A Twist Of Noir 630 - Alan Griffiths

ASHES TO ASHES - ALAN GRIFFITHS

Lately, Priest had likened himself to his fictional hero: Detective Chief Inspector Gene S. Hunt.

Albeit being on the other side of the law.

Priest sparked up a Silk Cut, sucked hard, saying, “Fire up the Quattro.”

The TT-Coupe was hired with a Gold Card that was moodier than an acne-peppered teenager. Ostentatious, but like the Gene Genie, Priest did things with style; illegal things.

A ferocious South London criminal, he was as popular as root canal treatment.

Gene Hunt: How long before that becomes rhyming-slang? Cracking a grizzled smile, Priest put pedal to metal and burnt rubber.

*

Tina never scammed couples and two guys together was a no-no. Then the big grizzled one headed out the bar.

Watching him drive away, Tina thinking, I’ll give it ten minutes.

*

Priest’s destination: a Heathrow hotel.

The heavens were full of tiny volcanic particles. Hundreds of air passengers stranded; waiting for the Icelandic dust to literally settle.

The hourly radio news bulletin kicked in.

“...Bond Street raid. Half a million pounds worth of diamonds...”

Chuckling, Priest said, “I’ve got fingers in more pies than a leper on a cookery course.”

*

It’d taken an hour of dirty talk to get Pavel to his room. Are all Ruskies this backwards at coming forwards?

Pulling the Smirnoff from her bag, Tina said, “Fancy a nightcap?” That’s not all he fancies.

In the bathroom, she rinsed two glasses; palming the sodium amatol capsule. “Some music would be nice.”

*

Priest locked the Audi, hesitating as two boys stopped kicking a football and wandered over.

“Anything happens to this motor, I’ll come round your houses and stamp on your toys!” said Priest. “Got it?”

He got stunned silence.

“Good kids.”

*

Tina, feeling Pavel go limp, pulled her hand out of his fly, saying, “Sweet dreams, sucker.”

Opening the wardrobe she spotted a holdall. What have we here? A multitude of gemstones sparkled like stars. Kerr-Fucking-Ching-

A hand tugged her pony-tail. A forearm went across her throat.

“Bitch!” Pavel threw her onto the bed. “You think I fall for that trick?”

“Hope I’m not interrupting anything!” said Priest, framed in the doorway.

“You’re late,” said Pavel. “Ivanov is looking for you.”

“Just in time I’d say,” said Priest. “Pull your trousers up, Casanova, and let the girl go.”

Pavel shook his head. “She’s a loose end.”

Priest winked at Tina. “Don’t worry, baby, I’m a lover not a fighter.”

Pavel eyeballed Priest; a beat passed as he weighed things up. Decision made, Pavel lunged.

Second guessing, Priest swung a steel toe-cap into Pavel’s crotch; lifting a knee, breaking teeth and putting Pavel’s lights out.

Tina yelped and Priest said, “Blimey, if that skirt was hitched any higher I’d see your breakfast.”

Lost for words, Tina pointed a shaky finger.

Letting the chiv drop beneath his sleeve, Priest turned slowly.

“Ah, Ivanov,” said Priest. “The other half of the Dynamic Duo.”

Ivanov, raising a silenced .45, said, “You were never to be trusted, Priest.”

“Oi! Hold on, toe-rag. This bit of skirt is nothing to do with me,” said Priest. “Our deal’s still on.”

“Sorry, you’re... expendable.” Ivanov shrugged. “There’ll be others to fence the jewels.”

“You noncey-arsed double-crossing Russian fairy boy!” roared Priest, throwing underarm.

The blade plunged into Ivanov's belly and Priest was all over him like a cheap splash-on lotion. The automatic coughed once; an abstract pattern of claret splattering the wall and Ivanov fell to the carpet.

“Chop, chop, darling!” said Priest hefting the holdall. “Let’s not look a gift-horse in the mouth.”

Tina thinking, I suppose he has got a sort of brutish charm...

“I know what you’re thinking,” said Priest, stretching out a hand. “I’m like something from The Good, The Bad and The Ugly.”

“Wh-Whi-Which one?” stuttered Tina.

“All friggin’ three, baby!”

EDITOR’S DISCLAIMER:

Gene Hunt is the lead character from the Life on Mars and Ashes to Ashes television series. Some of Gene's dialogue has been quoted within this story. No harm was intended.

BIO: Alan Griffiths is a writer from London, England. He has a keen interest in reading and writing Crime Fiction, particularly Noir and Pulp. His short fiction can been found on A Twist of Noir, Pulp Pusher, Powder Burn Flash and Six Sentences.

A Twist Of Noir 080 - Alan Griffiths

MY FATHER'S SON - ALAN GRIFFITHS

I've long believed that as people grow old, as the years pass, as memories start to fade like old sepia photographs, they gradually become their parents. Not just in looks but in habits, routines and principles held; as they segue into their blood relations.

That morning, as I carefully shaved the stubble from my chin with my Father's bone handled razor, his refection peered back at me. Dark wavy hair, flecked with grey and starting to recede, blue eyes and a Roman nose above thin pale lips. His proud jaw line was trimmed clean as I pulled the Sheffield steel across my face.

Downstairs, I tuned his Bakelite radio to BBC Radio Four. An egg went into a pan of simmering water and I counted three minutes on his Rotary wrist watch.

A pot of percolated coffee bubbled on the hob. I poured some into an ancient Willow patterned china cup, added a drop of cream and took it over to the heavy oak table; savouring the aroma and then the bitter taste as I sipped the coffee.

The Times sat on the table next to the breakfast crockery, open at the crossword, the clues waiting to vex and torment my mind, just like they had vexed and tormented his.

The egg was perfectly cooked as I chopped the top with my butter knife and dipped toast into the creamy yolk. I smiled as I filled in the blank spaces for three down with his Parker fountain pen. The answers normally never came that easily; maybe a sign that today was going to be a good day.

Before I left his house, I fastened the cuffs of my Savile Row shirt with his pearl cufflinks and, standing before the full-length walnut-framed bedroom mirror, I fixed my tie with a Windsor knot. As I pulled his tortoiseshell comb through my hair, he looked back at me and I gave him a wink in return, saying aloud, "Morning, Pa."

Late summer was turning to autumn and the weather was ominous with malicious clouds scuttling across the sky. I stopped outside my old Victorian school building, now renovated into luxury apartments, with dozens of swanky cars parked like metal insects on the old playground tarmac. I could still see him, all those years ago, waiting at the gates for me and could not help but wonder what he would have made of the world today.

As rain started to spit from the dark sky, I thought wistfully of how he had grown weary in his later years, seemingly unable to adapt and accept modern ways. I'd buried him, to rest in peace alongside my Mother, nigh on twenty years ago.

*

Mid-week half-day closing on a Wednesday used to be the norm for all the High Street businesses. I was now in the minority but still chose to close the family's jewellery and watch repair business at one o'clock.

I was flipping the closed sign over on the door when a young man stuck his boot between the door and the frame. He was wearing jeans and a dark-coloured sweatshirt with the hood pulled over his head. Wraparound sunglasses hid his eyes and heavy stubble covered his face.

"Sorry, guv'nor, but I need a replacement battery," he said, tapping the cheap watch on his wrist. An emaciated roll-up bobbed at the corner of his mouth as he spoke. "And you're the only watch repairer for miles."

I asked him to stub out the cigarette and stepped back to allow him entry. He dropped the butt to the floor and crushed it under his boot. Then, in one swift movement, he pulled a gun from his waistband and I found myself staring, open-mouthed, at the black O shape of the gun barrel.

"Do as you're told, old man, and you won't get hurt."

*

As I twisted the dial of the Sentry 1250 backwards and forwards, clicking through the combination, I could feel beads of sweat start to trickle down the back of my neck and under my collar. I pulled open the heavy steel door and the familiar sour smell of the safe took me back to him and what he would have done.

"No tricks, old man," he said, pushing the barrel of the gun into the back of my head.

The money was, as always, methodically counted and separated into neat bundles; ready to be banked. As I turned towards him, my left hand and arm held close to my body and full of money, I could see his eyes spark with greed. He should have been looking closer over my shoulder and maybe he would have seen my Father's medals on the bottom shelf alongside his Webley automatic.

The greed in his eyes turned to fear when he saw the gun in my right hand. Too late as I levelled the gun at him and fired.

I sat down on the polished wooden floor, amongst the bundles of crumpled bank notes and looked at the dead body. The smell of cordite filled the air and my ears rung from the Webley's recoil. I took the medals from the safe, brushed them across my lips and then held them against my heaving chest as I wept.

When my breathing had returned to something like normal, I calmly put the barrel of the revolver into my mouth; the hot metal burnt my lips but I kept a steady hand, closed my eyes and squeezed the trigger.

Just like Pa had done.

BIO: Alan Griffiths is a rookie writer, from London, England. He has a keen interest in reading and writing Crime Fiction, particularly Noir and Pulp. His short fiction can been found on A Twist of Noir, Pulp Pusher, Powder Burn Flash and Six Sentences.

A Twist Of Noir 046 - Alan Griffiths

GUTTED - ALAN GRIFFITHS

He was a big fucker.

Richie had a mental picture of a grey haired, 'Just Take the Money and Go!' type, as he stuck the gun through the window.

But he was late thirties, going on forty; a big angry fucker.

"Hand over the takings," Richie said, a nervous waver in his voice. "Do it fucking now." The gun wobbled in his hand and he steadied it by putting his left hand over his right wrist.

*

There was no shelter and he had been soaked by the rain within minutes. Turning up the collar of his cheap sports jacket, useless against the weather, he took a last drag on his cigarette before flicking the butt away. Had something gone wrong? It was now forty five minutes past the meeting time and the last two pints of Dutch courage had worked through his system. Should he risk a crafty piss? He stamped his feet on the ground to ease the numbness and felt a vibration in his trouser pocket as the text arrived.

Three words on the rain spattered screen: WE ARE ON.

No chance of that piss now. Inside his jacket pocket his right hand gripped the butt of the pistol. It wasn't real. A replica but looked the business. He pulled a baseball cap from his pocket and tugged it onto his head, the peak down low.

*

Richie had known Andy on and off for years; dragged up together on the same local authority estate. Three years between them. Andy, the eldest, at twenty. Richie, the baby-faced disciple.

Cars were Richie's gig, from the age of fourteen, when he had boosted his first Ford. Since then he'd been in and out of young offender's units, mainly for taking and driving away offences. Andy, smarter, as he told him at every opportunity, had recently done a spell inside.

Richie was broke and Andy, a hopeless gambler, always needed cash. The get-rich-quick plan: Stick-up a London black cab, the drivers always loaded with cash after sixteen hour shifts. Spin the driver a yarn about picking up another punter on the way to a party and lure him off the main road, away from nosey CCTV cameras. Pull the job and have it away with the cash.

"Point the replica in their face. Yell at them and watch them shit a brick," Andy had said. "Easy pickings, my son."

*

A diesel engine broke the silence and headlights cut through the rain, illuminating the slick road as a cab pulled around the corner. Richie, the tension building, hoped to fuck he wouldn't piss himself, as the driver pulled the window down.

"Hand over the takings. Do it fucking now."

As he clocked the driver, Richie saw that there were two bodies in the rear seats; Andy alongside another guy. The stranger's eyes locked on Richie and for a long moment they looked at each other until Richie pulled his gaze away, "C'mon, hand over the fucking cash or you'll get it."

The driver looked a grizzled son of a bitch. Close cropped hair, dark eyes and heavy salt and pepper stubble. He didn't look scared, just grinned, showing bad teeth and flicked the rear door locks on. "I like to shoot, weekends at the gun club," he said. "You need a real gun, sonny, not a fucking pop-gun." He moved quickly, grabbing Richie by both wrists and yanked him hard up against the door. Richie froze; he could do nothing about the grip on his wrists and as he bounced off the metalwork felt fingers at his throat.

Glass broke inside the cab, raised voices and curses as the cab rocked violently. The grip on Richie's throat weakened and suddenly he was falling in a heap, the fake gun clattering to the ground. Scrambling to his feet, Richie could see that the glass between driver and passenger compartment had been smashed. The stranger had his arms around the cabbie, both of them grappling. Andy, watching white-faced. Suddenly, the driver screamed, his hands coming up to his face. The stranger, a blade in his hand had cut the driver across the right side of his face, blood now flowing freely through the cabbie's fingers.

"Out," the stranger said, "Open the doors and get the fuck out." The door mechanism released and the driver was pushed out onto the road. As Richie inched round the front of the cab, the stranger had the blade at the cabbie's neck. "Where's the fucking money? The money?"

Andy took the hint and, avoiding Richie's confused look, ducked back inside and began to search.
The cabbie, bloody hands still cupped to his head, moaned and groaned. "Shut it," said the stranger.

"Ya cunt. You've cut half my fucking ear off."

"Shut it. Or I'll cut the other one off as well." The stranger pointed towards Richie. "Fuck's sake, mate, get the passenger door open and search for the dough. It's in there somewhere."

Inside, Richie grabbed hold of Andy. "What the fuck's occurring here and who's the nutter with the chiv?"

"That's Spencer," Andy said. "I met him inside. It was his idea to rip off the taxi but I left his name out of it."

"Why?"

"Didn't want to scare you off."

Richie swore but his words were drowned out.

"I've got it," Andy shouted triumphantly, a small black case in his hand. Outside, Andy rested against the bonnet, zipped the case open and pulled out a fistful of notes. "Sweet, the fucker's loaded. Fucking loaded, my son."

Spencer turned his head and the driver took his chance and pulled Spencer sharply forward by the lapels and head-butted him. Spencer's nose broke, blood and snot spurting, as the two of them went down, arms and legs flailing. The cabbie getting the better of it, on top of Spencer, throwing punches. Andy, the first to react, aimed kicks at the driver, catching him in the back and side. Richie, adrenaline-pumped, screamed and jumped into the bundle, as the two of them wrestled the cabbie off Spencer.

Richie took a punch to the face and fell backwards. The driver turned towards Andy, roaring, blood and phlegm flying. Spencer then entered the game again, swinging a low punch to the cabbie's gut, pulling his fist back, following up with another and another. With a surprised look on his face, the driver's mouth formed a silent, bloody O, then his knees crumpled and he died on the cold, wet tarmac. Spencer; stood over him, blood dripping from the blade in his fist.

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!" Andy screamed, hands up to his ashen face, staring at the lifeless body. "Nooo!"

"Shut the fuck up!" Spencer hit Andy, back-handed, knocking him to the ground beside Richie. "Get on your feet. We need to get the fuck out of here." Spencer's battered face a mask of blood, both eyes beginning to swell and bruise above his flattened nose. "Now!"

Richie really did piss himself, as the sobs racked his body and his bladder opened.

They drove away in the cab, Spencer behind the wheel. The pair of them had watched from the back seats, the air stinking of fear and stale piss, as Spencer pulled the body clear of the cab and dumped it in the gutter. Like old rubbish.

Spencer drove across the city, crossing the river and pulling up on waste ground bordering the water's edge. There was a petrol can in the boot and they watched again in silence as Spencer doused the interior and turned the cab into a ball of flames with a flick of a match.

Halfway across the waste ground, Spencer stopped to launch the bloody knife into the murky water with a straight-arm throw. "You two are coming with me. I know a squat where we can crash while I work out what the fuck to do next."

"Shouldn't we split up?" Andy said, big-eyed, shitting a brick. "Go in different directions like?"

"No fucking way," said Spencer, spittle on his busted lips. He pointed at them with a blood-stained finger. "I need to keep my eyes on you two. You're a liability." He spat blood and phlegm onto the ground, narrowed his puffy eyes. "A real fucking close eye."

BIO: Alan Griffiths lives in London, England. He has a keen interest in reading Crime Fiction, particularly Noir. His first short piece of fiction, Rat Fink, was published on AToN in 2008, which made him a very happy man.

A Twist Of Noir 004 - Alan Griffiths

RAT FINK - ALAN GRIFFITHS

Priest was a gangster. Had been for a very long time. A career criminal, as the police would say.

Now he was feeling like a very old gangster. Much older than his 45 years.

His face was like a slab of cold meat, sunken eyes and a slash of cruel mouth below a twisted nose. Shaven close-cropped grey hair topping granite features. Several days of grey stubble covered his face.

He was a hard man and looked it.

Now he was lying on his bed, blood stained sheets, wearing only vest and pants, grubby and stinking from over a week of wear. He was awake but his eyes were closed. A lit Silk Cut smoking between his lips. A glass of malt whisky stood on the floor, the bottle next to it empty down to the label.

He reached down for the glass and felt a stab of pain shoot though his body. Anger seethed inside of him and a spark flared in his eyes.

He uttered a single word. Stark and loud in the silent room.

"Cunt."

He gulped down a large belt of the whisky. Grimaced as he felt it kick him in the throat like a cold-hearted mugger and then again as it settled in his stomach. It was just gone mid-day and his mood was black.

Getting blacker by the minute.

Sliding his right hand beneath the grubby vest top, he rubbed his index finger gently over puckered skin. The scar tissue was still fresh, the flesh still red and raw.

Tender to his touch.

****

He'd been shot in the gut some six weeks earlier when a post office blagging had gone wrong.

Badly wrong.

The owner, an Asian guy, had pulled a hand gun from below the counter. Pulled it from nowhere and got a shot away before Priest had a chance to react.

Fortunately for Priest, the bullet had not lodged, smashing a rib on entry and ricocheting out again. Not so fortunate for the Asian; he was now history, splattered over the back wall when Priest let him have both barrels from the sawn-off.

Priest had help on the job; a kid named Slater, recommended by a friend of a friend. A flash young pup, with a ferocious habit that needed satisfying. He should have been watching Priest's back but had fucked up.

Fucked up badly and then literally fucked off when the bullets started flying. Picked up the hold-all with the takings from the safe in it and like Meat Loaf sang.

Was out of there like a bat out of hell.

Somehow, Priest had managed to get himself out of the post office. And, with one hand holding his guts, in place had driven himself to an alcoholic Irish ex-GP named Flynn who, between bottles of Jameson, had opened up Priest and repaired the damage. All the time Priest remained awake, the sawn-off in his hand as an added incentive for Flynn to get the job done.

The sawn-off never wavered an inch.

****

Bazz Clarke was a dealer. Well-known for good quality stuff. His motto; No shit dealt. No reason for customer complaints.

Always leaving them wanting more.

Two days later, Bazz, a short, stocky man with receding hair and as his few real friends would vouch, bad breath, returned home to his basement flat.

As he entered, a boot prevented the front door from closing behind him. Bazz, turning, was only briefly aware of a blade glinting before his eyes and then felt blood oozing as the tip found flabby skin under the chin. Backing into the room, Bazz had fear in his eyes.

"Hello, Bazza boy," hissed Priest. "I think we have a mutual friend that we need to have a little natter about."

Keeping the blade steady, he stepped closer and reached inside Bazz's jacket pocket and pulled out a mobile phone.

"Make a call and keep it short and sweet."

Priest's wicked grin sent a shiver down Bazz's spine. Slowly, he reached out his left hand and took the phone. For a split second, he seemed to hesitate and the knife held in Priest's hand twisted ever so slightly. Bazz quickly punched a speed dial number.

Priest's eyes never leaving him for a moment, the blade held firmly in his hand.

****

Later, Priest watched from his car as Slater came sauntering down the street, a haunted junky look in his gaunt face. Hands in pockets and collar up against the bitter weather, he stopped, took a quick glance over his shoulder and quickly descended the stairs to the basement flat.

Priest, sitting low in the front seat, blowing smoke rings from his Silk Cut, imagined Bazz answering the door to Slater; an inch of sticking plaster under his chin, sweat on his brow, a shake in the hand, maybe a nervous wobble in his voice. But he knew that Slater would be too desperate to pick up the warning signs.

Too flush with money. Flush with Priest's money.

And Bazz was too scared to say anything. Too fond of his balls.

Ten minutes later, Slater appeared on the street and slunk away. Priest gave it 30 seconds, waited for Slater to turn the corner then flicked the key in the ignition and put the car in gear.

****

Slater had been home over three hours. Home alone.

Priest had waited patiently outside to make sure. Now dusk had fallen, he got out of the car, crossed the road, pulled the knife from his pocket and went to work quietly on the lock with the blade.

As he pushed the door open, a terrible stench reached his nostrils. Quickly, he pulled the door shut behind him and moved slowly along the hallway.

The heroin and rat poison mixture had worked fast. Too fast.

Much quicker than Priest had expected. Well, chemistry had never been his strong point at school.

He had hoped to find the fucker in terrible pain; scrabbling around on the floor, clutching at his guts like they were on fire. Frothing at the mouth, begging for help.

For mercy.

But Slater was dead. Face down on the bathroom floor with his works scattered around next to him.

Lifeless eyes in a tortured face stared back at Priest as he rolled him over onto his back with his foot. Vomit and blood dribbled from the mouth and nostrils, pooling and making a mess on the tiled floor. Priest had to cover his mouth to stop himself from retching.

Revenge was definitely a dish best served cold, thought Priest. The colder, the fucking better.
"Ya cunt," he spat, the words echoing in the cold empty room.

The money wasn't too hard to find.

Still in the same hold-all, clumsily hidden and surprisingly full of crumpled bank notes. Before he left, Priest stowed the sawn-off in its place. Carefully cleaning the shooter with a towel before wrapping and stuffing it behind the water tank in the airing cupboard.

In the car, he pulled the remaining packet of poisonous heroin from his pocket and examined it closely. Drugs had never been his thing; he could never see the point really, always leading to trouble in one shape or form.

He shrugged, threw the packet in the glove compartment, gunned the engine, checked the rear-view mirror and pulled the car into the traffic; heading back in the direction of Bazz's flat.
After all, he didn't like to leave any loose ends. A good gangster never does.

Even an old one.

BIO: Alan Griffiths lives in London, England. He has a keen interest in reading Crime Fiction, particularly Noir. If successful, Rat Fink would be his first published story, making him a very happy man.