Joe Fury and the Hard Death

by Paul Anthony Long

  ‘You pick a conflict and I’ll tell you what it is.’

  I don’t have time for this but I look around anyway. A lot of carbines and dead bodies. A shell whistles down and blows a chunk of mud and gore twenty feet to my left, and Ishmael and Dougie duck.

  ‘Second world war.’

  ‘Could be.’ Dougie shrugs. ‘Might be anywhere. Vietnam. Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan, Kosovo, the Congo—it doesn’t matter. This is the scene of an endless war. It’s where every battle that ever happened is being played out second by second. Suzanne is part of that progress and so is Kieran. This is what people want. The money shot.’

  ‘You’re making about as much sense as my ex-wife,’ I tell them. ‘What’s this got to do with Sue?’

  ‘She’s not real. She’s a figment of Kieran’s imagination. She was made up to seduce you.’

  ‘Then why the war?’

  ‘She is the war,’ screams Ishmael as an M50 roars a few feet away and a phalanx of Zulu warriors storm over the churned up, twisted corpses of a thousand dead. Just then a bullet slams into Dougie’s head and tears a huge chuck out of his skull. He collapses sideways in a pool of his own blood and brains. Ishmael looks nonplussed.

  ‘Oh dear,’ he says in a very quiet voice. ‘That’s torn it. We’re stuck here now.’

  TWELVE

  By the third time I slug him he’s had enough.

  ‘Hey, it’s bad news about your brother but I didn’t ask to be dragged into this mess.’

  ‘There’s another option,’ pleads Ishmael. ‘My brother was the connection and now that connection is broken. Look over the ridge.’

  I do. Nothing but blood and pain for miles in every direction.

  ‘Small shack right in the middle. See it?’ And Ishmael’s right. It’s a shadow against the cannon smoke and the raging fires, but it’s there alright.

  ‘Time for some action.’

  I’m over the ridge and racing for the nearest foxhole before Ishmael has time to breathe. The bullets are churning up the ground around me, bombs blowing mud and body parts high into the air, the smell of cordite, blood, and choking acrid smoke. When I hit the foxhole there’s a Tommy in there with a woman. I recognise her instantly. Felicia Browne.

  ‘A long way from home,’ I comment, and she spares me a momentary glance before popping a shot off at random. After all, the enemy is everywhere.

  ‘It’s not exactly the Spanish Civil War,’ she mutters. An armour plated knight, screaming fury and death, breaches the foxhole. My right hook glances off the breast plate and Felicia wraps him in a leg lock and spins him onto his back. Before he’s got time to move she slams six inches of bayonet into his throat, between helmet and breast plate, and he chokes his last in a mist of blood.

  ‘Thanks, sister,’ I mutter. ‘I owe you.’

  Ishmael hits the foxhole. Somehow he’s got his hands on an MP40 and a face full of blood.

  ‘Question,’ I say, and he turns his crazed eyes to me. ‘If Dougie’s dead anyway then how can he die?’ I spark up a match on the breast plate of the soldier Felicia iced and fume up another cheroot.

  ‘He’ll be back,’ gasps Ishmael. ‘Back on the road. Back where we shouldn’t be with Suzanne and Kieran, and Kieran wants this and this isn’t how it’s supposed to be.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ I say, and then we’re up and out and pounding through the wilderness. I blind side a Maori with a spear and pole-axe a madman with a bolt action rifle, and we’re knee deep in mud in the next foxhole. A shell hits nearby and somebody’s head falls into my lap.

  ‘This wasn’t in the brochure.’ I grab Ishmael and drag him close. By now we’re eye to eye. His mind’s gone. If it was ever there.

  ‘Start talking, Ishmael. One minute we’re on the road and now we’re here. What the hell’s going on.’

  ‘It’s him!’ he says with emphasis, and something tells me logic’s taken a back seat.

  Then we’re up and out once more and tearing up the distance. The cottage is almost in plain sight when the monk nails me good and square.

  THIRTEEN

  ‘Bless you, my son,’ he sparks before I take his legs out. I’m just about to cold cock him when he holds up his hands for mercy.

  ‘You’re not one of them,’ he bleats. I look around. Ishmael’s a distant shadow racing for the cottage.

  ‘You have any idea what’s going on around here?’

  ‘You’ve met the nuns,’ says the monk. ‘You know what they can do.’

  ‘Don’t tell me the penguins set this little ringer up?’

  ‘The Sisters of the Immaculate Immolation aren’t responsible. The man you seek is Kieran.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’ I was starting to get tired of hearing about this joker. ‘You another acolyte or just here for the view?’

  ‘Take this.’ He thrusts a watch into my hand. ‘Keep it over your heart. It will come in handy when the time is right.’

  ‘Cut the crap, brother. I don’t play that game.’

  I stuff the watch back into the monk’s pocket and leave him genuflecting in the mud as the cottage looms up in the distance. Only then I realise Ishmael’s aiming the MP40 over my shoulder, his eyes wide with fear.

  FOURTEEN

  The sub-machine gun talks and I hit the dirt.

  ‘Facking hell, mate, leave it out.’

  It’s the Tommy and he’s not looking pleased.

  ‘Drop the popgun, Ahab.’ Ishmael lowers it but keeps it ready.

  The Tommy runs up and hunches down by the wall, keeping an eye out. Bullets rake a line over his head and he ducks down further.

  ‘Facking huns have got the place tied up. Tossers.’

  I reach into my pocket for another cigar and feel something solid. It’s the watch. The monk must have palmed it on me when I made a break for it.

  ‘Nice watch, mate,’ says the Tommy.

  ‘Never trust a monk,’ I say, and then realise my wallet’s gone as well. ‘They’ve got sticky fingers. And not just for the choirboys.’

  ‘Talk later, fight now,’ snaps Ishmael, and lets off a hail of leaden death at the shadows in the smoke. He raps three times on the cottage door. A moment of tension and the door slowly opens, revealing only blackness.

  FIFTEEN

  A match flares in the dark and I find the face of an old man looking down at me. The match lights a candle and suddenly we’re in a living room. And it’s quiet. And comfy.

  Outside the windows the battle rages. Inside it’s like a tomb.

  ‘Cup of tea, mate?’ It’s the Tommy, and he’s already making himself at home, snapping on the overhead lights and settling down on the biggest looking chair.

  ‘I know you and you,’ says the old man, pointing to the Tommy and Ishmael. ‘But you ’ He takes a step closer and squints at me. ‘You’re different. You’re a phenomenon.’

  ‘I’m all kinds of things, old timer,’ I tell him. ‘And right now I need to get back to my job.’

  ‘Tish and phipsy.’ The old man shakes his head. ‘Come and have a cup of rosy.’

  ‘No thanks, old man,’ I say. ‘I need closure.’

  ‘We need to get to the machine,’ says Ishmael. The old man waves him away and starts off out of the room.

  ‘All in good time,’ he says, and then he’s gone.

  ‘Okay, Ahab, where’s the exit?’ Ishmael nods to a door. ‘And then what?’

  ‘Then we get back.’ Ishmael starts towards the door as the old man pipes up behind us.

  ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you.’ We turn and there he stands, a cup of tea in one hand and a rocket launcher in the other. ‘Sugar?’

  SIXTEEN

  ‘See, the way I see it, we’re sort of stuck in this eternal conflict because of the sins of man,’ says the Tommy, munching on a biscuit and sipping his tea. ‘It’s like, the facking duality of nature to constantly be at war with oneself and yet yearn for peace, which, paradoxically, can only be brought about by the war we all yearn to bring an e
nd to. See what I mean?’

  The urge to slap him till he squeals is pretty strong at this moment, but I take a look at the old man. The rocket launcher’s on the floor but the smile on his face tells me he’s taking no crap today.

  ‘And what do you think, young man?’ He’s talking to Ishmael.

  Ishmael doesn’t look happy. ‘Erm… Well, that’s a good question when you consider the facts. After all, some people might say the very fact of war is a necessity against a political and social world status. Or country status. Uh ’

  He’s flagging. The old man narrows his eyes and I can see his hand reaching for the rocket launcher.

  ‘But then it’s also a state of mind as much as a state of reality.’ It doesn’t mean anything but it seems to put the cooler on the old man. He smiles.

  ‘Interesting. Random, but interesting.’ The old man turns to me. ‘And what about you?’

  ‘Cut the chatter, old man,’ I say as I whip out the popgun and aim for his forehead. ‘Now make with the machine or your jawbone goes west.’

  The old man smiles. Then sips his tea.

  ‘We’re civilised, Mr ?’

  ‘My name doesn’t matter,’ I snap. ‘Finding a way out of this hell hole does.’

  ‘But what’s your philosophy on warfare?’

  ‘Come on, Ahab.’ I spare Ishmael a glance. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

  Suddenly the wall behind the old man disappears and I see nothing but light.

  SEVENTEEN

  The rest of the walls fall down and we’re on a stage facing a bank of lights. The old man’s in a tux and some Chinese guy with a glittery suit stands behind him, a microphone in his hand and a grin on his face as wide as his collars. And what’s worse, my gun is gone.

  ‘I’m afraid that’s the wrong answer,’ says the old man, and the voice of God speaks.

  ‘Welcome once again to this week’s edition of “Morality”.’ It’s big and it’s booming and it’s coming from everywhere. Canned applause fills the stage.

  I glance around. The battlefield has gone. Instead we’re in a giant, cavernous studio with an audience of cardboard cut-outs. It’s like the living room has been transported slap bang into the middle of a game show.

  ‘Ahab? What’s the beef?’

  Ishmael just shakes his head and looks worried.

  ‘And please welcome your host for the evening, Sun Tzu!’ the voice booms, and the Chinese guy walks down towards us.

  ‘Thang you very much,’ mutters Tzu. ‘Tonight we’ll be playing for the very existence of this man’s soul.’ And he’s pointing at me.

  ‘First of all,’ slimes the old guy as he oils his way towards me, ‘we have some questions.’

  ‘Hey, Tzu?’ I shout. ‘Art of War not selling too good these days or this just your day job?’

  ‘Your tactics are weak and foolish gumshoe,’ he says in a cod Oriental accent.

  ‘Are you some kind of wise guy?’ I mutter.

  ‘The compliment is accepted,’ says Tzu, and he bows low.

  ‘Is this Kieran again?’ I ask Ishmael, but he stays quiet.

  A microphone gets shoved too close to my face.

  ‘Is there any meaning to your existence?’ asks the old man.

  ‘It’s a lot more relevant than yours, old timer,’ I tell him. ‘Now get that thing out of my face before I start getting nasty.’

  ‘Wrong answer!’ booms Sun Tzu. And before I can do anything he pulls out a piece and plugs a hole in the Tommy’s head. It’s not pretty.

  ‘Think very carefully about the next words you say,’ whispers the old man. ‘Now, why did Preston put you on the case?’

  ‘Because I’m cheap.’

  Sun Tzu aims for Ishmael but doesn’t fire.

  ‘Well, technically you’re right,’ says the old man, and a sheet at the back of the stage falls, revealing a Ferrari. ‘And how much would it take for you to call an end to your case?’

  ‘More money than you’ve got, gramps.’ Which is also true. I can tell the old man’s getting frustrated because he’s looking for a lie. And if he wants one from me he can sing for it.

  ‘It’s good to see Ishmael back here again,’ says the old man, walking over to him. Canned applause rings in my ears. ‘You didn’t bring so much fresh meat this time.’

  ‘They killed Dougie,’ says Ishmael.

  ‘You’re welcome.’ The old man claps an arm around Ishmael’s shoulders. ‘Now, here’s your starter for ten. What did you do with the girl?’

  ‘The girl’s with me,’ I say. The old man spins and nails me with a look. ‘And I’ve got just the ticket you’ve been looking for.’

  The old man walks close and bends down.

  ‘Tell me everything.’

  That’s when I take him out.

  My fist crashes against his jaw and he’s falling quicker than the Roman Empire. Sun Tzu aims the gun at me and I grab the microphone and throw it as hard as I can. When it hits Tzu in the balls you can hear the thud from the back of the room, but he goes down smiling anyway. A true professional.

  ‘Let’s go!’ I snap at Ishmael, and we’re up and running. But too late. The old man picks up the rocket launcher and hits me hard, and that’s when the lights go out.

  EIGHTEEN

  When I come to I’m strapped to a chair in a basement. The old man stands before me nursing a bruise and a cup of tea. Behind him stretches an infinity of pipework and dripping faucets. It’s like something out of the industrial version of Dante.

  ‘You shouldn’t have been so hasty, Mr Fury.’

  ‘How do you know my name?’ It takes all my effort to gasp that out.

  ‘We know a lot about you, Fury. Joe Fury. We took the liberty of doing some background research while you were occupied.’ I look in his eyes and know he’s telling the truth.

  ‘What about the dame?’ I ask. ‘What’s her part in this scheme?’

  ‘There’s no scheme.’ The old man wanders over. ‘Cup of rosy?’

  ‘Just spill the beans, gramps.’ I’m in no mood for civility. ‘Who’s Kieran and why does Preston want him?’

  ‘Oh dear,’ says the old man with genuine regret. ‘You really have been played for a fool.’ He shrugs. ‘Not to worry. You haven’t got long for this world.’

  I never figured I’d go out like this. ‘Give me a smoke.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t approve of smoking,’ says the old man. ‘In fact, there’s a lot I don’t approve of. But somehow I’m compelled to be a part of it.’

  ‘Cut me loose and we’ll call it quits,’ I offer, but he’s not bargaining.

  ‘Kieran would have my testicles for castanets,’ he smiles. ‘But luckily he leaves me to my hobbies.’

  The old man sets the tea down on a sideboard and takes off his shirt. And suddenly I don’t like where this is going.

  ‘It’s a hard life living out here.’ The old man turns to face me. ‘Very lonely. Very isolated. Sometimes you crave human company. Somebody to talk to, pass the time, share a nice cup of tea and a chocolate digestive with. And then well, then you start to get the urges.’ He walks towards me. ‘Strong urges. Urges that just overwhelm you. And that’s when things get messy.’ Thick steel spikes burst out of his back. He snaps his fingers and more steel spikes spring out, bursting through his skin. It’s like looking at a human porcupine.

  ‘I get your point,’ I mutter lamely.

  ‘I’ll have to strip your skin for my own.’ The old man creeps closer. ‘I’ll have to pluck your eyeballs and peel off your muscles and strip your tendons down to the bone to keep myself running.’

  ‘Nice outfit, gramps, but I still need my smokes.’

  The old man pauses. The confusion in his eyes tells me this isn’t going the way he anticipated.

  ‘I’ll cut you a deal. You give me the info I want on this Kieran mug and I’ll get you off his books.’

  The old man hesitates. Then: ‘This isn’t what I want to be. I didn’t want this. I wanted to b
e something unique.’

  ‘You can be an opera singer for all I care—just tell me what I want to know. Kieran may think he’s a tough guy, but I’ve seen plenty of chancers in my time. Now, you gonna keep me sitting here chewing the fat all day or you gonna let me go?’

  ‘If you can help.’

  ‘Just say the word.’

  The old man breaks pretty easy. He must have been living in this hell for a long time and done a lot of damage to his mind to crack so easily. He levels me with an even, pleading stare, and then it all comes out.

  ‘He lives at the end of the road. The one you started out on.’

  ‘By the diner?’

  ‘The very same. Just keep on down that track and you’ll find him. But don’t underestimate him, Mr Fury. He’s a tough customer. One of the most complicated men I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet. Be wary of him. He could destroy you.’

  ‘The only thing that could destroy me is a dame with a decent right hook.’ I nod to the rope that’s holding me tight. ‘Now cut me loose.’

  The old man drops like a stone.

  NINETEEN

  Ishmael stands behind him with a stupid grin on his face and a fire extinguisher in his hands. ‘Thanks, Einstein,’ I mutter. ‘The old man was on our side.’

  ‘But but ’ He looks confused. I nod to the ropes and he flicks out a switchblade and suddenly they’re off.

  I snap the fire to a good cigar and prod the body of the old man with my foot. The spikes have retracted and he groans, which means we won’t have to dig him a goodnight bed.

  ‘He’s on our side, Ahab,’ I tell Ishmael. ‘The old man spilled the beans about Kieran. He’s in the know and we need him. Now pick him up and let’s take him with us.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘But nothing, smart guy.’ I turn away and peer into the labyrinth of hissing pipes stretching off into the dank, dark distance. ‘You slugged him, you carry him.’ I jab a finger at the labyrinth. ‘How far to the exit?’