Near To The Knuckle presents Rogue: The second anthology

by Keith Nixon

  “Piss off you nonce,” he hissed but the wind had left his sails.

  I pointed a finger and shouted thunderously: “Listen son! For once you’re going to do the decent thing by your mother.” Pocketing the Stanley knife I muttered under my breath: “And so am I.”

  I retrieved the stolen handbag and surprisingly the contents were still inside. Orange hair or Sally Reynolds was a Learning and Development Executive at the same insurance company where Phil was employed. Sally’s iPhone contained numerous incriminating photos and selfies. Dozens of eye watering, steamy text messages read like excerpts from ‘Fifty Shades of Grey’.

  “Preposterous!” Floppy Phil blustered, running fingers through his highlighted hair, threatening self–combustion, when I confronted him at his office on Monday morning.

  “There’s really no point trying to deny the hanky–panky, Phillip.” “Have you forgotten who’s paying your bloody wages?” Phil’s face mimicked a wonky traffic light changing spasmodically red, amber and green. “Prove it, damn you.”

  I’d had enough of his stuff and nonsense, saying simply: “I can and I will.”

  He changed tack, getting even hotter under the designer collar, firing off insults. They always do.

  “You’re nothing but a cheap, nasty blackmailer, Valentine. A slug. A filthy cockroach.” Not heard those beauties before… “Crawl back beneath your stone.” That one either…

  It was time to rain on his parade. His anger was doused as I laid glossy photographs, one after the other, onto the desk like a series of playing cards. None of them were jokers. Phil bleated, whined and whimpered. More of his greasy cash was offered to help me forget but for once in my miserable life there was not going to be any compromise. On the way out I slipped a piccie onto the whiteboard next to Sally’s workstation. Her face turned the same shade as her hair, quicker than it took me to say: “How’s Yer Father!”

  “Why,” Barbara asked me over and over again. “Would Phil betray thirty five years of marriage? She’s such a slip of a girl… Young enough to be his daughter…” The answer was bleeding obvious but I bit my lip. I couldn’t bring myself to answer the question for her but I did provide enough evidence to take Floppy Phil to the cleaners. With the help of a shit–hot divorce lawyer Barbara could live in the suburban four bed semi for the rest of her days. There’d be a hefty chunk of Phil’s money to keep her good company.

  The piss artist on the barstool next to me was slumped in a drunken stupor. I intended to catch him up tout–bloody–suite before Frank came on shift and turfed the pair of us out on our ears. Two old friends were close at hand: a pint of Stella and riding shotgun a large whiskey. Poppy, blonde hair pulled into a tight ponytail, looked bored as she polished a tray of drinking glasses. She chewed on a stick of gum, working her jaw ferociously with all the finesse of a camel. The painted lady was dressed suitably for the late November weather; obligatory tight vest top and denim shorts. She’d nailed the antipodean hairy knees and open–toe sandal look. If only I could nail her. The opening credits of the Sky News hourly bulletin rolled across the television screen above the bar. A camera shot captured a UKIP politician with a shit–eating, holier–than–thou grin splitting his oily boat–race. My Samsung Galaxy vibrated then chirp–chirp–chirped into life. I walked the call outside to the postage stamp sized beer garden. The air was thick as treacle with a permanent stink of piss, sick and desperation. Daylight was bleeding out of a cold, damp day. Ominous swollen black clouds filled the sky. Cemetery weather as my granddad would say. Pulling up my jacket collar I fired up a Silk Cut and listened to the joy in Mrs Fallon voice.

  “I really can’t thank you enough for bringing Mickey home, Mr Valentine.”

  “It was my pleasure, Mrs F.”

  “I can stretch to a little more money.” she said with a touch of hesitancy. “Put a cheque in the post?”

  “There’s really no need,” I lied. “It’s all covered by my original fee.”

  Wishing her all the best I quickly ended the call before I changed my mind. Thinking sadly it was only a matter of time before Mickey broke her heart all over again. It’s what boys do. Something we never grow out of.

  The UKIP geezer was giving a boozer–faced, xenophobic rant direct to camera; bristling with piss and vinegar. The interviewer was making a right old pigs–ear of controlling the discussion. Absurdly the UKIP bigot was blaming the immigrant population for the country’s chronic traffic congestion.

  Jeez, I thought. What madness! What’s friggin’ next? “Jeez,” I said loudly. “What madness! What’s friggin’ next?”

  The drunken bum stirred, raising his head slowly, looking around confusingly as if he’d awoken in some bizarre and alien land. “For fucks sake! Who is this mug?” he shouted at the gogglebox. He raised both hands in mock surrender before delivering the coup de grâce: “Can we not just switch this bloody lunatic off?”

  “Amen to that, brother” I said softly, hammering the whiskey down in one.

  WEDGE

  Keith Nixon

  Konstantin Boryakov drained the glass, slammed it down on the bar. He was drinking alone, as usual, beset with anger, frustration and loss, as usual also. This was what he did and where he came when he felt like a punch up, however today everyone was elsewhere. But it was 8am.

  “Another?” asked Richard, landlord of the sleaziest pub in town. A man with aspirations well below his summit. Everyone called him Dick, because he was. He picked up the glass, held it expectantly, the potential for a top–up of watered down alcohol (in the same vessel, of course) an excitement for him.

  “No.”

  “Suit yourself.” Dick looked pissed off, scraped a palm across his skull which was more grease than hair. But he didn’t move away, there was no–one else to serve.

  It was because Konstantin missed her, despite the trouble she’d caused and, if she returned, more than likely would create further difficulties all over again. Konstantin pushed the stool back, left the pub without a backward glance. He swung a leg over his crappy looking motorbike, a Royal Enfield Bullet – like him there was much more to it than met the eye. He gave the starter a vicious kick and wondered once more where she was.

  Fidelity Brown.

  ***

  “What the fuck is this place?” said the older of the Stanley twins. He stretched, pushed the mop of ginger hair out of his blinking eyes.

  To his left white capped waves rolled onto a seaweed strewn beach beneath a lead grey sky, the sun levering itself over the horizon as if a drunk getting out of bed. To his right was the multi–coloured flicker of the amusement arcades. They were like a faded tattoo on an aged prostitute’s arm, marking far better days long gone.

  “Margate,” replied the other Stanley, the significantly better looking and tanned of the pair, the purchaser of multiple men’s health and well–being products. He was the Preener, Ginger the believer – specifically in the after–life. Biological twins, the offspring of a prostitute who had as much a penchant for class A drugs as cock so off her face their mother, and no–one else for that matter, could remember the names the twins had been given at birth, or their father. They were vicious little bastards who together ruled their manor with an iron fist within which they pulled the strings and others did their bidding. But home was hundreds of miles north and they’d ventured out alone on a special mission.

  “Where?” Ginger asked. He stretched over and leant into the back seat, grabbed a can of beer and popped the ring pull. Took a deep gulp.

  “If you hadn’t slept the whole way you’d know,” said Preener.

  “And if you hadn’t set off in the dead of night I wouldn’t have felt the need to shut my eyes.”

  Preener sighed, said, “We’re south of London, nearer France than the capital.”

  Ginger snorted, “Both are shite.”

  “No argument from me on that one.”

  Preener swung round the car a corner, didn’t bother to indicate, left the sea view behind. E
ntered narrow streets, high terraced buildings occupied by fast food joints and bars. Ginger finished the beer and tossed the empty out the window.

  A quarter of a mile further on Preener pulled up to the kerb. He compared the name on the piece of paper in his fist to that on the sign which swung overhead. He could hear the creak of unoiled metal rubbing against itself. The words matched.

  “This is it.”

  “Good, let’s get this shit done and fuck off home.”

  The Stanley’s got out of the car, didn’t bother to lock up. It was on double yellows, but they didn’t care. They never paid fines at home because they were never served.

  Preener detected the tang of salt and seaweed in the chill air.

  “Think I’ll need Sandra?” asked Ginger.

  “No.”

  “I don’t like her being in the boot.”

  “Well I wish you’d have left her at home.”

  Ginger looked up at a squawk, distracted from the long–running argument. A gull the size of a suitcase swooped overhead. “Fuckers,” he said

  “Don’t even think about it,” said Preener. Ginger had a habit of shooting birds at home. “Just get inside.”

  ***

  Konstantin entered his abode, a row of seemingly dilapidated and abandoned houses. But the exterior was very different to the interior which was neat, new and functional. He hung his leather jacket up next to his stained green airman’s coat, the article he wore when incognito, when prowling the town avoiding other people’s troubles, when he was a tramp.

  He bypassed the kitchen, ignored the coffee machine. He didn’t need any more stimulation right now. Instead he headed for the gym, stripped down to shorts and a thin vest, strapped grubby bandages around his knuckles and began to pound on the punch–bag which ducked and weaved in time to the crashing blows from the Russian’s experienced fists.

  ***

  Preener took an instant dislike to both the landlord and the pub as soon as he crossed the threshold. There was the smell of stale beer, smoke and the taint of weed cut through with body odour.

  “What can I get you?” said the guy as Preener closed the gap, feet sticking to the floor, his brother following close behind.

  “A beer.”

  The landlord smiled, drew off a pint, slid it over the bar. Preener didn’t like the look of it and left the glass untouched.

  “That’s four quid, mate,” said the landlord.

  “I never pay for my drinks and I’m not your mate.”

  “Well you can’t be having it for nothing.”

  “That’s exactly what’s going to happen.”

  “Eh? Nothing’s free in this life.”

  “You’re mistaken there. It’s Dick, right?”

  “No, it’s Richard,” he bristled.

  “This place, it’s a shithole, Dick.”

  “Now you’re getting personal. What do you want?”

  “Information.”

  “That’s definitely a commodity which comes at a price.”

  “You don’t get it, do you? I’m not asking, I’m telling.”

  Richard crossed his arms, displayed a rare backbone. “Well, fuck you.”

  Preener turned to his brother, said, “Want to go and get Sandra?”

  Ginger smiled. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Whilst his brother was outside Preener picked up the pint and took a mouthful. He gagged and spat it on the floor. “What the fuck is that?”

  “It’s called Richard’s Tipple. I brew it myself.”

  “Christ, it’s awful! It should be called Dick’s Dribble.”

  “No one’s ever complained about it before,” lied Dick.

  Ginger chose that moment to return. With Sandra. Richard blanched at what he beheld.

  “This is my wedge,” said Ginger and swung the golf club a few times. There was a meaty swoosh as the metal cleaved its way through the air, now heavy with fear and anticipation.

  “Okay.” Dick looked unsure, stepped backwards until his backside nudged the optics.

  At a nod from Preener Ginger crossed to a juke box and crashed the head of the club into the glass. The sound was huge in the confined space and Richard cringed.

  “What do you want?”

  “It’s not what, but who.”

  This time, Dick answered the questions.

  “Thanks,” said Preener when he had what he wanted.

  And then Ginger hit Dick with Sandra.

  ***

  Konstantin Boryakov paused, put out a bound hand to stop the swinging punch bag at the unfamiliar sound. Sweat bloomed at his armpits, cascaded down his forehead. He breathed heavily; beating the crap out of an inanimate object had done little to satisfy his inner turmoil.

  It was his landline. Only a couple of people had that number, and one of those had disappeared.

  He stepped away from the bag, reached out a paw and picked up the receiver, heart in his mouth.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s me,” said Ken.

  “I know.”

  “Someone is looking for Fidelity.”

  Konstantin gripped the phone, not really believing the words that had drifted into his ear.

  “Say that again.”

  Ken did. “Two men, they fucked up Dick. He’s on the way to hospital. He called me before he hit the ambulance.”

  “No idea who they are.”

  “Me either. But they’re coming to the club. Dick sent them on a wild goose chase first to give us some time.”

  Despite himself Konstantin was impressed. “I’m on my way.”

  ***

  “We’re closed.”

  Preener peered through the gloom to see who’d spoken. His eyes struggled to adjust after the relative brightness outside. He caught movement behind the bar. He stepped closer, saw a short man, heavily inked skin atop taut muscles, no question mark behind his pupils, as if he knew why they were here. Preener was glad he’d told his brother to bring the wedge this time – no way was he calling it Sandra – this one was a far more dangerous proposition than Dick.

  Preener leant on the bar, stitched a barracuda smile on his features. Watched as the man called Ken continued polishing glasses, placing them back on the shelf one by one.

  “I’m looking for someone,” said Preener.

  “So?”

  “I’ve been told you’re the man to see around here when a person doesn’t want finding.”

  Ken stayed as silent as the nightclub’s PA system, his eyes as dead as the overhead lights.

  “You’re a bit far from home aren’t you?” said Ken. “By your accent that is.”

  “With your help, not for long.”

  “Help doesn’t come for free.”

  “I’ve heard that a lot today.”

  “We have money.” Preener put some high denomination notes on the damp wooden surface, hoped his brother wouldn’t protest.

  “Uh–huh. Who are you after?”

  “Fidelity Brown.”

  Ken didn’t break from his task. “Why?”

  “You don’t need to know that. Do you know where she is?”

  Ken placed the glass he’d just polished onto the bar. Reached beneath it and brought up a bottle of spirits, see through, no label attached. He unscrewed the cap, poured himself a shot and knocked it back. He put the empty onto the cash.

  “Want one?” said Ken.

  Preener didn’t, too early, but knew there was an etiquette to follow. “Sure.”

  Ken grabbed another couple of glasses to go with the bottle, walked out from behind the bar. He headed over to a table, slid his arse across the fake leather. Preener joined him, but Ginger stayed standing, the wedge over his shoulder.

  “So, where is she?”

  “Why do you want her?” asked Ken, poured three shots.

  Preener wasn’t inclined to answer, but he guessed correctly that Ken wouldn’t be forthcoming unless he offered something up first. Also etiquette. He tossed back the drink. Schnapps, some
fruity shit he didn’t recognise.

  “She owes us money.”

  “And she got my medium killed,” chipped in Ginger.

  Preener passed a hand across his face, annoyed with his brother for raising bullshit about the paranormal.

  “I don’t know where she is, it’s been months since she was last in town.”

  Stanley stared at Ken but couldn’t read him. Decided he didn’t have the time to screw around.

  He slid a business card across the table. “Call me if you think of anything.” He turned to his brother, said, “Let’s go.”

  “Don’t be in such a hurry to leave. I’ve called someone who may be able to help.”

  “Who?”

  With perfect timing there was the roar of a large engine in a confined space to the rear of the club. With one last theatrical, throaty rev the note died. The fire exit crashed back, the space filled by a large man. A very large man. He stepped inside, shut the door and darkness reclaimed the interior.

  Preener looked at Ken with a question on his face. For the first time the nightclub owner smiled and Preener, for the first time also, felt an unfamiliar tingle of fear.

  The man arrived at the table, loomed over it. He wore a leather jacket over a thin vest soaked with perspiration. Above a thick beard hard eyes glared.

  “Fidelity Brown,” he said, “where is she?”

  “That’s what we want to know.”

  And that’s when Ginger swung Sandra and everything went pear shaped.

  ***

  The postman looked again at the card in his hand, then at the house. He shook his head, convinced it wasn’t right. Who’d send this here? The image one that would have been found in any seaside town thirty years ago, loaded with innuendo and bursting with boobs.

  Then again it was better for him to get shot of the thing, rather than take it back to the sorting office. That would just mean extra work.