Kiss Me Quick

by Miller, Danny

  Vigilantly, Bobbie leaned down to pick up the cardboard tube, making sure that the pointy end of her knife was constantly aimed at Pierce, as though it was a wand that could ward off evil spirits. With one hand, she popped off the white plastic cap as if it was a big tube of Smarties and stuck a finger inside. Instead of sweets, she found two A4-sized, rolled-up glossy black-and-white photos. Sliding them out of the tube, she laid them on the coffee table. About five seconds was all it took for the knife to fall from her trembling grip. The tremble took over, reverberated around her body, shook tears from her eyes. She buried her head in her hands.

  As Pierce stood up, the carving knife was already in his hand …

  Vince placed the receiver down on its cradle. He had just called an ambulance for Vaughn, who was laid out on the floor with a pillow under his head, and his jacket tied around him by its sleeves to stem the blood. The bullet had caught him on his right-hand side, just below the ribs. No major organs there, but enough of a hole to empty him out. Apart from the bloodied mouth, smashed teeth and cracked cranium, his eyes were as wide as saucers. A permanent eddy of tears streaked his pockmarked cheeks, as Vaughn had not accepted the consequences of his actions stoically. Vince thought he might have to knock him out to stop his screaming and squirming so he could then tie something more effective around the wound to stem the blood. It had been fifty-fifty who would get shot, but Vince knew that if anyone were to take a bet on it from past form, their money would be on Vaughn buying the bullet. Vince picked up the gun from the floor, emptied it of the remaining bullets, then threw it on to the sofa.

  ‘I didn’t want to be the one to bring you in, Vaughn, but that’s what I would be obliged to do, so maybe this is the best result.’

  ‘Tell me about it, copper.’

  ‘Nothing to do with being a copper. Whatever you think of me, I’m still your brother, and I don’t want to see you dead. And Pierce and the others, they’ll kill you, and they’ll do it properly so that you’ll never be found. You’ve got nowhere to run, Vaughn.’

  ‘I’d have killed you, so what do you care what happens to me?’

  ‘You would have, yes, but you didn’t. As for caring what happens to you, Vaughn? I don’t know that I do any more. But we shared the same mother, so …’

  Whatever was left of Vaughn’s tough-guy schtick had pretty much evaporated now. ‘What’s … what’s going to happen to me, Vince? Will they hang me?’

  Vince walked towards the door.

  ‘Vince … please, Vince, will they?’

  ‘The ambulance will be here soon. Don’t try and move. You won’t get very far.’

  Vince opened the door and exited without looking back at his brother. He stared up at the moon, which was clouding over. Dark swathes covered its face. It looked angry.

  ‘Vince! … Vince! Please, don’t let them. Please …!’

  Vince walked over to the car, his brother’s pleas falling on deaf ears. He got in the vehicle and drove off.

  CHAPTER 31

  THE HALF OF IT

  ‘They’re what they call “stills” in the picture business,’ said Henry Pierce, eyeing the glossies. ‘When they want to advertise a coming attraction, they take photos of the best bits, and hang them in the foyer. “Publicity stills”,’ he elaborated in an enlightened, learn-something-new-every-day kind of way.

  Bobbie still had her head buried in her hands, still too torn apart inside herself to look at the photos. So Pierce forced the issue. He bent down, grabbed her by the hair, pulled her head up, picked up one of the photos and shoved it in front of her face. ‘See how photogenic young Vincent is?’

  Bobbie yanked herself free, grabbed the photo out of his hand and tore it in pieces.

  Pierce tut-tutted. ‘Shouldn’t have done that. I was hoping to get the young star himself to sign it. But, don’t worry, plenty more where they came from. Enough copies to last a lifetime. His lifetime at least. You see, they don’t want to kill Vincent, because, since he’s a copper, much as I’d like to, you just can’t. Not the done thing. And you certainly don’t kill the goose that lays the golden eggs. I’ve heard good things about the boy, headed for the top of his chosen profession. Of course, the boy obviously needs looking after, to be handled with care. He has violent tendencies, but none of us is perfect, I say. I did a stint in c, would you believe? They wanted to call me “Mad” Henry when I got out – you know how villains love snappy monikers – but I soon nipped that one in the bud. Everyone’s a “mad” something or other in my line of work.’

  Pierce dragged Bobbie to her feet by her hair. She was nearly on tiptoes when he remarked, ‘You’ve got a lovely head of hair, my dear. That lustrous, it would make a nice addition. I collect scalps, you see. Maybe Jack told you? Maybe young Vincent told you?’

  She spat in his face.

  He threw her weightless body on to the big red mouth of the sofa that she wished would swallow her up. You never give up on the cavalry, thought Bobbie desperately. Vincent would come through the door and save her … At this point, she would have taken Jack coming through the door – even if she didn’t see a happy ending to that scenario either.

  Pierce started to move in.

  Delay!

  She now gave up on the cavalry. It was up to her now. She knew she had to talk to him, engage him, prolong whatever life she still had left.

  Delay!

  ‘You’ve always hated me, Henry, from the first time you set eyes on me. But what did I ever do to you? Please, just answer me that.’

  ‘One of you has to go. And, as they say, better a bent copper in the hand than a dirty bird in the bush.’

  Delay!

  ‘The brooch? When I first met you, Henry, you wanted to take a closer look at my brooch. Why was that? Tell me why?’

  Pierce readjusted his grip on the carving knife into the killing position.

  ‘Was it the dress?’ Though she was riddled with fear and desperation, her voice held firm. ‘What was it you saw, Henry … please tell me!’

  Pierce stared down at her. She didn’t cower any more but met his gaze head-on. Usually no one looked at Henry Pierce’s good eye. They were too mesmerized, too horrified, by his bad eye. But Bobbie now peered into it, and found something. A glimmer, a hint of hidden treasure. His Tell. Henry Pierce was hiding a secret, and now Bobbie knew she had him. Because she herself knew the nature of secrets, and how the best ones are seldom kept. A good secret is an even better story that’s just waiting in the wings – waiting to burst on to the stage. Stories need to be told, and she saw that Pierce was dying to spill.

  And who better to spill it to than someone who was about to die?

  ‘There’s something you want to tell me, isn’t there? I know there is.’ She smiled at him, her eyes wide like a child. She said softly, conspiratorially, ‘You can tell me, Henry. Anything.’

  Pierce stood there unmoving, as if rigor-mortic in thought. As that bad old brain of his ticked over, he realized a golden opportunity had just presented itself. And on that realization his mouth twitched and creased into a grin. He hooked the thumb of his left hand under the fob chain hanging from the buttonhole of his lapel, yanked out a half-hunter gold pocket watch from his top pocket and gave it a glance. He had time; it wouldn’t take long. And he knew it would only add to the occasion, which made this time well spent. He sat back down on the burnished throne.

  ‘Anything?’ he echoed.

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘There is something, yes. Something I need to unburden myself of, and who better …?’

  Pierce looked genuinely grateful to her for giving him this opportunity. He just hadn’t thought of it, and it was so obvious. To kill Bobbie without telling her? No, that would never do. He would never have forgiven himself.

  Pierce cleared his gummy throat and began, ‘It was 1939 and I remember it like it was yesterday. Christmas Eve, snow on the ground, fairy lights, decorations, chestnuts roasting on an open fire. Picture the scene. Lovely time of yea
r, if you like that kind of thing. Means nothing much to me, but there you go. Jack, just out of nick, eighteen-month stretch for malicious wounding. He got out early, ’cause he saved a screw’s life in a riot. It was all a put-up job. They only had the riot so Jack could save the bloke’s life. Anyway, he’s out early, so I picks him up. I suggested a slap-up meal, drinks, a club, some whores – if you like that kind of thing. Means nothing much to me, but there you go. Not Jack, oh no, he’s all business. Business first. Take care of business. Someone he had to see, someone who had been taking liberties, besmirching his reputation. Had to be straightened out, taken care of …’

  … 1939. A black Rover 8 with blood-red leather interior pulls up outside St Michael’s Place. The front door of number 27 had a red and green festive wreath attached to its heavy brass knocker. The door was off the latch and the two men made their way inside to the dark hallway. Without turning on the light, Jack made his way up the stairs. It was on the stairs that Jack’s heavy-booted foot pronounced itself, the light foot levering its way upwards, while taking the weight of the other, which then landed with a distinctive thud.

  Four floors up and they were on the desired landing. Jack stood at the door he was about to enter and listened for signs of life. All he heard was his own breath, measured and calm. The climb had taken nothing out of him, nor did the thought of what he was about to do unnerve him. He stepped back a couple of paces, raised his clubbed foot, then hammered it home, sending the door flying off its lock.

  Inside, the startled voices of a man and woman rudely awoken were heard. A light went on in a bedroom. A sliver of it escaped under the door and feebly illuminated the living room where Jack and Pierce now stood.

  Jack scanned the room, which was tatty and depressing. Threadbare carpet, damp and mottled peeling wallpaper, cheap painted furniture. As an attempt at seasonal cheer, a small tinsel-covered Christmas tree stood in the corner of the room, shedding pine needles on to a handful of wrapped presents. Some cards stood on the mantelpiece.

  ‘What the bloody hell is—!’ A woman’s voice, fearful, as she started getting out of bed and pulling on a dressing gown. Jack entered the room and the door slammed shut.

  ‘No … please, God, no!’ Her panic-pitched voice scorching the ceiling, but going nowhere.

  Jack grabbed her hair and reeled her in towards him. Her long, shiny auburn tresses were wrapped around his hand like silk rope as he forced her to her knees. Her head was pulled back, the long white neck exposed, her green eyes wide open and so alive. Jack’s other hand gripped the ebonized hilt of a long slim knife. Her cries quickly muted to gargles and bubbled out in blood as the knife sliced back and forth; fast, savage, severing the spine. Her lifeless body, almost in two parts now, fell to the floor.

  Jack then turned his attention to the corner of the room … And there he crouched, cowering on the floor. Bollock-naked and well and truly backed into a corner. He still had the sweat of his exertions with the woman on him. No doubt he was cocksure, felt he could handle himself in the right circumstances. These weren’t the right circumstances. He looked up at Jack. The inevitability of it all took away some of the fear. He knew what was coming, because he knew Jack Regent.

  Jack held the man’s gaze as he approached, then slowly drew the knife down to the level of his face. With a steady hand he placed the tip of the blade on to the black pupil of the man’s hazel eye. The pupil dilated and contracted – flashing on and off like an emergency signal. The tip of the blade now slowly punctured the membrane that covered the jellied lens – yet still the man didn’t squeeze his eyes shut, or even blink. He couldn’t take his gaze off Jack and time slowed for the kneeling man. His life didn’t flash before him, because what he was watching was so much more compelling than anything that had gone on before – a front-row seat for his own execution.

  Jack gave the man a soft smile, almost an adieu. And in one swift, powerful movement drove the knife into his eye, through the soft grey matter until it reached the bone at the back of his skull. His body juddered and twitched as Jack rotated and twisted the blade buried in his head; skewering his brain, shutting down the fear, the thoughts, the memories, until his life faded like a diminishing signal … over and out.

  Jack came out of the bedroom. switching off the light. Henry Pierce eyed him admiringly. Hardly a drop of blood on the long, perfectly tailored camelhair overcoat. Pierce knew what came next. Whilst it wasn’t exactly routine, this was how they’d done it before. Jack would depart and leave Pierce to his work: the clean-up, the getting rid of the bodies. The tools were in the car. Take them apart and bury them at sea. Pierce cracked his knuckles inside his black leather gloves, showing his readiness for the task ahead.

  But Jack didn’t go immediately and leave Pierce to his work. He held out the knife and fixed him with a challenging look. Henry Pierce took the weapon simply because it was offered to him. This unexpected move threw him slightly, and his heavy brow furrowed in confusion. He didn’t know what came next, so he looked to Jack for further instruction.

  Jack didn’t say a word. He pulled out his silver cigarette case, took out one of his French cigarettes, put it to his lip, and fired it up with the engraved gold lighter. The flame illuminated the dark hallway. Jack inhaled the rich smoke, then plumed it like an instruction towards a door.

  Pierce was no longer confused; he had got the message. Sweat prickled his top lip. He quickly wiped it away with the back of one leather-clad hand. He knew Jack might take that for weakness – maybe even insubordination, a questioning of his judgement. Pierce gave him three slow, considered nods and conceded it was the right thing to do. The only thing to do. By the time he reached the third nod, he wondered why he hadn’t thought of it himself. But that was Jack, always one step ahead. It would join them, bond them in blood: a shared deed they would carry together to the grave. Pierce savoured this morbid thought. He gripped the knife in a hand which still trembled. He reckoned even Jack could forgive him this minor weakness, considering what he was tasked with …

  Jack went out of the flat. Pierce listened as those uneven footsteps faded away, heading down the stairs. He then headed towards the bedroom door and pressed his ear against it. The only sound he could hear was his own jagged breath. He reopened the door. The room was pitch black, seemingly windowless. No light from the street lamps below or the three-quarter moon above made its way into the room. But darkness, and whatever it held, never bothered Henry Pierce. Dressed in black, as always, he even felt an affinity with it.

  The long knife in his hand was steady now, as he stepped over the threshold, and closed the door behind him …

  Bobbie exhaled a dispirited and disgusted sigh, then asked timorously, ‘Please, I need to know … who were they?’

  Pierce slowly raised a knotty forefinger to his lips, and then said in a tone of someone chiding an impatient child, ‘First things first, my dear. There’s more to come, much more.’ He lowered his hand and carried on …

  … A black wall. He stands stock-still, waits until his eyes adjust to the darkness and the wall crumbles before him. The room is cluttered with clothes, women’s clothes. Dresses and other garments draped over every piece of furniture, lynched on wire hangers, scattered around the room; long gowns and fur coats hang from curtains rails, blocking the street lights below and three-quarter moon above.

  Then a noise, crying and mewling. The waking cries of a baby. Pierce stands over a large cot, but he can’t look. He holds the long knife ready, raises the knife over the cot. The baby’s cries grow louder, swelling for attention. He doesn’t look into the cot, but knows it’s there. A clean kill, for God’s sake, a clean kill. He grabs an evening gown hanging on the door of a bulging wardrobe, and throws the turquoise silk evening dress over the mewling object inside the cot. He looks down for the first time, takes aim at the small moving mound under the fabric. He adjusts the knife in his hand into a stabbing position. His hand shakes, so he tightens his grip around the ebonized hilt. He close
s his eyes … mutters … ‘God forgive me’ … then brings the knife down.

  ‘Stop!’ screamed Bobbie.

  Pierce snapped out of his storytelling reverie.

  ‘You didn’t kill the baby?’

  ‘Yes, and I’ve regretted it ever since,’ said Pierce, his head drooping in shame, full of repentance for the past. Racked with guilt, he had never been able to forgive himself for what he did that night. And now he was confronted with the consequences.

  Bobbie tried to block out the unfathomable horror of the Herodian atrocity. Her mind desperately scrambling around for hope, found some solace in those words he’d uttered: regretted it ever since. A chink in his insanity perhaps? Some degree of humanity creeping in … and some hope for herself?

  Pierce raised his bowed head, and lowered his heavy brow so his features sank into a satanic V. Then he said, ‘Yes, I didn’t kill the baby.’

  Bobbie was at first confused. Then she remembered the old wartime song, Yes! We have no bananas, yes we have no bananas today. Bobbie felt both blasts of that double negative, as hope disappeared and insanity returned.

  ‘And I’ve regretted not killing the baby ever since,’ snarled Pierce, shaking his head as if in disgust, while he continued the story …

  … Pierce, his eyes squeezed shut, lifts the knife from out of the cot. He opens his eyes and sees there is no blood on the blade. He looks down into the cot, and sees the turquoise-silk dress shift shape. Still alive …

  ‘I missed.’

  ‘Missed?’

  ‘Missed.’

  A numbness spread around her body like a ghost. She didn’t want to know any more, but she had to keep going – had to keep Pierce talking and keep herself alive. ‘What happened?’ she asked in almost a whisper.