Bullets, Teeth & Fists

by Jason Beech

  “You’re right; the sauces are to die for.”

  “I told you,” Jack said to the old man who had poked Teresa with his walking stick.

  “Now, how about I hold your little one for the first time?”

  “Sit down first, Brendan, your legs are a little shaky.”

  As Brendan made himself comfortable, Jack glanced over the fence. Above the only For Sale sign in the square, he noticed Teresa’s curtain twitch.

  The Tree

  1.

  Will awoke happy that the woman he had slept with the night before had gone. He enjoyed mornings by himself without the need for conversation more sophisticated than a grunt. He thought her name began with a G, but he couldn't remember. He quite liked her. Maybe another date is on the cards. He had her number somewhere.

  To business.

  He drove to his new acquisition one-handed, a bacon-egg-and-sausage sandwich in the other. He balanced the iPhone on a lap, his acceleration leg always alert to its slide down the side of the seat. The weaves in and out of traffic didn’t help. Why so many drivers at this time of the morning?

  “Let me zone out, you assholes.”

  He patted his pocket. He might need its contents.

  He arrived at the woodland and stepped out of his Land Rover. Greeted his site manager, Andy, with a handshake he hoped would tell him who ranked highest.

  “Everything is feasible, right?” Will said.

  “Everything, if we can keep that lot in check.” Andy thumbed back to the shell of a house, overgrown with weeds. A tree’s branches stuck through the windows like they wanted to steal its goods.

  The house stood tidier than when he had first seen it. A group of … he had lost count … environmentalist hippy bastards had occupied the building and made it their base for protest. They lived in a land of Tinker Bells if they thought he wouldn't chop up this wood – on top of their heads if he had to – if it suited him. They should know this after the last time. Environ-mental-ists had occupied an old house on his last property. He didn’t know anybody resided within when he had ordered it burned. Of course he had to face an inquiry and pay a small fine for negligence, but he knew the right people, and hedgehogs got snug in bonfires before being lit. Nobody checked those, did they? His argument, as weak as he knew it, got him through.

  Still, campaign-journalists had got to him. Called him all the polite versions of bastard their trust-fund educated minds could muster – internet sites labelled him all the impolite variations. He listened. Some of their arguments latched to him like a mussel on an old tin boat. Nature could soothe the eyes, and it helped sell his builds. He came here now to feel it, to embrace their argument. He did not promise anything to himself, he had a business after all, and a new property to exploit. He wanted a family someday and he needed a legacy. His kids would not struggle as he had.

  He set off with Andy into the deep. A good start: he enjoyed the cool beneath the trees. Ignored the musty smell and the damp which disturbed his well-tended skin regimen. The sunshine poured laser-like shards through the gaps in the leaves and exposed the occasional woodland beast - if you could call squirrels beasts - before shade folded them out of sight again. The variation in the ground’s surface held his attention for a while. Tree roots sprung out at angles unaligned with his view of order. They jarred his comfort in straight lines and easy-on-the-eye curves. He soon saw potential, however; maybe he could incorporate them into his buildings. Make this wood a cleaner and more civilized forest after he had chopped it down. Very pleasant.

  “What do you think, Andy? Are these woods worth saving?”

  He turned to his contractor.

  “Andy?” The woodland suppressed his voice.

  Had he gone behind some tree for a piss? They had walked some distance. He could not see the dilapidated house and its mossy inhabitants. He called out again. The ass had gone back and left him alone. With nature. Something brushed his head and made him swing round, his skin no longer wet solely from the damp.

  A rustle to his left. He had 20:20 eyesight and could catch the sight of an animal straight away. He almost convinced himself this place hosted ghosts. He jogged a little to shake his nerves. He used running as a filing exercise. He compartmentalized as his feet dodged thorn bushes and tree roots, and rationalized his fears. His breath came out ragged. A place like this should fill you with oxygen.

  He had strayed far from his Land Rover and circled to where he had started running five minutes before. Sap splashed on his shirt, like a tree had spat on him. He looked up: that’s some tree. It skyscrapered above him. Its boughs took charge of every sight-line. He sat against another tree, a slight hollow the perfect seat.

  “Okay, I’ll get into nature.” He lifted his arms in surrender mode.

  He needed a little help. Dug into his pockets and pulled out his stuff. He swallowed one and focused on the natural world. Leaves remained green, the dirt brown. Those hippies had no idea. Lonesome is all he felt. Even in the company of friends this would have tedium installed in every branch. He belonged in civilization, where he had women to ogle. Where cleanliness let you lounge on your floor at will; where trees and animals had their place – as an adornment to brick and mortar property. This tree before him, for example, would make a property. It had presence.

  “I’m nobody’s property.” The huge tree growled.

  Will blinked once. He held off another for a moment, before it set off a domino effect.

  “Hello?” His voice phutted into the wilderness. This this thing didn’t, couldn’t, talk.

  “Don’t pretend you can’t hear me, you fuck.”

  “Wha… wh… w…” He attempted to stand, but the tree he sat on gripped him tight.

  “Yes, look at me.” A branch snapped towards him like a click of fingers. “I’m real, you parasite.”

  Will watched its roots throb like veins angered. He couldn’t see any mouth or eyes, to show normal expression. But it certainly talked.

  “I’ve heard on the vine that you intend to chop all these trees down.”

  “Who told you that?”

  The tree swooped an accusing branch at him. “Don’t you fucking insult my intelligence. I know. I am old. Older than every tree in this God-damned place. I know.”

  Will didn’t know whether to laugh or take it seriously. Is this one of those stupid talking trees he saw in that Lord of the Rings movie? Surely not, those things took ten years to complete a sentence, and drove patience out of the mouth in expletives. He laughed and received a cut cheek for his cheek.

  “Ouchhhhhha.”

  “Now you know I’m real, and you know I know your plans.”

  Those hippies really did talk to trees. Who knew they listened? Or talked in deep Cockney accents?

  “So listen to me.”

  “I’m listening.” Will rubbed salt from his eyes.

  “You’re going to keep this land, but you will maintain it. You will never chop another tree down as long as you live, because you will not live long if you do.”

  He nodded in agreement.

  “Now, William … it is William, right?”

  “It is.”

  “Look at me closely.”

  Look at what in particular? With humans you looked into their eyes. You looked at anything else - apart from the odd polite glance away - and people considered you rude. Where did you settle your gaze on a talking tree the size of Donald Trump’s ego? He squeezed his eyes shut and picked a spot as he reopened them.

  “Are you looking, you little bastard?”

  “I’m looking.” His thrust out his hands, fingers splayed to emphasize his sincerity.

  “Look closer.”

  Will strained his eyes. The tree’s knotted roots extended into its trunk. It looked ripped. It could rip him in two – into quarters. He doubled his efforts. There – it bulged from its trunk. He saw legs, Stretch Armstronged arms, spindly fingers which appeared as if pulled from their sockets. It had no head and its groin seemed
severed.

  “Andy?” Will choked.

  “Yes.” The tree lashed him again. Cut his other cheek. “Now, do you hear my fucking message?”

  “Yes.” Will whimpered. “I do… I really do.”

  “Good … Now do one.”

  He ran when released. Avoided as much woodland matter as he could, and ran the tree's message on loop through his head. He formed his vow.

  2.

  His sleep made him flail his arms at imaginary branches. He woke up and checked the mirror. Two scars made his cheeks look like a butt. His eyes shone red and glassy. He doused his face in cold water. It made him fresh, fortified for action. He showered and dressed to broker deals, and had breakfast. Cereal today. Here I am – a new man. He needed to caress his arteries, not clog them.

  He called Gina, the woman he had slept with, and made a date. She skirted around his requests at first, but relented to give him another try.

  He examined his stuff through the Ziploc plastic pouch and poured it all down the toilet bowl. That’s enough of that.

  He punched a number into his phone as he stirred his coffee, now sugar-free. “Hi, is Tommy available?”

  He waited, checked the city from his living room perch in the sky. That’s a lot of traffic down there. A lot of human ants swarmed around concrete trees.

  “Tom, hi … Yes, I’m okay, thank you … You? ... Good.”

  Will combed his hair with sweaty fingers. “About the land I recently bought … yeah, off highway 782, I’ve made up my mind.”

  He let Tom’s concern play out.

  “I want you to send in the bulldozers and all the chain-saws you’ve got … Yeah … I want that wood flattened and every rotten root pulled up.”

  Will surveyed the city again and basked in every straight line and easy-on-the-eye curve.

  Sleep, See

  1. Accepting

  Detective Robert ‘Bob’ Navickas ‘Navvy’ navigated the traffic into Hell’s Kitchen with his upper lip close to his nose, his teeth bared at the sorry excuse for other people’s driving. Public transport must be a better option. He could walk to work quicker. His phone had died, his stomach had nothing in it to halt its rumble, and the summer heat had made chemical changes to his brain. Or something. Time to fit my apartment with central air, he promised himself. The air affected his dreams. The alcohol, too.

  At the station, his sergeant interrupted Robert’s vending machine snack..

  “Karl.” Robert nodded at his boss’ reflection in the machine’s glass.

  “Sergeant Redmond fits better, Bob, use it.” He handed a crisp file over. Robert held it in similar disdain as the snack. “Have a look and then worry a little.”

  “Sure.”

  Sergeant Redmond said, over his shoulder as he walked away, “It’s been a year. Get back with us, or fuck off out the force and see how well hermitry pays.”

  “Is hermitry a word?” Robert looked up from his coffee critique.

  “It is now.”

  He watched the sergeant slouch-walk to his office. That slouch hid a hard-working nut who never laid off until the result came out of the shadows. He banged the door shut after him.

  Robert sat and fiddled with the phone, the soles of his feet staring at officers who walked by his desk. There… no… got it… the phone worked. Voicemails, all from Kris Looper. He would listen later. He let the file rest on his burgeoning belly a moment and gathered a deep breath to take it in. He spilled the photos out. Gruesome as they were, he took them in his stride, used to it all. This stuff only affected him if it involved children. Most other murders had some sort of justification. His wife despised that attitude. Scared her. Should have kept his big mouth shut sometimes.

  His hot coffee spilled and scolded as he came to the close-up of the man’s face. Despite the lacerations, he recognized him. Regardless of the gore and recognition, Robert held his vomit. Max Bendtner’s gashed throat jutted like he wanted to show it to him, the man more useless now than when alive.

  2. Partner

  “Your video games allowed you out?” Robert mock-barked.

  “You don’t know how to iron a shirt?” Laurence offered a wary smile. “You’re old school. You’re almost extinct.”

  Robert did not have a weary smirk for his partner this morning as Laurence got comfortable in the passenger seat. “Spilled coffee on the one I started with. I never iron the spare.”

  “Right. I always thought you wore the spare.”

  “Shut the fuck up. And get a wife before your thumbs fix that way permanently.” He pretended to press PlayStation buttons.

  “You’re my wife. You nag like one.”

  The two detectives bickered to the place of Bendtner’s death. Robert wiped his perspiration when it got too much.

  “The air-con’s on, Bob, why you sweating?”

  “I’m hot, why do you think?”

  “Just sayin’, it’s frosty in here and you have Niagara falling off your mug.”

  They questioned officers, neighbors, local businesses, and the one sister Bendtner had. Nobody knew anything of note, and the sister stared at them, vacant and indifferent.

  “Have I seen this man?” Laurence flicked through and spun the photos for a different angle..

  “Maybe. He was one of my snitches.”

  “I don’t know about him? You kept him from me?”

  Robert brushed him off and made his way back to the car. He needed a sub, even a 7-Eleven heart-stopper would do. “You didn’t need to know this one.”

  “We’re partners.” Laurence skipped to keep up with him.

  “Let’s keep it that way. Concentrate on his murder, nothing else.”

  Robert showed his lip-nose scowl to cut Laurence’s next words before they left his tongue.

  3. Looper Snooper

  Robert took the man’s collar with tight hands and dragged him inside his Queens apartment. Kidney punched the man down and frisked for a weapon. The man held his kidney-side and gasped for breath. Robert pulled his hair to lift his head from the sweat-streaked wooden floor.

  “How the fuck did you find my address?” He found no weapon. Even checkedhis butt-crack.

  The man scuttled from the grip and planted his back against the wall, knees up, neck back, and let the whiskey-fueled air pour in.

  Robert let him gain his breath. Flicked the hairs he had pulled from the man’s head, they floated and mingled with his dog’s molt. “How did you find me?”

  “I have detective skills too, man. I find shit out for you. Good stuff. You think I can’t find you?”

  Robert kept his gun out of sight. An early reveal could lose him information. “What do you want?”

  The man’s racehorse pant calmed. “This is the third one.”

  “I know, Kris. I know.”

  Kris made to get up, but Robert stepped close to enforce his position.

  “Can’t I take a seat?”

  “Yes, the floor.”

  Kris glared defiance. “I’m sorry for you.” He waved at the photographs as if he understood loss. “So don’t treat me like shit, Bob. I’m helping you. I agreed to help you.”

  “You had no choice. I have things on you that mean the buns of your backside are the bread of a sausage sandwich for the rest of your life if you don’t do as I ask.”

  “I’m nothing to you? I know I’m low-life Bob –”

  “Detective.”

  “… Detective … but I know your pain. I am doing this partly for you, but now I’m worried.”

  “About?”

  “Bendtner is the third. Are you doing it? Am I next?”

  “What would I get out of it? I don’t have any results. No hard evidence. Just hearsay. I want to know. Which is why you’ll be wired permanently.”

  “Bob … detective … that’s asking for trouble. Don’t make me wear a tap. They’ll feed me to the pigs –”

  “I’ll feed you to the fucking pigs if you don’t.”

  He escorted Kris Loop
er from his property and told him never to visit his home again. Looper’s eyes screwed tight. Robert could see him close to an explosion, a bug smacked between two hard places.

  He drank Johnny Walker, afraid to sleep, afraid to wake up after, dreaming of death as always.

  4. Partner Smarter

  Hell’s Kitchen's gentrification had not much changed Robert’s opinion of the hole it had once been. Some of that perspective rubbed on his partner, who eyed the district for faults in need of his solutions. Robert tired of listening to his high ideals about how he would clean up. Robert acknowledged that it had indeed been cleaned up.

  “No crime and we’re out of a job. Be thankful for the bastards out there.”

  Larry smiled a condescending smirk he always pulled at Robert’s cynicism. Robert slow-breathed the stomach-knot away.

  “When I’m the Chief of Department, this city will sparkle – a haven for the righteous.”

  “You’re still aiming high, then?” Bob searched his youngish face for irony. He caught only evangelism.

  “Too right. I’ll look after you when I’m your boss, Bob.”

  Robert checked the rearview for witnesses, for a moment tempted to kick Larry through the car door. Larry had started kissing ass. Sergeant Redmond already brought him into his office for pep talks, about how he could go far in the force. He just had to keep his head straight and do the right things. Translation: do as you’re told, follow the code, court city big-wigs, and lose yourself to crow-pecked cream at the top. He would fall, as they all did.

  “You won’t have any influence on the crime rate, Larry.”

  “I can smooth-talk. I'll get police officers on every corner. Criminals will have nowhere to hide.”

  “You just out of the police academy? The taxpayer wouldn’t stand for it. Hell’s Kitchen's rent-rises reduced the crime rate. Bread and butter policing is now chasing grand larceny. The old desperate criminals have been displaced. They’re still around; they just can’t afford to live here anymore. Their crime is elsewhere.”