Bullets, Teeth, & Fists 2

by Jason Beech

  “I never found it. I thought Bluey had it. I went through everyone. The money’s gone. Maybe you’ve got it.”

  Chloe’s slow steps telegraphed her intentions. The boy continued to hit, his grunts like a skewered pig. The man had had enough. He swung his arm across his chest and released the spring, back-handing the kid across a stretch of drenched grass until a rock brought his voice and body still. Chloe picked up her pace. Blood seeped through her fingers as she held the wound. Her other arm swung to increase her speed. The man creased his forehead, curious more than frightened, until she clawed five lines across his high forehead. The assassin’s eyes widened, unsure if he believed what had happened, until the blood curled into the corner of his eye and pooled. It dripped into his five-o’clock scruff. He wiped with his sleeve and examined the stain before rain diluted its deep red. He watched her turn to her unconscious boy. She bent as the pain she’d just lusted for began to take her. Robert scoured for his gun. Every shift of his body sent splinters up his frame.

  “Mum.” The boy mewled, the sound like anaesthetic.

  The man lifted his rifle and fired. Hit Robert’s shoulder. His forehead smacked against the ground, his eyes rolled into his skull, and the groan bubbled from his lungs. “Myyyyy … God.”

  He heard a kick and Chloe’s yelp. How’s this for pain? How’s this for living, sister?

  He craned his neck, focussed his eyes. Wished he hadn’t. She lied on her back. The man pointed his rifle with one hand and shot her in the heart. Rain dampened the red mist. Memories flooded. River jumps together. Tree-climbing. The gang hanging around the council estate – how she ruled the roost with force of personality. How he eventually lost her to hormones. She drifted from childhood to a world he couldn’t catch. How she ran from his love.

  How’d she get to this hillside recluse?

  The boy had shifted to Chloe’s elbow. Robert watched his chest rise and fall, and feared a last expansion. He sighed, relieved when the man ignored the boy and splashed steps towards him instead. His rifle rested loose in his grip and pointed at the ground. The man’s head bobbed like one of those nodding dogs people planted in the back window of their cars.

  “Money? Where?”

  “I ...”

  “I’ll make you this promise.” He knelt just beyond a knife-thrust’s distance, his back to the boy. “Tell me where all the money is. I’m taking it all, now. Tell me and I’ll let you live. I’ll let you both live. One more word of bullshit and I let you watch me shoot the kid.”

  Robert rolled onto his back, eyes on the sky. Watched the boy push himself off the ground, quiet as he could. His eyes ... Robert could see them burn.

  “In a ditch, south of the house. Below the rock peeking over the hill’s rim.”

  The man laughed, wiped the blood which seeped from his scar. “I keep my promises. You live.”

  “I’ll find you.”

  “You won’t. I’m not as careless as you. That’s why you live. I’ll be back if the money’s not there.”

  Robert gulped, eyed the man as he headed for the trees. A hand stroked his hair, wiped it clear of his forehead. He shifted to take the hand in his, the boy he now had to care for. The hand felt metallic. Robert shifted focus, jerked his head to the boy and the gun the kid pressed into his palm. Those eyes encouraged him to do it. Robert raised the gun, tensed his arm to still the shakes. A bad shot and he wouldn’t have the chance to care for himself, never mind the boy. The man merged with the bleak trees on the hill’s crest – but the rifle slung over his shoulder like a shovel, as if he’d just done something normal, made his hand hold steady. The trigger felt immovable, but his finger made it. A shot burst the tension. The man stopped as if lost in his plans. Maybe he considered the evidence of what had just happened. Couldn’t believe it. Maybe he’d walk on and ignore the sound like he would thunder. He dropped to his knees. The rifle slid from his shoulder. He fell forward. His corpse slid a couple or so feet down the grime.

  Robert’s breath come back from retirement. Lowered the gun. The boy prised it from his cold white fingers. The kid’s hair flapped in the wind, a torch beneath slate skies. The boy headed for the man, each step like he jumped from one stone to another above a pit of crocodiles. When he reached his mum’s killer, he pointed the gun at his head. Hesitated.

  I wanted him to shoot. I didn’t want him to shoot.

  He dropped it by the dead man. Such a thing belonged to a man like that. Robert watched him walk back, his shoulders back, his blond locks a beacon.

  “Charlie, my boy.”

  He had a kid to care for.

  A Conversational Robbery

  I felt bad for Mr Patel that I'd chosen to rob him. He'd always been nice to me, always asked how my day had gone, and never failed to smile at the lies I offered at how my hours had drifted by. I checked my shoulder and pulled the balaclava over my face. Barged open the door. The bell rang dull, as if its little hammer had become meek at the sight of my gun. I charged into the shop and froze at the sight of some other fella behind the counter. A young man, with slicked back hair that wouldn't move in a tornado, read the newspaper he had sprawled over the surface. An aviary fluttered in my stomach. I'd wanted the familiar in my robbery. I don't know why – maybe if they discovered my identity they'd forgive me.

  I raised the gun at the man because I couldn't calculate quick enough to turn and get out of there. He wet a finger in readiness to turn the next page and made a casual glance up, a habit, I guessed, to check on customers. His eyes danced in amusement at first, but soon turned all Japanese cartoon-eyed as his focus hit the gun aimed at his bonce.

  “Tim, what the fuck are you doing?”

  “Wha …? What?”

  “Put the gun down, you tit, what are you thinking?”

  “How? I mean … Empty the fucking till.”

  “No. I'm not emptying the till.”

  Of course, Mr Patel’s son, Nik. We talked football just the other day. He said English football is about to crash and the big money would soon leave to new pastures, leaving English football barely a step above Scotland’s variety. My tunnel vision for his dad blinded me to him.

  Someone shuffled behind the crisp section. My nerves made me slam a shot in that direction and puff went a few bags of salt and vinegar. A woman screamed.

  “Please don't kill me. Please … I have a son. He's an arse, but he's all I've got. I'm all he's got. Oh please don't kill me.”

  “Whoa, whoa, Tim, you calm down.” Nik had his hands in surrender mode.

  “My name’s not Tim.”

  “Okay, Tim, okay, it's not. Just put the gun down and we'll say none of this happened. Alright, love?”

  The woman’s voice wobbled across the air. “Yes, love. I won't say a thing. I promise.”

  “Just give me the money, Nik, and I'll get out of here.”

  “See, we know each other. We have a rapport. If you put the gun down, we can talk about a loan. How much do you need?”

  “I'm not borrowing anything, Nik, not a penny. I'm taking it. All of it.”

  “But, what's dad gonna say? He'll be proper pissed off. He works his arse off for all this – he won't take kindly to giving it all away to a man whose day’s work involved only the wave of a gun. Goes against his principles.”

  “Tell him you lost it.”

  The woman risked my attention. “Just give him the bloody money, Nik, and claim the insurance.”

  Nik could have been the front man in a boy band with that smile and tone. He made me want to drop the gun and discuss loan terms over a cuppa tea. But I'm skint and my old job is never coming back. And my kid wants a birthday present. I mean, he's not demanded it, or even mentioned it. In fact he's been dead good about not asking for stuff since I lost my job. But he's a kid, so I know he definitely wants a prezzie. The pressure of that want kills me.

  “Look at this.” Nik holds up the free paper. Page five. “Thief in garage robbery gets ten years. Imagine that, Tim.”

>   “I'm not Tim. Tim’s probably at work or something.”

  Nik gets all forensic, like he scalpels my eyes for examination. I glance away, dead embarrassed. “Of course you're Tim. You have that little brown flaw in your pupil. I always thought you had a tumour, but it felt wrong to bring it up. I mean, it's none of my business, is it?”

  “No, it bloody well isn't.” I rubbed at my eye, self-conscious. I waved the gun again to make him shift his eyes from me. “Come on, how much have you got in the till?”

  “Not enough to buy your lad a present.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, what is this?”

  “The truth, Tim, nothing but –”

  “What is this?” I spun at the strong Indian accent. Mr Patel’s stern eye might have knocked me out, given time, but the woman behind the crisp shelf did him a favour with one fine throw of a can of beans I saw only at the point of contact with my temple.

  My son would have to go without, this year.

  The Lad Needs a Lesson

  The creak pushes through alcohol tha … swishes round me brain, like you'd imagine one of them ships groan beneath the sea. Me fingers twitch over the sofa’s rough surface, an injured spider in search of occupation. All I feel is the thud in my chest and the gun I'm sat on sticking in me arse.

  I've sat here weeks waiting for this moment. I knew they'd find me. It had to happen. You can't hide forever. Not after how I screwed them over and wasted it all. I want to pull the gun and aim it at the door, but my hands rest limp on the pillow as if I slept on them all night. Chin rests on me chest. It swivels with the front door’s handle. They're testing it. Here they come. Come on … put me out of my fookin’ misery. I have nothing to live for. Just an iPod and next door’s cat, who, for some reason I don't know, prefers me to the old woman who owns it.

  The door is kicked in. Makes me jump, shock the only way to animate me bones it seems. I close me eyes. I don't expect they'll ever open again.

  But they do. A kid’s voice drops. “What's this fuckin’ shithole? There's nowt here to nick.”

  I open me peepholes. The kid has a skinhead and wears a brown t-shirt. He smells of Lynx. It overpowers the alcohol. I manage a shuffle. I hope the squelch beneath me is sweat, but I reckon it's piss. I can smell its tang above the deodorant and Special Brew. He is not my killer.

  A man with shaggy brown hair, but shoulders broad enough to store a book collection, stands by the door and stares right at me. Folds his arms. That look pins me to me seat. Nods at the kid to get on with it. He is not my killer.

  Another kid piles in, all business-like. My flat is on one level and has only two rooms and a bathroom. It doesn’t take long for them to realise I have nothing. The second kid stares at me. His front teeth buck from his mouth like they want to escape the foul language it spouts. He is not my killer.

  I'm as rough as a badger’s arse, but I can manage a couple sentences or so without exploding a ‘fuck’. Me fingers tingle and spasm. They’re coming alive again. The man’s marble eyes don't shift from me. These are not my killers.

  “What about this?” says skinhead.

  “Take it.” The man doesn’t even make a judgment on the object’s value.

  Skinhead weighs it in one palm.

  “It looks older than me gran.” Buck-tooth’s laugh ends in a snort.

  “It weighs tons.” Skinhead clicks it and wheels through some songs. “Let Me Make it Through the Night … What’s that sad shit?” He lifts his head to me. “I don't know half of the shite on here.”

  “Take it.” The man sniffs.

  The iPod won't last two minutes taken from its dock. The battery died long ago. All I know is that it provides me some comfort as I wait here to die. I shuffle, which triggers a step from the big man into my space. Don't dare try anything, his electric-symbol eyebrows tell me. His nose quivers. He can smell the piss. He scans me up and down and the bottles by the settee. Shakes his head. Skinhead puts me iPod in his pocket. There’re songs on there which are me last link to a life long gone. Alcoholic waves which sloshed round me eyeballs and blurred these people have wisped away. I see the thieves, sharp. Buck-tooth and Sknhead ransack the cupboards and napalm the air with a few more fucks and cunts.

  I heat up. Me hair clings to me forehead. But not from fear. I see meself in these kids. I was a little shit back then. Now look at me, sat here in me own piss, getting robbed by kids, and sat on a gun …

  They need guidance. A sure hand. An experienced man to show them their errors.

  The boys dart back into the living room, stand in the doorway, all pissy at their master.

  “He's got nowt.” Buck-tooth’s front teeth look like fat little legs with their feet cut off.

  “He's fuckin’ skint.” Skinhead swings from the doorframe, his arms thin as rails.

  The man turns his head from me. When he turns back I have me gun pointed at his belly. His eyes widen to saucers and he takes a step back. He holds up his hands, shows me his palms. The kids see the gun and grasp each other's arms. Skinhead is about to cry. I shoot the man in the belly. He crumbles with a grunt, rolls into foetus position and screams.

  “Be warned, kids,” I say. “This is what you're heading for. Now get out of here and think on.”

  They jump over their master. Almost shoulder each other to the floor to get through the front door first.

  I'm warming up. Maybe I've found a vocation. I can teach kids. Show them the way. Prevent them from ending up in a pile of their own waste. I close me eyes at that future. I smile at the neighbour’s cat purring round me feet ...

  When I open my eyes, two men stare at me, guns pointed at my head. Bollocks – here are my killers.

  Dirty Night

  I just love my football.

  I don’t have enough skill to write home about, so I referee five-a-side games to enjoy it close-up. Some great players here. Dozens of teams run about fields marked side-by-side as if tonight’s games will influence the rest of their lives. I love their joy at the art they create with that round thing. But there’s always one or two out to muck it all up. Not by stopping how others play. There’s room for that – I’m not a purist snob. What I mean is this prick who has just threatened my life, stood on his tippy-toes because he’s a couple of inches shorter than me, his right index finger pointed dagger-like at my left eye – because I made a call he didn’t like.

  “I’m going to chop your fucking head off, stick it on a railing, let the other players see what kind of twat you are then.” His dot-eyes pinch so tight together they almost merge.

  It’s a dirty Sheffield night where the rain stains the city rather than washes it clean. It’s not a particularly heavy rain, but it needles its way through your fabric and bleeds away your warmth. Makes this Cyclop’s attitude all the harder to bear.

  I’m used to abuse in this game. I referee four games, four nights a week. Supplements my income from the warehouse day-job. Pays more per hour, though I get less hours. I like it. I always shrug off the abuse, bite back with an F-bomb that makes most either quieten down, or force a “shit, yeah you’re right” grin, and I’m thankfully ignored for the rest of the game.

  Of all the threats that people have spat at me, I believe this one. I could report the player to the facility manager. Get him banned. I won’t, because that will escalate the situation. He’s sent a shiver down my spine, and no manager is going to keep this shithead away. Even his own team are scared of him – they laugh at his threats to ward off his attention on them. I see it as a challenge. He must see my eyes narrow. Maybe he sees my upper lip reach for my nose as I show my upper teeth.

  He jabs me in the chest. “Keep looking over your shoulder.”

  I hold my breath so I don’t have to infuse his mushy pea aroma. I shake my head, keep my eyes on his. I’m not a violent person. I love a good laugh, enjoy hosting my friends, and looking after them with the odd slap-up meal, even if it is always spaghetti Bolognese.

  His eyes cross, surprised that
I don’t drop my head to show deference. Sod that. He’s just declared war. I check the game card for his name: Billy.

  I let him play on. The opposing team don’t say a thing. I have my whistle ready for whenever he’s near the ball, alert to any opportunity to piss him off. The other team dominate possession, full of tricks and crisp passes, shifting the ball in seams between their opponents. The way that nineteen year old one-touches a pass with a spin off the outside of his little toe, beating two oncoming defenders … it’s art.

  Beautiful.

  The kid gets it again, but this time Billy anticipates. He knows he won’t get the ball. He takes the kids ankles instead as he goes through him from behind. The kid’s face is scrunched like his feet have been held over a flame. He doesn’t roll around, but his teeth are gritted and a pained tear has time to roll before the rain washes it away.

  I blow the whistle, reach for a yellow card.

  “Fuck off.” Billy’s teeth are so tight he could munch through his gums.

  He charges towards me. His face is close to mine and I can smell vinegar mingled with the mushy peas. Anger makes his caterpillar eyebrows meet in the middle.

  “Back off.” I manage keep my voice level.

  “I already warned you.”

  I know the difference between a threat and a promise. My cogs grind. I have one more game after this, and I’ll leave about ten. This facility lies in the middle of an industrial wasteland. The ‘last game’ staff can’t leave until all the players have exited. We’ll all go to our cars which are sprawled around the neighbouring streets. I doubt any eyes will bear witness. I eye the spikes on top of the railings and can’t help giving my neck a rub.

  “Willy – don’t turn this yellow into a red.”

  “Billy – my name’s Billy.”

  “Okay, Willy, I get it. Now get on with the game.”

  I blow the whistle a minute later to end the game. Willy’s team have scraped a 2-2 draw through sheer intimidation. I hear the other team mutter complaints about why he never got a red. I referee the last game, amazed I only blow the whistle twice. No problems, just two teams who want to play, without ego. I catch glimpses of Willy through the facility’s fence. He stares through the bars at me. My lonesome car lies beneath a graffiti-choked brick wall, only a single street lamp to show me the way back to its old charms. The car park had been too packed to get a spot. A slither of light bounces off Willy’s shaven head like a warning beacon.