Bullets, Teeth, & Fists 2

by Jason Beech

  “You should have some.” Phil tapped John’s shoulder.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  Phil glanced over at Barry. The boss leaned against a lamp-post outside. He ran a hand through his slicked-back hair, adjusted his sunglasses, and fiddled with his iPhone.

  “You’ve not eaten since first thing this morning, and that was only an apple. Strapping lad like you could do with a battered sausage.”

  John gazed up at him. The lines on his head made him so serious. Phil stared back, expression blank.

  “Why’d you force me here, Phil?”

  “Your dad thought you needed some fun. You can’t beat Skegness.”

  “Rotherham would beat Skegness.”

  “Can I help you, love?” A grey-haired woman beamed behind the fryer, her eyes lined with years of laughter, her lips already curled upwards ready for banter.

  “Definitely.” She’d infected Phil and he couldn’t help but return her sunshine. “A portion of fish and chips –”

  “Cod or haddock, love?”

  “Surprise me.”

  “Well, we have plaice, too.”

  “You never offered that.”

  “You did want a surprise.”

  “True.”

  “Any one of them?”

  “Yep, as long as it’s not haddock or plaice.”

  “You silly sod.”

  Her name tag spelled “Alice.” A young name for such an old bird. He supposed she’d been young once, and though she’d probably seen more chips than she’d ever desire, her hunger for human contact shone through.

  The shhhh of the wrapping brought him back and he dived into Alice’s old eyes. They penetrated, told him life always had promise. He handed her the eight pounds and turned to what had cast a shadow across her bright face. Barry stomped in, sunglasses pushed to his hairline.

  “Are you buying their whole stock of fucking potatoes?”

  “She … she’s only just wrapped them.”

  “And I suppose you’re going to take your bastard time to eat the fuckers too … did you get mushy peas?”

  “No … I’m not fussed about them.”

  “You’re fucking useless, Phil. Let’s go.”

  Phil’s feet wouldn’t step ahead of each other. He stared at Barry’s back, each stride hard to the doorway, where he turned, lifted his elbows until his forearms rested on each side of the doorframe, and sighed like an impatient parent to a toddler.

  “I’ll just stand here all fucking day until you finish your chips, then?”

  “I’m coming, Barry. I’m coming.” He shook his fluster away, handed the fish and chips to John, and pushed the wheelchair out.

  “I should have brought Danny.” Barry rushed ahead like he didn’t want anybody to see him with either of them.

  “I’m your man.”

  “You better be.”

  Phil pushed the chair with a bit of vigour. Made sure he remained shoulder to shoulder with Barry. He eyed his now-lukewarm lunch and regretted he never said his farewell to Alice. Her eyes had fired an expletive shitstorm at the man. He consoled himself that Barry had not acknowledged her presence.

  They spent a few pounds at the NY Super Fruits. John glowed at kids in tracksuits who shouted “spaz” at him, wristed wanker signs, and ran off as Phil jutted his chin and headed for them.

  Barry thumbed his phone. “Leave them.”

  “Didn’t you hear them?”

  “I can look out for myself.” John pulled the arm of a one-armed bandit. He got one orange, one lemon and a barely visible lime that shone dim behind a streak of tea or coffee.

  “You heard him.” Barry tapped an ear. “This is not the time to draw attention to ourselves. In fact, let’s go.”

  He pulled the sunglasses from the top of his head back into place, ready to go outside.

  “John can push himself, right?” Phil glanced at the youth. John stared at the machine as if its owners had rigged the game, though Phil knew he had baited breath for a “yes” from his dad. The boy’s friends had not been to see him since the Leeds trip. Isolation would, in time, push lava above the surface and cause him havoc.

  “You push.” Barry patted Phil’s arm. Offered his son the briefest glance.

  John pulled the bandit’s arm again as the ‘sh’ at the end of “push” dissipated with his hopes.

  ***

  The myriad bulbs on the slot-shop’s front dimmed sad in the sun’s glare. The cold wind had warmed just enough for desperate Brits to take their clothes off and bare their pasty skin to the only God the country worshipped. Phil could have done with a holiday, a proper one abroad, where the sun felt more at home.

  Only a few people braved the beach. Most realised they could not sustain tolerance for the cold North Sea breeze for more than a few minutes. Phil blinked. He’d go snow blind if he eyed these bodies any longer, except for the one woman who clearly poured her tan from a bottle. The heavy silence between the three of them weighed on Phil and his charge.

  “The Partridge.” Barry stamped the sand from his shoes.

  “Definitely. I could do with a pint.”

  ***

  They sat round a square table. Barry parked himself on the upholstered bench with a full view of the entrance, Phil on the creaky chair. Phil fingered the amateur graffiti carved into its upper legs. The pub’s windows, like small eyes that scowled at its customers, hardly exposed the dark. The chintzy lamps on the wall shone dim. Shadowed their eyes. The landlord brought their drinks, nodded at Phil and Barry – shone a lopsided smile at John.

  “Enjoy.” He scuttled off. Used a handkerchief to wipe sweat from his bald pate.

  John sipped at his Stella, Phil downed his John Smith’s like he hadn’t drunk all day, and Barry let his orange juice sit. A hollow-eyed man entered, headed straight for the bar without a glance left or right. His shoulders hunched and his head half-dropped into a pocket where his neck should have stood. Phil sideways-glanced at John. The lad’s eyelids flickered at something vague he slowly recognised. Barry stared at the man. Phil turned to survey him. The man reached for a glass beneath the pumps and poured himself a pint of cider. The barman and landlord must have dipped into the cellar to change a barrel. Phil swivelled back to Barry. Ignored the finger-taps John made on his wheelchair arm. The faint light above Barry blinked, in contrast to his boss’ fish-eyes. Phil pushed up from the chair, put a finger to his lips for John’s benefit, and wheeled him out the entrance. Barry would lock the door in a moment.

  “What’s happening?” John said, outside. “Who was that man?”

  “Did he look familiar?”

  “Kind of.”

  John craned his neck to Phil. Phil ignored him and pushed up the isolated side-road round the back of the pub.

  Seagulls screeched as they circled above. They may have spotted the remains of ready-made chicken wings that had spilled out the pub’s waste skip. They’d soon fall from the sky if they pecked at that.

  Phil and John stared at the tall wooden gate framed by the brick walls which bordered the pub’s yard. The only way out from the back was through the gate, unless you could leap fifteen feet to the top and crawl beneath or clamber over the barbed wire crown.

  “Who was he?”

  “You’ll see.”

  They heard the back door swing open and smash into the wall. Phil opened and swung his jacket back and pulled the handgun from the holster. He readied his aim at the gate. Steps, made unsteady by panic, reached it. A man fumbled the latch, gained control of it, opened. The wood’s unvarnished creak matched the man’s state of mind. He halted in the wall’s arch, wild-eyed at the person in the wheelchair who faced him. Recognition from John triggered the same from the man.

  “John?”

  “Colin’s mate?”

  “What the fuck? I … I …”

  Phil clocked Barry’s approach from behind. The man sensed his presence without turning, glared at Phil’s gun, and readied himself to run. Phil pulled the tri
gger. It jammed. The man stepped from the arch and geared up for a sprint, but his first steps went across John’s outstretched leg and, instead, he scraped his face on the rutted tarmac. His attempt to push off the ground ended with Phil’s knee in his back, who pushed his face into damp leaves and an empty salt and vinegar crisp packet stuck in the grime.

  “Nice one, son.” Barry smiled at John for the first time that day. “Craig Polston, from Skeggy, right?”

  “Yeah.” John’s forehead creased. His breath came out in wheezes and stutters. “That’s him.”

  Barry kicked Polston’s ribs with enough force for Phil to lose balance – made him drop the gun and land on his palm to prevent a sprawl into the muck. He repositioned himself, left knee into Polston’s back again. Wiped his hand on the man’s black North Face jacket, and reached for his weapon. The man still spluttered for breath.

  “And,” Barry addressed his son while he kept his attention on Polston, “he’s the one who scored you the pills in Leeds?”

  John’s mouth had fallen open, but words had frozen and failed to tumble out. Phil couldn’t tell if excitement kept him silent – his hands gripped the armrests – or fear had paralysed the rest of his body.

  John nodded, so slight Phil thought it a trick of the light as a cloud, one of many, crossed the sun. It signalled enough for Barry.

  “Phil, give him your gun.”

  Phil squinted, brows v-shaped.

  “Do I have to say it again?”

  Barry set his feet apart. Braced himself for John’s initiation. Phil heaved himself off the man, slow, his old boxing agility long gone. The kid should have a life, be sent off to places where he needn’t worry about checking his shoulder all the time. Let the men do the dirty work. Phil wanted to protest, but he didn’t have any sway these days. Barry never mentioned this part.

  “Barry –”

  A puff blew through Barry’s teeth which forced Phil to hand the gun to John. John turned it this and that way. Stared at his dad.

  “Son –”

  “No.”

  “John –”

  “No.”

  Polston’s sniffles reached Phil’s ears for the first time. His pleas for mercy pulled at him, despite the fact he would have shot him in the knee if the weapon hadn’t jammed.

  “Please, please don’t kill me.” He still had his face in the road, his elbows tucked in and arms beneath his body.

  “As a kid you did nothing but gripe about wanting to see what I do for a living. Now here we are and you don’t want to know?”

  John glared at Polston’s back. Polston turned his face, eyes all popped and splintered.

  “You kill people. I get it.”

  Barry stood over the man. Six feet of hardened spirit overshadowed about five feet seven inches of cowed inexperience. “It’s not just about killing people. I play chess for a living. A wrong move could mean the end. Check-mate. You must overpower everything that gets in your way. You win. This is not about killing for the sake of it. It’s about power. This piece of shit is an example of my power. Your power: if you want to take it.”

  John screwed his eyes, maybe at the milky bright sky behind him, maybe at his dad. Phil kept an eye on Polston, but remained a pillar.

  “Do it.”

  “You haven’t looked at me straight since I’ve sat in this thing, Barry.” John patted the armrests and slipped the gun to the road.

  “Barry?” Barry’s fingers stretched out and parted.

  “I’m not your son anymore. Because I’m stuck in this thing.”

  “I don’t know where this is coming from …” Phil flinched at how Barry flashed a glance at him. “… but you’ll always be my son.”

  “Bollocks. I’ll be your son again if I shoot him.” He nodded at Polston. “No.”

  “Soft.” Barry shook his head. “Fucking soft as a badger’s tail. You’ll never amount to anything with that attitude.”

  John shrugged and spun his wheelchair. Light dappled through gaps in the trees which kept the side-road cloaked from outsiders. Somebody would have to come round the bend to see anything.

  Barry drove hard eyes at his right-hand man.“Phil.”

  “Yes?” He shook.

  Barry nodded at Polston. Polston held his side from the kick. Phil had readied himself. He noted how the man sneaked a peek of the area – for escape routes, no doubt. Phil bent to take the gun, moved in quick, like he recognised an opening for a right hook in his boxing days – only this time he kicked Polston under the chin. It elicited a scream loud enough for Phil to wrap his left forearm across his mouth to muffle his cries lower than those of the seagulls above. He dragged him into the pub’s backyard. He checked on John for a second. He just sat there, his back to the scene, arms flat against the armrests. Made Phil want to scratch.

  Polston bit into Phil’s jacket. It was well-padded, so he let him get on with it as he pulled the young man across uneven and mossy concrete paving slabs. Barry closed the gate and remained outside. Phil dumped Polston close to the wall. The man’s cries dampened to whimpers and snot. Red-rimmed eyes begged. Phil loosened the gun’s clip and reinserted.

  “I-I-I-I-I … he … he … asked for the pills. I … I just found the man who had them. That’s all I did.”

  Phil stared as if the lad’s heart would punch through his chest any second. Chrissy would be typing criminal misdeeds in Sheffield Crown Court at this time. She’d type his one day.

  He pulled the trigger – one bullet smashed Polston’s head back into the wall. He slid sideways and revealed the splash. The landlord stepped out with rope, a mop and bucket, and a blank expression. Phil gave him a terse nod and headed back to John. Barry dished out the cash for the old man. John slumped on Phil’s first push.

  ***

  In Sheffield’s Queen Elizabeth Hotel function room Phil shared a table with Chrissy and John, who fidgeted beside Geena, the young woman from Chicago who Phil had forced him to ask out. The little round table squeezed them knee tight. Phil sniffed at his prawn cocktail. It tasted like the décor looked, posh, but without any kind of distinction.

  Barry Green popped over to check out Geena. Ruffled his boy's head like he'd just scored a goal. Like Skegness never happened. Barry caused Geena to shift her backside in discomfort, which caused an arse-shuffling Mexican wave. Barry moved on to lock hands with a bunch of other men.

  The event's compere praised Barry for this charitable night, waxed on about his wonderful generosity, and grated everybody’s ears further by elongating the last word of every sentence. Phil couldn’t make out what made him more nauseous, the fawning or how John's face cratered at every word. Geena worked hard at conversation, and he and Chrissy left space enough for John to respond.

  Phil sighed and squeezed Chrissy’s hand. Fake-smiled at Barry's other muscle – they smirked at his babysitting gig.

  Chrissy leaned forward. “What brought you to Sheffield, Geena?”

  “The men.” She rolled her eyes.

  Chrissy laughed and encouraged John to join in. “Right. They're not all miserable sods like this one, you know.”

  John's smile hardly chiselled the hardness in his eyes. Phil could see he wanted to engage her, but his damn wheelchair blocked him. Phil refused to attempt a rescue. The kid would only resent him.

  He watched a lot of shaved heads bob around the room, a couple of coppers double-hand a handshake with Barry, and a lot of overdressed women ignore their men while they worked their social status. Barry introduced none of them to his son. Phil dabbled in another prawn and sank his John Smith’s. He stood and worked the room. Brought one of the copper’s over to the table, introduced John to him. He noted Chrissy’s glare. John nodded, kept his words minimal, like he did the next few people Phil introduced. Phil caught an occasional glare from the boss. He sat down, somewhat chastened.

  A half-minute after Phil entered the toilet, feet wide to avoid missed-the-target piss, Barry followed him in, pulled an arm behind his back and thru
st his upper body into the urinal.

  “Barry ... what ...?”

  “Don't embarrass me out there.”

  Phil's left cheek flattened against the bottle-green tiles and scrunched up against his eye. “I ...”

  He could smell cheese and onion crisps on Barry's breath and the gel which slicked hair back from his forehead, both strong enough to overpower the toilet’s tang.

  “Don't say another word, Phil. That scar I gave you will be nothing compared to what I'll do if you continue to introduce my son to all and sundry. He's not fit for socializing, or anything else. Your lack of due care in Leeds made sure of that. If I’d wanted to introduce him to everybody, I’d have done it myself. Now sit with your woman and the boy, and leave it at that.”

  Barry pushed his head briefly into the wall. Phil braced himself for the smash into the tiles. Barry gave himself the once over under the harsh light above the sink, and exited. Left the bitter fumes of “Fucking useless” behind him.

  Phil pushed away from the wall and grabbed a bunch of tissues to absorb piss from his dark suit. Ran a finger over his scar. It burned fresh.

  ***

  “I’m turning into my father.” John stared out the window in his house that Thursday night, as if life passed him by. “I’ve got nothing.”

  “Your dad has everything.” He threw a tea towel onto the rack and ran through the honeyed words he’d dripped down Chrissy’s ear a half-hour ago. Kept that bounce in his step.

  “He has a certain power, yeah, amongst people like you.”

  “John, please, a little respect.”

  “You don’t deserve any. You hate doing this as much as I hate you for doing it. Does my father make you roll over when he tickles your tummy?”

  Phil exhaled slowwww. The words popped his arm-hair erect.

  “How did such a lap-dog get a woman like Chrissy?”

  “Leave Chrissy out –”

  “Does she put you on a lead when you go out together?”

  Phil had flashed his eyes at the back of the boy’s head many times before. Now he did so to his face. John took strength from it.