by Thomas Pluck
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Crosswise
Crossed Bones
By Andrew McAleer and Paul D. Marks (editors)
Coast to Coast
Coast to Coast 2
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The Devil Dogs of Belleau Wood
The Bank Heist (editor) (*)
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Stray Dogs: Interviews with Working-Class Writers
By Bill Moody
Czechmate: The Spy Who Played Jazz
The Man in Red Square
Solo Hand
The Death of a Tenor Man
The Sound of the Trumpet
Bird Lives!
Mood Swings (TP only)
By Gerald O’Connor
The Origins of Benjamin Hackett
By Gary Phillips
The Perpetrators
Scoundrels: Tales of Greed, Murder and Financial Crimes (editor)
Treacherous: Griffters, Ruffians and Killers
3 the Hard Way
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Thin Blue Line
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3 Women Walk Into a Bar (TP only)
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Swann’s Last Song
Swann Dives In
Swann’s Lake of Despair
Swann’s Way Out
By Scott Loring Sanders
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The Subtle Art of Brutality
Warpath
Swansongs Always Begin as Love Songs (*)
By John Shepphird
The Shill
Kill the Shill
Beware the Shill
By Anthony Neil Smith
Worm (TP only)
All the Young Warriors TP only)
Once a Warrior (TP only)
Holy Death (TP only)
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Welcome Back, Jack
By Art Taylor (editor)
Murder Under the Oaks: Bouchercon Anthology 2015
By Ian Truman
Grand Trunk and Shearer
By James Ray Tuck (editor)
Mama Tried 1
Mama Tried 2 (*)
By Nathan Walpow
Logan Triad
By Lono Waiwaiole
Wiley’s Lament
Wiley’s Shuffle
Wiley’s Refrain
Dark Paradise
Leon’s Legacy
By George Williams
Inferno and Other Stories
Zoë
By Frank Zafiro and Eric Beetner
The Backlist
The Short List
Published by ABC Group Documentation, an imprint of Down & Out Books
By Grant Jerkins
Abnormal Man
Published by Shotgun Honey, an imprint of Down & Out Books
By Hector Acosta
Hardway
(*) Coming soon
Back to TOC
Here is a preview of The Origins of Benjamin Hackett by Gerald M. O’Connor…
Chapter 1
Whitehaven, Cork, 1996
It was a Saturday in June when life turned its savage eye on me. Up until then, I, Benjamin Hackett, had amassed eighteen years of solid idleness without a bother in the world, bar a questionable name and this itching wanderlust of youth that remained unsatisfied. I was just a regular Corkman lying spread-eagle on the floor of the Brehon Pub, enjoying the mild dementia that sets in after a stack of pints.
A vivid dream had roused me. In the midst of my drunk-sleep, I’d felt my bladder contract and the warm gush of urine flowing as free as the tides, and I swore upon waking I was wet to the neck. When my eyes opened, I padded the ground and sniffed the stout-soaked air above me. No damp patches met my fingers. No fug of ammonia fouled my nose. I smiled weakly at the absence of my nocturnal shame. It was a dream after all—a tiny victory—but I'd celebrate it nonetheless. Morning afters could be monstrous bears.
My throat begged for water. I swept my tongue around my mouth and hunted for spit. The soft lining of my cheeks was crusted. My lips wilted flesh. When I drew in a lungful of air, I coughed from the ash and smoke on the tail of it. Phlegm rattled high in my chest. Something unnatural squealed on exhaling. The night, it seemed, had rusted my lungs.
I propped myself up on my elbows and winced at the glare that met me. The light bleeding in through the shutters was an innocent enough sight. Some might have even called it a blessing—a rare burst of warmth that’d have a man fit for life. But to me, it was venom spat from the skies.
Here it came. The drunkard’s penance. An anvil struck in my skull. I bent forward, buried my face in my hands and cursed. This one had teeth, all right. Big ridgeback jaws on it. The stabbing peaked and then faded, but I knew it’d return with the persistence only time could heal. I’d been this soldier before. The tricksters were simply resting before sending another salvo of pain my way. I nearly cried for the thought of it. Last night was a mistake, and I’d revelled in its stupidity. In truth, I’d little choice but to go along with the madness. A Corkman’s passage into adulthood was much like a wake—drink-filled, mournful and with attendance obligatory. Happy eighteenth indeed. The cost was proving to be huge.
I slunk back down on the floor and coiled my knees to my chest. Sleep would cure me, if it could be found at all. With my eyes closed, I decided to listen to the welter of sounds gathering nearby. Coals hissed in the grate to my right. Drips pinged off a metal sink. A grandfather clock played its march of tick-tocks. All soothing noises, sure enough, but it was the burr of a hedge trimmer outside that lured me. The drone of it was monotonous, hypnotic, and I dialled into the sway of it, praying for its blades to lull me into a trance. And I’d have lain there corpse-like for ages, but when Mam’s warning popped into my mind, I groaned at the memory.
“You’d better be dead or dying,” a voice said. “Because you’ve my pub humming.”
I turned to spy Connie, the barman, emerge from the gloom. The tap, smack and slip of his walk told me his gout must have been crucifying him. Connie and his limp was some sight to behold. He’d claim ground out front first with his walking stick, land the good foot heavy and snap the lame one forward with a quick thrust of his hips.
“Come on and get out,” he said. “I’ve a load of work to do to right this mess before opening.” He folded away the shutters and flung the window open, releasing a scut of a day on us. Drizzle lashed my face. Sunlight blazed my irises. Ripe gusts swept over my skin.
I bolted up from under the table and staggered back from the horror of it all. “A warning would have been nice, Connie.”
He turned and smiled. It wasn’t one of his usual watery efforts, I noted. Instead his expression was borne of pure delight; one of those instinctive eruptions of gums and teeth conjured up by your face before a laugh.
“You really did do it,” he said.
“Do what?”
He jabbed his stick out the window. “That.”
I followed his gaze towards Whitehaven far below, past its Market Square with its canopy of trees, past the green copper cross of St Michael’s, past greasy roofs and ivied walls, until the ramparts of the castle appeared, and the whole affair came rushing back to me in fits. The lock-in at midnight: shutters drawn, lights dimmed to a soft beating light, pints and whiskey chasers and that devil’s own chartreuse, rowdy songs of the Black and Tans igniting the flame in us. Then all it took was a drinking bet lost, and off I went half-wild until I was tearing the flag down to the hoots of the lads and running up my clothes t
o replace it.
I glanced at my reflection in the mirror hanging over the fireplace. Sure enough, there it was—the goddamn parish flag—all blue and red and covered in grime. And wasn’t it wrapped around me like a toga.
“We got a bit out of hand there, all right.” I toed some shards of glass away from me. “Do we owe you anything? For the damage?”
“Don’t sweat it,” Connie said. “I’ve had worse nights. And anyway, you and your friends drank gallons, so I’m covered.” He slipped behind the bar, ran the taps and began gathering up the empties from the counter. “You’re some men, though. Complete lunatics, the two of you.” With a quick flick, he slung a sopping wet rag at my buddy JJ asleep on the floor. It landed with a loud squelch, and JJ reared up, heaving in an emphysemic breath.
“What’s it to be?” JJ asked, waking up at a canter. His words came slick and fast, his legs, though, not so much. He clutched the bar for support and puffed out his cheeks. When the clock’s bell tolled nine times, he gasped and charged for the door.
I smiled wryly as he fumbled with the chain. He’d the air of a man too afraid to slow down. JJ always acted as if he could outrun the misery of his hangover. “Where you racing off to now, Lazarus?”
The latch clacked back and the door swung open. “Work,” he said, shielding his eyes from the sudden shock of daylight. “You coming? I can drop you back en route. If you’re spotted walking home in that rig-out you’ll be skinned alive.”
I clutched at the tattered flag. It was stained with dried blood and beer, and had managed to cling to every sweaty crevice of me. Not the most stylish way to stroll home in the morning. JJ was right—the flag was sacrosanct to Whitehaven. Robbing it was one thing, but soiling it with bodily fluids was a mortal sin to the locals. All in all, the offer of a lift was heaven sent given my current dress.
“I’ll tag along,” I said. “I’m late for my folk’s little tête-à-tête anyway.”
Outside, the weather came at us at from all angles. Sun, rain and wind swallowed us whole. It was a day for all seasons, another schizophrenic summer. We ducked low, sprinted over to JJ’s car and jumped in. His maroon Fiat 127 was a sight. Welts of rust blistered its skin, and the exhaust hung so low it clipped anything heftier than a pebble. But it was the engine that wasn’t to be trusted. Anytime it didn’t fancy the look of a hill, it would throw a tantrum and splutter to a stop.
JJ pulled the choke and fired her up. The Fiat coughed briefly, and we hared out of the car park and down the hill towards town. The welcome sign for Whitehaven blurred past, and a corner jumped up out of nowhere. JJ made a weird clucking noise as the wheels clipped a kerb, and the rear of the car fishtailed violently. He hammered the brakes with both feet, and we jolted to a stop next to two old women who slapped the roof twice in disgust.
“What did we hit?” he asked, panting.
I glanced back and shrugged. “About sixty near the end?”
We both shared a laugh then—a loud rumble in our chests—but it lasted all of two-point-something seconds. My ears thrummed in time with my pulse, and my headache crushed all the fun of the moment. I reached into the glove box to retrieve some of Mam’s arthritis pills. I’d stashed them there the night before as I’d a hunch I would need them. Popping two into my mouth, I chewed until they dissolved into manageable bits. The chalkiness, the unnatural bite to them. The taste was foul, but I swallowed them greedily. They were the heavy-hitters of pharmaceuticals after all. Real morphine-grade analgesics. If they didn’t have me right in a jiffy, the day would be gone to rot.
“So what do your parents want to tell you then?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Who can figure out the minds of parents?”
JJ nodded knowingly, slipped in behind a tour bus, and we coasted downhill toward the quay. “It’s very hush-hush, though, isn’t it? Bit Black Ops and all that.” He swiped dust from the dash. “I’ve a bad feeling about it. If I’m honest.”
I pictured Mam lingering by the door as I wandered out for the night. She was normally the perpetual optimist; always quick with a warm and inviting smile no matter the trauma I conjured. But she’d a rare look of sadness in her yesterday—as if I were tramping off to Flanders to face a hail of German bullets. “Be back early tomorrow morning, won’t you,” she’d said, which was bizarre given how she knew my form on drinking my years in pints.
I slumped back in the seat and watched the quayside slide by with a worm of worry creeping over my skin. “They’ve probably a surprise cake planned or something. Bet when I get there they’ll be crouching under the netting, waiting to pounce with those gaudy paper hats and confetti.”
JJ gave a vacillating shrug. “I’m not sure, Ben. Don’t think your folks are the partying type. Do you? And anyway, your birthday was yesterday.”
I ignored his statement. It wouldn’t do to second-guess my family, and my head wasn’t set for the challenge of complex thought. I cracked the window down an inch, leaving the air rush in thick with the brine of the sea. Despite the sourness of the smell, Whitehaven had its buzz on. Fishermen aboard bobbing decks baited crab traps with practiced hands. Men clustered by the corner-shop and leaned into the weather, their shoulders shifting to the beat of their mouths, sharing a smoke and the gossip. People often commented how Whitehaven had a soulful pace to it; one that would allow a man to tell the time of day by the swell and slide of tides. I could see that easy flow of life in my birthplace, then. The leisurely pace to it all was soothing to me.
A few minutes later we cleared town. Home was less than two miles journeying along a boreen of muck and bramble, so it wasn’t long before we rumbled over the cattle grid and crunched to a stop in front of my farm.
“See you later,” JJ said, revving the engine to stop it from conking out. “Enjoy the cake and candles.”
I stared at our two-storey cottage with its render puckered by the weather and the net curtains dressing the glass. It looked all grey and bleak and ancient, a yawning monument of mediocrity despite the bloom of colour Mam had added with her baskets.
“Do you want to meet up in Brehon’s about seven?” I asked. “I fear I might need a cure.”
JJ nodded. “A sound plan. Best of luck then.”
With a quick salute, I jumped out and strode around to the back of the house. I paused for a moment with my hand hovering over the door handle and glanced seaward in the habit I had from a child.
Our house sat on the brow of an isthmus of land surrounded on three sides by the Atlantic. It was a small dairy farm of fifty acres with barely enough grass for our thirty head of cattle. When a high tide rose, it would cut the road off from the mainland, and we became temporary islanders. According to Dad the sea was in our DNA. Had been for generations. But Mam had more of a crawly attitude to it; one borne of old wives’ tales and warnings passed down through generations.
She said the ocean had a way to it, said it could dial into a fella’s future, and a keen mind could tell of portents of ill tidings. She used to stand at the end of the garden and read the rains sweeping over it like they were leaves in a teacup. I never believed those old superstitions, but today doubt slipped over me at the sight below our fields. Clouds hung low on the horizon, mercury black and heaving with badness. They rushed towards land, drawing a veil of black shadow in their wake as they went. The sea sat impassive below them with its waters slate grey and brooding. The Atlantic harboured little respect for the seasons. When the westerly blew over its waters, it’d bite at your skin no matter the month.
I cupped my hands and blew heat into my fingers, smiling as my nerves gave way to sense. There were no hidden premonitions arriving on shore; no secret whispers buried in the bawling wind. Just greyness and gales and piddling weather. And with a shiver settling on my skin, I drew a steadying breath deep into the pit my lungs and stepped quietly inside.
Chapter 2
The usual racket greeted me when I entered the kitchen—the lub-thump of the washing machine hammering away in the
corner, the grill spitting fat, pots furious with the heat sending their lids hopping wild. And there was Dad, sitting at one side of the table, slurping a mug of tea and reading a quartered newspaper. He frowned when he spied me.
“Was it worth it?” he asked.
“Think so.”
“And your clothes are where?”
“Up a flagpole?”
He tutted and rolled his eyes. “Your mother’s got a late breakfast for you there. You’d better eat it before it gets any colder, or she’ll have a canary.”
I slid along the bench opposite him, and we both sat in mutual silence. Dad wasn’t much for talking at the best of times. It would take a life-changing tragedy for him to string sentences together. I guessed the silent brooding type worked for most in his family. You could spy the cuteness in his two younger brothers by the way they used to communicate. A quick nod or flick of the eyes was all they needed. There were certain subjects immune to their silence. The weather, of course, was worthy of a word or two. And the politicians up the Dáil could rouse them into an uncivilised rant for five minutes. Other than these, though, the three of them could sit in a room like monks after taking a vow of silence. It drove Mam mad. Years of marriage, and she hadn’t managed to carve a single slice of his mother’s raring from him.