by Paul Harris
As Tom opened the driver’s door of his own car and began to climb in, he noticed a shadowy figure approaching him. He knew then that his time had run out. The figure ran a finger down a deep scar on his cheek and smiled insincerely. “Mr Peddle?”
Tom froze, considered his options, and wondered if he said “no” the man would go away again. Did he have time to jump into his car, flee the scene, and let Angker deal with the visitor? “That’s me,” he croaked as the words stuck in his throat. He coughed. “Who wants to know?”
The man wore a long black leather coat with deep pockets. He dropped a notebook into one of the pockets and seemed to be clasping something in the other. He spoke slowly and deliberately in an East European accent. He reminded Tom of the Terminator “I think you know who I am or, at least, who sent me.”
“What do you want?”
“You have something for me?” The man pushed the door of Tom’s car shut, leaning his hand on the roof, and blocking Tom’s escape. “Well? Do you?”
Tom slowly shook his head and cleared his throat again. He could feel a film of sweat beginning to form on his forehead. “Not yet.”
“Oh?” The debt collector approached him, came up far closer than was polite or, indeed, comfortable. “We have a problem then.”
“There’s no problem!” stammered Tom hurriedly, tripping over his words, and backing away just a little. “Everything’s in order. There is no problem. I have it coming. I just need more time. Just a little more time.”
“You have one week. I will return in a week from today. Then, we will see.”
Tom nodded sheepishly.
“And if you let me down or you’re not here, I’ll hunt you down like a man hunts a bear, and then I will kill you.” The debt collector spat on the floor, just missing Tom’s foot. “Understand?”
“I understand.”
As he turned to leave, the visitor noticed Angker standing in the doorway observing the proceedings with all the presence and beauty of a young Diana Dors. Recognising her mildly East European features, he bowed slightly and rather gallantly, and said, “Dobar den,” before climbing back into his car, making brief notes in his book, and then driving off.
Does DNA Actually Exist?
“Why’d they have to shoot the old man?”
“I don’t know.”
“What were they after?”
“I don’t bloody know!”
“Why’d they have to shoot him though? He was only armed with a cricket bat.”
“You know, Finn, we ain’t never going nowhere if you keep being so damned compassionate.”
“I just can’t understand why they had to shoot him. It said in the Gazette that they never even opened the till. You ain’t gonna shoot someone for a bottle of Jameson’s and twenty Marlboro, are you?”
“He must have had something they wanted. But, God only knows what. The place was full of crap.”
“Trouble is, our prints are all over the gaff, all over the safe.”
“No they’re not, I was wearing gloves. I always wear gloves. You should wear them too.”
“Nah, gloves are just so old school.”
“We wear them for a reason.”
“What reason?”
Exasperation was beginning to alter the tone of Lenny’s voice. “Why do you think? So we don’t leave fingerprints all over the place! So we can’t be traced.”
“They make my hands sweaty though,” complained Finn, before being struck by an afterthought that he considered would lend some justification to his non-compliance. “It don’t matter about the fingerprints anyway. They got our DNA.”
“Why would they have our DNA?”
“I left my jacket there. Remember?” And then another thought occurred to him. “Len? Do you think DNA actually exists or is it some kind of hocus-pocus that the feds have made up just to make everyone feel nervous?”
Lenny looked at him and shook his head. As had become their custom of late, the two brothers were out patrolling the dank evening streets, seeking out opportunity and, on this particular occasion, exacting revenge. They had salvaged as many undamaged fireworks as they could from the rapidly decomposing cardboard box that they had stolen from the park keeper’s cottage. The majority of those were now being carefully transported in a Tesco shopping bag towards the residence of one Mr Bo Billox. Unbeknown to Mr Billox, he had incurred the wrath of the brothers who considered it their duty to “put things straight”.
“That shop’s haunted or cursed, I tell you. Mr Singh’s shop,” added Finn by way of clarification. “I told you about ghosts. Do you believe me now? That geezer got killed there when it was the tattoo shop. Remember? The tattoo artist got shot there and now the old man.”
“The tattooist got shot in another gaff, down by the river. It was a different tattoo artist in a different shop. The geezer that had that shop went to prison.”
“Same thing, innit?”
“No, it’s not the same thing.”
“It’s still cursed…” Finn paused. “Or haunted.”
“He wasn’t cursed, he was crooked.”
As they reached the street where Bo Billox resided, they found that they were being carefully monitored by a cat that was sitting on top of a bright red pillar box on the corner. They had followed Bo as he had walked his dogs. They had stalked him. They had waited outside his house and had made mental notes of his comings and goings. Lenny had insisted on making the most thorough of preparations. Finn had insisted on grumbling throughout the complete duration of these preparations. “Are you sure that we’re doing the right thing?” he now asked, under sudden attack by a pang of conscience. “I know he deserves it, but the geezer just ain’t playing with a flat back four. Know what I mean?”
“No. No, not at all. I haven’t got a clue what you mean. What’s he playing with then? Three centre halves?”
“You know what I mean. He’s not playing with a full deck.” Finn tapped the side of his head by way of explanation. “He’s tapped. Proper tapped.”
Lenny instructed Finn to stop talking and then led him along the street, examining the frontages of the houses as they went. When Lenny was satisfied that they had reached the property in question, he gently pushed the iron gate open. “Are you sure this is the right place?” whispered Finn. Lenny did not respond. The cat continued to watch them from a distance as they crept up the garden path to the front door of the house. Dropping the plastic bag at his feet, Lenny began to rummage through it, selecting his first weapon of choice: a banger.
He took a disposable lighter from his pocket, held the firework at arm’s length, as per the instructions on the side, and lit it. He lifted the flap and shoved it through the letterbox in the centre of the door. Without waiting for the explosion, he quickly lit the next, and pushed that one through too, and then another, and another.
Finn, meanwhile, gazed through the glass panel in the door so that he could watch the pyrotechnic display inside. He could hear the fireworks going off simultaneously; banging, whirring, whizzing, hissing, and sizzling. “Why aren’t the dogs barking?” he whispered. “I thought the dogs would be barking. They bark at everything. Why aren’t they barking now?” The glass panel was illuminated with myriad bright glowing colours. As Finn held his face against it, straining for a view, he could feel the heat rising inside the house. “Why have they gone all yellow?” he asked. “What happened to the green and the blue ones?”
Lenny opened the letterbox to deposit the last Catherine Wheel and was choked by the smoke that gushed from it. Finn began to cough. The glass panel shattered. The inside of the house began to splinter and explode. The fire roared. Lenny and Finn ran for their lives.
They stopped running when they reached the end of the street. They dived behind the pillar box for cover and tentatively peered over it. The cat had remained motionless upon his perch throughout and now eyed them with even greater suspicion. They were panting heavily, partly due to the short sprint that they had both undertake
n, and partly due to downright panic. “You burnt his house down!” gasped Finn. “You didn’t say nothing about burning his house down!”
“It wasn’t supposed to happen. Why aren’t the dogs barking?”
“That’s what I said. Perhaps, he’s out walking them. I hope so. Do you think we should call 999?”
“What if they trace the call?”
Finn took his mobile phone from his pocket and began to dial, but Lenny snatched it from his grasp.
“No calls!”
“But we have to do something. We can’t just stand here and let him burn to death.”
“One of the neighbours’ll call. Besides, he had it coming. He was a wrong’un and he’s got what was due him.”
“What about the dogs? They don’t deserve it. It’s not their fault their dad was a basket case.”
“Those dogs were brutal. They terrorised the neighbourhood. They won’t be missed.” Finn thought that Lenny seemed to be desperately searching for some kind of justification. He gasped for air as he spoke. “Anyway, he must have had something flammable near the door. It wouldn’t have gone up like that otherwise. What kind of idiot keeps flammable material by the front door?”
Finn considered the question for a moment. “Somebody who’s not expecting to have lit fireworks shoved through his letterbox?”
Lenny cast his brother a look of pure malice.
As the windows shattered in the front of the house, and flames began to leap from the rooms within, they could hear the first sirens heading rapidly in their direction. Shortly, the first fire engine arrived, followed by a police car, and then another fire engine. The sound of the sirens was deafening, the flashing blue lights blinding. Before long, more emergency vehicles arrived at the scene: another fire engine, more police cars. Finn’s heart sank when he saw the ambulance being marshalled through the chaos. Lenny’s heart sank when he saw the Fire Investigation Unit waiting in the background.
People began to pour from the neighbouring houses in their pyjamas and their dressing gowns to admire the spectacle. Children peered through upstairs windows, wiping the condensation from the glass that was caused by their excited breath. Hosepipes were snaked across the road and across garden fences and hedges. The glare from the inferno smothered the light of the street lamps. Gallons of water were pumped into the air and onto the fire, and were instantly turned to steam by the heat of the blaze. A child pointed towards the sky as the moonlight created a rainbow in the saturated air above the blazing house. A helicopter hovered high above the scene.
Finn’s legs were stiff from crouching behind the pillar box. He was relieved when Lenny tapped him on the shoulder and told him to stand up straight. “Why are you acting so suspicious? Crouching there as if you’re hiding? Act naturally, as if we’re passers-by.”
“They’ve got a helicopter.”
“So?”
“Just saying.” Finn coughed. His eyes were streaming. “Why’s it smell so bad?”
“Burning flesh?”
Finn felt sick. The rain-washed street was spoiled and dirtied by ash that had hovered in the sky like so many fairies before drifting down and settling on the surface. Parked cars were covered in soot, their colours indistinguishable. The air was thick with tiny fragments of debris. Finn’s eyes stung. He rubbed them with his fingers. “We should go now.”
Lenny agreed but, as they were about to make good their departure, two firemen emerged from the ruined house. They were exhausted, and wearily removed their helmets. The first of them snatched the breathing apparatus from his soot-stained face and addressed the officer who appeared to be in charge. His expression was one of despondency. Sweat ran in deep black beads across his face. The second fireman removed his face mask and, with a grave expression, shook his head.
“He must be dead!” hissed Lenny.
“That’s a dot on the card, that is.”
“What we gonna do?”
“I didn’t see them bring him out yet.”
“I don’t want to see either.”
As they began to hurry away, they heard the crash of splintering timber as a roof joist plunged through the first floor ceiling and embedded itself amongst the charred remains of the floorboards beneath. It remained upright and vertical, trembling like a dagger that has been driven into a dying man. Amidst the destruction, a bright yellow canary escaped its twisted cage and fluttered its wings. It attracted Finn’s attention as it began to soar into the air. Its flight to freedom was all too brief though. Dampened ash clung to its feathers like tar. The bird plummeted to the ground where it lay like a victim of the Exxon Valdez. The cat bounded from its perch on top of the pillar box.
Lenny gave Finn a push in his back. “Let’s go!”
“Did you see that bird?”
“I saw the bird. Let’s get out of here.”
“Where shall we go?”
“I don’t know. We shouldn’t go home yet. Not until the coast’s clear.”
“Can they get DNA and fingerprints off burnt stuff? You didn’t wear any gloves.”
Lenny peered over the rim of his spectacles at the concerned expression in Finn’s red wet eyes. “I know.”
“Where should we go?”
“We can just stay out of the way for a bit. We’ll be okay. They won’t catch us. Any evidence will have been destroyed in the fire. You can’t get anything from ash. And, besides, like you said, DNA probably doesn’t even exist.”
Finn got the distinct impression that Lenny was speaking more from hope than from any measure of belief, but followed him anyway. The helicopter was still hovering above them. “Do you think that’s a news crew or the old bill?” asked Finn.
Lenny shrugged and darted into the unlit passageway that ran along the side of the derelict pickle factory. Finn had to run to keep up with him, tripping over an empty cider bottle as he did so. Regaining his balance, a thought occurred to him. “Do you think we’ll be on the telly?”
Back in the main street, they slowed to a more casual appearing pace. They passed the café and stopped to read a notice in the window so that their haste wouldn’t draw unwelcome attention. It was a planning application notice and it meant nothing to either of them. They read it anyway, from top to bottom, before cautiously continuing their journey.
Although the blaze had been extinguished and the fire hoses had been retracted, from the bus stop in the High Street, they could still see the dense black smoke billowing and dancing in the moonlight above the rooftops.
You Must Stay Away From Your Father
Back on the new housing estate that has been constructed at minimum cost on contaminated factory land, a couple discuss the merits of staying in touch with loved ones. He is angry and so is she. They are angry with one another. She asks herself what has become of their relationship and why she perseveres with it. He knows that there no longer is a relationship but he knows why he perseveres with it.
“You must stay away from your father. I have told you.” She yells at him desperately.
He is desperate too. His hands claw at his scalp. He is not aware of his body language. “But, he is my only chance.”
“And the dream?”
“Damn your dreams! They’re nothing but nonsense!”
“It is too dangerous.”
“Nonsense, I tell you!”
“And besides he has no money.”
“He may be able to raise it. It is only a small amount, and only for a short period of time.”
“And if he can’t raise it?”
“Then I am a dead man. A dead man!” He slams the door behind him, almost removing it from its hinges.
“And I will be free of this pain,” she mutters to herself as she watches him through the kitchen window as he tries several times to start his car.
Chapter Sixteen
The Magpie
Tom came today. I was in the kitchen, shovelling the pills down my neck that they’d given me at the hospital. I noticed a car, through the window, driving
onto the car park below. I watched as it manoeuvred into the tightest of spots. Next door’s cat was perched on top of the pillar box on the corner, still gazing nostalgically at the charred remains of the veterinary surgery on the opposite side of the road. It had mysteriously burned down only days earlier. You could still smell the ash in the air every time you went outside. The entire site was still bathed in water that ran in streams across the pavement and into the drains along the gutter. It was still surrounded by police barrier tape but now the tape lay discarded on the ground. Men in yellow coats had been sifting through the debris ever since the night of the fire. The locals suspected that the vet had set fire to it himself for the insurance money. He and his wife had not been seen since. The logic ran thus: who else would burn down a veterinary surgery, if not the vet himself? But, I asked, what about somebody with a grievance over a misdiagnosed pet? I had another theory: they had once refused to treat one of Bo Billox’s dogs after it bit a member of their staff. Hence, Bo firmly remained my number one suspect.
Tom rang the bell and I let him in. He doesn’t often visit. In fact, he’s never once visited. I made coffee but he refused it. I offered him a seat and he refused that too. He just stood in the centre of the room with his hands clasped together. He seemed uncomfortable and I tried to make him feel more relaxed but the more I tried, the edgier he became.
“I’m okay, Dad. Honestly.”
“Can I get you a coffee?”
“No, you just asked that.”
He made me feel ill at ease too. I stood because he did. I found myself clasping my hands together just as he was. I suppose there were similarities in our mannerisms. I hoped that that was where the similarities ended and that he was making a better fist of his life than I had of mine.