Dark Voices

by Darren Sant

  Dark Voices

  A Short Story Collection

  Darren Sant

  Copyright © Darren Sant 2013

  The moral right of this author has been asserted. The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, dead or alive, is coincidental and not intended by the author. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying recording or otherwise without the permission of the copyright owner.

  Converted to Kindle by Craig Douglas at www.Gritfiction.com

  Introduction

  This short story collection consists of two sections. The second section is some of my more eclectic work, not necessarily in the crime genre. The first section is a number of crime tales that mainly have the central theme of revenge.

  Revenge can come in many forms. It can be as brutal as a knife to the heart or a cosh to the head. Others say it is a dish best served cold. Whatever your opinion, it remains one of the most powerful driving forces that makes people perform extreme and sometimes violent actions.

  Revenge – a definition:

  To exact punishment or expiation for a wrong on behalf of, esp. in a vindictive spirit: to revenge a murdered brother.

  “He that studieth revenge keepeth his own wounds green, which otherwise would heal and do well.” – John Milton

  “Hunger, revenge, to sleep are petty foes, But only death the jealous eyes can close.” – William Wycherley

  CONTENTS

  Revenge is a Warm .45

  The Ungrateful Dead

  Dirty Deeds Dun Reel Cheep

  Penalty

  Punishment and Lola

  Unforgiven

  Skating on Thin Ice

  Boardroom Massacre

  Dope on a Rope

  The Sad End of Ernest Winthorpe

  The Journey

  Camouflage

  The Final Tree

  Karma Police

  The Cage

  Acknowledgements

  Also Available From Darren Sant

  REVENGE

  Revenge is a Warm .45

  Ron Snape was going to die. He didn’t know it yet, but I was going to put a bullet in his brain. When Amelia came home with a note signed by him in her bag it might as well have been his death warrant. Big time gang boss, racketeer and loan shark or not, he was going down. No bastard messes around with my gal. Amelia was the love of my life, but right now all I could feel was hate. I focused my hatred on the single finger that gripped the trigger of the Glock .45 I held.

  The night was darker than the inside of a politician’s wallet when I saw his bulging fat neck in front of me on Grafton Street. Sheets of torrential rain fell and people scurried for their homes or nearby bars. My attention never wavered from the back of his head and his huge frame striding purposefully down the block. People ducked out of his way like gazelle in fear of a predator as he turned into Wardour Street. I knew the street well. Amelia had a flat here. I gripped the gun tighter, my fingers going white with the effort. Despite his sharp, expensive suit, Snape still looked like a fucking gorilla at the circus.

  As I followed him into the street a huge flash lit up the sky. The thunder that followed matched the drumming of my heart as adrenaline pounded through my veins. My spirits sank as if in final confirmation of my fears the bastard stopped outside her door, rapping on it with a loud self-assured knock. My insides twisted in knots and I could stand it no longer. I raised the gun with shaking hands and slipped the safety off. I yelled, a loud, primal, injured scream, as I fired. Snape turned and slipped on the wet sidewalk. The shot whistled past him. At that moment my precious Amelia opened the door and the bullet hit her square in the face. A corona of blood briefly formed a crimson halo around her now ruined face as the slug slammed into her and she fell endlessly to the hard, wet sidewalk. The wad of cash she held in her hand fluttered down after her like so much green confetti.

  The Ungrateful Dead

  The squeal of a badly played electric guitar assaulted my ears and for the third time that evening I wondered why the hell I did this job. Frenzied teens leapt around the mosh pit like rabid squirrels. My temples pounded in time to the drumbeat and I took a sip of JD and coke to try and further deaden my senses.

  Why the fuck had my editor given me this assignment? I’d never had a good word to say about this fucking band. I hated grunge. Looking around “The Temple”, I wondered if I’d been in a grottier club. On reflection, yes. Plenty. I knocked back the remainder of my drink and weaved my way a little drunkenly to the toilet.

  After a quick slash I admired the impressive pool of vomit in each and every fucking sink and stood at the back to watch The Ungrateful Dead’s last few tracks. Shite name for a band, anyway. The band had four members who were all pimply, overly pale geeky fuckwits. There had been a lot of hype about them, they were on the rise, and other hacks would have given their left bollock for the chance to do this interview.

  There was talk that they regularly performed satanic rituals. The obligatory wild tales of groupie orgies and substance abuse. I’d heard it all before and it was no more believable now, but hey, it filled venues and sold albums. Every whining, wanking spotty little tosspot wanted to be like them. Me? I was old school and too old to be writing for the mag I was writing for, and regularly took out my spite on shitty little bands and in particular The Ungrateful Dead. It was a little bemusing my editor had insisted I do this. The twat never liked me anyhow. It promised to be a memorable interview.

  The last chord echoed in my ears and I took ten minutes to have another JD before heading backstage. A bulldog with a sense of humour failure stood blocking the door to backstage. I showed him my pass and without a word he let me through. There were the usual hangers-on in the corridor; teenage girls; jail bait, wearing little in the way of clothing and prepared to sacrifice their virginity and their dignity to be closer to their heroes. Lads stoned out of their heads, as interested in the girls in the corridor as the band. I rapped on the door and announced myself. A pale looking PR opened the door and ushered me in.

  The room was surprisingly dimly lit. There was trash all over the floor, empty bottles, pizza cartons; it looked like a teenager’s bedroom, only on a larger scale. The band idled in the corner, passing each other a bottle of vodka and gulping deep. High from their set. The lead singer, Mickey, had his trousers round his ankles and an eager groupie was sucking on his cock as if it contained the elixir of life. I doubted it. But watching her little tight leather clad ass and her head bobbing up and down was kind of hypnotic.

  I made like Bob the builder and prepared to build some bridges.

  “Great gig, guys. Fuckin’ awesome.”

  They smirked a little as they regarded me. The bass player, who the press called Scarecrow on account of his penchant for old clothes and lack of personal hygiene, held up a back copy of our magazine and started to read:

  “Sounding ten years out of date and looking about as attractive as an 80-year-old nun with syphilis and a flesh eating disease, The Ungrateful Dead will have a career as short as your average mayfly. Let’s hope they’ll be serving fries in fucking Burger King where they belong.”

  I held up my hands in mock surrender. “C’mon guys, don’t hold that against me. You know how the game is played. I knock you a little and we get 300 letters of complaint and some turds in the post, but we sell more issues.”

  Scarecrow chose a few choice pieces from another couple of issues he had open ready on the desk. I was about ready to say fuck this and walk out when I heard a noise behind me. I looked over my shoulder as the bulldog stepped into the room. He locked the door behind him.

  “Hey, what i
s this …?”

  Time stood still. Even the groupie had stopped her sucking and was regarding me whilst licking her lips. Her green eyes glinted in a way that looked chilling. I was sobering up fast. I was in for a kicking here and no messing. A furtive glance around the room showed there was no help from any quarter. Just the band, the bulldog, the PR, the cock-loving groupie and me. I looked to Mickey, the front man; I nearly shat myself. His piercing denim blue eyes showed no mercy, but what unsettled me were his fucking TEETH. Pointed like a vampire’s. He stared me straight in the eye as he grasped the groupie’s blonde hair and pulled her up. She gave a delighted little squeal as she turned to face him. He leaned forward and sank his teeth into her throat. Blood spurted and he made suckling noises. I watched in horrified fascination as the blood ran from her neck to dribble in pools on the floor.

  Fuck this, I thought, recovering from frightened rabbit syndrome. I turned and barged the unsuspecting bulldog, ramming him in the gut. A swift knee to the knackers and he dropped like a stone. I clamoured at the door, turning the key the Muppet had left in it. I was away down the corridor and out the building panting in seconds. Wild-eyed and suddenly sober, I legged it down the street, gibbering in fear.

  * * *

  Back in the club the band looked at one another. Mickey removed his fake teeth and the blonde removed her blood pack. They all cracked up laughing.

  Dirty Deeds Dun Reel Cheep

  Could I trust a killer that couldn’t spell? The small card on the board in the back street titty bar had not inspired confidence. However, I was poorer than a homeless church mouse so “cheep” was what I needed. The rendezvous point was a little pub in the run down old town called, appropriately, Shooters.

  The bar was filled with dense clouds of cigar and cigarette smoke, at any moment I expected to hear a fog horn to guide me to the bar. There was a smoking ban on, but these people had never obeyed a law in their lives. I ordered a pint of ruby mild from the one-eyed, hunchbacked barman, who had all the charm of a Rottweiler on steroids. I wandered in the direction of the snug in the corner. I stumbled into a huge gorilla that appeared suddenly out of the mist. He now wore half of my mild. The beast must have been six foot nine, I could barely see his head in the fog. He muttered a creative string of expletives, most of which were anatomically impossible, and waved me away like I was a tiresome fly. I was grateful for my life.

  The snug, where I was to meet the enforcer, was already occupied. A big man sat there. He was in his late fifties. His face was so pockmarked it looked like a child’s map of the moon. His remaining hair consisted of two tufts floating away at odd angles to his oversized head. He wore a dark jacket that had so many stains on it you would be hard pressed to ascertain the original colour. It was open to reveal just a string vest underneath. I shuddered, not daring to look too close for fear of losing my breakfast. If this was my man, I was not confident he would be up to the job in hand.

  “Are you Cyril?” I asked, hoping the answer would be “no”.

  “Aye, lad. Take the weight off yer plates of meat, like.”

  He gestured with one meaty, callused paw to a vacant seat opposite him and I sat as instructed. I wondered, and not for the first time that day, if I was doing the right thing.

  “So, lad, I see yer brung it with you,” he said, nodding towards the cloth covered object I had laid gently on the floor beside me.

  My voice quivered as the full extent of what I was doing hit home. “Yes,” I said weakly.

  He smiled a gap toothed smile at me. Although the gesture was not an unkind one, it did nothing for my nerves. I took a big gulp of my mild with a shaking hand.

  “Let’s not prolong matters, lad, my fee is £10 and I will be quick. Agreed?”

  I simply nodded, my face pale.

  “Hand it over, then.”

  With shaky hands I passed him the cage and he removed the cloth. Thankfully little Pedro was still sound asleep. The large tumour on his wing glistened pinkly in the unnatural lighting of the pub. I closed my eyes as I heard the squeak of the cage door opening. Cyril cooed gently at my little friend and his huge hands firmly but gently ended my little pal’s life.

  “All done, lad, no more suffering” the big man said gently. I opened my glistening eyes to see little Pedro’s lifeless form wrapped in a beer towel at the bottom of the cage. Ironically the towel advertised Kestrel lager.

  I handed over the tenner with a quick “Thank you” and, grabbing the cage, quickly left the bar. A dirty deed dun reel cheep, as the ad said.

  Penalty

  Wayne groaned as he regained consciousness. What the fuck had hit him? One minute jogging along and the next a sharp pain, followed by darkness. Had he tripped and banged his head? As his vision gradually returned he became slowly more alarmed. He shuffled and discovered that he was not prone on the ground, but in a sitting position. A quick squint around verified that he was, in fact, in a room and not on the trail he had been jogging on. He shook his head to clear it. His hands felt numb, but when he tried to move them he could not; they were secured behind his back somehow. He felt the first sharp stab of panic. Something was very wrong here.

  Rovers have the ball, and Booth is running down the wing, he’s being harried by Bridge, but he manages to break free to continue his run.

  “Hello! Is anybody there?” Nothing: only silence returned his exclamation. His eyes were becoming accustomed to the gloom. Small details were being revealed to him, like a curtain slowly being drawn. It was a bare room with wallpaper scraped off in several places. Wayne struggled again to release his hands and was rewarded with a sharp stab of pain as something metal dug into his wrist. His heart started to beat faster in fear and confusion.

  “HELLO?” he shouted. He tried to keep the raw edge of panic he was starting to feel from his voice. The room did not appear to have a window that he could see.

  Wayne’s heart leapt as he heard footsteps coming down the corridor.

  Booth passes to Johnson in centre midfield. Johnson makes a run down the centre. He flicks the ball to Kurt on the right wing and they press forward.

  The door burst open and a tall, broad figure strode into the room. He walked up to Wayne and, without a word, thrust something into Wayne’s mouth. He felt cold water trickle down his throat and gagged at first, but stopped resisting. Wayne’s eyes were trying to take in details, but he could not make out a face in the poor light. The figure appeared featureless. He was wearing perhaps a hat or maybe a balaclava over his head. The water bottle was roughly removed from his mouth and a cold voice said, “One more word from you and I will gag you. Do you understand me, you fucking bastard?”

  Wayne tried to talk and coughed a little as he swallowed the last of the water.

  “Please, tell me where I …”

  Before he could finish his sentence, the guy punched him full on. He felt his nose break just before he flew backward along, with the chair he was sitting on. Wayne’s head cracked hard on the floor and he felt the blackness take him once more.

  Johnson gains a few more yards but is slid by Gifford for Athletic. The ball goes out for a Rovers’ throw in. Gifford was lucky not to get a card there, that was a reckless tackle.

  With a groan, Wayne came to and immediately wished that he hadn’t. The pain was awful, like the worst headache he had ever had, multiplied by ten. He was still bound to the chair, but at least his attacker had pulled him upright after that punch. He probed his mouth with his tongue and spat out some blood. His nose was agony and at least one tooth was chipped. Waves of fear and panic rose within his chest. Fuck, this lunatic was going to kill him and he didn’t even know why. What had he ever done to hurt anyone? Now that he was fully awake his eyes once again became accustomed to the poorly lit room. He spotted a poster on the wall in front of him and suddenly it dawned on him with a cold, icy terror just why he was there. Footsteps again in the hallway. Getting louder. Every footfall set Wayne’s heart pounding faster and faster.

 
The door opened and the light flicked on. The figure in the doorway seemed to fill it. Six foot four of muscled psychopath. Wayne could not speak. A hard, mean face stared down at him.

  “Do you like the poster, Wayne? It was taken in 2006 before the game. We were raring for a great game of football. Instead we got cheated out of promotion, didn’t we, Wayne?”

  “But I …”

  “Never mind, it’s all going to be okay now. Are you hungry, Wayne?”

  He waved a pizza box down at Wayne.

  “Would you like a slice? I can see that you would. You see, I managed to make it onto the pitch after the game.”

  He opened the pizza box. It was filled with turf.

  Johnson takes a quick throw to the new young signing, Archer. Oh, that was a cheeky little nutmeg by Archer who, I must say, has started this game in fine style. He crosses the ball into the box, where Foil receives it. He’s looking for a chance to shoot. Athletic could be in trouble here and now Foil goes down. The young fullback for Athletic, Crooks, is closest to him, but even from this distance it’s obviously a dive! Young Crooks looks dismayed, but surely the referee, Wayne Plant, can see it’s a dive. He’s only a couple of yards away. The Athletic players are crowding around Plant, naturally appealing against this shocking decision. Plant dismissively waves them away and the penalty is given.

  Wayne screamed …

  Punishment and Lola

  Punishment

  Gonzalez looked me up and down, the disgust clearly registering on his face. He drummed his fat fingers on the desk as he considered my punishment. In his eyes I had fucked up, and Gonzalez was not a forgiving man. The many bodies in the foundations of the freeway could attest to that.

  “One simple fucking task I give you and you screw it up.”