Pavement

  “Too bloody right I am.”

  She spoke in the same singsong voice she used to extract cash from punters who wouldn’t pay and kicked him again, this time full force in the head. Blood oozed out of his forehead where her stiletto went in and silenced his ugly mouth. With a sense of triumph, she noticed there was a hole in his head like he’d been gored by a bull. Better watch his brains don’t dribble out.

  She heard a suction noise as she pulled the heel clear. The sound reminded her of the noise a vacuum cleaner makes when a sock becomes trapped in the air stream and you pull it free without switching it off first.

  “Kirsty, what did you do?”

  Her 100 watt smile dimmed when she heard the frightened wee voice of barman, Jamie, the one guy in this hellhole who didn’t try to cop a feel. She thought he’d gone home.

  Flicking away a stray strand of hair that dared to land on her face, she lowered her green eyes; they shone like headlights ruining her attempt to appear demure. In these situations being dressed in a figure hugging PVC skirt and blouse that showcased her curves didn’t help, not when you were going for the vulnerability card.

  “I think he tripped,” she said, wiping her stiletto on the floor. It left a trail of blood and gunge that might have been brain matter—if the bastard had actually had a brain. Glancing down, she was happy to see that most of the blood was off her shoe and the thing wasn’t ruined; those shoes were expensive.

  Jamie shook his blonde head and his brow furrowed, making him appear much older than the kid he was. He leaned in so close he could have been about to kiss her, and said in a hushed voice, “You don’t know who that is, do you?”

  She met his concern with a heavy stare and he shrunk back. “Nah and I don’t bloody care either.”

  “It’s one of Jimmy McPhee’s enforcers.” He spoke with a reverence the knuckle draggers didn’t deserve. But then everyone in Glasgow spoke that way about those who scared them shitless.

  Kirsty had hung round here long enough to know that In gangland speak, enforcer was the title of a thug who went around cracking skulls and kneecaps with hammers and baseball bats, once they’d stubbed out their lit cigarettes on your eyes and thrown boiling water in your face; and that was for a warm up if they liked you. Once you’d got acquainted, then they turned real nasty. Kirsty knew what kind of man owned the club, but beggars couldn’t be choosers; she needed this job.

  Kirsty batted her long eyelashes, giving her the wide Bambi eyes men were such suckers for, then said loud enough for her victim to hear, “I don’t fucking care. He was touching me up. Next guy does that gets it bitten off.”

  Jamie didn’t need to ask what it meant. He covered his groin area with his hands and stepped further back. He could have been a footballer facing the might of a Brazilian free kick.

  A twisted grin spread across Kirsty’s face. Men thought women were weak, but a well-aimed kick between the legs sure leveled the playing field.

  “Nah, you’re okay,” she said with a saucy wink, but he wasn’t reassured. Maybe because he’d just witnessed her kicking the crap out of a growler more used to dishing it out than being on the receiving end.

  Jamie pulled a stool out and slunk down in it, the color washed out of his face as if he was a painting that’d been left out in the rain. Meanwhile, the groping bastard lay howling on the floor, curled up, a wee boy wanting his mammy; the last woman, Kirsty reckoned had willingly let him anywhere near her business end.

  “What the hell are we going to do now?” Jamie asked, making eye contact and then breaking it off because he was scared of what he saw in her eyes.

  “Well, I could hit him again.”

  She didn’t mean it. Messing up one shoe was bad enough without ruining another. They were too expensive. Besides, if she kicked him with her other leg it was liable to fly off. Prosthetic limbs tended to do that, unless you were Heather Mills and could afford the best.

  “Okay, okay, Jamie, don’t get your knickers in a twist. I’m only joking.”

  What the hell was she going to do? Concentration lined her forehead and she didn’t like that because it gave her frown lines.

  The way she saw it there were two options. She could hang around and be tortured by some sicko with a blowtorch and a small cock who’d enjoy passing her round his pals before they cut off her tits and fed them to their steroid boosted pit bulls, or she could get the fuck out of here with some spending money.

  She moistened her lips with her tongue. “Well, I was planning on running off with the takings.”

  Jamie shivered and slowly lowered his head into his hands and started muttering “fuck, fuck, fuck,” as he rocked about in the stool. He said something about “crazy bitch,” and she grinned. Now he got her.

  After a few minutes of mumbling to himself, he lifted his head and took in the view before his eyes finally rested on her collarbone in a barely concealed attempt to hide the fact he’d been staring at her boobs. Most men did that; kids wanting to put their paws in the sweetie jar. From now on, if any man tried getting handy a slap was the least of their worries, now the precedent had been set.

  “The boss will kill me if you nick the cash,” he said.

  The boss he was referring to was Jimmy McPhee who owned the joint; a mean bastard with an eye for pretty girls—ones not old enough to leave school. Jimmy was into all sorts: drug dealing, extortion, money lending and laundering and prostitution. He was an expert in creative persuasion, or as most people would call it, torture.

  Kirsty knew this, but she made sure that whilst working in his club it was a case of see no evil, hear no evil. Sure, she hated this seedy little shit-hole, but the tips were good and who else would employ her when she was the wrong side of thirty with a temper to match her hair and one leg? The punters enjoyed their wee jousts. A few even wanted to marry her.

  Kirsty shrugged. “I could always give you a doing as well. That would solve the problem.” She paused, and then added with a devilish grin, “No enough to kill you mind.”

  “Ha fucking ha,” said Jamie. Kirsty gave him a sideways glance. He moved back in his stool, held up his hand in a placatory fashion and said, “Sorry.”

  She giggled; a child’s giggle. It sounded strange coming from her lips. “Nothing to be sorry for, mister. I’m the one who’s screwed up your night. I thought it was just me and shit for brains over there.” She cocked a finger at the limp, dirty bastard bleeding onto the floor. Bar manager Angie would be pleased.

  Kirsty’s left leg was starting to itch and she took it off so she could give the stump a scratch. As she did, she could feel Jamie’s gaze upon her. He’d stopped fixating on her boobs she knew resembled two bobbling apples in the gypsy blouse she wore to get more tips. Some dumb fucks assumed they were part of the complimentary buffet and tried to touch them, but she always put them in their place—usually running to the bog every two minutes because of the laxatives she put in their drinks.

  Jamie was gaping at the leg, mesmerized by the thing. “It’s fake.” He eyed the leg as if she’d just whipped off her top and started sucking her own nipples.

  “No shit, Sherlock. What gave the game away?”

  If he heard the sarcasm in her voice, he ignored it as he wittered on about what her leg as if he was telling his pals about a new video game release. “Wow. You took out one of McPhee’s boys with one bloody leg. Awesome. You’re like that bird in the Robert Rodriguez zombie movie. Rose McGowan played her.”

  In all the excitement, his fear dissolved, an Alka-Seltzer in water. She could handle the wide-eyed admiration. But then he went and ruined it all by asking her the question she hated more than Glaswegian drunks at chucking out time.

  “How did you lose your leg?”

  His admiration evaporated, replaced by something that made her want to hit him repeatedly about the skull with her prosthetic. Pity. Shit, as if things weren’t bad enough. Now John Boy Walton felt sorry for her.

  Her li
ps went as tight as the zip on a bulging purse. She wasn’t going to tell him. Let him bloody guess.

  One glimpse at his disappointed wee face and she relented. What the hell? Might as well get the pity pish out the way, so they could deal with the more pressing stuff, like how the hell to get out of here without having her false leg rammed up her backside by one of McPhee’s cronies. And that was the least they would do to her. She was cursed with a vivid imagination and could picture all manner of sick things those psychos would inflict on her.

  Through the tiny slit in her mouth she spoke. “Okay, I’ll tell you what happened, but afterwards you’d better stop eyeballing me as if I’m a poor little cripple girl. I fuckin’ hate that. Okay?”

  Jamie’s gaze fell on his shoes, moved along the floor, resting anywhere but on her. “You don’t have to tell me.”

  He was trying to act as if he didn’t care. But, there was a spark in his eyes and he’d become a kid on Christmas Eve, poking and prodding away at the biggest, brightest, shiniest present.

  She raised her eyebrows. “You really want to know, huh?”

  He met her gaze and nodded.

  Her voice was a dull monotone when she spoke. Instead of talking about her own life she could have been one of those directory enquiries call center drones. That’s what happened when you told a story so often it was like you were talking about someone else, or a movie you’d seen. “I was in a car crash when I was eight. Both my parents died, along with my wee brother Joe. They were forced to cut off my leg to free me. End of story.”

  Jamie’s face darkened. “That’s terrible.” He went back to examining his shoes, the bar, looking anywhere to avoid her gaze. There was something unmistakable in his expression too.

  “Is that fucking sadness I see in your eyes?” The glare she gave him could have scorched the earth, but he didn’t wilt under it which made him unique. Men had been reduced to stuttering eejits by that glare.

  She threw back her head and gave a throaty laugh. The static electricity caused by the movement caused sparks to fly from the bonfire that was her hair. Poor sod Jamie jumped ten feet in the air.

  She winked at him and he relaxed. “Only messing with you.”

  His mouth relaxed. He was acting as if he’d known all along. He blinked. “Right.”

  “What happened was I spotted my boyfriend with his hand up the skirt of another girl as I went by on the train. I stuck my leg out to kick him up the arse. The train started moving at the time and splat. My leg came off at the knee.”

  She made a severing motion with her hand and suppressed a giggle when his face turned the color of putty.

  Jamie made a funny gagging noise and put his hand over his mouth as if about to puke, but he didn’t.

  ‘So, what’s the truth?” His gaze was clear and direct.

  “Whatever you want to believe,” she told him. Behind all her lies was a slither of truth. The truth was whatever folk wanted it to be, or whatever suited her at the time. “Now for the cash,” she said.

  “I thought you were kidding.” His life was no doubt flashing before him as he envisioned life on the run from those who carried other folk’s knuckle bones as knuckle dusters. “If we take the cash they’ll come after us.”

  “You can cut out this “we,” she snorted. “I’m the one who’s taking the money. You happened to be here. Why are you here anyway? It’s closing time. Don’t you have a home to go to student boy, where a nice lassie’s waiting for you with a pot noodle and some microchips?”

  He shrugged. “I stayed back to tidy up. Nobody’s waiting at home for me.” Then he gave her a weary eyeball and said, “Maybe I should go home.”

  Kirsty frowned. The guy could not be serious. “Nah, you can’t. How do you think McPhee will see it when he finds Zombieland over there, dead…” she nodded towards the octopus, “and his cash and us gone?”

  Jamie stood there, glaikit as ever. Christ, she was going to have to spell it out for the sap. He was so innocent he was Bambi. “He’ll think you were in on it.”

  He winced. “He’s not dead. He can’t be.”

  Kirsty pursed her lips. She hated to rain on his parade, but… “Of course he is, or if he isn’t he soon will be. He’s got a great bloody hole in his head. It’s not like he’s had keyhole surgery. No one can survive a stiletto heel to the brain. Trust me.”

  Jamie got off his stool and peered at the prone figure on the carpet. There was no more moaning, no movement at all. Jamie put his head in his hands in an all too familiar pose. “Shit. He is dead.”

  He sank back into his bar stool and repeatedly thumped his head off the bar.

  She left him to it for a moment and marched over. “Jamie,” she said sharply, “stop it. It aint helping mister.”

  He didn’t stop, so she grabbed him by the hair and pulled him towards her until his goggle eyes were level with her boobs. Now she’d got his attention, it was time to shake him out of his stupor. “Jamie, we have to get going.”

  “Eh?” He hadn’t taken his eyes off her breasts and she couldn’t blame him. They were mighty fine specimens.

  “We have to get the cash.”

  “Aw right,” he said, not shifting his gaze.

  That’s when she lifted his head up with her two hands and smacked it hard against the counter. It made a resounding thump that pleased her.

  He yelped in surprise. “What did you do that for?”

  He stood with fists clenched as if he was gonna hit her. But if she knew one thing in life it was if a man was going to hit you he’d just do it, not telegraph it.

  Standing close to his ear she said, “Now you’ve done being sorry for yourself, it’s time to shift your backside. Not unless you want to be swimming with the fishes, chopped up in wee bits.”

  Her wee pep talk worked and he was on his feet and following her to the back of the club where the office was. The pervy bastard she’d lamped was in her way and she kicked him so hard his body bounced along the carpet. No sign of life. He was as chatty as anyone would be who’d had a stiletto embedded in their skull.

  Peering down at her victim, she fought the temptation to see how many fingers she could get inside the hole. When would she ever get the chance to do that again? Not wanting to ruin her expensive manicure, she quickly dismissed the idea.

  When they got to the office, she gave the door a shove. It wouldn’t budge.

  “Bugger,” she scowled. “The lock’s so gammy that even when Jimmy thinks it’s locked you can usually open it with a shove.”

  Jamie sounded relieved. “Well that’s it. You can’t get in so you can’t get the cash.” He turned to walk away. Way too fast for her liking.

  She shot him a scornful look and he shrunk back. “Jamie, don’t be so defeatist.” Licking her lips, she held out her hand. “Credit card.”

  That puzzled him. “What?”

  “I need your credit card to get this door open.”

  “Don’t have one.”

  But she wasn’t going to be fooled. “You’re a student having to work in a shitty little place. Of course you’ve got a credit card. You’ll be living off the thing.”

  He put his hand in his front pocket and produced a MasterCard in the name Jamie Stewart. Grudgingly, he extended his hand. She snatched the card and grabbed him by his collar and kissed him hard on the lips. His face turned the color of strawberries.

  “Ta.”

  Nimbly she slid the card into the vertical crack between the doorframe and the doorjamb, then tilted it. With a bit of maneuvering the door was open in less than a minute.

  Jamie sighed. All along, he’d been hoping she’d fail. He was no fun that one.

  “Step away from the door.”

  The voice that came when the door opened made them both jump. It was Jimmy McPhee’s.

  Click here to learn more about How Kirsty Gets Her Kicks by Jennifer Lee Thomson.

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  “Beyond myself, somewhere, I wait for my arrival.”

  —Octavio Paz

  1

  ’TIL DEATH

  (Galveston, Texas, 1908)

  Hector Lassiter awakens to screams.

  He recognizes Father’s voice, then Mother’s.

  Hers is shrill, harder to place.

  A third voice, Hector mistakes for a stranger’s.

  For sweat-soaked seconds, eight-year-old Hector lays and listens, telling himself it’s no nightmare.

  It had been Friday night when he crawled into bed. Hector had turned in early because his parents promised him a Saturday afternoon trip into town, to the seawall and new Chutes Park, the “The Coney Island of the South.”

  Grafton, the boy’s father, was expected back at the family ranch no sooner than late Saturday morning. The plan was to visit the waterfront carnival in the cool early evening, then push on to Electric Park.

  Hector couldn’t wait to brave the “Mystic Rill” water coaster, open at last, and wildly praised by lucky schoolmates who’ve survived her.

  But the screams down the hall, getting meaner, getting louder? They confound, then soon, terrify the boy.

  Breaking glass; more threats.

  His father, a typically fearsome figure inspiring little affection from Hector, snarls, “Goddamn backstabbers! Fuckin’ Judas!”

  Then comes the gunfire: three or four rapid-fire shots, deafening indoors.

  Setting his jaw, Hector flings the covers from his narrow bed.

  Still in long johns, he dons his grandpa’s hand-me-down black Stetson slouch hat with a wide, downturned brim. The cowhide interior is stuffed with folded-up newspaper pages for his grandson’s still-growing head.

  The hat also sports a recently added rattlesnake skin band, the souvenir of the first kill Hector made bushwhacking with Pike Knox, his father’s trusted hired hand.