Gutshots: Ten Blows to the Abdomen

by Graham Smith

  Arriving in Vienna, Nikoletta made her way to the Heitzing district and after four hours searching found the house where her former colleague had returned to from England. Thank God she had been able to remember the address she’d written to so many times. Her friend took her in and after hearing Nikoletta’s story booked her a flight back to Manchester. Nikoletta was met by her former employers who had agreed to give her, her old job back.

  * * * *

  After readjusting to western life, Nikoletta made contact with Edward Devlin and via E-mail she told him the whole story about how her downloading of his books had almost caused her imprisonment. He was very sympathetic and even sent her a signed copy of his latest book which she treasured above all other possessions.

  * * * *

  The next year Devlin was speaking at a crime fiction conference which Nikoletta was thrilled to attend. After his on stage oration he was signing books and Nikoletta joined the queue anxious to come face to face with her idol. When she did she whipped a knife from inside her left sleeve and before anyone could react drew it across his throat. The reason? On the stage he’d just been speaking about his new book Downloading Disaster and how the idea for it had just came to him one day like a bolt from the blue. She’d read the book and it was her story!

  The Mourning After

  I wrote this story as a practice exercise as I have a Harry Charters story I want to tell in the second person point of view. A friendly editor over at Near to the Knuckle ran an eye over it and found a home for my story on the site. http://www.close2thebone.co.uk/

  You wake up with dried blood adhering your head to the pillow. The stench from the vomit on the bed attacks your nose and your mouth opens as your stomach attempts to evict something that is no longer there. A dampness around your groin doesn’t bode well for laundry day.

  Carefully you peel the pillow off your head and open your eyes. The floor spins clockwise while the ceiling is going the opposite way.

  You can’t remember anything about last night. Or at least nothing after necking absinthe in Shooters. The last time you were that drunk you woke up in a fountain located in the middle of a roundabout.

  Feeling your head you find no external injury. The inside is aflame with dehydration which causes spots to appear before your bloodshot eyes, but the outside is unscathed. So where is all the blood from?

  Then you see the pair of red stilettos lying tangled up in a white thong. Suddenly you recall the girl from last night, she was tall, blonde and she was wearing the sexiest little black dress you’d ever seen. It had shown a hint of cleavage and a slit had kept giving you a flash of upper thigh whenever she’d crossed her legs.

  You’d chatted and flirted with her. She’d laughed at your jokes, listened to your stories and left her hand on your arm long enough to show her intentions.

  Her name was Siobhan or Sinead or something like that. It was Irish and started with an S. That much you can remember.

  A lecherous smile crosses your face as you remember the walk back to your flat. She’d dragged you into an alley and dropped to her knees to give you a taster of what was to come.

  You guess she must be in the bathroom cleaning blood, puke and piss off herself. You’ll never live this one down when the lads found out.

  So where had the blood come from? A hand rubbed across your face makes your nose throb and you feel dried blood caked across your top lip. Thank God for that you thought. You don’t want it to be her blood.

  Getting out of bed you pad across to the window shivering. Had the bloody heating gone again? Drawing back the curtains you see the smashed window.

  ‘What the fuck happened last night?’ you ask the empty room.

  A glance out of the window shows a police car parked three stories below and two cops walking towards a body in a black dress.

  * * * *

  Running downstairs in your boxers with no heed for decency, you sprint out of the building reaching the body at the same time as the police.

  Her dress had ridden up around her waist exposing her crotch. One look at the cock between her legs makes you remember everything.

  Star Struck Shooter

  After writing Shooting Stars I knew that the story couldn’t end there so this is basically the next chapter. This story first appeared at ThrillsKills’n’Chills as did Shooting Stars. http://thrillskillsnchills.blogspot.co.uk/

  She’d escaped the bullet I’d fired at her. My moral code wouldn’t let me kill her myself. I allowed myself one bullet per target and I’d missed when I shot at her. I’d killed a bystander which further beached my professional ethics. An assassin shouldn’t feel remorse but I hated that I’d killed an innocent. At least it was one of those bloody mime artists.

  I had a solution though. I’d merely stepped up my apprentice’s training and passed the job to him. I’d broken my code over that bitch once. I’d sooner die than break my code a second time for the same target.

  Jessica wouldn’t escape this time. We’d make sure of that. We’d followed her to the beach house where she was relaxing between movies.

  I knew her routine very well after the idyllic month we’d shared here. There were no bodyguards, assistants or staff. She went native in every respect. Cooked her own food, did her own laundry and refused contact with anyone who wasn’t invited onto her island.

  We’d arrived late the night before, rowing the last mile to be sure of silence. Out here sound didn’t just carry over the water it amplified. A cough became a gunshot, a gunshot a thunderclap and all because of the night air’s papal purity.

  Soon she’d be going for her morning jog. Twice round the two mile perimeter, running at the waters edge where the sand was firmer.

  The plan was simple, the apprentice would wait until she was nearly finished her second lap. She would be breathless, sweaty and low on energy as she always drove herself to near exhaustion when exercising.

  Then he would sprint out from the mango grove, grab her and then drown her in the shallow breakers rolling in from the east. Her body would be left at the high tide mark to be found by the locals who brought her daily provisions at noon.

  As she rounded the southerly point for the second time I reached across to the apprentice and gently tapped him on the shoulder to get his attention without startling him.

  I pointed out a pleasure yacht which had just hove into view from behind the neighbouring island.

  The younger man relaxed back from his sprinters crouch and lifted his thumb from his fist to show his understanding. We would fall back to the first of our reserve plans.

  I’d been on enough missions to know never to rely on just one plan. The second plan was almost as straightforward although there was more risk to it. We would wait on her reaching the house. I knew she would go straight for a shower and that would be his chance to pounce.

  OK so it couldn’t be passed off as an accident like drowning but she would still die and that was all I cared about.

  She ran past us. Dressed in baggy shorts and t-shirt, hair matted to her head, face and clothes drenched in sweat as she puffed her way, red faced past our hiding place among the trees. No wonder she was the highest paid actress in the world, even in the bedraggled state she had presented as she ran by, she was still eye wateringly beautiful.

  Giving her a hundred yards head start, we jogged through the woods until she entered the house. The yacht had passed the island and was arrowing its way through the calm seas.

  I entered the house via the sliding windows which fronted the beach. My apprentice was hot on my heels with the knife ready in his gloved hand. I led him through the house to the bathroom which adjoined the master bedroom. We could hear running water. I signalled to my apprentice to go in.

  After adjusting his grip on the knife he burst through the door and slashed and stabbed at the figure in the open shower cubicle. In my mind I could hear the screeching wheek from the classic Hitchcock film. I kicked my attention back towards what was happening in the bathroom
only to see a female body fall to the floor.

  * * * *

  We made our getaway that night. Our dingy easily covered the five miles to the nearby island where we’d set up our base. After cleaning everything down which may have held a trace of us we boarded the plane back to Miami.

  I was on cloud nine. I‘d hated her ever since she’d told an entire table in a crowded L.A. restaurant of my erectile dysfunction.

  It had taken years for me to perfect my assassin’s craft, and make enough money to stalk her around the globe until I finally had my chance. Now however, she was dead. My apprentice came good and killed for me. I would remember him favourably for the way he settled the score my code wouldn’t allow me to.

  As we exited Miami International Airport I bought a newspaper to see if her death had yet been discovered.

  Right there on the front page was her picture, underneath the chastising headline “Movie Star’s Twin Found Slain”.

  Mad Dog and Evers’ Bird

  This is a little exercise I gave myself, where I put four characters into a room and tried to give each one an individual voice and speech pattern to see if they were recognisable throughout the piece. I made it my goal to tell a story and solve a crime entirely through dialogue without any speech tags such as said, asked or queried.

  It first appeared on my blog http://grahamsmithwriter.blogspot.co.uk/ where it received enough positive comments for me to feel confident enough to share it here.

  ‘Interview commenced thirteen thirty two on Friday the twelfth October two thousand and twelve. Those present Detective Constable Amy Blake, Detective Inspector James Threlkeld, Peter “Mad Dog” Souness and his solicitor Fiona Glenn.’

  ‘I hardly think it is fair to use my clients’ nickname in this context Detective Inspector.’

  ‘Why not? He answers to it. Don’t you Mad Dog?’

  ‘Fuck you Threlkeld.’

  ‘Mr Souness, can you account for your whereabouts on Monday the eight of October between the hours of seven pm and eleven thirty.’

  ‘Course I can darlin’. I was round your sisters’ house. She gives the best blow job in all Manchester.’

  ‘Just answer the fucking question and don’t be a bastard. You know fine well her sister died last month.’

  ‘Do you always speak with such profanity when conducting interviews Inspector? I can already see members of the jury wrinkling their noses in distaste at your squaddies language.’

  ‘Hey Mad Dog. Wipe that smirk of your face and answer her question properly.’

  ‘No. Comment.’

  ‘In that case Mr Souness can you explain why our Scene of Crime Officers found fourteen thousand pounds in your safe along with jewellery belonging to the deceased.’

  ‘My client is a rich man who operates several pawn shops. The fact that the he has a lot of money in his safe and beautiful jewellery is testament only to his success as a businessman.’

  ‘Porn shops is bloody right.’

  ‘I beg your pardon Inspector?’

  ‘Oh come on. You’ve been his brief for nearly twenty years now. If you weren’t a lezzer then I’d bet that you’d be his mistress. You know fine well that the pawn shops are nothing more than a front for all the brothels he runs.’

  ‘And what bearing does this have on Mr Souness’ whereabouts on Monday night.’

  ‘That’s when Mrs Evers was killed.’

  ‘Who the fuck’s she?’

  ‘She’s the wife of one the regulars at your Hope Street Sauna. We think she followed her husband there on Monday night. Don’t we Inspector?’

  ‘Aye we do. So Mad Dog. Where were you on Monday?’

  I was at the Castle Ginnell shop having a meeting with the staff. All eight of them will tell you that.’

  ‘Now that Mr Souness has answered your questions I think you should release him. Obviously he is very sorry to hear about the premature death of Mrs Evers but he bears no responsibility.’

  ‘Sit down Fifi. We’re not quite finished. On Monday night at nine twenty two, Mad Dog used his mobile to call his head of security Michael Hannigan. They spoke for two minutes. From triangulation of mobile signals, we’ve ascertained Mad Dog was at Hope Street Sauna all night and that Hannigan joined Souness within ten minutes of his call.’

  ‘Sorry. That meeting must have been on Tuesday. I was having a bit of trouble with my back on Monday and went to get a massage. I called Michael to come over because that girl really straightened my spine and I know he sometimes has a bad back. You gotta take employee welfare serious in this day and age.’

  ‘That’s very considerate of you Mr Souness. Can you explain why Mrs Evers made six calls to her husband’s mobile from outside Hope Street Sauna when our data shows that he was inside with his phone switched on?’

  ‘Beats me. Perhaps she was mistaken about the type of massages they give there.’

  ‘We know exactly what kind of massages they give. We sent in an undercover officer from Bolton. As we speak a team from vice squad are paying a visit. Inspector Threlkeld wanted to be there but preferred to stay and hear what you have to say.’

  ‘That has no bearing on this case or my client.’

  ‘Au contraire. A team of forensic accountants have been investigating Mad Dog since I arrested him this morning. Just before we started this interview they told me that he is the sole owner of Hope Street Sauna.’

  ‘So fucking what! I own it. That’s got fuck all to do with this Evers bird.’

  ‘We interviewed Mr Hannigan first and he told us an awful lot didn’t he Guv?’

  ‘He told us everything.’

  ‘That bastard. Wait ‘til I get my hands on him.’

  ‘Wait ‘til I get my hands on him. What do you think a jury would make of that Amy?’

  ‘I’d say they’d take it as a sign that Mr Souness is guilty. The only question left to ask is whether or not he’s going to confess to the murder of Francine Evers.’

  ‘Alright. I’ll tell you what happened.’

  ‘I strongly advise you to say nothing Mr Souness.’

  ‘C’mon Mad Dog. Spill it.’

  ‘I didn’t kill her. The husband did. She came in like a mad woman barging through doors and into the private rooms. When she found her man with a Czech bird bouncing on him she freaked and went for him. He pushed her away and she fell and hit her head on the worktop. She was dead by the time I was called through. Me and Hannigan cleaned up and dumped the body. For a fee of course.’