by Nigel Bird
He passed the last of the houses on the stretch, the old vicarage set back from the road and gleaming white in the streetlights.
Either his tongue was too dry, his mouth too small or the rag too big. Whatever it was, he was going to need plan B.
And there wasn't one.
The road ahead bent left. Without being able to steer he'd be straight into the middle. It'd be fine if the road stayed clear. Would be OK if the number 73 bus on the other side of the roundabout had to drop someone off at the stop at the bottom of the hill.
The chair was flying, faster that he'd ever had it. It bumped over the edge of the pavement and onto the tarmac of the road.
Carlo leaned to his left. Twisted his body as far as it would go. Prayed that the thing would topple to the side.
If only he'd bought one of the cheaper models, one of those that looked liked they'd fall over if you blew on them. The kind that went from nought to twenty in thirty seconds.
He just kept on going, picking up speed as he went.
A crazy panic set in, communicating with his body to do something. It rocked to and fro as if the chair belonged to the executioner. His arm and leg pulled at their ties in sharp bursts.
The number 73 rounded the roundabout and headed up the hill. It seemed like they had a destiny to meet. Like the bullet and Kennedy's brain. The distance between them was closing quickly.
Carlo couldn't see any passengers at all and certainly not one standing by the door.
He pulled harder at the string, his hope forcing him to keep trying.
This time he felt it give, snap, and free his hand.
His arm flew into the air like he was waving at the driver.
As he reached down to take control, he heard the crunch of metal upon metal.
Something punched his stomach.
He was moving in the opposite direction now, being dragged off up the hill with his cheek being rubbed into the road.
And then he stopped.
The driver jumped off the bus.
Even in the dark Carlo could see the raging purple of his face.
"Stupid fucker." Sounded like a Glasgow accent. "What the hell am I going to tell the bastard boss?"
For a moment Carlo thought he was going to get a kick in the mouth.
Instead he saw the man stop and take off his jacket.
The driver lifted Carlo's head with one hand, put the folded jacket onto the ground and rested his head on its softness.
Carlo smiled and tasted blood at the back of his throat.
He wondered what the last thought he was ever going to have would be, then there was nothing.
Jimmy
Joe slept soundly, all snuggled up in blankets in the back of Eddie's van. Jimmy tipped the carry seat backwards and forwards as he worked.
"Two cans of Stella and a cheese and onion," the next in line shouted. Everyone seemed to want their drinks at the same time as they waited for the two sets of brothers and their dogs to arrive.
There had been spectators all day for the show fights put on to whet the appetite for the main event.
With the tournament reaching its climax, the place was packed.
Tobacco smoke and the sweet smell of dope filled space like dry ice while the banter filled the air with buzz.
Jimmy picked out the beer and the crisps and left them on the counter. "£6."
The old guy passed over a tenner and let his hand hover in wait for the change. Like just about everyone else, he stared at Jimmy's mask as if he was looking at a sideshow freak. "Daylight bloody robbery," he moaned as the coins were dropped into the palm of his fingerless gloves.
"Next," Jimmy said, ignoring the comment.
"Four Stella and twenty Malboro." Mr McCloud from the corner shop leant in close enough for Jimmy to smell his stale breath. His Mr Magoo glasses made him look like a pervert, but he was a nice guy. "Found Kylie?"
"Nah," Jimmy told him. "Not a sign." Two days and there hadn't been as much as a whisper on the street. Jimmy hadn't slept a wink, what with the stress and Joe seeming to try his best to emulate a police siren as soon as the lights went out.
"She'll be fine, son," McCloud told him. "You know how teenage girls can be."
"Aye," Jimmy nodded, but he didn't. "On the house," he said to the old man and turned away so nobody would see the tears.
He climbed over the seat, opened the door and climbed out.
Sat down on the floor and took out a cigarette, lit it and took a deep drag. His head felt heavy and he let it drop into his hands.
"Get your arse back in here." Eddie didn't sound happy.
"Fag break," Jimmy muttered down to his feet.
"I said move your arse."
"Fuck off." This time he spoke loud and clear. "Fuck you." There weren't many around that could say that to Eddie and get away with it.
Eddie took the tea-towel that was draped over his shoulder and threw it into Jimmy's face. It smelled of stale beer and spoiled milk.
He stood up ready to get back in, but before he had to do anything, there was a burst of feedback from the speakers on top of the van as they blasted out the theme tune to Rocky.
The queue dispersed immediately as its members disappeared back into a crowd which cheered and booed as one schizophrenic mass.
The McMerrys entered dressed in satin cloaks, tartan scarves tied round their wrists and cardboard crowns upon their heads. They clenched their fists and raised them into the air, slapped the hands of their supporters as they moved towards the ring.
The tattoos on their forearms looked worn and old, but the arms themselves were the size of a cyclist's thighs.
The dog in between them strained at the lead. Mojo was its name. Seemed to know exactly what was going on. Didn't look like much, Jimmy thought. Sleek black. Ripped ear. The flat face of a bulldog. But he'd taken the Count out without breaking sweat. Reminded Jimmy of all the hard cases in town – nothing special to the eye, but crazy-mad fuckers as soon as anyone rattled their cages.
During the semi-final, Jimmy had cheered Mojo all the way as he'd torn the Count's flesh in a 'death of a thousand cuts' kind of way. The scars had tingled under his mask at every bite, each sending a satisfying pulse of revenge through his body.
It was going to be the same for the final, Jimmy knew. The creature who'd fucked up Count was Jimmy's friend for life.
Eddie closed the windows of the van and changed the CD in the drive.
'We Are The Champions'. It was Mikey's choice.
'No time for losers.'
It was hard to believe that a couple of narrow-minded thugs like them had picked a song by a gay man fronting a band called Queen.
Mikey and Kris hadn't bothered to change for the big night. Just a pair of lads looking like they might be off for a jog or a game of footie with their mates. They were beaming.
Leo walked between them, but it wasn't the Leo Jimmy was used to.
He was lethargic. Dull around the eyes. Ignoring the people to either side of him. Like he'd been forced to smoke a spliff to prepare for the fight or had been looking after a litter of wailing pups for a couple of days.
Whatever it was, Jimmy liked the way things were shaping up. A win for Mojo and the Ramsays were screwed. No way they'd have the prize-money to dish out when things were over.
"That's better lad," Eddie said, giving him a nudge. "Nice to see some colour back in your cheek."
"Cheeks," Jimmy reminded him. "I've still got two, ken?"
"Aye, well I'd be putting on a bet if I were you."
Jimmy wasn't going to waste his money. Didn't need to.
Before heading over to the bookies, Eddie leant over. Put his mouth right next his ear. "Feel bad, mate. Cannae have you going around like this."
Jimmy felt Eddie's hand reaching into his trouser pocket. Knew he wasn't touching him up. Thought he might be offering him a little light relief – a couple of downers to get him off to sleep. That kind of thing.
Then Eddie spoke
again. "You tell anyone it was me and I'll have to kill you." After patting Jimmy's shoulder he moved away as if they'd been discussing the weather.
Jimmy reached into his pocket. Was disappointed to find nothing other than a piece of paper.
The light wasn't good, but he could make out that there was something written on it.
"Fuck it." He gritted his teeth. Almost screwed it up and threw it to the ground.
Instead he forced himself to break the words down.
"Kylie." He knew that by sight. Second letter he ever recognised was a 'K'. Just seeing her name made his heart race.
"C-ow, cow." Ms Turner would have been proud of him. "Sh-e-d, shed. Ro-Ross F-ar-m. Go s-oo-n as it is O-v-e-r."
Read it again just to make sure.
"Fucking A."
He climbed into the van and shoved the paper back into his pocket. A quick check of what was going on and he saw that all attention was on the ring, the two sets of brothers play-sparring to add a little fuel to the fire.
He bent down to Joe and kissed him gently on the cheek, then took out his phone to give his dad a call.
***
If there were two harder dogs on the planet, Jimmy wouldn't want to bump into them.
Three quarters of an hour they'd been at it, holding on to each other like vices.
Soon as they were split, they rammed back into each other like they were drawn together by magnets. Jimmy had seen less action riding the bumper cars.
Leo had snapped out of his stupor. It was impossible to tell whether it was his instincts that had brought him around or Mojo's sniping teeth. Whatever it was, it was making for the grand final everyone had been hoping for.
The dogs were pulled apart again.
Mikey took hold of Leo, rubbed at his chest and said something into his ear.
Tim Mcmerry took hold of Mojo by the scruff, lifted him off his feet and shook him about a bit. Gave him a hard tap at the end of his nose.
They both let go and the dogs rammed each other like they had a death wish.
***
The dogs kept at it for ten minutes. They had to be admired for their courage and their unwillingness to accept defeat. Jimmy thought he might learn something from them. Use them as inspiration whenever he was in a jam.
Mojo had Leo pinned down. His jaws had him around the top of the foreleg, were embedded deeply into the mass of muscle they found there.
Leo was doing his best, awkwardly twisting his neck to snap and nip at his attacker, using his back legs to push into Mojo's body weight.
It was as if they both knew their physiology, understood that the throat was the key to it all. Mojo, rolls of skin and fur in his mouth, inched ever closer to his target. Leo wriggled and pushed, trying to defend the softness under his muzzle at all costs.
The Ramsays must have known it was almost over. That little short of a miracle was going to turn the tables. That they were in deeper shit than they'd ever found themselves in before – had they been standing in the mess, it would have been rising slowly over their shoulders, touching their chins and about to trickle its way beyond their lips to the back of their throats.
Mikey's face was all concern. He kept looking over to Kris like he wanted to throw in the towel. Permission never came.
There was something disturbing about Kris' expression. To Jimmy it looked as if all the skin had been pulled tight on his face. Gave him the look of a skeleton on the warpath, gritted teeth and darkness where the eyes should have been.
The skull kept shaking.
"No," Kris growled through straight, thin lips.
Mikey stood up. Looked like he was about to cry. He took his brother by the arm.
Kris pulled it away, ripping himself from the grip. Pushed Mikey back towards his place behind the line.
In the ring, Mojo's teeth moved closer to Leo's throat. A few more seconds and it would be over.
The crowd was baying for the final scene, urging the fangs on their way whether they were about to win money or not. It's what they were there for. The thrill of the kill.
Mikey seemed to be the only one unaffected by the group's hunger. He stepped quickly into the ring, pulled the dogs apart and gave Leo a line to life.
Mojo wanted more. Strained against Mikey's grip to get his reward.
Took Tim McMerry to help to get him off completely.
And it was over.
The McMerrys came together. Held Mojo high. Allowed their beast to take the applause of the crowd, to milk their appreciation for all it was worth.
Tim and Ray were screaming at the top of their voices, the veins in their necks pulsing underneath their red and wrinkled skin.
Only Jimmy seemed to notice what was happening, Leo lying exhausted on the floor with Mikey on his knees stroking and whispering and urging him onto his feet. One tender moment in a world of violence.
Kris kicked the wall, paced up and down for a couple of laps then jumped into the ring.
He pushed his brother out of the way, reached under his top into the waistband of his trousers and fumbled his first attempt to pull out a gun.
Mikey tried to get between Kris and his dog. Foot slipped in a pool of blood and he ended up doing the splits.
Kris pulled out the pistol at the second attempt.
Pointed at Leo and pulled the trigger.
Five shots rang out.
The dog only twitched once.
When the bullets were spent, Kris planted his trainer into Leo's belly, snorted up through his nostrils and spat wet and green onto the mess that he'd left on the ground.
Mikey burst into tears. Picked up Leo's head and laid it on his lap. He stroked the ears back and forth until his fingers were completely red.
"Guess I've got your attention," Kris said to the staring crowd, rubbing his temples and seeming to regain control of things. "Gentlemen, we have a winner." He opened his arm out in Mojo's direction. "Let's hear it for Mojo and Tim and Ray McMerry."
The audience applauded and stamped their feet.
Mikey stood up and lunged at his brother.
Same thing happened with the pool of blood. He ended up sitting on his arse in front of practically everyone he knew. Instead of trying again, he stayed where he was.
Jimmy could hardly believe his luck. Not only had the boys lost the tournament, but they were making complete fools of themselves. And the best was yet to come.
***
"Fucking hell, Tim," Kris shouted, "Get this nutter away frae me."
Ray hadn't taken the news that they didn't have the prize-money well. His fists pounded Kris like enormous hailstones. Tim was struggling to pull his brother away. Might as well have been trying to turn back the waves in the sea.
Jimmy stood back watching. Couldn't hold back his smiles. He needed to go and meet his dad outside, but couldn't resist the urge to watch this finale.
"I'll get him off you as soon as you give us the cunting money," Tim said.
"We huvenae got it." Kris dodged a fist. "Security risk." The next punch landed. Sent him sprawling.
Tim didn't seem to like what he was hearing. Lifted his leg and gave Kris a boot into the stomach. "Security? You don't get safer hands than ours, pal."
The old Irish guy, Pat, stepped forward and stood in between the warring factions.
"Am I right in thinking you can't pay up right here?" He looked at Mikey and then down to Kris.
Kris pushed himself onto his feet and felt around his mouth. "Spot on."
"And you say you have it at home?"
"Yeah."
This time he turned to the McMerrys. "How about they leave tonight's takings as a deposit. Would you be happy giving these boys half an hour to get the cash down here?"
Ray and Tim looked at each other, their expressions giving nothing away. And then they nodded simultaneously.
"Half an hour," Ray said looking at his watch.
Jimmy had seen enough. He picked up the handle of Joe's carry-seat and slipped off through t
he side door to find his sister.
***
In all the years that Jimmy's dad had owned the Capri, he'd never once taken it out of the drive. Spent time under the bonnet and the chassis, weekends sorting out rust, days sourcing parts to keep its authenticity. Had never once been out for a spin.
It would to look great once they painted it, but just now it looked like it had been stolen from the scrappy.
Jimmy could hardly believe his eyes.
There was Bert Hook, a man that until a year before had always seemed oblivious to the world, leaning back onto the passenger door of his car and smoking a cigarette like some teddy boy from yesteryear.
His grey hair was slicked back the way it was in the photos of his wedding and he was wearing the suit that went with it.
"Dad. Jesus Christ. Let's get the fuck out of here."
Bert opened the door. Jimmy belted Joe into the back and took his seat in the front.
The engine started with a low rumble, a sexy hum that would have turned heads on the High Street.
"Well?" Bert asked.
"Well what?"
"What do you think?"
"I think you should be putting your foot down."
"I mean of the engine. What do you think?"
Jimmy took a moment. It wasn't the sort of time to get things wrong. "Purrs like a tiger cub, Dad."
Bert smiled, shifted the tiny gear-stick into first and let out the clutch.
Jimmy loved the screech. Pictured the trail of rubber and smoke they'd left behind.
***
The old cow sheds had been half-heartedly done up at some point – the farmer's wife had probably watched a few too many property programmes of an evening and made her husband give it a go.
The roof was new and the whole place looked weather-proof, but there was plenty left to sort.
Jimmy took a look through one of the panes of glass in the door.
"Can't see a bloody thing," he said.
"Either she's in there or she's not," Bert said and shoved his elbow through the window. He picked out a couple of triangles from the frame, squeezed his hand inside the panel, fumbled round for a while and clicked the door open. "If she's not, I'll…"
Jimmy never got to find out what might happen if he'd been wrong.