–hugging vest top. Not for the first time I made a mental note to intimately check out the rest of the tattoo. Frank, the Winchester’s owner cum bouncer, was sitting at the end of the bar surveying pub and patrons. He’s one of the few people I call a friend and a good one to have in a fight. Six foot six tall with hands like coal shovels. The only thing short about him is his temper.

  “Have a drink with me, Frank?” I asked as Poppy set my whiskey down. “Thanks to my new client I’m holding folding.”

  “Nice one, Val,” he said cheerfully. “I’ll have a gold–watch with you, my old son.”

  I sat on a barstool next to him while Poppy busied herself pouring Frank’s scotch.

  “He wants me to snoop on his two timing old lady,” I continued. “But, I’m not sure…” I swallowed a mouthful of malt whiskey. Savouring it and mulling things over. Once again I admired Poppy’s intricate flower–patterned tattoo, wanting badly to explore all of it. “Any thoughts?” I asked absentmindedly. Frank, a man of few words, curled the fingers and thumb of his big right hand, making a sideways shuffling motion. I’m not sure if the wanker sign was directed at Floppy Phil or me.

  Phil was away for a week on a negotiation skills course in Bristol. It was the ideal opportunity for Barbara to play fast and loose. I spied on her full–time. The surveillance was routine and boring. There was no sign of her amorous boss and I was thinking more and more about Phil’s tics and tells; trying to scratch the itch. On Thursday evening I climbed to the top deck of a number one–three–seven bus and sat down four seats behind Barbara. She was travelling home, via Marks & Spencer, from the accountancy office where she worked. At the next stop I spotted Mickey, a skinny fifteen year old runaway, through the grime smeared window. He was across the street chatting with a group of teenagers. All of them were sitting astride push bikes. In a split second curiosity got the better of me. It always does. Abandoning Barbara and her shopping I took the stairs two at a time. Missing my footing at the bottom section I tumbled forward and rolled comically arse over tit out of the closing concertina doors. A couple of old aged pensioners’ tut–tut–tutted loudly to each other, watching me sprawled on the cold, wet pavement. Mickey and his crew had now finished chewing the fat and were moving off. Fifty yards away I spotted a bespectacled Japanese fella wearing a canary yellow puffer–jacket. A serious looking Nikon was slung around his gregory–peck. He was trying unsuccessfully to dock one of Boris’s blue hire bikes. Pushing past the gossiping coffin dodgers I sprinted towards him. Using all my considerable detective skills to deduce he was a confused and frustrated tourist.

  “Ss.. Sst…Stop!” I spluttered as I reached him. I pulled out my wallet, producing an out of date Wandsworth Borough library card. Waving it quickly under his nose I said loudly: “Police Officer! I’m confiscating this bike.” Wrenching the handle bars from his grip and ignoring his protestations I swung my leg over the crossbar. Unsteadily I began to peddle and weave after Mickey. As I wobbled around the corner I could still hear the Jap tourist cursing me and my family. I trailed Mickey and the gang across London until I was sweating like a glassblower wearing an overcoat. Eventually we reached a darkened back street and the gang slowed pedalling. Just in time as my aching limbs were giving me some serious what for. Ditching the stolen bike in some shrubbery I sat down on the curb stone and fired up a Silk Cut. Sucking on the filter, as if my life depended on it, I watched the boys enter a seedy squat. I guessed they were home for the night.

  Nine months ago Mickey’s mother paid me to find him. She’d put aside hard earned money from a ‘zero hours’ cleaning job to fund my fee. I failed miserably. At the time I was heavily on the sauce. Shamefully I squandered her cash on booze and pot, royally screwing up the investigation. Somehow lady luck had contrived to give me a second chance.

  Early the next morning under a milk n’ magnesia sky and feeling like I’d been three rounds with Beyonce Knowles’ younger sister I was watching and waiting in my Saab. My aching buttocks had been stretched six ways to Sunday by Boris’ cheap, plastic saddle. I squirmed through a four hour vigil until Mickey and the ne’er–do–well teenagers left the squat. Locking the Saab I hobbled after them as they headed towards the river. Forty five minutes later all hell let loose. Mickey snatched the handbag of an orange haired young lady sitting outside a brasserie on the South Bank. He and the rest of the crew ran like the wind. I should have given chase but I was more interested in the middle aged lothario consoling the
sobbing redhead. Why oh why, I asked myself, was Floppy Phil sitting outside a trendy Tapas bar, looking too much too young in a tanned bomber jacket, stonewashed Levis’ and loafers? Negotiation skills my fat hairy arse! Fair play to Phil though, by the look of things he’d sealed the deal. Orange hair eventually stopped blubbing and the Tapas bar manager waived the check after she declined his offer to call the Old Bill. From a safe distance I snapped away with my Samsung Galaxy as I tailed Phil and the flame haired floozy to a swanky apartment block a half a mile away. I waited outside for a couple of hours until Phil left. As he hurried past, carrying a suitcase and a guilty conscience, the Samsung framed his hangdog expression. I scratched the itch. Floppy Phil was using me to get the dirt on Barbara so he could hit her with a quickie divorce. Rob her of the family home, their life savings and move his bit of crumpet in.

  An hour later I put my foot through the backdoor of the squat. Fagin’s little helpers took to their heels as if pursued by a pack of left–wing social workers. I ran amongst them going from room to room until I cornered Mickey in a shabby upstairs bedroom.

  “Time to go home, Mickey,” I said. “Your mum’s missing you badly.”

  “Fuck off,” he spat and pulled a Stanley knife from his jacket pocket.

  Whoa there fella, I thought and said: “Whoa there fella,” raising both hands, palms forward.

  “Mister,” Mickey said unconvincingly. “I told you to fuck off. Go on, do one!”

  We eyed each other for one, two, three beats until I took a step forward, saying softly: “C’mon put the knife away, son.”

  Mickey swung the knife wildly following it with a kick at my shin. As he tried to slip past me and out the door I grabbed a hold of his jacket collar and clamped my other hand onto the wrist holding the knife. I twisted my grip and the blade dropped to the floor. Mickey shrieked like a schoolgirl as I swung him around, dumping him onto his scrawny arse. He sprawled on a grubby, threadbare sleeping bag; dirty blond tousled hair, pale faced and glaring angrily at me through blue teary eyes.