Brit Grit Page 2

  “No! Russian Princess alert,” said George, perking up.

  Russians usually spent a fortune and he worked on commission. The men – bullet heads with no necks - terrified him but the women usually seemed to take a shine to him.

  “We’ve got to let them in, I’m off to Barcelona next weekend.”

  Lynne just shrugged and finished off the cocaine.

  “Time for some serious rimmimg,” said George.

  Lynne grimaced.

  “Metaphorically speaking, of course,” said George. He wiped the white powder from his nose, pressed the button to open the security door and painted on a smile as wide as the Grand Canyon.

  “Morning ladies,” he beamed. Then he saw the Glock and his jaw dropped so much you could have scraped carpet fluff from his bottom lip.

  Lynne screamed as glass from the shattered cabinet showered her and pebble dashed her face.

  “Shut the fuck up,” said Kenny, pressing the gun against George’s left eye as Jim stuffed a big black bag with jewels.

  SIX

  “I’m as happy as pig in shit,” said Kenny, swigging on his can of Stella and swerving the car around the corner into Druid Lane. He pulled off the wig and threw it into the back seat.

  “Let’s have butcher’s at this,” said Jim, wiping the make-up from his face. He leaned into the back of the car and pulled the bag of jewels towards him. As he opened the bag, he took a swig of Stella.

  “Oh, for fucks sake,” said Jim. The beer he’d spilt over his crotch was cold. He started rubbing at the wet patch.

  “Looks like you’re enjoying that,” said Kenny.

  “Sure you’re not shaking hands with the one eyed milkman?”

  They both howled with laughter and then Kenny froze.

  “Bollox!” said Kenny, as a white Mercedes hurtled towards them.

  SEVEN

  Richard was feeling pretty smug. It had been an effort but he’d managed to find as many bottles of Chardonnay as his credit card would allow. He’d deliberated over stopping off for a swift half in one of the East End’s striptease pubs that were bound to be open, even on New Year’s Day and felt the urge for another nip from the hip flask. Resisting the temptation, he fumbled in the back of the Mercedes’ glove compartment for a CD.

  “Shit,” said Richard. As he looked up, The Best of the Undertones in his hand as he saw a black Jaguar career toward him.

  “It’s a one way ...” Richard floored the pedal and swerved the car away. He bounced the Mercedes onto the pavement.

  EIGHT

  Kenny swerved and slammed into a wall between a kebab shop and a Poundshop. The air bag deployed, punching him in the stomach.

  Fuck, he was trapped. Taking a deep breath, he struggled in his trouser pocket for his Swiss army knife and punctured the airbag which deflated with a wheeze.

  He struggled out of his seat, the radiator hissing like a snake as the steam escaped. The car alarm was wailing and Big Jim didn’t look too good at all.

  NINE

  Richard staggered out of his car and saw the Jag: a face was sliding down the passenger door window like a snail leaving a trail of blood.

  “Christ...” he said

  “Hey, you!”

  He looked up and saw a bald transvestite stumble out of the mashed Jag carrying a big black bag, spilling necklaces and jewels, in one hand and a silver briefcase in the other.

  Richard fumbled in his pocket for his phone and felt cold steel against his forehead.

  “I’m taking your car.” said Kenny, who looked as dazed and confused as Robert Plant.

  “And you’re driving.”

  Shit, Richard thought, as he heard the approaching sirens in the distance. Why not?

  Can’t be any worse than Caroline’s dinner party.

  The end

  The Sharpest Tools in the Box

  “It’s friggin obvious, Browny”, said Kenny.

  Kenny Cokehead was waving his arms around like a windmill. In his hands he had a couple of CDs that he’d found in the glove compartment of Mikey the Mechanic’s BMW: Hot Stuff by Donna Summer and the soundtrack to Saturday Night Fever.

  “It stands to reason, doesn’t it? Look at this stuff. Clear as day. He’s an arse bandit, dinner masher ...”

  I zoned out. Kenny Cokehead was aptly nicknamed and at that moment he was really living up to his nickname too; he was snotty nosed and talking ten to the dozen. Me, I was trying my hardest to concentrate on manipulating the BMW round the town’s darkened side streets.

  This was proving to be a bit of a problem. For one thing, the car was a left hand drive - which looked very cool this side of the pond but made it pretty difficult to maneuver – and another factor was that we didn’t want anyone to see us so we were driving without using the headlights.

  Since most of the streetlights had been smashed out around here-and most of the terraced houses have been boarded up- I was doing about as well as Stevie Wonder.

  The situation wasn’t exactly helped by the fact that my full bladder felt ready to burst. And then there was Kenny who, like most cokeheads, had got a degree in stating the friggin obvious. And repeating it ad infinitum.

  His theme at that moment was that Mikey the Mechanic may have actually been a homosexual. The bigger part of his deduction was seemingly based on the contents of Mikey’s CD collection.

  Kenny, however, was uncharacteristically on the money as Mikey had indeed played for the pink team. In fact, pretty much half of the town had been aware of Mikey’s sexual predilections for as long as I could remember- it was what was known as an open secret.

  Now, myself, I couldn’t care less where Mikey chose to stick his one eyed milkman. It didn’t exactly crop up in conversations down the pub, either.

  “Alright Mikey, how’s work? How’s the wife? Still bumming Batty Boys on Hampstead Heath once a month?” Nope, I don’t think so. Mikey was a big bastard; built like a brick shithouse. If he wanted to keep things secret that was fine by me.

  And, of course, there was his older brother, Malcolm, to think of. Although he lacked Mikey’s size, Malcolm made up for it by being a 100% proof, A1 psycho. He became the head of the family business – yes, that type of family, more Manson than Hanson - after his father and grandfather mysteriously disappeared on a fishing trip in the Lake District. He was a British National Party councilor to boot so it would hardly have been welcome news to find out that his little brother was- as Kenny would say – a fudge packer.

  The thing was, most people liked Mikey and didn’t give a toss whether his cock puppets were men or women. Indeed, when he’d turned up at Astros Bar the night before, it was all Hail Fellow Well Met, backslapping and the like.

  Well, that was how it started out.

  * * *

  As the night wore on, Kenny - who was head barman at the time- asked a few of us regulars if we wanted to stay for a stoppy-back and, before I knew it, I was heading toward oblivion like dirty dishwater down a plughole.

  Around two in the morning the only customers were me and Mikey. We were talking about films, Scarface in particular, when our resident genius Kenny asked us if we wanted some Colombian marching powder.

  This was no great shock. Kenny had been twitchy all night because he’d been off the stuff for a week and I’d seen one of Captain Cutlass’ nephews make a delivery around midnight. So, I was just waiting for the moment.

  I said no, like Nancy Regan used to tell us; I knew Cutlass and his nephews and I knew that they sold cheap but ropey stuff. Mikey, however, said yes. And then it all went pear shaped as quick as spit disappears on hot pavement

  At some point I went to the toilet and when I came back Mikey was laying on the floor foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog. And then he went into convulsions. And then he was dead.

  For a few minutes we paused – it was like a freeze frame in a film – and then Kenny started getting the giggles. I knew it was fear. Fear of the police. Fear of Malcolm. But at that moment I just wanted to
smash his face in. Instead, I walked over to the bar and poured myself a large Bourbon.

  Twenty minutes later I was in lay-by with Kenny who wasn’t the sharpest tool in the box, as my grandma used to say. He’d covered Mikey’s body with a lot of booze and a bit of lighter fuel and set it alight, deciding that that was the best way to dispose of the corpse. Which was great for all of ten minutes but then the flames fizzled out as quickly as a Pop Idol winner’s career.

  * * *

  So now we were driving around the city looking for somewhere to dump Mikey’s body and I was close to pulling over to go for a piss when Kenny’s gesticulating gave me an idea.

  “I know,” I said. “The Windmill,”

  I turned the car around, narrowly missing a handful of bagheads who looked like something out of Michael Jackson Thriller video.

  “The Windmill? The pub?” said Kenny.

  “No not the friggin pub, idiot boy. Mikey’s garage.”

  Mikey had a converted windmill at the top of Hart Hill that he used as a car repair shop. And, along with his car keys, I had the keys to that garage. Feeling pretty pleased with myself, I put my foot down as I headed out of town.

  * * *

  The silhouette of the windmill stood stark against the gibbous moon, and looked more than a little ominous, but since the night has been such a cock up, I thought that nothing else could possibly go wrong. And you know what thought did, as my old granddad used to say.

  “Do you think we could stop off for a drive thru?” said Kenny. “That smells giving me the munchies.”

  He gestured toward the back of the car. I’d been trying to stop myself from gagging on the smells that were wafting from the boot of the car but our Kenny, well, he was a one off, as my dad used to say. Thank fuck.

  Once we pulled up outside the Hart Windmill, I left Kenny to drag Mikey’s body inside while I ran round the side to have a Gypsy’s Kiss against the side of the mill.

  This went on forever and a stream as long as the Nile ran between my legs but it felt so good that I started whistling Old Man River and didn’t notice the sound of another car pulling up until it was too late.

  A car door slammed and someone shouted “What the fuck?” and so I decided that this was probably not good news and I finished up as fast as I could.

  As I rushed to the front of the windmill, I saw a big black Jag with the number plate Big 1 - Malcolm - and then I realised that I was so far up shit creek an outboard motor wouldn’t help let alone a paddle.

  Then things happened a tad sharpish. I saw the silhouette of a short stocky man in the doorway. He was shouting and screaming but I couldn’t make out what he was saying and before I knew it I saw Kenny run up and hit him with a hammer.

  And then I said “Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks...” so many times it was like a mantra.

  * * *

  “I just used the ball end,” said Kenny, pacing up and down the room and tucking into a pack of Pork Scratchings that he’d found. “I didn’t use the claw end. I could have. But I didn’t. I didn’t mean to croak him...”

  I zoned out again and tried to think of a damage limitation plan.

  And then, when I looked at Kenny with his mouth full of roasted pig scabs and saw all the tools in the garage, I had my best idea of the night.

  * * *

  “They’re all the rage these family fun pubs” said Kenny as he looked down the Kunta Kinte blonde’s cleavage. “So we just thought we’d do summit for the local kiddies, like.”

  And he was correct. Astros Fun Pub Sunday BBQ had been a roaring success, attracting as many alchopop swigging single parents as you could shake a giro at.

  And the kids were loving it.

  “Have you got any more free burgers, Uncle Ratty?” said one snotty nosed six year old.

  “Oh, aye, Kaylee,” said Kenny. “We’ve got plenty. We bought a Family Pack, eh?” and he winked at me.

  I took my pint of Stella and sat down on a rickety wooden bench. As I watched the sun set, I thought that it looked like a great gold doubloon and after a moment, as the barbecue smell drifted towards me, my stomach started to growl. In for a penny, in for a pound, I thought, as my Aunt Tina used to say.

  “Throw us a burger on, Kenny,” I shouted.

  Well, waste not want not, as my old gran used to say.

  The end

  Thicker Than Blood

  TODAY

  “The thing is,” Bren, says Craig Hornby, kissing his bloody knuckles, “you’ve just got to face facts sometime. You might be a nicer bloke than your Tony. Well, in fact, you are nicer. Much nicer. But your kid is more likeable. It’s just one of those things. And that’s why he always ends up getting what he wants. Getting his own way. If he fell in the sea, he’d come out with a pocket full of fish. That’s him, eh? Teflon Tony.”

  Craig walks over to the window and closes the blinds. The room turns black. Specks of dust float in a shard of sunlight that slices through a broken slat and spotlights a pool of blood at Bren Murdoch’s feet. Bren’s head pounds. . Blood trickles down his nose and is soaked up by the football sock stuffed in his mouth. He twists but the fishing wire cuts further into his wrists and ankles.

  “And that’s also why you’re here now instead of him.”

  Craig’s heavy feet echo off the concrete floor as he walks over to the corner of the room and switches on the strip lighting.

  Bren clamps his eyes shut.

  “That’s why you’re the one who has to take the consequences of the shit storm that your kid brother brewed up.”

  The dining chair wobbles as Craig sits down. He’s sweating like a pig. Dark semi-circles under his arms. He knocks back a can of Red Bull and kisses his bruised knuckles again.

  “It’s just one of those things. Something I have to do. I have to. I have no choice, really. Have to make an example of someone. You understand don’t you?”

  Bren understands alright. He understands that in less than a week his life has turned from shinola to shit. And he knows who to blame.

  YESTERDAY

  “It’s bollocks. I can’t believe you operate like this,” said Bren. He looked pissed off, as he dragged the wads of paper from the bread bin and spread them over the shop counter. “It’s all in here?”

  Tony Murdoch smirked and sipped a can of Carling. “Aye.”

  “You keep all your paperwork, all your receipts, invoices, tax bills in a bread bin and you expect me to do your accounts for you?”

  “You’re the accountant,” said Tony. “I’m the … entrepreneur.”

  He leaned against a stack of eighties twelve inch singles that were marked down to 10p. Star-shaped, day-glow signs hung everywhere in the cluttered shop. It was always cluttered, these days. Not with customers, though. The second hand record business wasn’t what it used to be. Anyway, Tony made more money from organising coach trips to stadium rock gigs. And then there was the other little business with Craig. The import/export business.

  “Well, I’m not your accountant, am I? Thank fuck. What happened to that bloke you used to use? Stewie Shorthands?” said Bren. He got up from the counter and walked over to the fridge in the corner of the room.

  “He went AWOL, didn’t he? Supposed to have drowned out near Seal Sands. He’s been missing without a trace for a couple of days now.”

  Bren opened a can of Carling. As he clicked the ring pull, it frothed up, soaking his expensive suit.

  “Shit, are you still buying beer from News N Booze? The stuff that’s passed its sell-by-date?”

  “It’s half price, man. Yer, canna wack it.”

  Tony, the great business man, thought Bren. He’d always wondered how the shop, Tony’s Tunes had kept in business for so long.

  “Listen Bren,” said Tony. “I’ve got a little proposition for you.”

  “Oh, yes?” said Bren. “And what might that be?”

  “Well,” said Tony, handing his brother a small bar towel. “I’m in need of a little bit of creative accountancy
.”

  THE DAY BEFORE YESTERDAY

  “He’s worm meat,” said Veronica Fleece.

  “Are you sure?” said Tony, switching off the Tupac CD.

  “Well, I’m no Doctor House,” said Veronica. “But look…”

  Tony was trying not to gag as he looked down at Shorthands’ naked, flabby body, spread-eagled across the hotel bed. He had to agree with Veronica. The accountant had croaked.

  “What are we gonna do?” said Veronica, pulling on a kimono.

  “We can’t exactly call an ambulance, can we? Not with all the happy-talc he’s got in him,” said Tony. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”.

  “I told the daft fat twat to take it easy with that stuff,” said Veronica. “Eyes bigger than his gut.” She collapsed onto the squeaky black leather sofa.

  Veronica and Tony both glanced at Shorthands’ stomach and burst out laughing.

  “Getting rid of him won’t be too hard. I’ll phone my dad. He’ll sneak him up to Jed Bramble’s pig farm,” said Veronica, wiping the white powder from her nose.

  Shit, thought Tony. He really needed someone to prepare a set of accounts for him to give Craig, so that he didn’t know that Tony had been skimming off the top of the delivery payments. There was no other way, he realised. He’d have to contact Bren.

  TODAY

  “I’ve mellowed, Bren,” says Craig. “I really have. I’m a granddad now. I play golf. I go to car boot sales. I recycle. But if there’s one thing guaranteed to get my goat, to wind me fucking up, it’s if someone pisses down my back and tries to tell me it’s raining”

  Craig stands, stretches, yawns.

  “And that’s pretty much what you and your brother did. Eh?”

  He walks over to a cupboard in the corner of the room. Unlocks it.

  “But, it’s not so much that. Everyone has their fingers in the till here and there. It’s standard practice. But getting found out. Getting caught. So the whole world knows you’ve been taking the piss. Well…”