The Hitnan: A Tale of Blood and Canes

by Wez Wallie

  "Oh god, don't leave me here with this!", she was mouthing over to her rival. "TAKE ME WITH YOU!"

  Although The Hitnan very much enjoyed watching Tilda squirm, the kid was particularly annoying. (Not to mention she had earlier compared her to Iggy Pop, the little scrote.) Dotty marched over, spun the child 'round with the crook of her cane and looked her dead in the eye: "Now you listen to me, you whazzocking wet whippersnapper - ya stepmum over there's done nuffink but pander to your entitled wallering whining all ya life and she's well deserving of a break. So she's coming with us - you want to go ride your 'orses and prance around in a field all day, then here's a quid for the bus; learn some independence. You're eight years old - you should be in a council house with five sprogs by now!"

  "Fine, but the bus is £1.50."

  Dotty frowned with a tssk. "These transport officials are daylight robbers!" She handed over the dosh with a guff.

  Bluebell extended her hand out waiting. "- Plus £4 for the session fee of course."

  Dotty's face screwed up in ire as she fished around her purse for coins and slapped them into the child's palm. The girl extended her other palm and looked up at her.

  "Plus a tenner because I don't like you and you can't leave a child here alone without an adult."

  Dotty bit her fackin' lip. She turned back to Peader and Tilda.

  "Tell me, is it still illegal to whomp a kid? ...Really? Even an obnoxious brat?"

  "If it wasn't," said Tilda, "I'd have done it moons ago."

  Bluebell poked her tongue out. "Just wait 'til you turn 18 young lady," Dotty said with a huff as she fed her £10 worth of shrapnel in defiance. "Then we'll see who's laughing on the ovver side of this cane."

  "I am not worried. When I'm 18, you'll be bygone dust being sprinkled on withering tomatoes."

  "Okeeey, take care of yerself now, we'll be gettin' off!" Peader dragged Dotty out of the gaff and into the cab, The Hitnan spitting feathers and cursing the disrespectful younger generation of today.

  "Now you know why I'm always taking jobs," said Tilda, quietly belting up.

  "Yeah - and why you're always fackin' killing people left right and centre - one morning wiv her and I'm ready to start crackin' skulls!"

  After a few minutes, Dotty wondered why they were still parked on the drive. She turned to peer back into the rear of the cab to find Peader standing outside the window staring in at Tilda with his cap over his crotch again.

  "Fack's sake Tild, you better go back in and throw some clobber on, girl."

  *

  Peader had dropped the ladies back at the flat and had continued on to the hospital, greeting Mal in a semi-conscious state and wheeling her out for a trip around the gardens.

  "This is romantic," said Mal, as he parked her beside a fountain whereby the water stream was sprinkling from a cherub's chubby.

  "Aye, ye can see all of London from dis heath here." He sat on the bench next to her chair and looked out at the overcast skies.

  "Is your back alright now, P?" she asked earnestly, rubbing a hand over his shoulders and spine.

  "Yeh, it's sorted itself out now, luckily."

  "Cool. How's mum doing?"

  "Grand, Miss Mal. Recently linked up wit... wit an old friend, like."

  "Ah, that's good to hear. Nice she's out there socialising a bit."

  "Oh, ye wouldn't believe how much socialising she's doing. Keeping very active, an’ all. Ye seen Shon-Shon recently?"

  "Yeah, Gus brought her up yesterday. She's learning yet another language now. Honestly, I don't know where she gets it from - I can barely speak English!"

  Peader chuckled. "I know how ye feel, like. Growing up in '80s &' 90s Ireland was tough. Me an’ me dyslexica held me back a lot."

  "Dyslexia?"

  "Naw, I've never met her but I'm sure she's grand - I don't diss people I've not met in real life, like. But anyway, back to me struggles growin' up durin' de Troubles. Ye see, Limerick's a beaudiful city - did'je know it was one of de oldest cities in de whole of Ireland, and founded by de Vikings in 812? Naw me neider - I jus' looked it up on Wikipedia an’ dat. Wow. Anyway, it was a tough old time. Constant sense of loss and confusion..."

  "Oh, goodness. I didn't realise you were affected by the political violence all the way down south."

  "Ah naw, not de Troubles, I meant more, de troubles of growin' up as a young lad without a dad, like."

  "I thought you had three dads, hence your surnames?"

  "Yeh, but dat was much later when me mammy became a Mormon."

  Mal blinked away the confusion and kept listening regardless.

  "But as a young boy, I nedder really learned de simple tings, like how ta shave properly, or why dere's a strange seam going down de centre of me ballbag. Would'a been nice to have someone ta ask some of life's most perplexin' questions too, y'know? Dat's mainly why I struggled at school, too. Mammy was always busy wit me siblings so couldn't help me wit me spellin's and I fell behind in classes. De only reason I won a scholarship to de Agency when I was a teenager was 'coz I misspelt me name on de test and it got mixed up wit me mate, Peter Dreyfus-Seamus-McManus. Golly, amazin' how one liddle mistake can change de whole course’a yer life, eh, Miss Mal?"

  "Sure is. What kind of agency was it?"

  Peader's eyes bulged from their sockets - "Um, erm, just a tempin' kind - hey look a butterfly aw naw it's gone dat's sad now ain't it amazin' how dem flappy tings come out of dose wormy tube tings - Goddie's beaudiful, isn't he?"

  He took a breath and a gulp, still staring at the sky hoping he got away with changing the subject.

  "Uh, He sure is." He smiled in relief as she continued. "You know you can talk to me, P, about anything. I mean, even more so now I'm stuck in a chair and can't really walk away!" She chuckled with him and held his hand.

  He looked into her eyes and so badly wanted to relieve his burden and bare his soul. But he promised Dotty he would not endanger the family any more than they are, and also swore an oath to protect the secrecy of Bognor.

  She squeezed his hand in encouragement, but he let the moment go. He noticed her arm beginning to shake.

  "Aw Mal, ye really need ta go easy on de morphine drip, dere."

  "I know... I know. I am trying to repair my relationship with God. I pray for the strength every day. Honestly, I want to get out of here before I fall back into my old ways, but tell the truth, I'm enjoying being in here and being on it too much. That scares me. But I have to be truthful to myself. After all I put mum through growing up, and how much progress I made once Shonny came into my life... I just don't want to go back to that but at the same time... I'm remembering how it feels... the buzz... the feeling of just being in the moment with no cares or responsibilities... it's true freedom, if just for a moment."

  His face fell. "But ye have cares. Ye have responsibilities. Dat's de Devilman tryin' ta lure ye back ta de dark side... back ta de person yer were before. Dere's nuttin' back dere fer ye now. Shonny's in de opposite direction, de future, and so am I. Ye want ta live in de moment - well look at me now, I'm right here. I'm yer moment."

  She smiled warmly.

  "Next time ye feel like pressin' dat release button, just tink about us. 'Cos de more ye press it de furder away ye get from who yer are and worked so hard ta become."

  She wiped her watery eyes and nodded in understanding, trying to stop her shaking hand. "Thanks, P."

  He smiled and leant over to kiss her cheek softly. She savoured his contact dearly.

  "It's geddin' nippy - shall we head in, now?"

  "Yeah, why not."

  He got up and moved her back on to the path.

  "I can tell you about the ballbag thing if you want?" she teased playfully, as he began to wheel her over the gravel. "It's really because you weren't actually born in Ireland. Yeah, it's true - I researched your genealogy whilst you were chatting. Turns out you were stitched together by a mad scientist using deceased body parts in a hidden lab somewhere off the coast of Atlan
tis."

  "Atlantis, eh? Dat explains de fishy schmell, den."

  She wasn't sure if he was joking so just laughed along and hoped he was, as they headed back inside and over to the hospital ward.

  Chapter 17

  The front door shut, and Dotty led her archrival into the hallway and through the first right to the living room. She looked at the pile of dusty bricks in the centre of the room.

  "Oh, my word Dorothy, I'm so sorry. Look at the state of this place, I feel awful now..."

  "Oi, that's bleedin' art, that is!"

  Tilda feigned comprehension. "...Oh lovely! Yes, uh, very trendy..."

  The Hitnan frowned. "The house has been mostly repaired now by the shape of fings, just waiting for the kitchen to be finished off, although it looks alright to me to be fair."

  Tilda stood in place, nose upturned in the air and clutching her handbag close to her light blue frock, peering around the room at what this woman was considering to be "mostly repaired." She looked up at the gaffer tape on the ceiling just barely holding up the cracked plaster and tried not to move too much for fear of everything crumbling back down on their heads. She placed a hand on her beret, protectively. "Oh, was it your Irish lad getting it all back to spick-spock condition, or...?"

  "Kinda. Mostly some baldy builder who likes biccies and... buildery-fings, you know the type."

  Tilda was interested. "Oh. And is this gentleman around at all?" she said, fluffing her collar and adjusting her chest accordingly. "I'd better meet him and apologise for being the cause of all his trouble."

  "Awlrite, keep ya knickers up; he's in the kitchen I expect... ROBERT!! OI, ROBERT THE BUILDER!"

  Robert came in sweating and with more white splodges down his overalls than the protagonist in one of his mucky movies he keeps bringing over. He stood in the doorway like he'd seen an angel.

  "Well, 'ello there, Miss...?"

  Tilda's beaming smile lit up when their eyes locked and was about to introduce herself before Dotty decided to do the honours herself.

  "- Coontin' Maffews, Tilda Coontin' Maffews!"

  "Dorothy!!"

  "Well, it's nice to meet you Miss Coontin-Matthews." She giggled at his silly accent whilst he knelt and kissed her hand.

  "Please, call me Tilda. And I do apologise for causing you all this bother."

  "Oh, so you're the silly mare that blew up the gaff are ya?" he said with a tease. "Nonsense, you gave me a job, innit."

  “Yeah, well she enjoys giving men jobs!”

  Tilda ignored Dotty’s sniggers and moved in close. "Well listen, I really want to give something back so shall I come and help you finish off the kitchen, then you can make me a cup of herbal tea and maybe show me your tool and how well you can drill holes..."

  “Told ya!”

  She was clearly a woman gagging for it and Robert couldn't believe his luck! He nodded and ran to the kitchen to stick the kettle on and rinse his screwdriver under the cold tap.

  Tilda was keen to follow him out as Dotty grabbed her arm and tried to offer some friendly advice: "Oi, I know you ain't seen ya boyfriend in ages, but you can't just jump on any randy rando builderman you see! What about loyalty and the Commandments, you know, like - 'Thou Shalt Not Suck Off Baldy-Builders In The Kitchen Of Their Mate’s Crumbling Gaff?!'"

  "Commandments?" said Tilda. "Screw that. I'm an empty pie in need of some filling - sausage filling!"

  She bolted down the hallway, leaving Dotty alone in the front room to listen to the cacophony of beastly sounds already honking from the kitchen area. She stepped out onto the front step to have a fag before she upchucked in her throat.

  She called Peader's phone which went straight to voicemail. ("Hallo dere, dis is de mobile cellular phone of one Peader Seamus-Manus-Dreyfus, hailing from de green green grass of Limerick, Ireland. Me apologies, it seems I can't quite come ta de phone right now, I'm probably drivin’ or busy out doing sum jobbies fer Ms Walker. Unless dat's youse, Ms Walker?! Gimme de secret code of two successive coughs and I'll pick up de phone in an instant Ms Walk" - *BOOP!*)

  "Oh gawd, Lord help me: ya gotta get ya fatarse back here boy 'n quick, before Tilda's thundering quim brings the whole fackin' house down again! These two are plonking like rabbits and already christening the place with their scoochin' juices! I feel like upchucking any minute and you better get back here to clean it up - on second thought I might slip and drown in me own vomit which is preferable to having to hear Tilda scream: 'NOT THE BLACK & DEKKER, ROBERT - I'M NOT A PROFESSIONAL, DAMMIT!' one more bleedin' time."

  She took a deep toke on her cigarette, burning to the end of the butt.

  "Maybe I made a mistake letting the enemy back into me HQ, but I need to keep me foes close. I mean, shall I take her out like Bognor told me to? She's certainly making it easier to shove me cane down her throat! But she did save me life back at the Penthouse, and she did cover up evidence to get you off the hook, so maybe that's worth something after all... but Bognor won't like that. I'm trapped between a rock 'n 'ard place. What d'ya fink? I fink I'm going soft in me old age..." She finished the cig and stomped it out on the ground. "And change that bleedin' voicemail!!"

  She hung up and went back inside, turning the telly up as loud as it would go.

  She flicked through the channels as random scenes flashed by: the hags of Loose Women shrieking about menopause; David Dickinson banging on about bobby dazzler's, and Celebrity 5 Go Fishing on the Barge, whereby late arrival Dean Gaffney settled on the edge of the dock with his fishing line between his legs, happily chatting to Les Dennis when his cord got stuck under a passing trawler and the cunt went headfirst into Borkley Bay.

  "What a dope," Dotty chuckled, (until it was casually mentioned that he was a last-minute replacement for the sad passing of one Michael Fish and she squirmed in her seat uncomfortably).

  She switched back to ITV as the two friction-twigs came back in the room, looking like well plundered dogs and smelling like 'em too. Tilda brought her a cup of tea and one for herself, laying it flat on the top brick without a coaster, resulting in more evils from The Hitnan.

  They dropped down next to her on the only sofa, practically squidged on top of her lap as the stinky sweaty builder opened a can of Fosters and simply reiterated, "'Cor she'd get it," whenever Janet Street-Porter came onscreen.

  Tilda made a screwy face.

  "Right, that's it, I'm putting me Countdown on. Or else you'll be pulling ya plums all afternoon."

  Tilda ran her hand over his thigh. "To be fair, I have every intention of doing that anyway."

  "You should be ashamed of yourself! You know she's got a boyfriend, Robert?"

  "I takes it where I can gets it, Ms Walker."

  Yep. Here comes that upchuck...

  It was still too early for the day’s new eppy, so she put a VHS in the old tape recorder that was so sturdy that it somehow survived the gas explosion without a scratch, and the familiar tunes of the famous theme song began to play. Dotty relaxed back into the sofa, trying to pretend she was in the audience of the show, and not wedged between the tight end of a couch and a paunchy chav.

  ♫Dadda, da-dadda, da dadda-dadda-dadda da da - BONG♫

  "Hold up," said Dotty in confusion, "am I going mad or was the title missing an 'O' there?!"

  "Hello and welcome to today's edition of the show..." said a slender man in a grey wig and bare-chested suspenders, posing with one leg up on the desk as the camera zoomed down over the audience and into his thigh gap.

  "Hang on a ruddy minute! That's not my Nick Hewer!"

  "...With me, Mick Screw-Her..."

  "EH - MICK SCREWHER?!?"

  "...And my trusty long-time colleague..."

  "Oh gawd...!"

  "...Suzy Bent!"

  "Suzy bleedin' Bent? This is an outrage!"

  The Hitnan was coughing into her hanky about to have a giddy turn.

  Her favourite show had been perverted by saucy scoundrels and her poor baby Nick Hewer hussie
d by heathens! (She crossed herself in prayer and apologised into her pocket watch with disgust.)

  Tilda looked at the stack of videotapes piled by the TV. "Blimey Dorothy, your Irish lad really needs a girlfriend." (Robert simply went red.)

  But Dotty couldn't take her eyes off the screen, especially when she saw the reward for when one of the "contestants" seemed to score 9 whole points with the word 'Jesusmilk'. Suzy had to check if that was allowed, but quickly threw the vocabulary book over her shoulder and was soon bringing a whole new meaning to Dictionary Corner.

  Dotty's forehead vein almost popped out her skull. "This whole format’s in disrepute! A British institution and a bleedin' national treasure - all sullied and besmirched! I won't stand for it!"

  She got halfway through taking a stand to turn it off when it cut back to the shirtless Nicky lookalikey and she sat down back down with a "well, a few more mins won't hurt, just to see who wins the wrestling match and stuff..." and before she could finish her tea, they were at the ad break teaser ready to guess the anagram:

  "SENDBUMS"

  Clue: 'I like 'em thick!'

  Dotty sat on the edge closer to the screen, whipping on her polka-frames and squinting hard: "Erm, erm erm, Sendbums, Mensbus, Debenhems... erm, erm, Mumsbends..."

  Tilda cut her off: "Oh, I got it - Dumbness!" Robert grinned.

  "How the bleedin' hell you get that?!" roared Dotty in frustrated jealousy.

  Tilda leaned forward resting her chin in her palm: "You know, I think I've seen this episode before as it happens..."

  The front door went before Dotty could pick her up on the revelation. "Dumbness... that's ironic. Speaking of - good afternoon, Peter!"

  "Howdy, Ms Walker - oh, howdy one an’ all."

  He stood in the doorway with his signature flat cap and misspelled leather jacket. "Lookin' sharp, Mr P!" said Robert, shooting him some cool hand signal.

  "T'anks, my man."

  "Don't encourage him!" Dotty admonished.