by Dan O'Shea
Together, just like she always wanted.
GARETH AND FIONA GO ABROAD
Paul D. Brazill
Fiona was dragged from the depths of a murky sleep when the rooster in the nearby farm started to crow. As she peeled back her eyelids she noticed that Gareth, as was his want, was already showered and dressed in a pair of neatly ironed Marks & Spencer’s jeans and his lucky plaid shirt.
In the wan light, she watched him as he took the soft boiled eggs from the pan and put them in the candy-striped egg cups. He took the lightly toasted bread from the toaster and cut it into soldiers. Then he poured two cups of tea.
He was still a good looking man, she thought. And as fit as a fiddle as he approached his mid-fifties. She was sure he’d been for his regular morning jog while she’d been asleep. He’d been a bundle of nervous energy since the redundancy. He’d even tidied the motorhome and had hung the hand washing that he’d done on the washing line outside.
Gareth saw that she was awake, smiled at her and opened the curtains.
‘Busy day, today, luv,’ he said, as he handed her a cup of tea.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Fiona. ‘Up and at’ em.’
Gareth switched on the radio and they listened to Classic FM in silence, waiting for and dreading any news announcement that may come.
• • • •
After breakfast, Fiona showered and changed into jeans and a shirt that was pretty much identical to Gareth’s. He was sat on the motorhome’s step, trimming his beard. Deep in thought.
She stepped past him and breathed in the fresh county air. It was a bracing, honey-coloured spring morning.
‘Get it while you can, eh?’ he said.
‘Oh, I’m sure France will be just as beautiful. If not more so,’ said Fiona.
‘I’m sure you’re right,’ he said, not sounding convinced
They both went back inside.
‘Almost ready?’ he said, as he packed two rucksacks.
She nodded and handed him a green anorak before putting on hers.
They locked up and headed off, at a brisk but steady pace, uphill towards Innersmouth Village. Fiona started to whistle an old folk song but stopped when she remembered her mother telling her that a whistling woman conjured up the devil.
Superstitious nonsense, of course but better not to tempt providence, she thought.
• • • •
Innersmouth’s tiny post office wasn’t due to open for at least another half an hour, but the Postmaster would hopefully be arriving soon enough, so Fiona and Gareth sat on the cemetery wall, drinking from a bottle of Evian. Not before long, the post van rattled up the road and parked at the back of the building.
Alert as ever, Gareth and Fiona put on their black Ray - bans and baseball caps, and walked toward the post office. As the Postmaster opened the front door, Gareth stepped up to him.
‘Excuse, me. Would you mind if I asked you a favour?’ said Gareth.
‘I … what?’ said the Postmaster. He fiddled with his hearing aid and squinted, as he took in the identical pair.
‘A favour,’ shouted Gareth.
The Postmaster looked panicked, flustered.
‘We’re not open yet,’ he said. ‘Come back later.’
‘No time,’ shouted Fiona. She pushed a large black hand-gun in his face.
‘Inside,’ she whispered.
They all stepped into the musky smelling room. Gareth closed the door behind him.
‘Give me your cash,’ said Gareth. ‘Quickly.’
‘We’re not open,’ stuttered the Postmaster. ‘You’ll have to …’
‘Get a move on!’ said Gareth. He grabbed the Postmaster by the collar.
Fiona felt light headed as she waited for the Postmaster to do as he was told. Sweat prickled her body. She was red faced and her head was pounding.
And then the door burst open.
Fiona recoiled in disgust as she gazed upon the dishevelled sight staggering around before her. He was in his late teens. Acne scarred and slovenly dressed, with a spaced out look. Probably a drug addict from one of the council estates, she thought. Or a drunk that been in a fight. Some lowlife leech, she was sure. He was probably there to collect the money that he sponged from the state while her poor husband couldn’t even find a job. Her blood boiled.
‘Lowlife!’ shouted Fiona, as the youth tumbled towards her.
Gareth moved quickly, using the judo moves he’d learned in the Territorial Army, and he threw the boy onto the floor. The postmaster was babbling something but Gareth ignored him and pinned the wretch to the ground.
And then Fiona moved into position, pointed the handgun and fired. The gun jumped in her hand and the shot blasted the ceiling. Plaster snowflaked the room.
‘Bugger,’ she said.
‘Careful, luv,’ grunted Gareth, as he held down the struggling scumbag.
Fiona took a breath. Aimed and blew the teenager’s head to bits, splashing Gareth and the Postmaster.
‘Well done!’ said Gareth, as he stood up.
He took a towel from his rucksack, wiped himself and handed another to the quivering, sobbing postmaster.
‘Now, about that money.’
• • • •
Back at the motorhome, Gareth made a strong pot of tea with extra sugar to help steady Fiona’s nerves. She massaged her temples and thought that Gareth looked the happiest he’d been for a long time. Since he’d been made redundant from the security firm, in fact. Those had been dark days. But then he’d had one of his brainwaves. Gareth was always thinking ahead, thought Fiona.
‘Where’s the next stopover?’ said Fiona, after taking a sip from her tea.
‘A supermarket just outside Dover. I worked there the week before I got my redundancy notice. Remember me telling you about it?’
He opened a packet of custard cream biscuits, put them on a small china plate and offered them to Fiona.
‘The one where the rude old Polish woman worked?’ She took a biscuit and dunked it in her tea.
‘That’s the one,’ he said. ‘We’ll get some supplies and a bit more cash for the trip.’
‘And then on to the ferry?’
He nodded.
‘We’ll be in Calais before midnight.’
‘Vive La France!’
They toasted with their mugs of tea.
She picked up a road map.
‘Let’s get moving as quickly as possible, then.’ she said.
‘Put that away, luv,’ said Gareth. ‘I told you, the GPS will do the trick. We’ve got to get with the times. The times they are a changing, eh?’
He kissed her on the cheek.
‘Like it or not,’ said Fiona, and she dipped her biscuit back into her tea and just stared as it crumbled onto the coffee table when she took it out.
THE JADE BOUNTY
Frank Bill
Just as Hazard, Kentucky’s wire-held mufflers and chipped-brick cross streets omitted from the rearview, an onyx Mercedes leached onto Black Tiger’s bumper and forced him off the side of the road.
Pulling the keys from the Camry’s ignition, he levered the door open. Highway grit ricocheted from the tires of log and coal trucks speeding down the double lanes as he stood behind the Toyota recognizing the two men who held their ground in front of the dusted Benz.
The outline to Black Tiger’s right was Kwan, he’d thumbed a Glock 17 from his waist. To his left was Crane, he held a blue white Igloo cooler. Each of the men wore pleated slacks, white silk shirts imprinted with a feverish red and orange phoenix, they’d matching sunglasses wrapped around skulls the tint of wood glue, long twines of hair suctioned upon their crowns and drained down between their shoulders.
They were headhunters for Jade Fist Society, a Chinese crime syndicate who dealt in prostitution, black market movies and payments collected from small business owners, called it protection.
Humidity weighed down on the men, splotched the fibers beneath their clothing and Kwan questioned Black
Tiger, “Think you can do what you did to our people, evade to the states?”
Back in China, Black Tiger and his teacher, Fu, left several members of Jade Fist like pincushions after a storeowner, Fu’s uncle Chang, refused to pay for their security. They tried to coerce Chang’s daughter, Yang Ling, to compensate what he wouldn’t on her back.
Black Tiger didn’t miss a beat, “Only we teach lesson to your droves of filth.”
A bounty was placed on Fu and Black Tiger’s lives. They sought refuge with Chang, Fu’s master. He’d ties to the triads. Sent word for immediate removal. A restaurant owner in the states by the name of Shong got wind of the situation, needed men with high level fighting skills to enforce authority for his bookie operation in Kentucky and Indiana.
Fu and Black Tiger took the offer, Shong paid for their passage to the states.
“Lesson?” Images of limbs curved like Celtic knots with needles staggered at varied angles flashed through Kwan’s mind. “Then make sense why we follow you to here. We bare a lesson.”
Not taking his eyes from Black Tiger, he snapped his fingers and told Crane, “Show him.”
Crane laid the Igloo cooler on the Mercedes’ hood. Pressed the button on the side, his right hand rattled ice, gripped the freezing strands of hair, pulled the shape that it was attached to from inside, and held it up away from his body as red dripped cold.
It was Yang Ling, Fu’s niece.
In traditional Chinese teaching, one’s teacher was like a father. Loyalty was bone and blood. Seeing the lifeless head of his teacher’s niece was equal to viewing his own sister. Black Tiger didn’t blink, the element of fire singed his frame, expanded the gate below his navel. He rooted the ball of his left foot into the pavement, gripped the keys in his right.
And Crane said, “You maim our people for nothing.” Then placed the head back into the cooler.
Black Tiger measured his distance with their movements.
With a pitched laugh Kwan said, “Know how hard is to travel with head in a cooler, baggage claim was female dog!”
Flinching his left shoulder, Black Tiger raised his left hand chest high, masked the throw that came from his right hand, the keys were a 120 mile per hour volley scorching Kwan’s vision.
Kwan hollered, “Fuck!” Stumbled and raised the Glock with blurred sight. Sheered a spike-sized hole through the Camry’s rear windshield. Black Tiger dropped to the fragmented pavement. The bark of gunfire rimmed overhead as he spun counter clockwise and sprung forward like a bobcat.
A fist jabbed just below Kwan’s sternum, pushed a dry cough up his throat, a second attack shattered his windpipe, blocked his inhale, the third mashed his nose.
Kwan was a snorting hog drowning in slop, released the Glock, the index finger and thumb of both hands channel locked around his throat.
Black Tiger had ensnared the air within Kwan’s chest. He caught Kwan’s pistol with his right. Circled his movements around Kwan’s complexion, stepped into him with the butt of the Glock cutting sideways across Kwan’s chest, Black Tiger’s left palm hit him in the gut, thrust Kwan into the highway.
A horn roared. Brakes locked up. Tread charcoaled a double trail down the pavement as a corroded semi of notched lumber used Kwan for a bug shield.
Without warning, Crane impaled Black Tiger’s shoulder, an arrowed piece of steel connected to a chain twisted arthritic pain through his nerve endings. He flashed back to a knotted wax wood staff whelping and straightening his posture, spreading his legs, keeping knees over his toes and his eyes forward. Fu, his teacher, commanding, “Re-act, no think!”
Now, Black Tiger faced Crane, breathed through the hurt. Reaction coiled his left arm over the chain and he jerked the nine-section-whip from Crane’s grip. Raised the Glock, jerked the trigger twice. Brass kicked from the chamber and lead torched Crane’s chest.
Pushing the pistol into his waist, Black Tiger ripped the darted end of the chain from his shoulder, fevered toxins wobbled him to kneeling over Crane. Heat erupted down his arm. He knew if Jade Fist had found him, they’d found Fu and he asked, “How you find us?”
Crimson laughter warmed Black Tiger’s complexion. And Crane said, “You need ask man who pay for passage.”
• • • •
Dried leaves and rotted limbs crumpled beneath the men’s steps, packing their arsenal they saw the cabin through the breech of timber and proceeded.
In the cabin, uneasiness quaked through Fu’s bones as he glanced at the girthed slabs of steel that crossed on the wall above the stove. He thought about the Fukien temple of his tutelage as a boy, the countryside where his discipline evolved with the Wine Maker Chow, the deal he’d taken to leave his homeland and evade Jade Fist Society.
Turning with a tin kettle of boiling water, Fu poured the fuming liquid into Mr. Shong’s cup, recognizing that even with all of his training he still lost his niece. He knew she was no more. Knew Jade Fist’s trespass was mere steps away, all because of the man who’d paid for his departure.
A string from a tea bag hung over the rim of Shong’s cup. He smirked with lips drawn thin, blew the steam from the tea, wondering if Black Tiger would return from the collection of a local gambling debt.
Fu laid the kettle back on the stove sensing combustion. The backdoor splintered with gunfire. A man holding a Tech 9 kicked through the remaining splits of the timber. Fu remembered him as Lotus. He’d a blue-green dragon fanning up his neck, a rope of hair upon his crown, repelling down his spine. He was a headhunter for Jade Fist with a bounty to convoke.
Shong rolled to the floor, his swarthy locks flowered across his forehead. Being a man who despised deficit, but relished vehement odds, he wagered a deal with Jade Fist for Fu and Black Tiger’s lives. He’d give their location for the Jade headhunters to reap the bounty. If they were killed, Shong’d be at a loss. But if they survived, the life-contract would be abolished, either way he’d bask in the blood that would be spilt.
Fu attacked Lotus at an angle. His right arm hitting in an upward motion beneath Lotus’s left wrist like a cleaver, his left hammering down, scissoring and knocking the gun from Lotus’s grip. Lotus countered a right elbow at Fu, pushed his hips forward, offered a left knee up into Fu’s stomach, created space and drew his arms into his chest. Left and right palms met, appeared like a viper’s mouth open wide. He shot the double strike into Fu’s center, jolted him against the stove. Lungs panted. Fu grabbed the kettle. Lotus pawed a curved blade from the buckle of his belt and fisted the air. Fu flung the molten liquid into Lotus’s sight. Flesh thinned into blisters, screams twisted into psychedelic torment. Fu trounced Lotus’s profile with the kettle until he was a human compost.
From behind, bullets hacked through the wood of the front door. Fu uncrossed the two butterfly swords from above the stove. They were smithed and balanced by the hands that held them. One in his left, one in his right. He inhaled through his nose, felt a static charge in his marrow, perched low and waited.
A headhunter, known as Wong, stepped into the living room holding two 9mm pistols, sweeping the area for movement. Before the gunman seen Fu, he felt one of the swords that tomahawked from the kitchen to the living room, end over end, cleaved into his right thigh.
Wong was a thud on the floor swallowing his newfound misery. Fu came like an ape from the kitchen to the living room, with a sword in one hand, he used his other hand like a crutch swiveling his legs forward till he kneeled over Wong. His left knee pinned Wong’s right arm to the floor as he jabbed the point of the sword into the softness beneath his chin. An identical dragon tattoo crawled up his neck. Sweat strained from his pours. Fu milled Wong’s eyes out with his own, seeing the shape of his niece and hearing her final plea decapitated.
Then Fu felt another man’s presence. A gunshot ruptured his right thigh. Pain was a blown head gasket traveling up into his ribcage and down his leg. The sword fell from his hand. Footsteps approached. Another headhunter; Ox. He leveled his pistol at Fu. “Some say you myt
h.”
Fu’s ears rang from the gunfire, Ox’s words came in wisps and Fu tonsiled, “Pull fuckin’ trigger, abolish this myth.”
Wong twitched and screamed, “Shoot him!”
Ox crooked his fingers on the trigger. Fu waited, watched the inheritor of his teachings within his mind’s eye give silence to this hunter.
The attacks hit quicker than a bullet, tapped Ox’s spine then his kidneys. His hands quaked. The sensation of water washing sand through a screen secreted throughout his body. The pistol hit the floor. His brown eyes rung red. Nostrils and lips spotted the same shade.
Fu hunkered on the floor. The trickle of terra cotta oozed from his leg. Ox wilted before him. Wong tried to buck. Fu leaned forward, drove two fingers into the side of his neck, yielded him silent. Black Tiger stood over Ox holding the cooler. Fu glanced up at him, said, “I teach you well.”
Clapping hands combined with the salivating-carnage of air and Shong said, “You two are like modern day Huns.”
Fu pushed to standing and grimaced at the ache of his wounded leg. He looked at the squared plastic object Black Tiger held, shook his head, told him, “No need cooler.”
Black Tiger’s eyes questioned him and he said, “Is head of—”
Cutting him off Fu said, “I feel Ling’s energy disperse weeks before just as I feel Jade Fist’s demeanor approach.” He motioned to Wong, his leg forming a pond around him. “He is one who remove her from vitality.”
“How you know?”
“I see by the positive and negative elements of existence. Why I teacher, you student.”
Black Tiger pointed behind Fu. “But is Shong who cause all of this, he—”
Fu raised a hand to Black Tiger, turned, met Shong’s eyes, said, “No, we cross Jade Fist, turn to triads for help. Shong middleman, buy our continuance. We are now loyal to his deviances.”
Mr. Shong looked into the pitted and scarred face of Fu, through the thick glass of his specs and into his comma-eyes and said, “After bringing you here, I decide to make deal for your lives, if survive onslaught, bounty would be no more. If not, seeing slaughter would be worth the price I pay.”