by Ian Woodhead
He shrugged, “I hope not, but I stopped tempting the three sisters of fate a long time ago.”
“Just out of interest, did anything odd happen while you were working at your uncle’s firm?”
He nodded, “On the first day, the lathe operator got his finger crushed.”
“Oh, Jesus,” she muttered.
Chapter Three
Dominic Edmonton leaned around the corner of the hallway wall and peered down the stairs, the mental picture of his mother standing at the bottom with her arms crossed tight across her chest evaporated when he found it empty.
With a bit of luck and stealth, he might actually be able to escape out of the house without his blinking mother collaring him. Dominic would have to be super quiet though; her finely tuned sense of hearing would put a bat to shame.
“You’re forty two years old, my friend, and you’re still shit scared of mummy.”
His best friend at work, Douglas, said those words to him last week. What utter nonsense, Dominic wasn’t scared of his mother; well, not anymore he wasn’t. Those days were long gone. Back when he was a kid, she was like a tyrant; the woman terrified him. After he’d gone through his rebellious teen period and emerged on the other side, he began to realise just how hard it must have been for her. His father left an inexperienced mother with a highly-strung four-year-old boy and a mountain of debt that she couldn’t possibly pay back.
Dominic turned around and grabbed his bedroom door handle. He supposed that under the circumstances his mother did a sterling job, and he really shouldn’t blame her for his miserable childhood. Today, though, was one of those rare occasions when Dominic really wished that he could work up the courage to move out and find his own place. She’d been on his back ever since he’d opened his fool mouth and told her about the explosion at work last night.
He clicked the door shut, but not before blowing a kiss to his James Dean poster.
“Keep the bed warm for me, sweetheart.”
Dominic chuckled to himself; his poor mum would probably have heart failure if she ever discovered that her only son was ‘one of those fairies’. It had been a good few weeks since he’d been given the tired ‘when are you going to make me a grandma’ speech. One of these days he might even pluck up the courage to tell her, she definitely would have heart failure if he ever did that. Dominic was a little surprised that she hadn’t figured it out herself by now.
Aside from his beloved James Dean poster, the rest of his bedroom walls were covered in picture of faded pop stars from the eighties, they were all male and most were wearing very little clothing. If a huge poster of Andy Bell from Erasure, wearing a skin-tight pink leotard and posing provocatively on his bedroom door wasn’t a large enough clue, then he didn’t know what was.
He turned and padded over to the top of the stairs; his mother was there now, bloody hell! Where had she come from? She stood at the bottom of the stairs with her signature expression already etched upon her face.
“So, you’ve decided to go to work then, to leave your mum, is that why you are smiling?”
“Oh, for crying out loud, mother, we had this conversation a couple of hours ago. What happened last night was just a freak accident.”
“Rubbish,” she snapped. “That boss of yours lets you work with shoddy equipment. I should ring that club up and give your boss a piece of my mind.”
“Don’t you dare. Mr. Crowley has been super good to us, if it wasn’t for my wage the debtors would still be banging on our door.”
Her face dropped into a sulk; oh Jesus God, she was getting ready to guilt trip him again. Dominic patted his back pocket, “Sugar lumps! I’ve forgotten my wallet.”
He spun around, rushed over to his bedroom door and opened it. His tattered leather wallet was still in his back pocket. Turning his back on her signaled the end of the conversation as far as he was concerned; she hated it when he pulled this trick. With a bit of super luck, she’d have lost her momentum and wouldn’t kick up that much fuss when he left the house.
She might even have forgotten what she was doing down there in the first place and buggered off back to watch some silly rubbish on the box.
“Ooh, that’s a horrible thought to have about your poor mother. Take it back.”
He looked over at the lovely James and pouted. “No, I won’t. Make me.” He grinned, imagining his lovely James peeling that hunky body off the poster, climbing onto his bed, and winking at Dominic before ordering him to take off his work’s uniform. Dominic felt a delightful shiver rush down his spine before shutting the door again.
He silently groaned when he saw that his mother was still there. Dominic let out a loud sigh, and descended the stairs. He didn’t look at her, and instead he kept his gaze fixed upon the framed pictures hanging on the wall. Each one depicted him taken at various stages of his life. Three school photos— he didn’t look at those— school wasn’t an enjoyable time for him. His graduation picture, now that one was memorable. His lecturer was gorgeous, he’d spent many hours lusting after that young man. Dominic had dreamed that his lecturer would leave his wife and ask Dominic to move in with him. He suppressed a grin, he had enjoyed his uni years.
He reached the bottom, smiled down at his mum and kissed her on the forehead. “Now, if you are super good, I’ll bring you back some fish and chips.” He kissed her again, opened the door, and stepped out into the night, shutting the door before his mother had time to reply.
His phone vibrated at the same time that Dominic saw his ride. A huge black four-wheel drive truck pulled up on the other side of the street. He grinned and waved, Douglas was punctual, as always. His friend was in charge of security at the club; he also doubled up as cook when the place got super busy. The man’s omelettes were just exquisite, almost as tasty as Dominic’s special eggy concoction.
Dominic giggled at the crude joke that Douglas had just sent him, and then climbed into the passenger seat of Douglas’s car. His friend had only had his new penis extension a couple of days, he was so proud of it. The first time that Dominic had climbed into the plush black leather seat had been yesterday. Douglas had spent the whole journey reading out all the boring statistics; he had never been so glad to see the neon blue sign hanging above the main door of the club in his whole life. He had wondered why Douglas had bothered; he knew that Dominic had no interest in cars. He couldn’t even remember what the car was called, probably something super macho and tough like The Predator or the Rabid Tiger.
He wasn’t all that surprised to see a pair of yellow fluffy dice hanging off the windscreen mirror.
“That’s a rather fine addition to your Sherman tank, young man,” he said, whilst chuckling, “Was it very expensive?”
“Don’t you fucking take the piss!” snapped Douglas.
Dominic recoiled as if the man had physically slapped him. Where had that cutting remark appeared from? Despite his fearsome appearance, and he did look very fierce, Douglas was one of the kindest men that he had met. He risked a sly glance at his companion whilst Douglas was concentrating on the road. With his close cropped Mohican and that tribal tattoo covering half his face, coupled with his super large body, he could give those American wrestlers a run for their money. He wondered what was wrong with his friend; he’d never heard him shout like that. He was usually as playful as a super large puppy dog with Dominic.
Douglas swerved to avoid an oncoming car, “Why don’t you watch where you’re going, you stupid arse.” He looked at Dominic, “Sorry about snapping at you just then, Domino.”
Dominic shrugged and tried to smile back, “No worries.” He watched him turn his attention back to the road, and he wondered if it would be safe to make another passing comment, some funny quip that was bound to cheer the man up. He did look like he needed a bit of happiness in his life.
“By the way, Domino, I saw you eying up that new lad yesterday.” Douglas tutted and slowly shook his head, “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, you’re old enough to be h
is father.”
He was about to return with a snappy comeback when his memory slapped him with a fragment that he’d totally forgotten about.
Just before his beloved gas range cooker had decided to have that hissy fit and a tantrum, that new kid had just entered his lair. Dominic had spotted him and winked. He tried to make it look like a butch wink, not the sort of gesture that could be taken the wrong way, but that was beside the point. He was in his kitchen when the accident occurred. Their shift supervisor, Marlene, told him that the boy had also been working in the lounge on both the stabbing occasions. Dominic wondered if he was reading too much into this.
“You stupid motherfucker!”
Dominic jumped again, watching his friend shake his fist at a car speeding past the truck.
“I’m sorry, Domino, I didn’t mean to startle you. I’ve had this banging fucking headache for most of the afternoon. Nothing I’ve taken has shifted it. It feels like someone is driving red-hot spikes into my brain.”
“Well, I think you need a bit of Dominic TLC, my friend. I’ve got some really strong painkillers in the kitchen, those buggers will sort you out. If you want, when we get to the club, I’ll take you down there and give you one.”
He braced himself for the familiar punch on the arm for making a suggestive remark. Douglas just sighed and nodded.
“Thanks, man,” he muttered.
Dominic got the strangest feeling that his shift tonight was going to be another super queer one.
Chapter Four
It reminded him of the mark of Zorro, or perhaps a lightning bolt. Talbot pulled in next to the curb and switched off the engine. The jagged crack on his dashboard now reminded him of a smile. No, it was more like a sneer. Just fucking great, even his own bastard car was now mocking him.
The minor damage that he’d done to the car when he punched the dashboard concerned him more than the blood pissing out of the back of his hand. If he ever found out which cunt had tried to cut him up a few minutes ago, Talbot would bury the fucker. He wasn’t able to catch the plate but that didn’t matter, there couldn’t be that many porridge brained fuckheads cruising about the town in a modified yank pickup. Because of the work he was in, Talbot knew most of the local dealers. One of them must know who the pickup belonged to.
Christ on a bike, if it hadn’t been for his lightning quick reactions, he would have ploughed straight though that newsagent’s plate glass window.
Talbot closed his eyes. The silent street helped to calm him down, the only sound he could hear was the ticking of the engine cooling off. He needed to compose himself before he left the car. If he didn’t get his temper under control, he was liable to kill that greasy little fucker, and it wouldn’t even matter if he had somehow managed to scrape together the cash he owed, Talbot would pull off his limbs anyway.
He unbuckled his seatbelt, opened his eyes, then pushed his door open allowing the cool night air in. He picked up his thin, black leather gloves off the passenger seat and climbed out of his car. He watched a single drop of blood fall from his knuckle and splash into an oil stained puddle just next to his polished, black shoes. Talbot brought his fist up to his mouth and licked off the remaining blood, his own life fluid was just too precious to waste. Once he’d cleaned up the back of his hand, he donned his gloves. Talbot liked this pair; he called them his business gloves.
Mr. Greasy Fucker did not understand the relevance of the glove wearing ritual just yet, as this was Talbot’s first visit. Christine understood the ritual all too well. He enjoyed her helpless look of terror as she watched him bring the business gloves from out of his back pocket and clothe his hands. She understood the relevance all right.
Talbot walked away from his car and turned onto the street where the lad lived. He had a flat just above a launderette. The greasy scum bag had parked the car that didn’t really belong to him under a streetlight.
“Very sensible,” he muttered.
It was tempting to run his key along the bodywork as he passed the car and then blame the lad for the heinous act, but his car keys stayed in his pocket. There was little point in making up another crime. The scumbag would soon have plenty to think about once Talbot had finished with him.
Talbot paused in front of the flat door. He had forgotten just how much violence his boss had told him to use. This was the lad’s first offence, so it was usual to dispense with a few slaps and generally scare the shit out of them.
Talbot’s hand was stinging like a right bastard, and with the foul mood that he was in already, he suspected that just a few slaps would not be enough, not for Talbot anyway. There was a little more info that his boss had given him except that the greasy fucker lived with a girl.
“If she’s a looker, I might hold off on the slaps altogether.”
He grabbed the door handle, gave it a turn, and was shocked and delighted to find it unlocked. Obviously, the idiot didn’t care much about home security; now that just smacked of twelve shades of stupidity. Greasy Fucker’s flat was right in the middle of one of the city’s roughest areas, not quite as bad as the Breakspear Estate was but fucking close. Not locking your door was just an open invitation; you never knew who could be calling.
Talbot chuckled to himself, “That’s funny.”
He pushed the door wide open. His action spread a pile of unopened brown envelopes across the filthy floor. “Jesus, what a mess, no wonder he doesn’t lock his door, who the fuck would want to burgle this dump?”
The state of the place told him all he needed to know about this particular client.
Greasy Fucker was one of those irritating breeds of males who grazed through life, not caring or understanding that their careless activities would have consequences. He was probably up to his eyeballs in debt before he bought the car from Talbot’s employer.
He stepped over the threshold, being very careful where he placed his shoes. These envelopes could conceal all manner of unpleasant substances beneath them. The place was an absolute disgrace; he saw a pile of empty pizza boxes competing for space with supermarket carrier bags full of god knows what. All the detritus had been kicked to the side, leaving a narrow gap. Talbot couldn’t get over just how many shoes were mixed up with all that crap, lots and lots of high heeled shoes. Was the greasy bastard fucking an octopus?
Talbot couldn’t understand how anyone was able to breeze through their existence leaving a blizzard of crap in their wake. It was also clear to him that Greasy Fucker had been unable to domesticate his woman. Talbot felt his libido begin to retreat, and he now had second thoughts now about forcing the greasy fucker to watch as Talbot violated his woman. If she couldn’t even clean up a small flat, she certainly would be unable to look after herself. Who knows what diseases the mucky bitch must be harbouring? His cock would stay in his trousers where it was safe.
There was more than one way to degrade his client. Talbot was an expert on the subject. He’d had plenty of practice. There was a closed door at the top of the stairs, and some time in its past a window graced the top half of the door, but that had long gone In its place was a badly cut piece of plywood nailed over the hole. He stared at that door, willing one of the occupants to open it, the shock showing in their bunny eyes would be like nectar to his ego.
It was tempting to shout out, but he had no intentions of losing them; he wasn’t a hundred percent sure if this dingy pit had a back entrance. Talbot kicked one of the pizza boxes off the first step and began his ascent. As he climbed he became aware of a faint but familiar odour gradually creeping into his nostrils, and Talbot wrinkled his nose in disgust.
“Why am I not fucking surprised?” he muttered.
It was stale dope smoke. Talbot should have guessed that the greasy fucker and his dirty slag would be druggies. He hated drug users, and Talbot considered them to be the dregs of society. They were all weak minded scum bags who, if he had his way, would be shot in the face.
When he discovered who supplied his son, then that particular dreg wou
ld definitely be eating a shotgun shell. He still had problems believing that his own kin had betrayed him. What if it wasn’t drugs, what if he was sick and needed a hospital? He shook his head. Bollocks, of course it was drugs, the lad was weak minded fool just like his mother. Talbot traced the outline of the key to the dog cage under his shirt.
Tomorrow would be a new day for Brendan. He had decided that enough was enough. Talbot would no longer allow the lad to shame him. It was Christine’s fault, of course. She had always wanted a daughter, but because of the complications after Brendan was born, she couldn’t have any more children. So instead, the bitch turned his only son into some sort of pansy. Well, he’d soon get all that nonsense knocked out of Brendan, he’d recruit the help of a few associates. He’s soon he’d be able to reshape his son and turn him into a real man.
It’s what Talbot’s father did to him when he was a teenager. It shamed him to remember that he was one of those cringing little sneaks that spent his sad life cowering behind other people. Talbot nodded to himself. He should have sorted out his son a long time ago. After all, it didn’t do him any harm. Talbot needed to think of something that would mark the occasion, something that his son would remember for the rest of his life. The lad needed to know that his old effeminate life was now over. He chuckled quietly to himself; he could make him eat the rest of that hamster.
Talbot managed to reach the top of the stairs without soiling his shoes and trousers on the revolting mess clogging up the stairs. This place was no doubt crawling with vermin, and his son would love it here. Brendan had a thing for small furry animals, and Talbot could picture him crawling through all this crap to find another dirty fluff covered rodent to stroke, and pet, and kiss.
He remembered an incident a few years ago, he was sitting in his study polishing his shoes when Christine blasted the wax out of his eardrums with a deafening scream. He had dropped his left shoe and the cloth and rushed into the kitchen, thinking that someone had broken in. He found her kneeling on the work surface, her trembling finger pointing at a tiny mouse eating a piece of bread by the corner of the fridge. He’d sensed his son just behind him. Talbot felt the last piece of compassion he had for his family dissolve away; these people didn’t deserve him. He looked down at the mouse that was still down there casually nibbling away at food that didn’t belong to him, the cheeky little fucker.