Man of the World Read online

  MAN OF THE WORLD

  Paul D. Brazill

  Copyright © 2020 by Paul D. Brazill

  All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Man of the World

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books by the Author

  Preview from Mister Trot from Tin Street by Pablo D’Stair

  Preview from Some Awful Cunning by Joe Ricker

  Preview from Pushing Water by Dana King

  Dedicated to Mam, Dad, Sandra, Sonia, Brian and Eric

  THE FIRST PART

  When Dusty Binns stopped drinking, he started robbing banks. Apparently, he considered this some sort of displacement technique aimed at avoiding a relapse. And anyway, he said, it was a well-deserved payback for all the money he’d contributed to the economy over the years, because of the tax payments that ensued from his boozing, smoking and general carousing. He proved to be pretty good at his new vocation, successfully holding up two branches of Barclay’s Bank in the West Midlands, a NatWest in Cornwall, and even robbing a Securitas depot in Kent before eventually getting caught and being sent down. It was while he was in Wormwood Scrubs that he found out he had cancer.

  When I met him, dawn was slowly fading and the North Sea was pitch black, the harvest moon’s reflection occasionally scuffing the dead surface. A fishing trawler adorned with flickering Xmas lights cut across the water. A foghorn sounded and seagulls shrieked.

  Dusty was sat on a graffiti-stained bench on the sea front and taking sips from a tartan thermos flask. He had a tartan blanket across his lap and a battered, brown leather shopping bag on the bench beside him. He was wearing his signature white Stetson hat and his face was simultaneously craggy and leathery.

  ‘Did anyone ever tell you,’ I said, sitting next to him, ‘that you look a lot like the actor—’

  ‘Sam Elliot? Yeah, it’s been said before,’ he chipped in.

  His accent was more West Midlands than wild west, truth be told.

  ‘Well this is a positively seismic blast from the past, Dusty,’ I said. ‘It must be donkey’s years since we last met and as I remember it wasn’t exactly on the best of terms.’

  Dusty shrugged. ‘Yeah, sorry about the ashtray. It was the drink, like, you know?’ he said. ‘Speaking of which…’ He held up his thermos. ‘Do you fancy a nip?’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Sweet tea with a few jots of Lambs Navy Rum.’

  ‘Ah, no thanks, I’m on the wagon at the moment.’

  ‘Really? And how’s that working out for you?’

  I sighed. ‘Two steps forward, one step back, like most things.’

  ‘Story of my life,’ said Dusty. He sipped his tea.

  ‘I thought I might have bumped into you since I moved back to Seatown,’ I said.

  ‘I don’t get out and about much these days. Anyway, the town seems to be riddled with chavs and bagheads. It’s like something from The Walking Dead ‘round where I live. I’d never have thought Seatown could take a turn for the worse.’

  ‘It’s certainly changed since we were kids, that’s for sure.’

  ‘How long have you been back?’

  ‘Just over a year now, would you believe?’

  ‘And?’

  ‘More two steps forward and two steps back, to be honest.’

  An icy gust of wind blew and a shiver sliced through me. I fastened up my overcoat and held on to my hat.

  I pointed towards the lighthouse. A figure stood looking out to sea.

  ‘Can you see that old bird with the Zimmer frame?’ I said.

  ‘I can indeed.’

  I gave a sigh of relief.

  ‘That’s old Gertie Lark,’ he said. ‘Do you know her?’

  ‘Maybe. The name rings a bell. Didn’t she used to have the barber shop on Merry Street?’

  ‘That’s her. The self-same. She took over after her hubby was conscripted.’

  ‘I’m amazed she’s still alive. She must be older than God. What’s she doing out here in this bloody weather and at this godforsaken time?’

  ‘Well, they say old Gertie suffered from shell-shock after the bombardment during World War Two and she’s still waiting for her husband to comeback from Dunkirk or the Somme or somewhere. She refuses to give up hope, though. She’s a stubborn one, is old Gertie. Like a pit bull once she gets her teeth into something.’

  ‘Maybe it’s the stubbornness that keeps her alive.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure you’re right. Gertie was always a tough cookie, though. Rose and I lived next door to her in Merry Street for a while. The local kids were bloody terrified of her.’

  ‘It used to be quite posh, once upon a time, did Merry Street.’

  ‘It was indeed. Nice place. Nice people.’ Dusty smiled.

  ‘Happy days, eh?’

  ‘Aye, they were,’ Dusty said. ‘Golden years, not that I appreciated it at the time. She was as good as gold to me, was Rose. Unlike a lot of couples I can think of, Rose and I got along pretty well, pretty much most of the time. Well, until that Zoe Malone moved in across the road, that is.’

  ‘Yeah, I think I remember her. Just. Brassy bird? All big hair and bigger knockers?’

  Dusty yawned and stretched. ‘Yeah, she was pretty memorable, I’ll give her that.’

  I grinned. I took out a packet of Trebor Mints and offered it to Dusty.

  ‘Will you partake?’ I said.

  Dusty frowned. ‘No thanks,’ he said. ‘I’ve never been able to eat them without thinking of that song we used to sing as kids. Remember it?’

  I chuckled. ‘I do, I do,’ I said. ‘Trebor mints are a mint bit stronger.’

  ‘Stick ’em up your arse and they last a bit longer.’

  We laughed.

  ‘Anyway, you were saying about Zoe.’

  I popped a mint into my mouth. ‘Well, it wasn’t so much Zoe sashaying down the street in her red dress and high heels, her long black hair flapping in the breeze like a raven’s wings. I certainly didn’t mind, that was for sure, and Rose had no problem with my roving eye. Just because I was on a diet it didn’t mean I couldn’t look at the menu, as they say. And it wasn’t even Zoe’s noisy wild parties with the old blokes from the merchant seamen’s mission. Live and let live, after all. And anyway, the parties were usually on a Saturday night when me and Rose were on the lash ourselves. It was the bloody dog that did it.’

  ‘Her dog or yours?’

  ‘Hers. That emaciated old mongrel she had howled day and night when Zoe was out. And the state of the thing when she dragged it down the road while she babbled into her mobile phone, well it made my heart break, it did. I even tried to start up conversations with her, to broach the subject and all, but the bloody w
oman hadn’t even had the decency to switch off her phone and talk to me.

  ‘Of course, Rose told me it was none of my bloody business. To keep my neb out of other people’s affairs and the like, what with me still being on probation. But after a few months, I eventually caved in.

  ‘I remember it was a Monday morning and I was sat in the living room trying to watch the television. It was showing some gardening programme or other. You know, the sort of idyllic English countryside you only ever see on the BBC. There was a hell of a storm raging and the rain was pounding on the window, but I could still hear the dog’s howls. And then I thought, bugger it. I wrapped myself up warm and headed out into the rain. Tiles were whipped off the roofs and crashed onto the street around me. As I ran across the road a gust of wind damn near knocked me off my feet.

  ‘When I got there, I was fuming. I hammered on Zoe’s front door but after a few minutes I could tell no one was going to answer, so I took out my Uncle Brian’s lock picks.’

  ‘He always told you to hang on to them, eh? Said he never knew when they’d come in handy.’

  ‘He did. And he was right. So, I let myself into the flat and what a shithole it was, pardon my French. There was dog crap everywhere and as for the smell…’

  He grimaced.

  ‘And the noise, of course. Because the place was full of dogs. Dogs in cages. Big dogs. Little ones. Howling, barking. You didn’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to work out that Zoe had the dogs for dogfighting. The big ones would do the fighting and the little ones were for the big ones to practice on. To get up their bloodlust and that.’

  ‘Was that when Zoe came back?’

  ‘Yeah. I hadn’t heard her come in, what with the sound of the storm and the dogs. But she barged in and started shouting and screaming. She ran at me but I knocked her onto the floor. She took out her mobile and said she was going to phone “the big lads” to sort me out. So, I did what I had to.’

  ‘You let the dogs out?’

  ‘Aye. Ripped her to bits, they did. Quite horrible, really. Though she deserved it, mind you.’

  I looked out across the dark water.

  ‘And I reckon this is where you got rid of her body?’

  ‘Aye. I tied her up with chicken wire and threw her in the briney. Best way to get rid of a corpse, as I’m sure you know. The body expands after it’s been in the water a bit and the wire slices it up. The fish do the rest.’

  I nodded and crunched my mint. ‘So, what can I do you for then, sunshine? I’m guessing I’m here because you need my services.’

  ‘You know, sitting here night after night has turned me a tad nostalgic. It gets me thinking about the things I used to do. I used to like playing football when I was a kid. I could spend hours kicking a ball around a muddy field or up and down a dirty back street. When I got older, I even played in goal for The Fisherman’s Arms’ Sunday league team. But I liked all the beer and pork pies a bit too much and it became hard work. A slog. No fun at all. That was another thing, too. I used to like spending a few nights a week and the odd afternoon down the pub but heartburn, indigestion and ulcers soon put paid to that. Sipping a mineral water when other folk got pissed wasn’t exactly a barrel of laughs, so I lost interest. I began to fear I’d lost my capacity for joy, I really did. Life has a way of wringing the passions out of a man. I read that in a book once. Which was another thing I liked doing, reading. But I lost that habit. My concentration faded along with my eyesight. Oh, and I loved robbing banks, I really did. I bloody adored it, until I got caught.

  ‘And I used to like Vince Delaney, too.’

  ‘The bingo caller?’

  ‘That’s the bloke. He used to be my best mate. My mucker. My partner in crime. Until he screwed my missus, that is. I sharp went off him then, I can tell you.’

  ‘Didn’t Rose move in with him at some point?’

  ‘She did until he kicked her out and moved a young Scots stripper in.’

  ‘What a twat.’

  ‘Aye, Rose was never the same after that. Dived into a bottle of vodka and never came up for air.’

  Dusty gulped. His eyes were red. He took a swig of his tea. ‘Which is why I decided to kill the fucker. I got him pissed one night, tied a belt round his neck and strangled him. Then I strung him up to make it look like a suicide. But…’

  ‘But?’

  ‘Well, he didn’t die, did he. The jammy bastard survived. I hear he wasn’t in the best of shape afterwards mind you, and he didn’t grass me up to the police, but still.’

  Dusty looked at me. ‘I consider it unfinished business and as you know, the sands of time are running out for me. I’d sort it out myself, but I doubt I’ve got the energy. And I’ve always thought it better to get a professional in than trying to do a tricky job yourself.’

  ‘You know that I’m supposed to be retired?’

  ‘And how’s that working out for you?’

  I shrugged. ‘Two steps forward two bloody steps back by the look of things.’

  ‘Everything’s in the bag,’ said Dusty. ‘Including his address, your dosh, of course, and a picture of Vince, though I doubt he looks much like that these days.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ I said, standing and picking up the bag. ‘Are you going to be staying out here much longer? It’s bloody freezing.’

  ‘Yeah, I will. It’s one of the perks of insomnia, eh? Finding ways to kill time.’

  He rubbed his eyes.

  ‘I even stayed up watching the baseball last night,’ said Dusty. ‘I don’t suppose you saw any of it?’

  I rubbed my knees. ‘Not a jot, thankfully. It’s just a stupid Yankee version of rounders isn’t it? That’s a girl’s game.’

  ‘You’re not far wrong but it’s easy on the brain and it was the World Series final.’

  ‘Who won?’

  ‘I can’t remember. Some American team.’

  ‘Isn’t it always an American team that wins the World Series?’

  ‘You know, I think you’re right. Must be a fix.’

  ‘Must be,’ I said. ‘Take it easy, Dusty.’

  ‘Well, I don’t really have a lot of choice, do I?’ he said.

  I slowly walked along the pier, getting the circulation back in my feet and turning to look at Gertie Lark. She was still staring out to sea but now a tall dark figure stood beside her. I shivered and walked on.

  Friday was a dull throb and Saturday ached and nagged like a rotten tooth but Sunday was bone-crunching agony. The rest of the days and nights were soldered tightly shut until my fever finally erupted and my burning eyes ripped open. I started to laugh when I recalled the previous night’s drunken conversations but the pain, like the kick in the eye from a bovver boot, turned everything black.

  However, unlike most of the rest of the world, I was more than somewhat pleased to face the cold, grey light of Monday morning. Not being dead was not to be sneezed at, after all. Not that I was in the best shape. I was clammy with drying sweat and stank so much even I felt like gagging. My skin was red raw, where I’d been scratching in my delirium.

  It took me a moment to adjust to the surroundings; the room was unfamiliar in the wan light. I was on the sofa, tangled up in a worn blanket and cradling a bottle of bourbon as if it were a teddy bear. I lay for a moment, each heartbeat like the tick of a clock, and edged off the sofa. My joints ached as I stumbled to the window and peeled back the blinds.

  A constellation of streetlights faded into the distance. A feral group of hoodies trudged through the rain-soaked streets. They shuffled through the redbrick archway and into a narrow alley.

  A bottle smashed. Somewhere nearby, somebody whistled a children’s nursery rhyme. I shook my head. I was exhausted. My mind was playing tricks on me. My sleep was increasingly fitful these days. Spectral. Like wading through molasses. Guilt, my mam would have said, and she’d probably have been right.

  My mouth was arid, and my bladder was fit to burst. I was about to
go to the bathroom when I saw Drella. He stood in the Turkish café’s doorway wearing a long dark raincoat, illuminated by the flash of his Zippo as he lit a cigarette. His face was pallid, his lips as red as a clown’s and his hair as black as a raven’s wing. But he wasn’t looking too bad for a dead man. A chill sliced through me like the ice pick that took out Trotsky. A black limousine purred down the street and when it had passed, Drella was gone.

  I walked into the bathroom and switched on the shaving lamp grimacing when I saw my unshaven face and short-cropped, grey hair. I wasn’t exactly a sight for sore eyes and my eyes were as sore as hell.

  I vomited, coughed, spit. I coughed again. A Rorschach test of blood splashed the white basin. I turned on the tap and tried to wash it away. In the kitchen I took a bottle of cold water from the fridge, twisted it open, sipped it slowly and waited for my heart to stop pounding.

  I’d hoped that returning to Seatown after so many years in London would give me some respite. Help me escape the shadow of my dark deeds. Sometimes ties with yesteryear were more like shackles. I wondered if it was time for a big change. Time to set off for pastures new. I still had a fake passport with a new identity that I could use to set myself free from the noose of the past. My heart beat like a drum. My smartphone buzzed, a photo from my daughter Tamsin and my granddaughter Nico. They were on a backpacking tour of Asia and the picture appeared to be of them stood on the Great Wall of China. I didn’t envy them the walk, that was for sure, but the unburdening, well, that was tempting.

  I saw them as I walked across the misty town moor. Eight of them dressed in black, stretching their limbs and looking like wraiths. Men and women. One of them waved to me as I approached.

  ‘Morning, Mam,’ I said as I got closer.

  ‘Morning son,’ said my mother.

  She broke off from her Tai Chi class, took out a packet of cigarettes and lit one up.