Bullets, Teeth, & Fists 2

by Jason Beech

  “I shot them. One by one.”

  He winced. Pain pulled him closer to the ether. “You’re shallow, Robert.”

  “Me? It’s you who stole it all. How’d you get it from Bluey?”

  “I ... I…”

  “Never mind. Just tell me where the money is.” He didn’t have time. Cuffs and Roy’s expiration might catch up with him.

  “Fuck you.”

  A blood spot shot from Roy’s mouth and settled on Robert’s cheek. He used the back of a finger to wipe it clear. He slid the gun from the back of his jeans and pointed. “Tell me where the money is.”

  “Fuck off.”

  Robert slammed a hand against the car door, gritted his teeth at the vibration which ran up his arm and bit at his wound. He breathed deep to regain composure. Spoke through his teeth. “Now I know where your mum lives. Tell me where the money is or I shoot her through the mouth.”

  Roy laughed, but tears betrayed him. They pooled in his eyes and glistened in the late afternoon light.

  “The b...”

  “The what?”

  “The fucking boot.”

  “Shit, are you kidding me?”

  “It’s for my mum. Please –”

  “She’s an old woman, Roy, she won’t need it for long.”

  “Please …”

  Robert scratched his nose with the muzzle and glanced back at his car. He sprung to his feet and ran to it. Adrenaline dulled his pain. He threw himself back into the seat, pounded the accelerator and pulled up by the Mini. Kept the key in the ignition. He reached inside Roy’s car. The lever to unlock the boot didn’t work. Had to slide in on his back to reach for the keys. Avoided Roy’s eyes above, but heard the man’s lungs bubble blood in his pipes. There, got them. His skin crawled as Roy attempted to put an arm round his neck and lock him in place. The ploy hadn’t much strength, though the pain in his shoulder stabbed at his nerves. He squeezed Roy’s arm until the man’s strength dissipated, and slid back out. He wiped his neck with the back of his hand and shook Roy’s death smell from his skin. Swung his and Roy’s boots open, eyed the whole lot sat there as if Roy had thrown his old wellies in the back. Clever, he supposed: who’d nick an old banger like this? Who’d even think it contained such a stash?

  A distant siren quickened his pace. Grabbed armfuls, waddled, let it fall into his own boot. Repeat. Mopped sweat from his eyes, allowed his hands to rest on his hips for a moment to breathe cool air. He blew out a low whistle and bent down to check on Roy. Something pinched Robert’s skin. Shivers cascaded across his body. He put the gun back in his jeans and straightened.

  He hit the ground and peeled the silence which blanketed this place from civilisation with a wail. It scattered a flock of birds. They chirruped their warning as they clouded the sky. He grasped his shin. How had his gun fired off by itself? No. Can’t have. He had planted it in the back of his jeans. He glared down the length of his leg and through the window, to the point of Roy’s gun. It fired again, but his grip had gone limp and the shot flew by.

  Robert rolled away. Grunted, sniffled, ground his teeth to dust, it seemed. Dug his nails into the rough road, snorted snot from his nostrils. Splashes of blood. His DNA everywhere. Heard sirens again, distant, consistent – sure they headed his way. He hooked an arm through his open window to haul himself from the ground. Opened the door, belly flopped across the backseat to pull the old roadmap he never used anymore from the sleeve in the back of the chair. He puffed his way back out, bent to get across the front seats. Pushed the lighter into its socket. Talked his pain away. Words tumbled from shaky lips. The lighter popped. He grabbed it, pushed himself back out and hobbled to the Mini.

  Sirens sounded as loud as those birds. He pulled the petrol cap, ripped pages from the road map and scrunched them. Not too tight. Needed air. He jammed them in the funnel and applied the lighter. Wafted a hand to help the breeze fan a flame. It took hold. He held the lighter between two fingers like a knuckle-duster and hobbled back to the Vauxhall.

  He put his foot down, replaced the lighter. The effort made him drag air from his lungs in a screech monkeys make when a chimp rips them apart. He took one long look at the flames as they spread. Hoped the fire consumed the DNA from his blood stains which dotted from the Mini. The explosion brought concentration back to the road.

  ***

  Robert blinked grit from his eyes. His gaze shifted from the white of the ceiling to yellow stains in the corners. The damp would hit his nephew eventually and get into his lungs, make his breath a low-rolling thunder. He eased himself into a seated position, stuck a finger down the bandage on his leg. Scratched.

  He limped across the room, dragged the curtains wide, stared at the shed where he’d shot Matt. Chloe called it a barn. Barns seemed cleaner to him, more organised, more American. This had weeds which grew up its sides, and planks drifted from the nails which had long given up – definitely more a shed than a barn.

  Hardly country living. This old cottage hid in the hills, but tourists would turn up their noses for how it spoiled the tidal-wave hills around it.

  She deserved better.

  ***

  “Just remember, you called me.”

  Robert scratched mental itches. “I have no problem.”

  “You haven’t been in touch.”

  “I’ve been recovering.”

  “From what? Flu?”

  “I wish. But stop fretting.”

  “I’m going to fret. The fee is in my budgeting. I expect it.”

  “And you’ll get it.”

  “Good.”

  “Yes. Good.”

  ***

  Chloe tended his leg. Cleaned it, bandaged it, made him take his exercise. Her boy watched, always silent. Cogs whirled beneath that blond hair.

  He squeezed her arm. “How’s your scar?”

  She ran a finger from its end to the other. Practice told her exactly where its root began. Proud of the mutilation? “It’s fine. I think it’s disappearing. Nothing worse than I gave you when we were kids.”

  He hoped his frown didn’t show as clear as her scar. She took his hand and rubbed at the scar on his palm. She flexed her hand to pump colour into her identical scar and planted it against his. “We’re still blood-siblings.”

  He closed his hand around hers. “We’ll be okay, soon.”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  ***

  Robert peeled the gauze from his wounds. Bared his teeth at the staggered pulls. Brushed a hand over the closed holes, shivered at his near misses, smiled that he’d come out on top. Briony still hurt, and some of that shake in his frame was for a desire unfulfilled, but life moved on and he hoped to fry something a little bigger.

  He skimmed the newspaper which pontificated about their robbery on page four. He limped around the house and up the lighter slopes which surrounded the home to keep his muscles active. All the bodies he’d piled up – why’d he put this job out for tender? He tapped the new pre-paid Chloe bought him. An old brick which flipped. Blared polyphonic sound like the year 2000 hadn’t ended.

  Robert called. “It’s me”.

  “I guessed.”

  “I’m calling it off.”

  Mr Jones’ breath intake made Robert ball his fist. He had every right to cancel anything he wanted. This prick was never short of work.

  “We’re fucking not.”

  “We’re off. I don’t need you to do anything. I’ll do it myself.”

  “Fuck off. You called me in. I’ve budgeted for the fee. I can’t replace it with other shit. Too short notice, mate. I’m doing it. And then I’ll collect my money.”

  “Stay the fuck away.”

  He flipped the phone off, shoved it in his pocket and lifted his head to the peaks around him. He felt like a god, a Zeus on Mount Olympus. He’d recovered enough to drive, so he took Chloe and her boy out for lunch. He winced only a little at the multiple bumps down the rock and mud road which slithered down the hill to the town. The café’s men
u catered for those who viewed black pepper as exotic. When it arrived he bit into his sausage and egg sandwich, ruffled the boy’s locks, and smiled at Chloe. She grinned back, happy.

  “He called.” She dabbed at her lips.

  “He did?”

  “I said he would.”

  “Don’t worry, you’ll be free soon.”

  She grabbed his hand firm, squeezed. “What are you up to?”

  “There’s nothing to worry about.”

  “After that last bit of drama? You’re asking for trouble. You robbed a foreign prince for God’s sake ...”

  He focused on the sandwich.

  ***

  “Shut the fuck up.” Robert’s neck muscles bulged.

  Loud music had drowned him out at first, but the man’s sob hit the gap between Oasis’ Cigarettes and Alcohol and Arctic Monkeys’ Don’t Sit Down ‘Cause I’ve Moved Your Chair. From that point he couldn’t help but keep an ear out for each blub, and when it hit, a surge ran down his arm which wanted to end in a punch.

  His next sob wracked the man’s body as it rumbled from toe to split-ends. It merged with the Supergrass riff on Lenny. Robert hooded his head to cover himself from rain, slammed the breaks, eased off to avoid a skid into the trees, and leaned against the car’s trajectory as the back-end followed the front’s slide round the tree-lined bend. At the field’s gate he stopped the car and shouldered it open. The whites of the man’s eyes radiated the gloom beneath the green canopy as he strained his neck to see over his shoulder. Robert had him hog-tied and lying on his belly.

  Robert breathed so hard it stung his nose. He grabbed the rope which tied the man’s feet together and dragged him until his face bumped off the car’s edge and splashed into the mud. He’d left a piss snail-streak on the back seat. The man wriggled until Robert’s sharp kick stilled him. He placed a knee in his back and tightened the gag from the back of his neck. Slit the rope which bound his legs with the jagged hunter’s knife. Helped the man up, pushed him forward with his Beretta’s muzzle until the reservoir’s tall stone wall blocked their path. Robert threw the rope he’d cut at the man’s feet.

  Robert opened his mouth. His heavy breath came out loud through his nose. He followed the tear’s path which seeped from the man’s right eye, until it soaked into the gag along with the rain.

  “Stand.”

  The man shuffled against the wall to get to his feet. Robert stabbed the gun into his ribs with his left hand, pulled the gag with his right to turn it into a blindfold.

  “She deserved it.” The man spluttered spit and snot. Rain and sweat plastered his floppy fringe to his forehead.

  “A plummy accent doesn’t give you any rights. None.”

  “She deserved it.” Birds sprung from their perches.

  Robert kidney-punched him. The man grunted, used the wall to prevent a fall to the waterlogged mud. Robert lifted him straight. The man wound his neck back and attempted a headbutt. He missed Robert’s head but smashed his forehead into his wounded shoulder. Robert staggered back. Bit his lower lip to transfer pain. Charged forward and smacked the gun’s side into the man’s cheek.

  “Get up.” Robert wobbled for a moment. “Get up.”

  The man found his feet, swayed, stared at Robert with the one eye left open. Wriggled his tied wrists.

  “She’s my .... She deserved none of it. You cut her. You ... You can face the firing squad for it.”

  The man laughed. He should have shit himself, but he grinned and nodded at what approached behind Robert’s shoulder. Robert followed his gaze, muttered a “shit.”

  The red VW Beetle rattled to a stop and out she stomped. Fired bullets at Robert from her eyes. The blond mop scurried after her.

  “Chloe, go home. This is under control.”

  Her momentum stopped only when her hand streaked finger-marks across his cheek.

  He rocked on his heels like her eyeballs might pop and penetrate his flesh, but he fired back.

  “You have no idea about anything.” Her voice a bark, all gravel. Her boy wrapped an arm round her leg. Her hand moved to his head. She stroked his already soaked hair to keep him calm.

  “I’m getting rid of dead wood. He’s caused you nothing but misery.”

  “He’s caused me nothing but joy.”

  “What?” Robert rolled his eyes. She’s not the kind of woman to make excuses for a man who abused her. Pathetic. Disappointment tightened his chest for the argument ahead.

  He swept a hand at the kid. “What you bring the boy for?”

  The kid leaned back to catch his mum’s eye. She pushed at the back of his head to force him into her leg again.

  “Who am I going to leave him with?”

  “Yourself, in the house. There’s no need for you to be here.”

  “I had to come. You’ve been talking weird shit for days, saying I’d be free soon. I knew you were up to no good. You’ve never been up to good all your life.”

  “I’ve done everything for you.”

  “You’ve brought me grief.”

  “I robbed a Saudi entourage for you. I offed my team to get you in a better position …” He pointed to the boy. “… and take care of this one.” He nodded at her ex. “And get rid of him.”

  “You’re an idiot, Robert. I’m the aggressor. I beat him. I asked for the knife mark.”

  “Nothing you did could have asked for that fucking thing across your face. Makes you look like the Joker.”

  “Listen to the woman.” Christopher coughed.

  “You shut the fuck up.”

  “No. Listen to her.”

  “It’s okay, fella.” Robert offered the boy a weak smile when he buried his face in his mother’s thigh.

  “She’s fucking nuts. She hits me with golf clubs. Stabs me with screwdrivers, sometimes uses a knife. Lift my shirt if you don’t believe me.”

  Robert made eyes at all three. She glared defiance, though her feet shuffled a little from embarrassment. He lifted the man’s shirt with his gun, followed the track of one scar from his abdomen to a nipple, and a couple of pinched scars dark against his pale skin.

  “You did this?”

  She nodded. Chewed a corner of her mouth. “We’re the same, brother. We love pain. Love how it feels. Love giving it. Makes us feel in this dead, boring world. And I love him.”

  “I don’t love you.” Christopher mumbled his feelings again and again.

  “Shut up.” Robert glared, though Christopher couldn’t see him behind the blindfold. He wanted to scratch the tingle which burned from his wounds. How could she enjoy such pain? He never wanted to feel a bullet puncture him again. She’d stroked that scar on her face like a battle wound. Had she used that scar as an initiation, the first step to bring her man into her true world?

  “What about the boy?” Robert turned to her. “Do you ever hurt him?”

  “No.” Her face creased at the offence. “He’ll find his own way.”

  “Jesus. What is wrong with you?”

  “We’ve gotten so bloody safe. Everything’s so civilised we’ve forgotten how to feel.”

  “You need to get away from these hills.”

  “And you need to stop chasing me, brother.”

  “I am not your brother. Can we end this fiction, now. I love you. I always have.”

  She grabbed his scarred hand. “We’re blood siblings.”

  “But not related. We could be more …”

  “Then let’s end this fiction. I made us blood-siblings to stop you trying to get inside me. You’re too safe for me.”

  “Safe? Look what I did for you. A Saudi prince is short of a few bob and all rattled. He’ll never cruise London streets the same way again.”

  “Not the kind of danger I want. I want you to hurt me. You never could.” She held up her hand. The scar stood dark against her cold, pale skin. “I had to cut my own hand, because you couldn’t.”

  A thud interrupted the rain’s rhythmic pitter-patter. His captive’s head split,
jerked backwards. His body smashed against the reservoir’s stone wall. Robert swung his gun round to search the trees which clung to the hills above. Another thud and his leg caught fire. He stumbled to the ground and gasped. His eyes ran across the landscape for that one blot.

  “Oh my God.” She swivelled, unsure whether to tend to Christopher or himself.

  She threw her body across Robert as if her embrace of pain could protect him from his fear of the same. The shot had thrown him, sent his gun against the stone wall and into long grass. He spider-crawled a hand in the mud around him, hoping to find it near.

  The boy stepped in front of his mum and Robert, swept his golden hair away from his eyes, and attempted to stare down the man who emerged from the oaks and sycamores. This invader’s rifle pointed their way. His knee-length raincoat flapped around his legs. Wet streaked and dripped from its bottom.

  “The kid’s not going to protect you. Where’s my fucking money?”

  Robert spat bum notes through his keyboard teeth. The rifleman fired a shot into the ground, splashing mud into Robert’s face. Chloe sprung to her feet. Hair straggled over her eyes. The man shot her through the stomach, forced her onto her back. She writhed. Robert bubbled mud and spittle from his mouth, crawled towards her as she pushed herself onto her knees.

  Her boy shook and his eyes wobbled as they flit between them all. Robert could tell he wanted to wrap his arms round his mother, but revenge took charge of his fists and feet. He pummelled and kicked the man, who blocked everything while he kept his eyes on the two live adults.

  “Get your hands off my son.” Her voice was the sound of mud and rock, lava from the Earth’s bowels, raised to shatter this man’s being.

  “I want my money.”

  “I don’t have it.” Robert growled as if it would grate his pain away. “I don’t fucking have it.”

  “Your gang is dead. You’re the only one alive. I know you have it. Pay me and I leave.”

  Robert shook his head. Knew his death would arrive either way. This bastard would leave empty-handed.