A Well-Timed Death (Booker Shield Book 1)

by Karl Bourdiec

  A WELL TIMED DEATH

  Karl Bourdiec

  Copyright © 2017 Karl Bourdiec

  All rights reserved.

  About Author

  Karl Bourdiec is an author, and local hermit. He enjoys his coffee black and constantly struggles with a very short attention span. People would argue these two things are connected and Karl would argue back.

  Karl began writing in late 2013 but didn’t start taking it too seriously until 2017 and even then, it’s not that serious. Karl writes Genre Humour books which you’re are just about to read.

  Thank you for purchasing a copy of this book, I hope you enjoy it.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  1

  The morning, a concert of light through huge windows, Booker Shield wasn’t a man for the morning, he wasn’t really a fan of days and much preferred the thick porridge of night. The night isn’t normally considered porridge-like unless you live in small towns like North Bank. A mix of seaside salt winds, ex-coal mining village thick air, and weird things that tend to only happen in small towns, all these things mixed the night nicely into a broth you could only eat using a forklift truck and stainless-steel teeth.

  The sun moved slowly through these places like you would move through tar mixed with the rejection letters from every job you ever went for.

  Booker stood a little under six foot, with a medium build, and deep brown hair which already seemed to be a little greasy and stuck up in a double crown, this added another inch to his height, which is why he kept it. He lived in a single pair of jeans and old set of sandshoes. If you’d have seen him walking around the streets, you’d of presumed Booker was a lumberjack with an office job, checked shirts filled his wardrobe but he always paired them with blazers or jackets. today he wore a red checked shirt and a raincoat which made him look like an off work detective, which is what he aimed for.

  Booker pulled around a small basket, it was green and made of plastic with one wheel which was smaller than the other, so it swerved to the left if you pulled it too hard. Which Booker forgot every ten paces and the trolley would take a sharp turn into the back of his heel to remind him.

  The plastic tub was fit to burst, six bottles of champagne and two breakfast croissants, the six bottles of champagne were not for the six yachts he’d recently bought but instead, Booker had woken up wanting a fancy breakfast and his special bucks fizz he’d invented which contained little to no orange juice.

  Breakfast was one of the few times throughout the day that people considered it acceptable to drink booze, you could have a boozy breakfast, a liquid lunch or a drinking dinner, although Booker was sure he’d made the last one up.

  ‘All okay sir?’ a shop assistant asked one of the few that wasn’t a spotty teen or a man who’d lost his retirement money to some sort of long-form fraud.

  Booker looked the man straight in the eye, he hadn’t had his breakfast yet so looking people straight in the eye was something he still could do.

  ‘Yeah.’ Booker picked at his teeth with his tongue before and after the word yeah, he’d have done it during if he didn’t find it difficult.

  ‘Having a party?’ Rob asked trying to make conversation. His name was Rob or Robert, the little green badge said “Rob”. Booker blinked slowly at him, it may have been Morse code for leaving me alone.

  Rob didn’t know Morse code.

  Rob was shorter than Booker by a couple of inches, which was only noticeable when Booker stood near him, when out context you’d have said Rob was average height until placed next to somebody who actually was average height and you’d notice he was far from it, it was just the way he carried himself, his hair was slicked back in tight strokes which held the shape of a comb being pushed through them. Robs uniform were ill-fitting, as all uniforms given out normally are, look at the SS. The green of his shirt set off the red in his cheeks and his shiny face reflected the green, making him look sick.

  ‘I’ve bought six large boats. I wanted seven. But they’d sold out of large boats.’ Booker answered again, revving the handle like a motorbike standing at a red light. Rob smiled and let him through. There was an urgency in the way he twisted at the handle.

  Rob pushed the metal cage which held a collection of bread loafs. Why they were caged up Rob had no idea, they hardly seemed vicious. Rob blinked at the loaves. One thousand eight hundred and forty-eight slices. Robert had a head for numbers, he had a big head, which meant he could look at very large numbers, it also meant it was very difficult to find hats.

  With each step a wheel squeaked, it was part of the design of any shopping tools to have at least one fault. Bags with weak handles, trolleys that swerved. All designed so you stay longer and buy more stuff, stuff you were convinced you needed, as long as it fits in your freezer.

  Rob pushed the cage into the bit behind the eggs and let go, it softly rolled towards a small gap in the stockroom, it moved with such a breeze it that all the white bread looked like pre-packaged clouds.

  Booker was asked if he would like a bag,

  ‘Yes, please.’ Please wasn’t second nature to him, he often said it through gritted teeth, this had become a habit now.

  ‘They’re five pence?’ The cashier said between slack-jawed movements, rolling some gum around her mouth as if it didn’t taste of melted rubber and last night’s dinner.

  ‘I think I’ll live.’ Booker replied with the sarcastic air of a teenage girl.

  ‘Want help packing?’

  ‘Just because I’m buying six bottles of your cheapest champagne doesn’t mean I’m drunk.’ No that comes later. Booker thought to himself.

  Three carrier bags later, two bottles in each, holding the pastries between his teeth. Booker wandered through the car park where a blood red car sat, the salesman who passed this curse onto Booker described it as maroon, shit cars were always maroon, although he thought it looked like the colour of a scab you’d picked more than once. The slick design of a British muscle car, that meant it looked like a tin box on wheels, something you’d get a curry in, but on a much larger scale.

  Booker's knee tapped the boot, it opened, this wasn’t a fancy design which meant it was easy to pack his car, simply the lock had been broken from the inside, something Booker had done himself with an oxford brogue once when he’d crashed a wedding, got so drunk on an open bar that he’d found himself locked in the trunk of his car.

  The door slammed clattering the bottles of champagne around the back of his car, nothing popped which meant there hadn’t been an accidental party in the back of his people carrier.

  Booker wished detectives got to really drive nice fancy sports cars, like the ones that are in noir books, in a proper red, instead of the colour of glacier cherries.

  He got in his car, almost clearing off three inches off the top of his head, he moved the trilby from his seat and into the back of his car. Booker hadn’t ever placed the hat upon his head since buying it, but glancing through his window meant, in a look you knew this car belonged to a detective. It was either the trilby or a deerstalker and pipe, and he’d given up smoking ten years
ago.

  Booker pulled his long legs into his car, skimming the steering wheel which gave a large honk.

  ‘I’m not honking at you, Mrs Bryson.’ Booker popped his head from the frame of his car. He would have honked at her if he knew she wasn’t a Mrs, and if her husband, Mr Bryson, couldn’t knock off the place Booker was meant to put the trilby he never wore.

  Booker did that sorry grin again, Mrs Bryson caught it from the corner of her eye and replied with the, it’s okay smile, the one where your cheeks poke your bottom eyelashes close to your eyes.

  His box of a car revved, and he set off.

  Booker's tub of an office sat above an old second-hand shop, second-hand rosette sold game consoles you barely recalled, guitars which only had C strings, and lighters, lots of metal, wind resistant lighters. The smell of loved goods floated through the floorboards like all good smells could. It was thick and pungent and would make your eyes water if you weren’t in a nice balanced state of compos mentis, which is to say, absolutely pickled.

  Booker rubbed his face, across the brow, trying to clear the smell from the top of his nose where it started to circulate. A teacup was rinsed, not washed just splashed with water which was thrown out of the window. Possibly hitting an old lady. Hopefully hitting an old lady

  The champagne fizzed low in his cup, it was bubbling like a very posh cauldron.

  Booker walked around his office sipping his drink as if it was morning coffee, pulling at the third draw of a filing cabinet he fingered at the little tabs with letters printed on them, under P he pulled out a plate. Where else would you keep them?

  Booker rolled the two pastries out onto the dish and sat in his wooden office chair, it creaked under him, wobbled a little with the intent to through him off, and giving up after a few seconds.

  From his draw, he pulled out a knife. Let's be clear here, it wouldn’t have been a gun. Because people in England aren’t completely mental, guns were not only hard to find but also incredibly illegal, anything you could point at someone and that someone would be dead should be outlawed. This wasn’t a that’s not a knife, this is a knife, kind of knife either. It was small and thin and probably once glinted in the light, now it was dull and speckled with red, this was not blood, just red. From the same draw Booker pulled a large pot of jam, unbranded, he stirred it with his tarnished knife, partly to remove the liquid jam somehow separates from but also to push the mould back down to the bottom of the jar.

  The little red light on Booker's answer machine flashed, he had little idea what the light was for, the display next to it said zero one. A small button with a third of a triangle was pushed as the remainder of the last of the play logo smudged away.

  ‘Booker, these kids have all came home, there’s no need for more any hands on this case, I’m sorry, your cheques in the mail, we’ll cover expenses.’ The phone beeped, the zero one became a double zero and the little red light continued to flash.

  ‘Cults don’t just vanish, they’ll need me.’ Booker lent back on his chair as the floor collected the sawdust it spat below.

  Crumbs fell onto his chest, a few fell into his shirt. Without warning the little-yellowed phone began to bleat, phones tended not to warn you.

  Booker ignored it, giggling to himself, he knew they’d be back, and he was fully prepared to allow them to grovel at his feet. They need him, they’ll always need him.

  ‘Is this P.I Booker, you’ve ah, left your purse at the checkout.’ Booker stopped pouring the huge bottle of bubbly and slowed down his laughter.

  Rolling down his chair, he pushed the hair which covered his face back into place with despair.

  ‘For fuck’s sake.’ He dropped the cup with such speed that it circled on its base a few times before righting itself, Booker knew he wouldn’t spill a drop, he hadn’t spilt any form of booze since college, including all three drink based meals of the day.

  Booker locked up his office, with the one pound padlock clicked together over the latch you generally find on sheds, he wiggled it around a little to check it had locked in place. This is one thing the last lock, the lock he had gotten from a Christmas cracker, hadn’t done, with a small wiggle it would come loose, he’d lost a six pack of light beer that way.

  Booker tapped his car door, in a single place only he knew where and the door opened without the use of his key, this was another failing caused by himself, when trying to fix the windows from sliding three inches down every time you closed the door he’d found a location which unlocked it with a sharp kick, the window still slid down though.

  Booker preferred getting to these supermarkets as early as possible. Supermarkets get super busy, super quickly.

  The dirty bar of soap Booker called a car, pulled into a space in the car park. The rectangle of white paint held a stick figure pushing a pram. Booker parked in it anyway.

  With a slam of the door, Booker's window slid down all the way. A rattle of the handle which controlled the window continued to spin after the window stopped moving. Booker huffed.

  ‘That fucking thing.’ Booker didn’t even bother looking back, he was annoyed as it was. Looking at the pile of scrap metal seemed pointless and would only anger him even more.

  Three workers stood outside the shop, which made the door of the store close and open at random intervals.

  ‘How're the boats?’ One of the kids asked, giggling to each other. The young kid, older than the rest but younger than Booker stood with them. He moved from leg to leg as if he wasn’t meant to be there. A small grin wandered over his face. The kid couldn’t help it. Booker racked his mind for the kid’s name Bob. Rob? Nobody was really called Bob, so it was probably Rob. It didn’t matter, Booker walked into the store with little acknowledgement to the group.

  Walking through the baked goods which welcomed people entering the store with an almost false smell, Booker grabbed a bread bun. Short of looking he bit into it the crust, it was thick and crispy, he placed it back onto a shelf which held doughnuts. Before collecting his wallet, he wondered a few isles.

  This wasn’t his choice, just the way these supermarkets designed. it made it difficult to do anything that the store didn’t want you to do. You were a slave to the shop, Booker made it to the back of the store, wandered the three lanes till he could see a cashier. With a sudden burst of energy, he blew through the length of the store within seconds.

  A little woman with huge eyes sat behind the counter, she hummed to herself, scanning items as slowly as she could, her whole body shaking whenever she had to move anything heavier than a packet of tissues. She was the only person on a checkout point. Booker watched in the wings as the queue of people dropped person by person, item by item they moved forward.

  Booker wasn’t a queueing person, nobody is a queueing person really, Booker was a whole other level of against queueing. Something near the back of the store was screaming, Booker ignored it, pushing through the people in the line, Booker got to the mole lady, her skin looked like a map of some road ran town.

  ‘Can I help?’ The old lady asked once Booker had made his way to the front of the queue, which really pissed off those waiting in line like British people were meant to do. She pressed her glasses up her nose so she could see Booker properly.

  ‘I left a wallet, somebody called, about my wallet. You have my wallet.’ Bookers words so pushed together that the old lady had to take a few seconds to decipher what he said.

  ‘No, No, No. I don’t think so.’

  ‘I assure you, my wallet’s here, I was at checkout two.’

  ‘Check out two’s been closed all day.’ The old women looked at a little chart.

  ‘That can’t be right.’ Booker craned his head over the counter to look at the chart. Booker pressed his finger into the paper.

  ‘It’s Tuesday, that’s Tuesday, Liz runs line two on Tuesday.’ Blasted Booker.

  ‘Oh yeah. You’re right hinny.’ She was that kind of old lady.

  ‘I thought it was Wednesday. I would forget
my head if it wasn’t screwed on properly.’

  ‘We can only hope.’ Booker answered. Although it wasn’t really a question.

  ‘I’ll be right back.’ The little mole women said, jumping from her seat, she shuffled around.

  ‘It’s Booker, with two O’s.’ You’d be surprised how often he had to correct that.

  ‘Surname?’ Each letter sounded out

  ‘Shield!’ Booker shot back.

  ‘Like the comedian?’ The little women asked, pretty much crawling to desk two.

  The racket at the back continued, the queue behind Booker continued to grow. He should have asked them kids smoking out front, Booker thought to himself.

  She walked back, her feet dragging as she walked.

  Booker drummed his fingers on her counter.

  ‘Surname?’ The mole lady pulled out a random card from the wallet, squinting at it she looked at an out of date driving licence. Bookers face was suddenly covered in confusion.

  ‘Shield?’ He answered again.

  ‘Correct,’ She giggled. Old people jokes are the worst. Slipping the card back into the wallet the mole lady handed it back to Booker. The second he touched the wallet the screaming grew at the back of the store; the screaming Booker had ignored became a huge cacophony of grunts and yells.

  Minutes later. Hand over his mouth, Booker bounced through the crowd. Thrown left to right in the group, his head swaying with each push, his left hand, the one without the wallet squeezing his lips into a tiny kissy face.

  ‘His face has gone red.’ A young girl, too young to be out of school said, pointing at his face, which had become round and red.

  Bookers eyebrows making the most furred lines they could, pulling themselves so close to his eyes his hairline moved forward.

  At these times, when you need the most to be outside, is the point that every person, pram and machine will block your path. Pushing past them Booker forced his way almost through the old mole lady who’d started to walk up, intrigued by the commotion. Knocking over a few clouds of bread, he decided that loaves were not the right name for them now.