by Jason Beech
“She could do with a man like me.”
“Is that right?”
“Right is right. I’d show her a few tricks, rattle her bones every night, and make sure she knew she hadn’t settled beneath herself.”
“You screwed any idea of rattling any woman’s bones the moment you got behind that wheel, jacked up and drunk.” That got him. “And you totally blew it when you called Chrissy a whore.”
“I know … I know. But if I can’t have her, then I don’t want you to have her, either.”
“I don’t know where this is coming from … You arsed it up with Geena –”
“I’ve already set everything in motion.”
“Sure you have, what –”
John grabbed his wheels and lunged the metal footplate into Phil’s shins. That cut short Phil’s inquiry. The smash sent him forward onto the boy, then over his shoulder. John helped him along to a heavy crash on to the iron-edged coffee table and Phil smashed to the polished wooden floor.
“See you later, numb-nuts.”
Phil had Barry – and Polston – in mind to help him get up from his prone position. The knock on his funny bone had sent bum notes up his arm, but he remained agile enough to catch the handles of John’s chair as he edged out the house. He dragged him back inside while he avoided arms and fists that flailed for his jaw.
“This is my job, whether you respect it or not. And I will do it.”
John swivelled his chair to face him. “Get a proper fucking job.”
“Like you?”
“I want one.” He screamed, high-pitched, desperate. A tear fell and settled on his face-fuzz.
Phil wondered if he’d ever have children with Chrissy. For a moment he imagined John as his son. It made him choke. Just for a second. In that small time, he wished to set the boy free. He would stand on the doorstep and watch him fly, like he imagined a proud father should. But John’s actual father insisted on invading his head, his eyes dead to all the things he had done, and what he might do yet.
“I’ll do my job.”
“To protect me?”
“Yes.”
John wiped the tear with his sleeve, forced his eyes to behave, and showed a little of his dad’s steel. “I’ve seen off every minder but you. You’re like a fucking pitbull.”
“I thought I was a lapdog.”
He laughed. “Well, how far will you go to protect me?”
“As far as I can.”
“More than your girlfriend?”
Phil’s fingers twitched open a “what?”
“Will you go further to protect me than you would your bird?”
Phil couldn’t help bare his teeth. “What game are you playing?”
“Call her.” John’s lips quivered like they’d shot an arrow at Phil’s heart.
Phil fumbled a grip on his phone as he leaned the door shut. His sweaty thumb pounded numbers. His other hand twitched for the gun.
Wrong number …
What am I doing? He hit his Favourites list. Pressed “Chrissy”. Blood pumped louder than the ringtone. John’s grin flattened to the cod-stare his dad had perfected.
“Chrissy … call me as soon as you get this message.”
Phil held the phone like he’d hold her hand if she dangled all precarious from the roof of a tall building.
“I’m the son of Barry Green. I can make a lot happen.”
“Bullshit. You don’t even have permission to live your own life.”
“I don’t care what you think … I’ve taken your prize possession. If I can’t live my life, because of you, then I want your life to be as scuzzy as mine.”
Phil manoeuvred himself onto the edge of the settee’s arm and dialled again. He willed the bead of sweat about to advertise his fear back into its pore. It bulged and rolled. Chrissy’s always busy, he reasoned. He didn’t always know what she got up to, but she always seemed at it. But not at this time of night. She would answer her phone if she saw his name come up. He punched in her name one more time – hoped panic had induced him to think her voicemail had not just kicked in. Her voicemail tone rang bright.
John’s eyes dropped to the floor. He slumped back in his wheelchair, ready for consequences. Phil gave him sideways glances. Saw resignation. Saw a life given up on. Saw a pact made with desperation. Saw truth in what the boy had suggested.
Phil breathed like he had a plastic bag wrapped over his head. He enveloped the gun’s handle, ready to strangle the trigger. Standing brought decision. He knew the shitstorm to come through every moment his finger squeezed harder, but it hit him only once he punctured John.
***
He stumbled out the house, slipped, and almost turned his ankle on the red cobblestones he forgot had been laid only a few weeks before. He regained a little composure. Squinted up at the eye-like full moon as if Barry had it watch his movements. The Sheffield chill settled into his bones He jerked open his car door. He stalled the Ford before he sped down the narrow road, cars parked on both sides in front of drive-less houses. He almost hit a silver Renault just like Chrissy’s. He stamped his brake as he saw, in his rear-view, the car swerve and snap off a parked BMW’s side-mirror. The Renault pulled up and its occupier watched him in her rear-view.
Chrissy … safe.
He barged open the door and leapt out. He sprinted the twenty-or-so yards to her car. Chrissy stepped out with seen-it-all-before calm, as if ready to type notes about this incident. She opened her palms to him for explanation. His joy crashed. The boy had played him. Phil had shot him for no reason, except to put him out of his misery and transfer it to himself.
“You know I go to the gym on Thursdays. I tell you every time and you never listen.”
“You’re safe.” He squeezed her into him.
“The panic in your voice, I sped all the way here.”
“You could have called.”
“Your panic got to me; I just charged to the car and put my foot down.”
Expletives bombarded them from the resident whose car Chrissy had damaged. Phil placated him with a quiet word in his ear. Everybody knew of Barry Green.
***
“What took you so long, you bastard?”
“John, you’re alright.”
The lad grunted, his eyes wide at Phil’s entrance. “You came back? I knew you were an idiot. Absolute fucking plant pot.”
Phil and Chrissy kneeled on the floor beside him. He had rolled off his wheelchair and pulled himself towards the kitchen, a red streak behind him. He grunted at both as they asked inane questions about being “alright?” Phil poked him to see what hurt.
“My body, you prick.”
“Why, John? Why did you let me think you’d killed Chrissy?”
“You know why … I’m only sorry for you, Chrissy.”
She acted like a school teacher to a kid who faked pain. “Let’s get you to the hospital.”
“You need to get away from here.” John lost his cynicism for the moment.
“Why?”
John blew exasperation – grimaced at the pain it caused. “How did you fall in love with this lump? He brought you here knowing who’s on his way right now.”
“Shit…” Phil’s lungs worked like a sinking ship’s engine. “You’ve got to get away. Go now.” He jumped up and encouraged her with gentle nudges to the door.
“He needs seeing to.” She pushed back at him.
“I’ll sort it out.”
“What does that mean, Phil?”
He flinched at her glare. “Not what you fear. Please, go.”
She grabbed her purse from the floor and rushed from the mess. He wiped a sleeve across his forehead.
“This really hurts, Phil. Why didn’t you just shoot me through the head?”
Phil sneaked a peek behind the curtain to see if any cars had pulled up. He was okay for now, but what to do? The boy had called his father. Barry now knew he had shot his son. He would have ordered his men to find him and do terrible things in reve
nge.
“What will you tell your dad?”
“I think I’m going to live.” The boy winced. “I don’t think you got anything vital. It’s just the pain, and … too much bleeding.”
“God, yes, sorry.” He emptied the linen closet of clean towels and wrapped them around John’s wound. He pressed to stem the bleeding. “What will you tell your dad?”
“That you’re an idiot.” He laughed through his teeth.
No blood on his pearlies.
“You’ve been nothing but a pain in my arse, Phil. You got all the drinks in when we went to Leeds.”
“It was your eighteenth.”
“Yeah, but you got me drunk.”
“I helped you have a good time … I didn’t tell you to pop those shitty pills, too, and then get into that car and drive off like a Big Time Charlie.”
“But you didn’t stop me, either.”
“I got distracted … I took my eye off you for a second. Bloody hell, take some responsibility, will yer?”
“I should fucking land you in it. I never told dad that you got me drunk.”
“What’s that compared to this? What about now?”
“You’re scared, aren’t you?”
Headlights broke through a gap in the curtains. Phil recoiled, as if he stood in the spotlight. “What about now?”
“I won’t tell him –”
The car door slammed. Feet stamped to the door.
“What?”
“If you kill the bastard now, as he walks through the door, I won’t, can’t, tell him a thing.”
“Are you insane?” The front door’s handle rattled. Spare keys jangled. Phil ran a finger along his scar.
“Do it … and he won’t have to know a thing.”
Phil rocked on his heels and laughed in disbelief. Unconscious of having done it, he already had his gun ready. The front door opened. Phil stiffened with Barry’s every step. His boss appeared in the entrance to the kitchen, his face mashed with worry and anger. The sight made Phil hesitate. Hadn’t this man given up any worry about his boy?
Barry rushed to his boy, held him, let tears wash away John’s cynicism. John’s squeezed-to-slits eyes morphed back to circles. The father, his boss, clocked Phil and fixed his gaze on the Beretta he pointed at him. “You should have kept him in his fucking wheelchair.”
John’s eyes narrowed immediately.
Phil’s finger twitched … The muzzle flashed …
Barry fell, a hole in his neck and the hand he’d struck out to stop the bullet.
John whispered about his freedom.
Phil’s cheeks puffed and blew flat. Maybe a minute went by. Maybe an hour. He had a tingle at the base of his spine which told him this freedom wouldn’t last long
Red Hole
I expected to see Steve's family screech into view any second, anguished and all furious about that red hole in their boy’s forehead, ready to give me one to match. My eyes hardly wandered from the road ahead. I turned the wheel to avoid that pothole, pushed the indicator down to turn left at that junction, slowed down at the amber a hundred yards away as I anticipated that red. On it. About as suspicious as Grandma in the grocery store.
In between, I ruffled my blonde bangs in the rear-view, fussed at the smudged make-up which elongated my lips, and hid the pistol in different locations. Top of the passenger seat under the purse settled my stomach, ready to use at a moment's notice. Only problem – if a cop stopped me I didn't want him catching a glint of it in the sunshine. I’d taken enough risks to last a lifetime, and what lay beyond.
But I didn't see any cop. Senses reacted to what they expected. So much I became way too relaxed, enough to thud over the kerb and onto a corn field where I spun a little crop circle. This heat had not yet vaporized the recent near-flood waters.
I muttered a “Shit, Miranda,” to myself. It came out dry through parched lips I didn't want to wet. A pit-stop for water would slow me down.
I squinted back at the road between the seat and its headrest, neck turtled into my shoulders. Pulled myself out of the air-conditioned car, wilted under the yellow disc in the sky, and checked the right-front wheel. The kerb had felt kind of soft. The tyres remained firm. Beneath the shade of my hand I eyed where I’d left the road, about fifty feet away. A hump rose above the soil. A Shoprite plastic bag wafted slowly by, a split down its centre. Glad I wore my flats. Heels would give me the air of a high-powered businesswoman. Respectable. But I would have stuck in this mud like a tent peg.
The hump gained definition as I got closer. Not a deer. Not any animal. A woman. About my age, no older than thirty-five. The hem of her floral shirt flapped in the day’s rare breeze. Her toes pointed down into the ground. Her head twisted in a direction which spelled death. What business did she have to walk about the middle of nowhere? How did I even miss her? A couple of onions rested a few feet away, a poblano pepper a little further.
“Lady? You okay?” I sighed. “Stupid question, I know.”
I ran back to snatch the plastic bag, kept my balance from little slips here and there, hurried again to the woman, used the bag to smooth the woman's black hair back. She stirred. I put my fisted hand into the plastic bag. Extended my index finger. Used the back of it to check for a pulse. It pumped – light, but distinct.
“Lady, why?” Why slow me down like this. I had places to go. Places to hide.
I rummaged the woman's torn front-left pocket in her jeans, then the right. I found ID in her back pocket, inside a little leather wallet, SG initials DIY-carved into it, along with an out of date driver’s license and a photograph of two kids. The boys’ skin matched her field-work tan.
“Jesus.”
I kept an eye out for cars. Steve’s family would have no idea where I headed, but they might get lucky. Stupid Steve. My boyfriend had become more a partner than a lover, and his blaming me for cock-ups chafed. As did his taking all the credit when things went right. I had to keep a leash on his behavior to make anything go right. His attempt to steal from me cut any emotion I still had for him. Now his stupidity had infected me.
I decided to give the woman a chance. Only, she mustn’t open her eyes now.
I ran back to the car without any care for the sweat which rolled into my eyes. I puffed my cheeks, relieved the Honda slurped from the mud. Drove back to the road. Popped the trunk. Got out. Turned the woman. Swallowed a little acid reflux. I winced at the throat-burn. Bent my knees, kept my back straight, took the woman under her arms. I lugged her to the trunk and guessed the route to the hospital from here. The noise of the woman's breath rose above that of the engine.
“You idiot.” My breath rose above that of the woman and the engine. I stared into her pained brown eyes – at the lips which mumbled all kinds of gibberish.
“Please …” She gasped. She would have said “help me” if her lungs had let her.
With a shake of my head I tucked the woman tighter into the trunk. I shifted the bagful of money to make room, put a finger to her lips to stem the moans I caused. As if it mattered. The fields would tell nobody.
“Wait here. Don't move.”
I went back to the driver's side. Rolled my eyes at the inanities I told this woman. I rechecked the ID, the plastic bag still over my hand, as quick feet took me back to the trunk.
Hank, Steve’s dad – how he fixed his eyes on mine that time a deal had gone against expectation. He guided me to the big barn behind the house. His dead peepholes never left me as he slit a pig’s throat, grabbed a hind leg, and dropped it into a boiling vat. Its squeals still tear through my nightmares.
I bit my lip, allowed a sweat bead to roll inside my lips. Considered the woman’s two kids. Weighed the pros against the cons. I dragged her back out of the trunk. My hit had made her immobile and she slumped to the ground.
“Sorry, Sophia, no witnesses.” I pointed the pistol at her head.
The bang dissipated beneath the squawks of circling turkey vultures.
Here a C
omes a Soul Saver
Leo almost slammed the front-end of his car into the back-end of the sky-blue Honda Civic which almost merged into the late evening sky. He let a “shit” rasp through the corner of his pressed-hard lips, but only his cool gained damage. He clocked Joshua stood by the viewing platform’s railing, past the construction plaque on the Golden Gate Bridge’s tower. The bridge pulsed in the low sun. Seemed to stand at the end of the world. If Leo didn’t rush, Leo might use it as a platform for the end of his.
The traffic had slowed from its mid-day madness, but parking here would cause enough problems to get his car towed. If he did this quick he could get back before a jam formed. He punched his hazard light button, checked over his shoulder to make sure an exit wouldn’t smush him like roadkill, and thrust himself out the car.
Everything shone red. His car, the sun, the railings, the whole damn bridge. And Joshua. He stood silhouetted, the sun’s shine outlined an aura round him like he’d already died and gone to wherever the hell he might end up if he threw himself off.
“Hey, Joshua.” He jumped the railing and grimaced at his tired knees.
Joshua turned. His already wide eyes stretched further as he backed into the barrier behind him. “Leo … Mr Bratson?”
Leo held up a hand, thankful Joshua’s left leg halted its ascent to the railing’s top. The boy kept it there until Leo patted the air down, motioning him to drop the limb.
The kid’s heel never planted. Stayed on his toes, ready to spring any moment. “How did you know…?”
“Sally told me about your mood swings, and where else do desperate people find themselves in this city? She didn’t need to tell me all of it; the black circle round her eye told me what I need to know.”
“Mr Bratson, I –”
“Please.” Leo stop-signed his hand and shut the boy down. Nineteen, and already he couldn’t handle life. What would he do when it threw the really heavy stuff at him?
“I know what it’s like –”
“Sir, with all due respect, you know nothing.”