The Hitnan: A Tale of Blood and Canes

by Wez Wallie

  "Good. You need your head sortin' out."

  "Oh, I know. He's very interested in you. I've discovered all sorts of things about my inner psyche from talking to mental health professionals. Like the fact most people's problems stem from their parents."

  "Finally. I knew your dad was a wrong'un."

  "No, it's you, mum!"

  "Me?! I was the best bloody mother you could have ever wished for!"

  "You were a chronic alcoholic who was never at home!"

  "I was working! I had a career to protect, to put food on the table."

  "More important than us though clearly."

  "Well excuse me for being a modern woman in a time of patriarchy! I was ahead of me time, me. Besides, there was a good reason for all that."

  "Jack Daniels isn't a good reason, mum."

  "How'd you know about him?"

  "What?"

  Peader came rushing back in and was giving her "the sign."

  "Cabbie's all good ta go, Ms Walker," he said bug-eyed, extending his jaw beyond his nose in a nod and leaning stiffly over to his right, like he was doing some sort of horrifying Michael Jackson dance move.

  Mal put her tea down, worried. "Are you okay, Peader? You look like you're having a stroke or something?"

  "Ah naw, Miss Mal - Malion - Miss Malker, uh, it's just, I've seen on de wedder channel dere, dat Bognor looks very nice dis time of year..." He began raising his eyebrows up and down in unison toward Dotty.

  "Honestly, I'm gonna call an ambulance mum, this ain't right..."

  "Oh, leave off, Marion, he's just Irish. Come on, lad, let's go down the postie." He offered a hand to help Dotty up from the chair but she smacked it away.

  "I'm not Lionel Blair you know!"

  Dotty exited the room to put on her coat, only calling back to say, "Let yourself out when you're ready, Marion - and get on to the council about that mould, will ya love!"

  Peader still had his cap in front of his crotch as he bid goodbye to Mal with a bow. Confused but a little flattered, she curtseyed back playfully until he was seized by the scruff and snatched out of the room; he yelled "See ya, Shon-Shon!" up the stairs as he was dragged down the hall and out the gaff.

  Chapter 3

  "How long we got?" asked Dotty, from the back of Peader's black cab.

  "Bognor say it's on right now but de money's taking a while ta come t'rough de wire, Ms Walker."

  "Again?! Bloody amateurs. In my day, they'd send the dough attached to carrier pigeon and that was that. Be a lot faster than this."

  Peader kept turning back from the driver's seat to address her: "Yeah. It's all de Firewalls I guess, Ms Walker."

  "Why we got firewalls, Peter?"

  "Peader ma'am, and because transfers can be intercepted as well, just like yer man dere and his carrier pigeons and all dat, like."

  "I'd like to see a man stupid enough to try and interfere with them birds, son. They were specially trained by the Agency. They'd have your nipple off before you could snatch the envelope."

  "Well, ain't dat a craic."

  Dotty grew restless in the rear. "Me fackin' piles are playing up again."

  "What's de situation dere; would'ye like me ta apply de cream again?

  "I don't want your coarse hands on me backside again boy, you wouldn't know how to touch a woman if she laid down and died beside ya." Peader looked embarrassed. "No shame in it boy; just like me, you're a good Catholic!"

  He nodded to reassure himself whilst he wiped a pistol and tucked it in his tightey-whiteys.

  She adjusted her sitting position with a wince. "Bloody fings. Body's slowing down, innit. Makes me seem old."

  "Nonsense! Yer only... what was it now, '39... so dat's..." he started counting on his fingers but somehow seemed to run out of hands and began to confuse himself, "let's see here, carry de one..."

  "Oh, for fack's sake, 82, love, I'm 82 years old. Why make me say it?!"

  "Sorry, Ms Walker. Hey now, I t'ought ye liked being old? Didn'je say it was a benefit ta yer work, dere?"

  "Yeah, I guess. It's much easier to slip close to targets now and get the job done, but it's hardly the same amount of fun as it was back in the day: suavely seducing the mark and then blowing his brains out on the bed in which we had made savage love in all night long.... bathing in the blood, and his juices and my juices mingling together and then dancing in the noir rain when the post-job ciggies set off the sprinkler systems... ahh, good times..."

  Peader gulped softly, (and had to remove his cap again). "I'd like to hear more of dat story please, Ms Walker."

  "Oi, is that transfer done yet? I ain't getting any younger."

  Peader looked back at his laptop. He shook his head. "Only 35% t'rough."

  "Ah screw this, might as well do some chores whilst I'm out. Bring me chair 'round, will ya, can't be facked to walk."

  "In an instant, Ms Walker!" Peader opened the car door and slammed the laptop lid but quickly opened it back up and pretended he had to wait for a few minutes for some things to 'go down' ("...on de compuder, like.")

  "Now, Peter!" she called from the back.

  "Yes, ma'am!" He closed the lid again and ran around to the back of the boot and bust out the wheelchair.

  Dotty fell back into it and started feeling up the arm supports, only now realising he had brought out the wrong one with them.

  "Hang on, this is the chair we use on jobs!"

  Peader's eyes grew wide: "Oh, so it is dere, Ms Walker!"

  "You brought the wrong bleedin' chair, Peter! This is that ‘Wheely McWheelface 5000’ fing!"

  "Oh, so I did, Ms Walker! A t'ousand and one apologies, Ms Walker."

  He began to wheel her off.

  "Hang on Peter - I can't go around me daily business in this!"

  "Oh, why's dat now, Ms Walker?" he asked, bending around from behind.

  "Because it's the one we keep especially for use on Level 5 jobs and loaded with half a pound of jet fuel and dynamite! I don't wanna be rolling down the aisles of SuperSavers, bump into a melon and end up shooting three mini rockets into a gaggle of children by the poultry counter!"

  "Ah, true dat, Ms Walker. Hey, ye finally read de manual I gave ye, den?"

  "Yes I did, especially after that last job. You always need rockets, Peter. Anyone who tells you anything different is either an amateur or a luvvie."

  "D'ye want me ta look inta geddin' ye one of dem mobility scooters, like? Den ye wouldn't have ta keep tiring yer arms out and such."

  "Nah. Them other old cronies look stupid in them fings. Anyway, what's the difference between a mobility scooter and having you wheeling me around everywhere? Besides, it's good for work, ain’t it. Wheelchairs are for genuine invalids - elicits more sympathy with the public. Let’s me avoid suspicion. Scooters are for feckless dole mums who become grannies at 34."

  "Cool, cool, cool... well, we'll just take tings nice and gentle fer taday, den..." Dotty shook her head. After a while of knocking her into seemingly every pothole in the pavement, she looked up as Peader seemed distracted as he wheeled her down the street.

  "What's up with you today, boy? You seem all over the place."

  "Ah nuttin', Ms Walker. Just... yer daughter is a very nice lady. Ye should be very proud of her..."

  Dotty rolled her eyes again and put her head in her hands. "I'll tell you what I told her. She's too old, and you're too pure. Ya got soy in your veins, lad. Seriously, stay away from that one, she's never gettin' into Heaven the way she's going on."

  "Well, I don't like ta say, but de game we're in -"

  Dotty whipped her foot under the wheel to stop outside the Post Office.

  "The game we're in, Petey-boy, is taking out the trash. Fixing the Almighty's, ahem, 'mistakes,' as it were."

  "Mistakes, Ms Walker?"

  "Well, yes. The Lord is one guy without a good woman. Of course, he's liable to get a few things wrong here and there. But no matter, we're there to cover and make Him look good. So, when it come
s to Heaven, you can bet your double chins we're at the front of the line, son!"

  "Really, Ms Walker? Even doe we blew de face off dat Dachshund one time?"

  "Yes well..." she said, putting on her black gloves, "we forgive the Big Man a few errors here and there, and He returns the favour, and it's a good reminder to never test ammonium nitrate for prototype flashbangs near the Keston Kennels."

  She wheeled herself around. "You go back to the cab and keep an eye on the transfer; gimme a ping when it's done. I'm gonna go do a few bits - sod waiting around for these clowns."

  "Okey, Ms Walker, but as soon as it's done, we will really need ta move."

  "Yeah, yeah, yeah."

  She wheeled up the ramp and into the Post Office. It was a sunny-ish afternoon, yet they still had the lights on in the place. What a waste of money! she thought.

  The queue was long but at least she had the elderly benefit of having her own seat. She busted out her needles from her handbag and started crocheting. After a while, the line moved forward.

  The young lad in front of her looked like a right soft tart: middle class ‘n speccy, with a tucked-in shirt & blazer and very likely voted Lib Dem. She got out a stamp from her purse, ripped it halfway and dropped it on the ground. She tapped the young man on the hip.

  She sunk into the wheelchair and looked up at him weakly, as he turned around and peered down at her doddery, pitiable form. "Excuse me, young man, I do apologise for bothering you, but I appear to have dropped my stamp..."

  "Oh no worries, I'll get that for you." He bent down and picked up the stamp and handed it to her, smiled, and began to turn back.

  "Oh," she said feebly, "it seems to be torn... oh, but that was my only stamp..." She started pouring her pennies out of her purse and into her palm. She opened her pocket watch and spoke into what he presumed was a picture of her son as he watched: "I'm sorry my Nicky-boy, it doesn't look like I can send you my Last Will and Testament today... I'll have to go all the way back to the home and get some more of my last pennies from the piggybank..."

  "Hi, don't worry," said the Lib Donut chap, "come up with me and I'll get you some stamps."

  She smiled sweetly in relief, snapping the pocket watch shut, (as Nick Hewer grinned mischievously back). "Oh! You are a good boy aren't you, bless you dear. There's still some hope in the world!"

  They got to the counter and he asked for some stamps. Dotty sat beside him and continued crocheting. The lady serving asked how many he wanted. He replied: "Six'll do -"

  "- Twelve..."

  He looked down and choked back a gulp. She didn't even look up, focused on the knitting and smiling away. "Yeah okay, book of twelve, I guess..."

  "First class..."

  He just stared ahead and blinked. "12. First. Class. Stamps... please."

  She handed them over and he dispensed £9.12 in the form of a tenner. The staff member practically had to pull the legal tender from his grip. "Ooh, I don't quite have any change sir, would you mind waiting a moment whilst I replenish the till?"

  "You know what? Keep it - why not!"

  Speccy bollocks wished her good day and exited the shop. Dotty stuck a shiny new stamp on her letter to the local council complaining about her kitchen mould and handed it over.

  "Ah. You have a good grandson," the lady said from behind the counter.

  "Yeeees..." replied Dotty, putting the pennies back in her purse. "Bit of a pansy though." She lobbed the ball of yarn over her shoulder, stuck the handles of her handbag between her teeth and wheeled herself out.

  Down the road, she sat outside the local library doing wheelies in her chair, before entering once it opened back up after lunch.

  She hated books. And reading. And all the old fogies hobbling up and down the shelves like half-assed zombies, not quite ready to die but retaining no energy to remain alive.

  "Alright, Steve?" she greeted the goatee-bearded chap behind the counter, himself looking dead-eyed and wondering why he's choosing to spend his precious hours on Earth mindlessly scanning barcodes and warning people they face a hefty 60p fine if the book isn't back within three weeks. He tried to nod back but only dribble came out and over his bottom lip.

  The children's section was dark as always, the lights having blown a few years ago and the council not bothering to replace them because "children get free eyesight tests nowadays anyway." It didn't help that the blinds were always down, (and still charred from last year's fire), nor the fact that the four-eyed Saturday boy was burdened with the task of story-time with the litt'luns, as she was sure she read in the papers that he was done for flashing himself and is now on community service, making it a little inappropriate for him to constantly have little kids on his lap in a dark corner, reading them an 'interactive' book about arts and crafts to cover for the fact he always seemed to end the session with sticky fingers. Dotty kept a special eye on him.

  She passed the computer section, which due to local authority budget cuts largely consisted of one main large machine leftover from the 1990s plonked onto a table in the centre of the space, and about twelve silver-tops huddled around it asking the exasperated head librarian, "where do I stick the paper in to do me typewriting?"

  If you listened closely, you could even hear strands of her soul leaving her body in every exasperated sigh. This made Dotty laugh.

  The Hitnan went behind the other side of the large-print section and to the corner closest to the wall where no-one ever goes. She studied the spines for the specific three digits within the Dewey Decimal stickers and picked out the trusty copy of a book entitled "Chucklefission" - a non-fiction oddity that one half of the nation's favourite children's comedy duo wrote in the late eighties, when Paul Chuckle was still one of them anti-nuke nutters during the height of the cold war, and in which he tried to preach about the dangers of radioactive isotopes whilst also cashing in on his new kid's entertainment show. Naturally, the fusion of slapstick comedy and third-degree radiation burns didn't mesh well together, and the publishing house only sold a handful of copies of the title, making it the perfect place to now hide assassination gear.

  Dotty opened up the book and retrieved the three poison darts from the square hole that had been cut within the back pages.

  On her way out, some local youths were wheeling their bikes through the place, causing chaos and refusing to leave. Goatee-boy behind the counter was threatening to call the police, (or he will when he's able to locate the brain cells to remember what three digits summoned the coppers but all he could think of was Dewey's Decimals), and the rotters were just telling him to "go fuck ya mum."

  At this point, the Saturday boy ran out of the darkness to confront them, naively putting his hand on their leader's shoulder to escort them out. Unfortunately for him, his sticky fingers ended up gluing his palm in place and at the end of the day, being stuck to a lout who thinks you're a nonce is not a good place to be. So, whilst the boy was getting six shades of snot kicked out of him and with the other librarian being too insulated by the inane murmur of coffin-dodgers to hear all the commotion, Dotty simply pierced the bicycle tyres with her darts and took her leave.

  It was 3pm by the time she got to the café for a late lunch, and Gustavo sent over her usual: full English and all the trimmings, with a black tea and side of onion rings. She checked her phone whilst stuffing the grub. Nothing. She grew bored quickly.

  Some of the beans had spilled over the side of the plate, so she flicked the straying orange things at the two suited blokes opposite her. She missed both and they splattered on the wall inches from their noses. One noticed a few minutes later and licked it off the scabby tiles - she recognised him as a local councillor, which explained a lot.

  "Hullo, Mrs Walking," said Gus, animatedly. "Foody dish all good and happy smiles?"

  "It's Ms Walker, Gussy boy, and yes very lovely dear," she lied through her gritted teeth.

  Gustavo was a Turkish immigrant, a self-made man who had self-made a struggling business and a shit load
of tax debt. He had a thick black and bristly ‘tache wiggling out from under a bony nose, with scattered strands of short black hair follicles springing up on his mostly balding head. He wore a blue Adidas tracksuit, with an egg-stained white vest underneath his open light jacket, from where a cheap silver chain hung loosely from his neck.

  Gus was a scrawny guy with a lingering scent of b.o. mixed with an ever-persisting tinge of Lynx Chocolate, and looked like a Turkish Freddy Mercury tribute act who didn't get through the quarter-final auditions to represent his country at Eurovision, and as if he went full method with the AIDS.

  "Good, good. Where your porky chum today? I have whole shipment of flump for him!"

  "You shouldn't be encouraging him, Gus! He’s not to be eating marshmallows - pure sugar they are. He's gonna get diabetes and then sue you for it."

  "Fockedy me!" (He wiped his brow with the grimy tea towel he always wore hanging over his right shoulder.)

  She looked around the grubby café. "Not that he'd squeeze much out of you if he did..." she muttered.

  Because he was business-savvy, Gus then decided that he must encourage his customers to spend as much money as possible in case he gets sued for giving a fat man diabetes by ordering too many flumps. He picked up her drink from the table and finished it with a gulp, and then scooped up her last hash brown and woofed it down like a fish to a pelican's gullet. He caught his breath: "You order second breakfast and more teacup now?"

  Dotty was looking out of the window miles away. "Erm... yeah go on then, why not. I'll have another egg, ta. You already know what my desert is, love."

  "Oh boy. I'll defrost the Vienetta!"

  Twenty minutes later and Peader came bursting into the joint, again trying to give her "the signal," before multiple people offered to call an ambulance as Gustavo told everyone to keep an eye on the left side of his mouth.

  "Fack sake, Peter, just sit your arse down and speak properly."

  "Sorry, Ms Walker," he said in a whisper. Everyone else turned back to their conversations, (as the other councillor spotted another bean on the wall - "what a treat!")