by Jason Beech
“I said we’re on. I just need to get –”
“You get it fast, Robert, because I’m not fucking about here.”
Robert’s lips receded over his gums.
***
“So … what’s happening?” Matt scanned Chloe’s rustic kitchen like he wanted to chill there and flip the top from a beer.
Decent fella. Had rapped the door’s knocker and beamed a smile when he invited him inside. Still smiled at his poker face as Robert glanced beyond his shoulder to the open fields which rolled around the house like giant waves in a storm. Robert shut the door on the rain and possible prying eyes. Matt sat back in the wooden rocking chair. If he had time, Robert knew he would rock himself to sleep, content with the world.
“I took the money from Bluey. He had plans which didn’t involve any of us.”
“What? How …?” Matt puffed his cheeks, blew it all out, but didn’t shift forwards as one might expect. He smiled, shook his head, brushed his little quiff to the side with his palm. He laughed, probably at Bluey’s cheek. Maybe he thought, “What a lad.” A frown nudged the smile away and choked his sense of fun: what about my money? “That blows.”
Robert nodded. “Don’t worry – you get your share.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“Let’s go, it’s in the shed.”
They chattered across the yard. Matt helped slide the rickety door across the gulley. They entered and Matt wrinkled his nose at the sheep smell and the months-old straw.
“Here you go.” Robert reached for the Beretta inside his coat. The one he’d used in the robbery. It weighed solid in his hand, the handle useful in cracking that guard’s skull. He aimed at Matt’s head. Matt’s eyes opened to perfect vowels, as did the hole the bullet planted in his forehead. Robert watched his body spasm back and forth before he began the clean-up.
***
The abandoned warehouse downtown smelled of birdshit and week-old rain. Trenches and pulley-tracks for long-gone machinery lined the floor. Robert pulled open his little travel seat and parked his arse in the darkest corner. His stomach still churned for Matt. He was a good guy, but circumstances made him want Matt’s share.
He resisted his phone to read news, play a game, read a book. It paid dividends – he spotted Zed peek through broken windows, his muddy-blond hair side-parted and firm in the wind. His shoes crackled broken glass, heralding his entry. Robert made sure his gun ran smooth. Watched him check texts. Zed peered into a couple of side-rooms. He turned. Used his phone’s camera as a mirror to check his side-parting. A hair must have strayed. A licked finger disciplined it back into place. Robert’s brows flickered at Zed’s selfie.
“Glad you made it.” Robert’s voice echoed in the void. The previous silence made his voice sound all Ming the Merciless. Zed stumbled backwards. He patted for his gun and pointed to the wrong corner.
“I’m here.”
Robert emerged into the light. Must have appeared like an angel for the smile he planted on Zed. Robert could tell he pictured yachts and exotic beaches, and lusty women who hung on his words as if they would drip like gold into their purses.
“You’ve got my money?”
“Did anyone follow you?”
“No. Have the others got their share?”
“Not yet. You’re the first.”
“Where’s Bluey?”
“Dead.”
He nodded.
“Why nod?”
“I’d have killed him, too. What’s an old man want with all this money, right?”
Robert played along. Shrugged his shoulders. “Bluey said you had plans to take everything. For yourself.”
Zed wrinkled his pretty-boy skin. “Bullshit. He offered to split it fifty/fifty. I said no. Of course. What … you believe him?” His gun-hand shifted just a touch.
“No.” I sighed. “I know he played divide and rule.”
He loosened. His finger relaxed from the trigger. “If that was my plan, I’d have taken you all out already.”
He’d not pulled his weight throughout the operation. He just wanted to get the money from others’ labour and huffed when we worked slower than he hoped for. He viewed all the money as his, the makeweight for what his daddy had cut from him.
Chloe’s scar struck lightning across Robert’s thoughts. He thundered a bullet through Zed’s eye. The man shuffled back as he worked to maintain purchase, until his brain cut the signal to his feet. He fell. The trench had its new purpose.
***
Robert pondered how long Chloe had before her ex came back for another crack. She’d dumped that man five times. She liked danger. She’d dated a couple of other men. Good types, like Matt. Decent, hard-working, pleasant.
Boring.
Chloe considered herself a zoo keeper, the one who could tame that beast. Christopher would never tame. He’d lash at a moment’s notice. That knife mark across her face would nip at him until his sense of honour found satisfaction.
He grunted as he toed Zed’s foot into the trench with the rest of his body. He swung around.
“Why’d you kill him?”
The pin-prick light that pierced the clouds and made it through the windows above shone direct on Briony. It backlit her, gave her an aura. It couldn’t darken those bright Asiatic eyes which bore on Robert. She had both hands gripped on the gun, pointed at his head. The weapon had nothing to do with the words which fell from his mouth like lead lumps.
“I ... he ... he fired a shot at me.”
Her muzzle seemed to flash in slow motion, so slow he thought he had dodged the bullet. Not a chance. His shoulder seared, and its burn spread down his arm and up his neck. It knocked him back into the trench, his fall broken by Zed’s shattered body. He sucked at air like it might run out. Held his shoulder. Her fine form moved into view above him, blurred by his watery eyes.
They’d spent nights soaking their stories in whisky. They’d laughed, lied, told truths they’d never told anyone. She told him she loved him once. He made his move, but she didn’t mean that way. He watched her wooed by others, all turned down. High standards. No man could ever breach those towers.
Until Zed joined our crowd.
She read his bullshit. Knew his silver tongue was only plated. Yet he switched something on inside her. Something primal, depths Robert could not reach.
“Whatever happened to you?” Briony’s gun hand remained an icicle.
“You.”
“We had great times together, how did I turn you into a brooding mess?”
She thought her rejection of him that time had ended the matter. She’d moved on, she clearly expected him to have done the same. He rolled off Zed – suppressed grunts as pain shredded his nerves. He got himself seated after he pulled and balanced with his good arm. She’d not asked about the money. It floated around her tongue, but had not positioned itself for take-off, yet.
He fidgeted. He’d shuffled onto his gun and now its barrel wedged between his arse cheeks.
“You knew what I felt. You did nothing but tease me.”
“It’s not for me to act all coy around you, or dull my life to make sure I don’t hurt your feelings. You need to get over me, and yourself.”
“You’re right. I wasted my time. Could have had a proper woman.”
She laughed. “Don’t do me down. We had fun. We shared something soulful. Physically, we had nothing. Don’t think with that thing.” She waved the gun at his crotch.
“Are you going to help me up?”
“Help yourself. I’m here for my money.”
“You got over him quickly.” He nodded at Zed whose eyes stared blank at the iron beams which stretched across the roof.
“He had physicality. He reached deep inside, made me ...” She caught herself. “But he had no soul. There’ll be others.”
Her eyes glazed at the recent past. It hurt, stung to close them forever, but here was his chance. He leaned over, swiped his gun, and fired quickly. He hit her neck. Blood splashed
and she keeled over. He leaned into the concrete for protection against the gurgling. Hoped it would dull the gasps and the scrape of heels against the hard floor as they failed to grip life.
***
The third location was moot now Briony had followed her lover to the warehouse. Robert got to his flat, stripped, lied in the bath, and bit into a table knife’s wooden handle as he poured Johnny Walker Black into his wound. He writhed and stifled that scream into a grunt.
Robert sweated a fever away for a few days. Worried about Briony – hoped she’d not suffered too long. He’d blanked out in the trench, woke up as if drunk. Maybe the same day, maybe the day after. Dragged himself to the car he’d parked down an overgrown side-road. He’d visited the last location, the fourth, and flicked through plans in his head as to how he’d handle Roy. Roy never came. Maybe Robert read his phone’s calendar wrong and he’d arrived a day late.
He got out of the bath. Weighted everything on his good arm. He called Chloe. Asked about her status.
“Nothing to worry about.”
“Have you heard from him?”
“Not yet. I expect he’ll call soon. He always does.”
“Everything’ll be alright.”
“I know it will, brother. I’ll see to that.”
He nodded, surprised that her belligerence still staggered him. She had broken Christopher’s nose. She could give as good as she got. How could she end up with such a loser?
He downed the whisky, shook his head as if that would free him of the fever which brewed at the base of his skull, and called Roy. The automatic message told him that line had become disused.
***
A week flitted by and Roy had not come for his money. Had one of the others offed him? Maybe his life had blown away down some gutter. Maybe soil pressed him down in some grave on the moors. His mother would go frantic if he didn’t visit her at least once a week.
***
Creaky ‘70s doors squeaked in Victorian doorways. The smell of bleach and piss. His footsteps echoed down the empty corridor to the front desk. A place to wait for your time to come. What a place to spend your last years. Robert’s frame shook before he could dampen it. The sun seemed reluctant to sneak through squinty windows. Ancient radiators moaned like torture victims.
The woman at the front desk didn’t stretch a single wrinkle to smile at the visitor, even when Robert cracked a grin for her. She must have seen one death too many. Her body language told him she’d let life seep from her pores.
“I’m here to see Mrs Bracken.” He patted the small hammer in his pocket to quell the self-conscious creep up his back.
“Mrs Bracken moved out last week.” Her eyes reminded him of countless unimpressed nightclub bouncers. She narrowed her eyes, didn’t recognise him. Examined his black flat-cap. No doubt had suspicions why its wearer had pulled it down so close to his eyes.
“Oh … well, Roy never told me that.”
“And you are?” She eyed him above her sharp-edged black glasses.
“I’m her son, Roy’s brother.”
She leaned back in her chair, rubbed her necklace. “I have never seen you before.”
“You wouldn’t have. I live in Australia. I’m visiting and I wanted to see me mum. Where did she go?”
“I’m sorry –”
“Jack.”
“I’m sorry, Jack, I’m not at liberty to give you that information. You can always ask Roy.”
Robert pursed his lips and planted both palms on her high desk. “We’re not on speaking terms.”
“I’m sorry about that. I still can’t give you information.”
Robert pulled what an American would call a “gee-whizz” face, thanked her for making time for him, and traipsed down the corridor. He made every steel-toe booted step bounce off the walls – imagined her eyes become dots in her head as she watched the back of him.
The inside door creaked open and shut. In the little passage between that and the outside door he took his phone in one hand and fiddled aimlessly. Kept his other on the hammer. He waited. Nodded to himself as the woman stood, her eyes firm on a file in her hands. She headed down the long corridor away from him with strides younger than her age. Robert lifted the hammer and smashed the glass on the fire alarm. The old bells rang out, not for Christmas cheer, but for wild-eyed panic, narrow-eyed confusion, and clattering steps. Bodies charged from quiet rooms, scrabbled to shift old folk into wheel chairs, stroller beds, anything that could shift them faster than their normal glacial paces. Robert scurried to an emptied room and bided his time. He made his move once the building had emptied.
***
Robert jerked his old Vauxhall into Acacia Avenue as he might a cranky horse, the car too sorry and cheap for such a posh road. Pink blossom fell from the tree he parked beneath onto his collar as he pulled himself out. He winced at the bullet wound as it stretched. Swung his arm to rid the ache. He strolled beneath the Acacia Retirement Village sign. Checked the high walls and through railings which protected pretty little houses plotted around manicured squares, filled with bright flowers and lush, almost luminescent grass. This place must cost a lot of money.
He pulled his cap close to his eyes, worked to show his teeth. Took a chance that the receptionist in the entry building had not seen Roy before. He nodded to her as if they’d met over a nice cup of tea, and walked by.
“Excuse me.” Her strong Nigerian accent tickled his ears, made him engage her eyes. They’d seen things. Things Robert wasn’t sure he’d like to know about. They mined him, recognised something she’d seen before. He guessed that something didn’t make her warm and fuzzy, despite her smile.
“Can I help you?”
“Oh, sorry, I’m Roy. Roy Bracken.”
“You know you need to sign in, Mr Bracken?”
He tutted, rolled his eyes, slapped his thigh. “Sorry, I always forget. I was the same in the old place.”
Her smile never broke, but her eyes said she believed nothing. She guided him to the desk with a look over her shoulder. Seated herself. Lifted the phone.
“Excuse me, one second.” He pulled out his phone. “I have a call.”
He exited the building with the phone to his ear. Listened to dead air. Cursed beneath his breath that he should just have parked on the road and waited. Fever had got into his thoughts.
He removed his cap, ruffled his short black hair, and eyeballed the man who pulled into the parking spot before him. Roy’s eyes bulged like two hardboiled eggs, his mouth a thin line across a pasty face. Quick hand movements shifted his car into reverse and he put his foot down. Wheels squealed backwards, Roy spun to Robert’s right, and he left a stink of rubber as he screeched, without any decorum for such an avenue, down the road.
Robert panted back to his car. Threw himself inside and, arm round the passenger seat to check behind, pulled away. He cocked an ear through the open window. Heard tires spin an orchestral panic to the east. He sped in that direction – made sure his wheels didn’t pull eyes his way. Posh soon gave way to haggard terraced housing, potholes, and graffiti. Roy’s red Mini, more Michael Caine than BMW, helped Robert keep him in sight.
Robert risked fourth gear on the next bend. He curved long by a brown wall topped by barbed wire and broken glass. The road fell into a dip down which you could turn the engine off and free-ride. Fourth gear didn’t work. His old Vauxhall complained, tilted, screamed at him. Robert relented, pounded the clutch, shifted to third, and caressed his car back to balance. He pushed quickly into fifth for the stomach-churn drop.
His bumper came close to the mini. Robert gripped the wheel, circled his bad shoulder, squinted at the back of Roy’s head like he already pointed his gun there. They roared past a stretch of green fields as the road levelled, blurred past a couple of corrugated factory units, and headed into industrial wasteland. He banged into Roy’s bumper once, twice. He jolted, but did not destroy the man’s balance. A stray cat scuttled for cover, a black bin-bag full of junk scattered ac
ross the Tarmac on impact, and a pothole almost sent Roy into a wall.
Abandoned factories, stood like industrial gravestones, gave way to brick-strewn demolished lots protected by wire fences bent like a tidal-wave. Robert urged his car forward and aimed for a corner of the Mini’s rear. He caught it and backed off a little to eye Roy’s hands go frantic as he spun the wheel. The Mini heaved one way, then the other. He hit a kerb. The Mini tilted. His target might get away on the two left-sided wheels, but it overturned and skidded on its roof about thirty feet through wire, bricks, fence and rusted remnants of old machinery.
Robert parked up, left his engine to purr at the success, and scanned the area for coppers. He got out when satisfied and padded to the Mini. He sat cross-legged at the driver’s side, bent forward to see through the window.
“Hi, Roy.”
Roy stared at him through a slit of bulged flesh, dark purple already. Blood streamed from his nose, screened his right eye, and merged with that from the gash in his forehead. It matted his hair. Robert swivelled his head almost parallel with his old colleague’s, as his seatbelt kept him upside down.
“You were always a quiet one.”
Robert hoped he wouldn’t have to ask. Silly, he knew. Roy had always been shy. The others presumed him gay because he never had a woman on his arm. He tended his mum all the time. Shopped for her, sometimes with her. Often slept at her house. It sent the man a little haywire when she could no longer live alone and he put her in an old people’s home. He hated that place, but it was all he could afford.
“Where’s my money?” Robert shook his head when the man didn’t respond. He kept an ear for cops, the other for Roy’s breath.
“I thought you had it.” Roy grinned.
“Nah. I don’t.”
Roy coughed. Robert noted blood on his tongue. He didn’t have much time.
“You told everyone you did.” Roy’s voice gurgled and crackled. “I guess they all came looking for you. What did you do to them?”