by Ian Woodhead
Kevin shrieked and raced for his bedroom.
Chapter Three
That sneaky landlord must have changed the beer again. The swill flowing down his throat was not Hobgoblin. He’d swapped the expensive stuff for some cheapo knock off homebrew. Ernest Belmont would put real cash down on that little factoid. He sighed before lifting the glass and draining the last of the pint.
“Same again?”
Ernest nodded. He shouldn’t really complain. The stuff sliding down his throat wasn’t the worst that he’d tasted, in fact, it was a damn sight better than the vile potions that they usually served in the Horse and Jockey.
He watched his drinking pal, Jeff, wobble over to the bar for refills. The next lot would be pint number five. Judging by Jeff’s coordination, or lack thereof, maybe they ought to slow down. If the stuff they were chucking down their necks was indeed home-brew, Christ knew how strong it was. Hell, the potency probably altered with each pint.
Ernest needed to take it steady. Unlike his pal, Ernest had to get up early for work in the morning.
He leaned back and absently dug his finger into one of the numerous holes sliced into the once plush green upholstery, and allowed a tiny smirk to play on his face. Listen to him, getting sensible all of a sudden. Ernest frowned; only it wasn’t all of a sudden, was it? His house-breaking days were well and truly over. It must be nearly nine years now since he’d last done a burglary. He’d been working at the mini-market for Mr. Singh for six years now.
Two pints slopped down on the table.
“What’s up with you, Ernest? You’ve got a face like a smacked arse. No, wait, let me guess. Your lass is pissing you off, or maybe that dirty Paki at work giving you a hard time again?”
Ernest shook his head. “I wish you wouldn’t call him that, Jeff. My boss is a decent bloke. Mr. Singh treats me okay. The man worked bloody hard to get where he is. I’m telling you, that bloke never fucking stops. He’s probably at the store right now, beavering away.”
Jeff laughed before carefully picking up his pint glass. “Don’t give me that, Ernest. You worked bloody hard to get where you were and then you gave it all away to stack fucking beans on a shelf for a shitty wage. No wonder that bastard can afford a new BMW every year.”
“They put me away, Jeff. When I left that hell, I found that my son had turned into a thug.” He picked up his own pint and took a swallow, grimacing at the taste. This one was even worse than the last pint. “It almost broke my wife in two. Having spare cash and lots of fancy electronics isn’t worth the pain.”
Why did his mate always have to bring this topic up? Jeff went over the same old ground at least once a week. It was getting boring now. He tried to think of something else to say but his mind kept coming up with blanks. He’d known Jeff ever since they were kids, and after over forty years of friendship they must have exhausted all topics of conversation at least twice over.
“What do you think of the beer?” he asked, hoping Jeff would take the hint and lay off with the ‘worst career move you ever did’ speech. Christ knows what his mate would say if he told him that his lad was following in his father’s footsteps, despite Ernest giving him all those dire warnings. Knowing Jeff, he would probably say that it was a good career move.
Jeff nodded. “This is bloody good stuff. Mind you, my taste buds are all shot to fuckery tonight anyway. I made myself a well hot curry for tea.”
“Are you having a laugh? Since when did you start to like curries?”
Jeff shook his head and downed a half pint of liquid before answering. “Since never, you know I can’t stand all that foreign shit.” He belched. “But I read this article somewhere that hot and spicy food gets shut of migraines, so I thought, in for a penny, in for a pound, and all that. I also raided the medicine cabinet too. I’m telling you, Ernest, my belly’s fucking rattling.”
“That’s weird,” Ernest replied. “Our Brenda’s had a headache all day as well, maybe there’s something going round.”
“I fucking doubt that, Ernest. She’s a woman, you know what they’re like. They always have headaches. No, what I’ve got is something worse. I may have to see the doctor about it in the morning.”
The way Jeff was slinging those drinks back, Ernest doubted that the pisshead would even see tomorrow morning. He slowly got to his feet, deciding that it was time to empty the old bladder.
“While you’re up, you might as well get the next ones in.”
Ernest didn’t really want another nasty-tasting beer, at least not yet. Hell, he’d only taken a sip out of this glass. Besides, he only had a couple of notes to last him until next week. He looked down at Jeff’s smirking face and lifted up his almost full pint; he swallowed before opening his mouth and knocking back the pint.
“Another beer it is, Jeff.” He picked up both glasses and wandered over to the empty bar. He didn’t have much choice in the matter. Ernest couldn’t discuss his money problems with Jeff. The conversation would just wind back to the inevitable. Ernest placed the glasses on the bar.
“Fill ‘em up again will you, sweetheart?”
The barmaid smiled and nodded before reaching for the glasses.
“Wait on! I was here first.”
Ernest and the barmaid both looked at the short man slumped against the bar. He silently groaned when he saw who it was; Steve Reynolds had been his personal pain in the arse ever since nursery. He lived a couple of streets away from Ernest, just behind the old graveyard. As a kid, Ernest often had fantasies of burying him in there, preferably tied up and still alive. Come to think of it, he’d still like to put the miserable bastard in the ground.
Steve gripped the edges of the bar and turned to face Ernest; it took a moment for the man’s eyes to focus but when they did, Steve scowled. “I should have fucking known it would be you. Buy me a fucking beer, you twat.”
Oh, this was just brilliant. The man was as drunk as a lord. Reynolds was a bastard at the best of times, but when he had a few beers inside him, he just got plain mean.
He nodded over to the woman, “One for him as well.”
Ernest was going to end up with bugger all at this rate, but it was best to keep on Steve’s good side; when his mouth stopped talking, the fists came out to play. His Brenda had told him loads of times how Steve knocked the crap out of his wife and kids when he’d had a skinful. Ernest never understood why Brenda hung around with her in the first place. She knew full well the history he and Steve had.
He wondered what the pissed up knob-end would do if he ever found out that it was Ernest who broke into his home fifteen years ago and stole the family’s savings he’d found in the cornflake box in the kitchen, and then trashed the place. Ernest would have loved to have seen Steve’s face when he arrived home that day, especially when he climbed the stairs and looked into his bedroom to see that huge turd in the middle of his bed.
“Him? Who the fuck is ‘him’ supposed to be, the cat’s father?”
“Sorry, I meant Steve,” he hastily replied.
Ernest backed off and headed over to the toilets before Steve could have another pop at him.
“Wait up you, I ain’t finished with you.”
Ernest’s heart began to speed up. So the line had already been crossed, oh great. He watched Steve slide off the barstool.
“Come on Steve, aren’t we a little too old for this type of nonsense?” he said, desperately trying to defuse the situation.
“What, so I’m too old, am I now?”
He desperately looked across at his mate, hoping to attract his attention. Fat chance of getting back up from him, the pisshead had his head on the table. He looked like he’d dropped off to sleep. Oh bloody hell; the last thing he needed right now was to get into a fight with this idiot.
The door behind the bar creaked open, saving Ernest from a beating. The landlord’s wife walked out, closely followed by Desmond Naylor. Seeing that huge bloke with his ham-sized paws wrapped around the woman’s waist came as a bit of a s
hock to Ernest. He’d heard the rumours that Des was sniffing around Annie now that she’d managed to get rid of her husband. He had no idea that he was staying in the pub.
Des nodded to Ernest. “You alright?”
Ernest nodded back, unintentionally copying the big man’s posture. Desmond’s hair was soaked and his t-shirt clung to his large chest; he even had some soap in his ear. Ernest wondered if he dared tell him. The bloke did look unusually chilled out. It wasn’t that hard to figure out what those two had been doing in the bathroom.
He breathed a sigh of relief, safe in the knowledge that the tosser wouldn’t dare try anything with Des standing right behind the bar, giving Steve the evil glare.
“I hope you ain’t upsetting folk again, shortarse.”
Steve visibly cringed and tried to smile. It was not a pretty sight. “Of course not,” he replied. “We’re just having a bit of a laugh, that’s all. Ernest offered to buy me a drink.”
He made that announcement sound as if Ernest buying that nasty fucking dwarf a pint was somehow genuine proof of their everlasting friendship.
Desmond laughed out loud; a fresh pint had magically appeared next to the big man’s left hand. “Don’t you try to bullshit me; you’ve been a right little twat to my mate, Ernest, ever since he was knee high to a grasshopper.”
To be fair, Desmond did a fair amount of slapping when they were both kids as well, but that stopped when they’d both turned over a warehouse filled with knock-off trainers on the outskirts of Bradford fifteen years ago.
“I think you’ll find that it’s you who’s buying Ernest a drink.”
“Don’t forget me!” shouted a voice from their table.
That was just like Jeff. Where the hell was his friend when Steve was having a go at him? Ernest retreated to the toilets, grinning from ear to ear when he heard Desmond calmly informing Steve that he was paying for his pint too.
Ernest was grateful that the gents were deserted. He leaned back against the tiles and closed his eyes, enjoying the silence and the solitude. He waited for his heart to slow down before he padded over to the urinals.
Steve Reynolds had been inside for GBH, grievous bodily harm, for the best part of five years. He’d only just been released. Those bliss-filled nights of being able to walk into his favourite watering hole without the risk of being hassled were well and truly over. He couldn’t expect Desmond to watch his back every night.
The Horse and Jockey was the only pub in the middle of the estate. There were a couple of other pubs within walking distance – the Crown and the Black Bull – but there was no way that he’d dare show his face in either of those two. The locals from the Breakspear Rise estate had claimed them.
Ernest finished his business and made his way to the door. He didn’t want to go to another pub anyway. Why the bloody hell should he? He liked it here. This place had been his second home since he was sixteen.
He jumped back when the door pushed open from the other side and a young lad wearing a bright orange shirt wandered in. He nodded to Ernest and he nodded back. He didn’t know the lad from Adam. Oh, he’d seen him in the pub a few times, but that was about as far as it went, but they both drank in the same place so therefore they nodded to each other. The regulars in the Horse and Jockey all considered themselves to be part of the same family. It was that fucking Steve Reynolds who didn’t belong. He was the one who ought to bugger off.
Ernest grabbed the door handle and wished for the bastard to get sent down again. He re-entered the lounge and made his way up to the bar to collect his drinks. Ernest noted with great relief that Steve’s bar stool was now vacant. He hoped that the man had pissed off out of the pub or, even better, had a heart attack and died.
His heart sank when he spotted him in the games room, arguing with one of the youngsters next to the dartboard.
“How’s your lad doing?” asked Ernest. “I haven’t seen him around ours for a couple of weeks.”
He didn’t really wish to start a conversation with big Des, but if Steve happened to look over and saw them two getting all friendly, there was less chance of him coming back over. It would, of course, piss Jeff off too, knowing that his beer was getting warm and Ernest obviously having no inclination to bring it over.
Desmond unwrapped his arms from around the barmaid’s waist and pulled himself another pint. “Well, apart from this bloody headache, I’m pretty good. Hey, our Ashton’s at your place tonight, mate, along with half the teenagers on Breakspear.” Desmond smirked at Ernest’s shocked expression. “Oh dear, I’m guessing that you didn’t know that your son was having a drug-crazed party then?”
He shook his head. No, he didn’t have a bloody clue. He was going to tear Darren a new arsehole for pulling a stunt like this. Bloody hell, they’d just bought a new carpet for the living room as well. The thing would be ruined by the time this party ended.
“Your house is going to be in a right state.”
Ernest picked up the two pints, ignored Desmond’s smirking face, and walked back over to his table; he was willing to put down his next wage that Brenda knew all about this party. Hell, she’d probably helped to organize it too.
“You took your bloody time,” Jeff said.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I had no idea that you were timing me. If had have known that, I would have run.”
Ernest placed the pints down on the table, gave Jeff a mucky look and collapsed into the seat. “Anyway, it’s about time you slowed down. You’re supping the stuff like its pop. You’re gonna be three sheets before last orders at this rate.”
Jeff grabbed his fresh pint like a starving man reached for the plate of roast beef. His friend was behaving very strangely tonight, stranger than normal anyway.
“Ere, did you know that our Darren was having a party tonight?”
Jeff nodded. “Sure, our Billy took his new bird there.”
“And you didn’t think of informing me?”
Jeff shrugged. “With it being your own fucking house, I had the feeling that you might already know.”
Ernest pulled a lump of foam out of the seat and rolled it between his fingers before flicking it under the table. “No wonder this place is like a bloody morgue tonight, they’ll all be at the party, wrecking my house.”
Jeff put his glass down; he’d already drunk three-quarters. “I don’t think they’ll all be at your gaff.”
He had a point there. The old fellow who propped up the end of the bar at weekends was missing. Ernest couldn’t remember his name, Dennis or David, something like that. Somehow he doubted that he’d be getting down with the kids. That reminded him, he hadn’t seen the guy’s wife for weeks; he wondered if she had passed away.
He scanned the bar and saw that Scary Mary was missing too. She propped up the other end of the bar and never missed a night.
“I wonder where Mary is. I hope she isn’t at my house.”
A foil packet had appeared in the palm of Jeff’s trembling hand. He had four white caplets in his hand already and was busy popping the rest out. “Don’t talk daft, why would she be at your place? The fat bitch will probably be in bed with an electric blanket over her head.” He threw the caplets in his mouth and swallowed them down with the last dregs of his beer. “And that is where I should be tonight.”
“In Scary Mary’s bed?”
“No, you fucking unfunny bastard, I mean in my bed.”
“So why aren’t you?”
He caught sight of Desmond lip dancing with the landlady and turned away, bloody hell! It looked like he was trying to eat her. That sort of nonsense belonged out of sight. It was putting him right off his beer.
“Because it’s Friday night, of course,” Jeff replied. “It’s what we’ve always done ever since we left school, at least it was until you got that bloody job.”
“What are you on about? I’ve had the job at the minimarket for the past six years.”
Jeff frowned. “Are you sure? It only feels like a week to me.” He stood up a
nd leaned on the table. “I think I’d better get some fresh air, I don’t feel so good.”
Ernest watched his mate stagger over to the pub door. Maybe he ought to walk the lad home, there was definitely something up with him tonight and it wasn’t the beer.
He picked up his own glass; he didn’t really want it but there was no way that he was going to let it go to waste. He was determined to drink the bloody stuff just for the principle.
The glass slipped through his fingers when an ear-piercing scream shattered the silence. He looked around wildly for the source. His dazed eyes stopped at the bar and refused to move. This could not be happening. Desmond still held the woman tight, but the embrace was no longer a tender one.
She struggled like a fish on the end of a line as he lifted her by the neck off the carpet. Desmond growled, then bit into her face and tore off a lump of flesh; he spat the piece out and dived back in for more.
Ernest’s stomach churned and he felt hot bile climbing up his throat. No way could this be real. It had to be someone’s idea of a very sick joke.
The screamer let out another blast and Ernest discovered that Desmond wasn’t the only freak in the Horse and Jockey that evening. He finally tore his gaze away from the big man crunching into the still woman’s exposed skull as if it was a fucking apple and looked over to the dartboard.
Steve Reynolds had pinned a young blonde girl against the wall. She was the screamer. Both her hands were against his head. She desperately tried to keep his snapping jaws away from her own face.
Ernest stood up. “What the fuck are you doing?” he screamed.
The crazed man didn’t react, but Desmond did. He dropped the woman’s body and groaned aloud.
Ernest could see that the girl’s strength was beginning to fail. He looked around the empty pub, frantically searching for somebody else who could help the poor girl. There was only him and the boy in the bright shirt. That kid would be no use, he was too busy huddled in the corner of the games room, clutching a pool cue as if it were a teddy bear.