Joe Fury and the Hard Death

by Paul Anthony Long

  JOE FURY and the HARD DEATH

  JOE FURY and the HARD DEATH

  Paul Anthony Long

  Soft Editions

  Published by Soft Editions Ltd,

  Gullane, East Lothian, Scotland.

  Copyright Paul Anthony Long 2009.

  Paul Anthony Long has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the Author of this Work.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form without the prior written permission of Soft Editions Ltd.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-1-84350-143-5

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  To my mum, for putting up with this kind of madness as I was growing up.

  ONE

  The diner sits in the middle of the vast, empty desert, only one road nailing it to anywhere at all. It’s a small, squat joint with a layer of dust on every surface, but it’s the only place I can meet my contact.

  Preston walks out wearing a dress as part of his disguise. It suits him. The wig could do with some adjusting but you can’t have everything.

  ‘New car?’ He nods at the shark parked up against the tumbleweed, and I nod. ‘Nice.’

  ‘What’s the problem?’ I sip the coffee and settle down to business. Preston slides into the seat opposite and drops a pamphlet on the table. It’s nothing special. A package. Inside a publicity photo—all teeth and eyes—and a very large sum of money.

  ‘Kieran Walsh. We want him back to face charges.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘Nothing you need to know about. We need him back.’

  ‘Destination?’

  ‘We don’t know. The last we heard he was at the end of this road.’ Preston scratches his wig and looks strangely comfortable.

  ‘Give me a week.’ I tell him.

  ‘You’ve got a day.’ He gets up and adjusts his skirt. ‘Blueberry pie?’

  ‘Not at my age.’

  Just then the door bursts open. It’s trouble.

  TWO

  She looks young and out of breath and I can tell the first thing she’ll do is make a beeline for me. But I’m wrong. She heads straight for the back exit.

  Preston watches her like a hawk. She disappears and he wanders off behind the counter and into the kitchen. I hear a clatter, a clang, and then the trouble’s back in the room.

  She creeps towards the window and looks out. Nothing but empty wasteland. In the end she notices me.

  ‘If you take the last turn at the end of the road you’ll end up in a coffin. Mark my words and mark them well, Joe.’ She looks serious, and without a scent of derangement. Which makes her even more dangerous.

  ‘My name’s not Joe,’ I tell her.

  ‘It is now.’

  A flurry of noise at the diner door and a troupe of nuns—four of them—walk in, wimpled up to the eyeballs. They’re packing.

  ‘Trouble.’ She doesn’t need to tell me. ‘For now I’m Suzanne,’ says the trouble and slips into the booth opposite me. ‘You got a cannon?’

  ‘I’m a pacifist,’ I lie. ‘It’s against my principles.’

  ‘Waitress.’ The nun with the biggest wimple hammers the table and Preston walks out. ‘We’re looking for the widow’s peak. The man with the rudimentary sense of perception told us you knew the way.’

  Preston looks stumped. I guess nuns weren’t in his game plan. ‘Try the chilli.’

  ‘It’s against my religion,’ says the biggest nun, and then they get serious.

  The robes burst open and a legion of weapons slams straight into my face. I hit the floor, dragging Sue with me, and she’s already got an Uzi in her fist.

  She peals off a burst under the table and takes out the legs of the nearest penguin. Before the woman has time to hit the ground, Sue’s up like a jack-in-the-box and the Uzi’s tearing the face off the next nun.

  ‘Back exit,’ she shouts, but Preston’s out with a cannon pointing straight in our direction.

  ‘Down, pooch,’ he says. Sue spares him a glance, and then stops the Uzi talking.

  THREE

  ‘Straight out of the gutter.’ Preston’s not an eloquent man. He walks around the counter with the cannon aiming slap bang between Sue’s eyes. ‘Wondered how long before you turned up.’

  ‘Drop the hot air, Preston,’ she says. ‘You let this muppet know what he’s in for?’

  ‘She one of us or one of them?’ I ask Preston, but the point is moot because the grenade that was in my hand is rolling across the floor.

  ‘She’s one of Kieran’s briefs,’ says Preston, and then his eyes go wide as the pineapple trickles towards the feet of the terrified nuns.

  ‘It’s got a ten second fuse,’ I tell him, and then me and the trouble are racing for the back door and we’re out in the fresh air. Before we can dive for the car the building goes up. And we’re stuck in the middle of the explosion.

  FOUR

  This is definitely Armageddon. Not what it feels like but what it actually is. Fireballs, pitchforks, the wasted dead on every side of you. Nothing but the searing stain of your own flesh burning a hole in your reason. And when the pain gets too much you can’t even breathe for the effort, because the mercy that would give would cancel out the degradation you find yourself steeped in.

  Or else it would be, but the fireball is swift and fast and me and Sue hit the ground and keep running. Behind us the window of the diner blows out with a million shards of fury and the nuns are screaming.

  Spare shells are popping off as we get to the car and I’m in and we’re off before the door bursts open and something—something like Preston in a blazing wig—is out there and pointing a gun at us. But he’s swallowed by the ball of dust kicked up by the back tyres and we’re fishtailing down the endless highway stretching out into the cracked, gasping desert ahead of us.

  ‘We died back there,’ says Sue. And she’s right.

  FIVE

  ‘We died but we’re back here now, so it’s not worth thinking too hard about,’ I tell her, because I know by looking at her she’s the inquisitive type. ‘Just leave it for now and you’ll get your answers. And right now I need some. I want everything you know in here.’ I tap the side of my head and she looks at me with these deep, judgemental reptilian eyes, and I know she’s looking right inside of me. It doesn’t shake me.

  ‘Kieran’s whatever you want him to be,’ she tells me, and even if it’s nothing but hot air there’s conviction in her eyes. ‘Preston and Kieran used to be lovers because that’s what Preston wanted. Kieran gives you a belief system and that’s why people want him dead, because he shares what he’s got with everyone, and for everyone it’s something different. A different life, a different zone, a different way of thinking, of being, of believing—it doesn’t matter. It’s different for everyone and we all come away scarred. Some of us learn to live with it and some of us don’t, and because Kieran keeps living, some people want him dead or trapped. He’s too dangerous.’

  ‘Sounds like a wimp.’

  ‘You never had a belief?’

  ‘Not something anyone could do anything about.’
<
br />   ‘See, that’s where you’re wrong,’ she says.

  ‘I’m a man who has everything, honey,’ I tell her. ‘My car, some smokes, and a good glass of bourbon to drink. You don’t need much more than that in life.’

  ‘Then you don’t need him, which makes you a threat.’

  ‘You’re just flapping now,’ I tell her, and she knows I’m right. ‘Tell me the rest. Tell me about the nuns.’

  ‘So you do want something.’

  The brakes go on. The car squeals to a halt. I pop the door open and look at her.

  ‘You can walk or talk. It’s your call.’

  ‘Kieran’s got a family,’ she says, and nods to the road ahead. ‘They’re right there.’

  SIX

  It’s like a barrier. A motor home stretched across the highway. A man sits on the roof in a deckchair, shades on the end of his fat nose, a beer in one hand and a stubby pump action shotgun across his lap.

  ‘You’re a long way from home, boy,’ says the man, and I pop the glove compartment open and pull out some bourbon. The man is a living cliché. A puppet.

  ‘Who’s pulling the strings, Sue?’

  ‘You are.’

  ‘Ditch the metaphysical mumbo jumbo and tell me what’s going on. We had an empty road.’

  She nods to the surrounding bleakness. ‘You want mountains and they’ll appear.’ And bang—she’s right. A long way off, but on the horizon sits a string of mountains that wasn’t there before.

  I take a shot from the bottle and pass it to Sue. She hits and doesn’t choke.

  ‘I’m not even asking where they came from.’ I flick an eye at the mountain range. Then I look at the motor home. ‘That yours?’

  ‘Trust me, Joe, I didn’t make a thing happen which you didn’t want to.’ She looks convincing, but it doesn’t wash with me.

  ‘I knew you were trouble,’ I say, then flick the car into gear and take a lazy detour around the motor home. The man doesn’t look up—just waves a friendly goodbye and then passes into history.

  ‘You want to know about belief?’ I ask. Sue nods.

  SEVEN

  The shunt from behind puts an end to my words. The motor home is in for the kill and the driver has the look of the devil in his eye.

  ‘Unfriendly family,’ I say to Sue, then gun the engine and the shark starts to gain space from the motor home.

  ‘Once you meet Kieran we all become part of his family.’ Sue sounds like a wingnut but her eyes lack the gleam of the zealot. It’s not a comfortable feeling.

  The motor home engine grumbles and roars like something deep and primitive, and the machine surges forward and eats up the distance.

  ‘If you’re willing to use the Uzi on the nuns,’ I tell Sue, ‘you can use it on the tyres. Take them out.’

  She spins in her seat and aims low for the tyres. The motor home leaps towards us and closes in for the kill. The Uzi spits a hail of fire and tears up the front of the vehicle as it crashes into the back of us. The shark fishtails, laying a trail of smoke across the tarmac, and before we know it we’re off the road and sliding to a stop.

  Motor home man is out before we can react. But no shotgun. Instead he runs for us, dragging something big and human, but unmoving, behind him. I turn to gun the engine, which squeals and churns in protest, and then stamp on the gas and we’re off again.

  When I glance in the rear view the man is in the back. He’s got a corpse with him. Both of them are smiling.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ says the man, nodding at the corpse. ‘He’s not the dead one.’ Then he jams a tazer to his throat and his mouth and eyes light up with blue fire and he’s gone—dead—smoke rolling lazily up from his hair.

  Immediately the corpse next to him jerks upright.

  ‘Morning,’ says the corpse. ‘Just call me Ishmael.’

  EIGHT

  ‘It’s not the dead you have to worry about,’ says Ishmael as he stretches and groans. ‘It’s more of the same old living crap that really puts the greaser in my whisky.’ He pops a shoulder and sighs. ‘Bourbon. I know you’ve got it.’

  I turn to Sue. ‘The family.’

  ‘We’re all family, Kemo Sabe,’ says Ishmael. ‘I know everything about you, Joe. Even your real name. And Kieran wants a meet.’

  ‘Good,’ I say. ‘Let’s cut to the end of this chase. I’ve been paid.’

  ‘Let’s play a game first,’ says Ishmael. ‘A game of—’ But the words are frozen in his mouth because the snout of my gun is resting between his eyes.

  ‘No games, Ishmael.’ I stare at him in the rear view, one hand on the wheel and one on the gun jammed right up to his head. ‘He wants to meet me—I want to meet him. Where is he?’

  ‘Take a left turn.’ For a dead man he seems pretty scared.

  There is no turning in the road. But I turn anyway.

  And everything changes.

  NINE

  Now I understand the concept of Nirvana. It’s like a dream come true. Beauty and majesty all wrapped into a bowl of perfection. Not a trace of falsehood or misunderstanding. Not a strand wrong in the perfect reality of where I am. Not a façade out of place.

  Downtown. Dark. Neon. Alleyways. Huddled figures. Hats and smoke.

  The brakes go on.

  ‘You can smile.’ Ishmael nods at me in the rear view, and that breaks the spell. I snap around.

  ‘Hypnosis,’ I say. ‘Let it drop.’

  ‘Step out,’ suggests Ishmael. ‘Test the water for yourself.’

  ‘If it was perfect I wouldn’t need to smile,’ I tell him. I push back his head with the barrel of my gun and the look of conviction starts to drop from his weathered face. ‘Now back to reality.’

  ‘We’re stuck,’ offers Ishmael.

  ‘There has to be another way out.’

  He snatches a worried look around. ‘I have a story. A short one. A man who wanted death the most in the world was forced to trade his dream for a brother, and when the brother died they both wound up in eternity. Who am I?’

  ‘An asshole,’ I mutter, and step out of the car.

  TEN

  The ground is solid. Inside it’s smoky and dark. The corners are full of shadows. To my right stands a neon-lit bar. That’s where I head.

  ‘Whisky. Neat.’

  The barman serves me and I knock it down. The door opens and Sue’s there with the Uzi in her hand, Ishmael trailing behind her like a dog, dragging his corpse with him.

  ‘This is exactly what Kieran wants,’ she says as she takes a seat next to me and nods for a short. ‘This is what you believe in and Kieran’s bringing it to you.’

  ‘It’s better than a sock in the jaw.’ I nestle back another whisky and let the drink clear my head.

  ‘You’ve got to break out of this fugue, Joe.’ She’s starting to give me a headache with her whining. Over in the corner a smoky brunette sits with her head in the shadows and a smile on her lips. I take a step towards her.

  Sue stops me. Hand on the arm. Warning stare. She shakes her head and she’s right. Kieran’s doing something to my mind.

  I grab Ishmael and shove him up against the bar.

  ‘Okay, dead man, start talking. What’s going on?’

  ‘I don’t want to play anymore.’ Ishmael tasers his brother who twitches like a live wire and suddenly Ishmael’s down on the ground and his brother’s on his feet.

  ‘Look at her, Joe,’ says Ishmael’s brother nodding to the brunette, and I can’t help looking. ‘She’s probably got a stack of money, a heavy rack and a tough case for you. You want to give this all up for a lost cause like Preston’s folly?’

  ‘Cut the wise talk.’ I slam Ishmael’s brother back. ‘Tell me the story.’

  ‘She knows.’ He nods at Sue and all eyes turn to her. She doesn’t look easy.

  ‘Right now you’re the one spilling tomorrow’s headlines. Now speak.’ I shove him again and he knows I mean business.

  ‘Kieran just wants to trade. Nothing special. You get a
ll this for his peace of mind and the ability to leave the case behind.’

  ‘Too bad, delivery boy,’ I tell him. ‘I’ve already been paid.’

  ‘Preston tried to kill you.’

  ‘A technicality.’ I shrug it off. ‘And besides, it wasn’t me he wanted. It’s the trouble he’s after.’ I nod to Sue. ‘And right now she’s with me.’

  ‘Don’t do it, Joe,’ says Ishmael’s brother. ‘There’s hard times ahead.’

  ‘There’s hard times here,’ I snarl, and let him drop. I nod to Sue. ‘Let’s blow this pop stand.’

  ‘She hasn’t told you, has she?’ Ishmael’s brother has a smile on his face that I don’t like the look of. ‘She hasn’t told you about what she did for Kieran.’

  I turn to him. ‘And?’

  ‘I’ll take you there.’

  ELEVEN

  Flashback to some forgotten time in a forgotten place. There’s bombs and guns and mess and the whole thing is punctured through with the stench of death and panic and screams and decay. The trouble’s gone, but Ishmael and his brother are both alive, both dressed in khaki, and both aware of the situation.

  ‘What’s the deal?’ Bullets whiz over my head as I light up a cigar and wait for the story.

  Ishmael’s brother holds out his hand for me to shake. ‘I’m Dougie.’ I ignore him.

  ‘We’re right in the middle of a war, Joe,’ says Ishmael. ‘That mean anything to you?’

  ‘It means you’re in danger of eating my fist, Ahab—now what’s going on?’