A Twist Of Noir 691 - Col Bury

LOSING TRACK - COL BURY

“So, when you at court for that burglary then?” asked Shanks, sucking on a spliff. He passed it to his flatmate, Drifter, the dingy room like a mini-rave, Eminem’s Slim Shady booming.

“Some time in January, innit. I’ve got the charge sheet somewhere.” Clutching an X-box control, Drifter motioned to look for the said sheet, but couldn’t be arsed and reclined on the tatty sofa.

Most of the items in the flat were ‘borrowed’ – the X-box, flat screen telly, matching DS’s, and even the cigs and cans of Stella littering the coffee table, the latter picked up from a skip.

Shanks crushed an empty can and tossed it over his shoulder. “Candice... bring us two more Stellas in, would-yer, babe?” He heard faint sirens in the distance, but couldn’t be sure if it was on Grand Theft Auto or not. Maybe it was, as he’d just reversed over a cop.

Paranoia kicking in, for the first time in three hours, Shanks’ arse left the sofa and he headed for the window, peeping through a gap in smoke-reeking curtains to gaze down from the high-rise at the dotted city lights of Manchester.

The vividness of blue police lights jolted him to his senses. Six black shadows emerged from the white rectangular van, and snaked toward the communal entrance below, panic and uncertainty flooding him.

“Shit, it’s Five-O!”

Drifter glanced up, his version of startled. “Cool it, man. They could be ‘ere for anyone in the block.”

“You sure it’s not for you, Drift?”

“Look, man. I’ve done a few little jobs recently, but the only one those fuckers got me for was the one am in court for, so my slate’s clean. Chill.”

Shanks’ mind was all over the place, skimming the haziness for his recent ‘escapades’. He recalled potting a lad in Checkers two weeks ago, nicking an old Escort when he couldn’t get a cab home – not that he’d have paid anyway. Plus, he’d stabbed that student, but that was over two years ago, so surely...? Then there was the daily coke dealing. He could do with a line now.

Candice entered from the kitchen carrying two more cans of Stella, fag in mouth, Babylons to die for. “There you go, your bloody Highness.”

Shanks snatched the cans, gave one to Drifter.

“What’s up with yer?”

“Cops are sniffing downstairs.”

Candice looked round at all the knocked-off gear. “Well, they aint got this address have they? You’ve only been ‘ere a month.”

“No. Yer right. I need to calm the fuck down.”

Footsteps on the landing, all three froze, pivoted.

Bang, bang, bang on the door.

“Police, open up or we’ll put the door in!”

Drifter stood up, Shanks and Candice eyeing him.

He put his palms out. “What? I needed a bail address. Otherwise they’d have kept me in over Chrimbo, innit.”

“Yer should’ve give yer mum’s, yer prick!”

“RIGHT! WE’RE FORCING ENTRY!”

“Well, I’m not going down for Chrimbo either.” Shanks headed for the mini-balcony.

Candice headed for the door, opened it.

A cop holding a steel wham-ram burst through, just managing to keep his balance. He was followed by five more uniformed officers and a smooth-looking, sharp-suited detective.

Before you could say, “Gotcha!” Drifter was face down, cuffed to rear.

The detective held up a warrant, peering down at Candice’s Babylons.

She covered them defensively.

“What... yer... locking me... up for...?” yelled Drifter with a face full of carpet.

“Sus’ burglary times three, sonny boy!” replied a uniform.

“Detective Proverbs, darling. And who might you be?”

“Candice Jefferyson. What’s it to you?” she spat.

Proverbs turned away, discreetly speaking into his radio, receiving comms via an earpiece.

Three minutes later, the flat had been ransacked and Drifter sat sulkily on the sofa.

“So, why’s that wannabe-gangster boyfriend of yours skulking on the balcony? Guilty conscience?” Proverbs smirked, shook his head. “We’ve not even come for him. Seems you lot are in it so deep that you’re losing track.”

“Huh?” Candice looked perplexed.

“Candice Jefferyson, I’m arresting you on suspicion of robbery. You do not have to say anything...”

Everyone froze, as a diminishing scream emanated from the balcony.


BIO: Col Bury is the crime editor of award winning webzine, Thrillers, Killer 'n' Chillers, and he's currently writing a crime novel series under the guidance of New York agent, Nat Sobel.  Col's ever-growing selection of short stories can be found around the blogosphere and in many anthologies, including, THE MAMMOTH BOOK OF BEST BRITISH CRIME 9 (& 10).  He has an eBook out called, MANCHESTER 6.


Col lives in Manchester, UK with his wife and two children, loves 8-ball pool, and is an avid fan of Manchester City FC.


He interviews crime authors & blogs here: http/colburysnewcrimefiction.blogspot.com/
Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/colbury
Twitter: @ColBurywriter
Facebook: The Manchester Series by Col Bury
Website:  http://colburysnewcrimefiction.wordpress.com/

A Twist Of Noir 608 - Col Bury

LUCKY SHIT - COL BURY

Some people are just born lucky...

When I felt pigeon shit splatter my shoulder as I simultaneously slipped in a doggy dump, you could say that was unlucky, but it changed my life no end.

Now, I’m not superstitious - couldn’t give a toss about all that lark really. But I read the signs, clean myself up and go to pick up my dole. I neck the compulsory couple of cans of Special Brew, go to the bookies and pop a score on the old fixed odds. Now, I’m pretty damn good at picking the footy results, and with the double-dose-of-shit-thing happening, I think, Fuck it - why not make it fifty? After all, it’s those taxpaying suckers’ cash, innit?

Anyway, my ten results come in and I roll like a pig in shit. Five fuckin grand! Well £5,122.36 to be precise. A couple of ecstatic calls later and me ‘n’ the boys are cruising around town, all fuckin steaming, since we drop two E’s apiece and have a constant joint on the go between bars.

I was driving as usual, simply because I was always the driver on jobs we’d done and, anyway, I’d nicked the Vauxhall. Keys in the ignition, on the driveway, engine running, piece of piss. The look on the owner’s face, as he came round the corner of his house clutching a pissin hose pipe, was a picture, I’ll tell yer.

Next stop...Long Legs!

“My Chrimbo treat, boys,” I say, wiping stray remnants of coke from my nostrils, tossing each lad a crispy fifty.

“Aw, look at the tits on that,” said Gimp, just a little too loud.

To be honest, they are crackin Babylons, but I tell him to cool it as the management are a bit keen. We all take a seat, watch and wait, trying not to dribble.

This stunning blonde in black sussies and high heels makes a beeline for me. I glance heavenwards when she sits on my lap, the boys’ mouths gaping.

“Hey, Big Boy, fancy a private dance?” Her accent’s Czech as well!

My dick answers for me and she grins, leading me by the hand, the boys gaping some more.

Five minutes later, the sleazy music stops and beneath my jeans a manic Boa is trapped in a sack. She clocks my raging cock, her tongue sliding across a dirty smile.

“Do you do extras? I’ve won dosh...” I show her the roll of fifties.

Next thing, the Boa escapes and, in a pulse, is skilfully covered in latex.

“Mister Lucky gets fucky-fucky!’ Leering, she climbs on board, rides me bucking bronco style. My musical taste changes forever, as we sweat and thrust to Duran Duran’s Wild Boys. Such is my euphoria, I’m fuckin singing along!

A few high-fives later, and I lead the lads to the Vauxhall, me almost floating there, thinking, ain’t life grand... five fuckin grand! We hit a few more bars, beat some prick up who gave us the eye - he’ll live... just. Gimp always takes exception to eye contact, and he’s me mate, innit? We have more beers, weed and sniff, then about 10.15 P.M. we head for a club. I drive, of course, like I always do.

Now, let me ask you a question... I know it’s Christmas ‘n’ all, but what responsible fuckin parent would take their seven year old daughter shopping up town at 10.15 at night?

*

My ‘lifer’ cellmate Jerome gives me the eye when I tell him about the kid I killed. The news is received like I’ve called Mike Tyson a willy-wufter. Beginning to regret my blabbing, I back off into the corner of the cell.

BIO: Col Bury is the Co-Editor of webzine Thrillers, Killers ‘n’ Chillers and is currently re-writing a crime novel. His ever-growing selection of short stories can be found here on ATON, Six Sentences, Blink-Ink, Flash Fiction Offensive & TKnC. He has forthcoming stories in Pill Hill Press 365 Days of Flash and Even More Tonto Stories. He blogs & interviews crime authors at Col Bury’s New Crime Fiction.

A Twist Of Noir 380 - Col Bury

A PUBLIC SERVICE - COL BURY

Originally published at The Flash Fiction Offensive in September 2009

When the black, tinted-windowed Subaru Impreza crept alongside Jerome Kingston with the barrel of a Smith and Wesson protruding from its rear window, there was no doubt Kingston should have died.

With gang warfare in Manchester being as bad as ever, we’d been tailing the Subaru from a safe distance for a couple of miles in our unmarked Astra. Johnny Boy and me, batons and pepper spray at the ready, and not even a Taser, admittedly not ideal versus real firepower, but if the situation dictated we’d have a damn good fuckin’ go.

After running a registration check we knew the Subaru was from the West Side. And once it had crossed the invisible divide into opposition territory, we knew we had to get close and call for Armed Response back up, as this tit-for-tat lark was getting out of hand, even for the gun capital of the North.

You see, we were just ordinary cops on the shift overlap, keeping our Sarge happy by ‘going for a mooch’ to see what was out and about.

‘Just give out the odd ticket and turn a couple of scrotes over and it’ll keep the boss happy,’ Sarge had said almost pleadingly, his rep constantly on the line at those awkward meetings with The Brass.

But we were proactive cops and persecuting innocent motorists was about as appealing to us as sniffing a tramp’s crotch. We knew who the bad boys were and that’s who the public feared. We also knew we were a public service and that’s who we served: the public, not some supervisor who wanted to look good in a meeting with a fat pile of stats to pass onto his bosses so they could look good in their next meeting while drinking tea and scoffing more scones than at a Granny’s convention. Then higher up the ladder another meeting and another game of ‘stat tennis,’ until it reached the very top whereby the Home Secretary impressed the PM himself so the latter could brag to the opposition in The House of Commons, even though they all knew the figures really meant shit.

Nah, me ’n Johnny Boy were here to repay the taxpayers hard-earned faith, to serve Joe Public and do our job.

As soon as we saw the barrel pop out of the Subaru’s rear window Johnny Boy bounced looks with me.

‘Shit!’ he exclaimed.

I agreed.

Then we sped up the arse of the Subaru with a screech. I jumped out like an uncoiled spring and lanced my baton at the Subaru’s back window causing it to smash. Kingston froze, akin to an escapee con caught in a searchlight. The Subaru did a wheel-spin and zoomed off. No shots were fired and no one was hurt, apart from the feelings of owner of the Subaru, of course.

The letter we received off Kingston’s mum was worth a thousand parking tickets.And we both felt we’d truly given the public a service and done our job. For a short while we’d even built a few bridges within the local community, which was great for The Brass in their meetings.

They’d really enjoyed their tea and scones recently.

The irony being, the day me and Johnny Boy were eating scones at one of those meetings where we received our commendations, Kingston went and shot two boys stone-dead. He’d smoked ’em good and proper with a spray of bullets from his Uzi. They were bad boys from the East Side so, after some debate - in one of our regular sub-meetings in the Crown and Anchor - me and Johnny Boy concluded that Kingston, too, had done a public service.

BIO: Col Bury is the Co-Editor of webzine Thrillers, Killers ‘n’ Chillers and is currently re-writing a crime novel. His ever-growing selection of short stories can be found here on ATON, Six Sentences, Blink-Ink, Flash Fiction Offensive & TKnC. He has forthcoming stories in Pill Hill Press 365 Days of Flash and Even More Tonto Stories. He blogs & interviews crime authors at Col Bury’s New Crime Fiction.

A Twist Of Noir 172 - Col Bury

WANTED - COL BURY

Originally published at Thrillers, Killers 'N' Chillers in August 2009

Melvin launched the empty packet of Marlboros across the room, knowing fully the perils of leaving his flat. But addiction was a powerful thing - his punters could vouch for that - and the cigs, booze and weed were all he had of late so he donned his baseball cap, pulled on his jacket and grabbed the key to the VW Golf.

After all, what harm could possibly come to me in a ten minute trip to the shops?

He moved swiftly, pivoting like a double-jointed owl on exiting the flat. Zammer’s boys were not to be messed with and the signs were pretty conclusive they knew where he lived. The smashed first floor window and the graffiti daubed front communal door, saying, ‘MELVIN KANE – R.I.P.’ were testament to that. Although a bit presumptuous if you asked Melvin. He patted the trusty Browning 9mm in the inside pocket of his jacket, his only friend, its bulk reassuring.

Well, there was one other friend, Jacko, but he’d done one to the Costa Del Crime a month ago after an armed blag gone wrong. Melvin pulled the Golf onto the A57 that split the suburbs leading into Manchester, his eyes as much on the mirrors as the road.

So far so good and only a couple of minutes to the off licence. After a desperate telephone call from Melvin, Jacko had posted him the keys to his flat five days earlier as a last gesture of friendship. The cops had grown tired of calling there in search of Jacko so the fact that Melvin himself was also a wanted man wasn’t too much of a problem, address-wise. They’d be looking elsewhere for him.

His mind drifted to the moment his life changed forever and the reason he was wanted by the both the cops and Zammer’s crew. How the fuck was he supposed to know the guy selling coke on his patch was one of Zammer’s new recruits?

Anyway, if a man intrudes on your livelihood and, when confronted, has the balls to pull out a piece then what option have you got but to give him a slug, and in Mojo’s case another one for his cheek, ironically in his cheek, or buttock to be precise.

Melvin’s thoughts were interrupted by an old black BMW in his rear view mirror. He was two streets from the shop, but took a right instead of a left then went round a mini-roundabout twice. The BMW sped up the road and he backtracked toward the shop.

He considered solutions to his problems. Either take out Zammer and gain his patch, or get a fake passport off Asian Don and blag his way to Spain.

After parking outside the off licence for two minutes and scanning the area, he was happy to proceed, and besides he was dying for a ciggie.

While queuing he spotted a face he didn’t like. Vaguely familiar, but he was unsure where from. Pot-hole complexion, beanie hat and heavyweight build. An uneasy feeling swamped him as the guy’s shifty eyes glanced over one too many times from the aisles.

The Pakistani shopkeeper decided now was a good time to start chatting in depth about fuck all to the girl in front. Her ample tits clearly the reason for his small talk as his eyes nearly burnt holes in her bra.

Shifty was still skulking.

Fuck this. ‘Ee-ar, matey. Gimme forty Marlboros,’ he said, taking out his wallet.

The shopkeeper gave him a glare as if Melvin had just walked in on him actually shagging the girl.

‘Quit the fuckin staring, dickhead an gimme the cigs.’

‘Now there’s no need for that, my friend.’

‘And there’s no need to ogle this girl’s tits is there, you fuckin perv?’

The girl half-turned, but decided against it, while shifty still hovered in the background.

‘That’s out of order, my friend.’

‘Yes, it is, and am not your fuckin friend.’ Melvin considered withdrawing the Browning and slugging the fucker then taking a month’s supply of cigs. ‘Just gimme the cigs now or I’ll...’

Melvin heard the bleep signalling the shop’s door opening and couldn’t believe his eyes, or his luck.

The shopkeeper grew a foot as the copper walked in. ‘What were you saying, my friend?’ said the shopkeeper with a smirk.

The copper looked his way and Melvin dipped his head. He slapped his wallet on the counter and slid out a twenty. He warned the shopkeeper with mad eyes. ‘Look...I’m in a rush.’

The shopkeeper smiled at the girl. ‘Excuse me one moment, love.’ He passed over the fags and Melvin snatched them off him then left like shit off the proverbial shovel.

Melvin purposely didn’t wheel-spin the Golf. But when he’d eased away from the shop he doubled the speed limit of thirty. Once on the A57, and after checking his rear-view mirror a good dozen times, he relaxed a fraction, blending with the traffic and frantically lit a fag, sucking it so much a glowing carrot appeared within seconds, the nicotine rush dizzying him somewhat.

He began to wonder whether Shifty was just innocently buying a loaf or something. Or had Melvin just become so paranoid because of his predicament that anyone who looked slightly dodgy was one of Zammer’s crew? To be honest, this whole ducking and diving lark was beginning to get right on his tits and he knew there and then the answer wasn’t to take out Zammer, but to just do one and find Jacko in Spain.

It was then he glimpsed the cop car in his rear-view, his heart-rate jumping.

It was decision time. Fight or flight? The Golf was still in the name of the previous owner so there were no immediate worries there. On the flip side there was more chance of being best man at Zammer’s wedding than getting bail, so Melvin cranked up the revs.

The cop responded with a flash of his blues 'n' twos with a brief burst of the klaxon.

Melvin took a sharp right and felt the tail-end go and battled to straighten up. After a shuddering zigzag he just managed it. He took an even sharper left accompanied by a screech of tyres. But the cop was still up his arse like an unwanted sex pest.

Melvin purposely avoided the vicinity of his flat and headed for the single-carriageway parallel to the A57, but a group of kids on bikes took up half the road and he had no choice, but to slow down. The cop took advantage, pulling alongside Melvin who could see the cop frantically gesturing for him to pull over.

From experience he knew within minutes traffic officers would be flooding the area in their high-powered Volvo T6’s, and this was just one youngish-looking patrol bobby, so he nodded and took the next left. He selected a specific spot to park in the quiet cul-de-sac and waited for the cop to appear at his side.

Privets on one side and a six foot fence on the other, plus nobody was on the street. If this was to go pear-shaped he’d burn the Golf out and head for Spain. He gave the Browning a pat for reassurance.

Be cool, he told himself, but could still feel the adrenaline bubbling out of control, like it did when he smoked Mojo. He lit another cig and drew hard.

Melvin saw the cop’s fluorescent green jacket appear in his peripheral vision. The officer leaned toward his closed window with a befuddled expression, his breath partially steaming up the outer window as he signalled for Melvin to wind it down.

‘Good afternoon, constable.’

‘Is it really? What the bloody hell were you playing at back there?’

‘Sorry, at first I thought you just wanted to get past. Then I just panicked as I’ve not registered the car in my name yet.’

The officer sighed and looked heavenwards. ‘Step out of the vehicle, fella, and join me on the pavement.’

Melvin’s hand reached into his jacket. ‘Why?’

‘Just do it, will you?’ The cop turned and walked to the pavement.

Melvin wondered whether the cop had already PNC’d him. He knew he’d have already checked the car out. Regardless, he wasn’t getting locked up today.

Feeling increasingly edgy, he took out the Browning and popped it into his side pocket for easier access before following.

Okay...Let’s do it, pig.

‘I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt, so I’ll just give you a producer, okay?’

What? Melvin felt himself relax a little. He’d just gone from cop killer to having three points on his licence! Play along. ‘Aw, man. Do you have to?’

The officer was already reaching into his pocket. ‘Count yourself lucky. If I was a Traffic cop, you’d be done for speeding, driving without due care and failing to stop for police, and probably even that bald tyre, too. But I haven’t got the time for all that and I only pursued you to give you back your wallet. You left it in the shop.’

Shaking his head, Melvin took the wallet off the cop. ‘Thanks, officer. And sorry for wasting your time.’

The officer’s radio boomed into life about some domestic nearby. ‘Be good,’ said the cop as he headed for his Astra.

Fuck me, this was getting better and better – not even a producer! Melvin waved him off with a grin as broad as his luck. What a fuckin knob. He didn’t even check me out, he thought, still waving as the Astra reversed with a whine out of sight.

Back inside the Golf he gripped the steering wheel and pulled himself forward and back laughing his cock off at the rookie cop’s incompetence then pictured his new life in Spain; a snapshot of him and Jacko drinking San Miguels on the beach amongst bikini-clad beauties.

The loud crack to his left hardly registered. Neither did the shattering passenger door window. Nor did the .38 calibre bullet that entered one temple and blasted out the other, topped with a blood, bone and brain combo.

And he certainly didn’t register Shifty’s tobacco-stained grin.

BIO: Col Bury is the Co-Editor (with Matt Hilton) of Thrillers, Killers 'N' Chillers. He is currently writing a crime novel and his ever-growing selection of short stories can be found on TKnC, here on A Twist Of Noir, Six Sentences, Blink Ink and the Flash Fiction Offensive.

Col blogs and interviews crime authors at Col Bury's New Crime Fiction and lives in Manchester, UK, with his wife and two children.

A Twist Of Noir 072 - Col Bury

FORUM OF FURY - COL BURY

You just never know who you're chatting to online.

Frustrated wannabe writer, Joe Barron, had no idea such a simple act could irrevocably change his life.

Just as he was typing yet another post, grumbling about his chronic writers' block, on the online Writers Forum he frequented a little too much, he heard the slap of the mail on the hallway lino of his lonely two-bedroom flat. A flicker of excitement prompted him to exit his writing room - so-called as he was supposed to write in there, but seldom did - and he headed for the front door.

He subconsciously exhaled on seeing there were no brown A4 envelopes within the small pile of mail, which meant the dream was still alive regarding the three chapters and synopsis he'd sent out to the last wave of carefully selected agents on his list. He flicked through the mail: a mundane assortment of junk, including a cheap-looking clothing pick up service pamphlet, some crap about double glazing, a couple of bills and, he was surprised to see, a white envelope with handwriting he didn't recognise on the front.

Could this be some kind of response from an agent, maybe requesting the rest of the manuscript? Exhilaration swept through him, tempered by panic as he'd still not finished the 'novel' yet despite starting it three years ago. The idea of publication was what Joe dreamed of, but the discipline and hard slog of achieving it was another thing altogether. He hastily ripped open the letter and stared in shock at its contents:

Dear Mr Barron,
So now I know your name, you foolish, foolish man.
Did you really expect me to forget our disagreement?
You reap what you sow.
Expect a visit.
Yours truly, HM

For the rest of the day he stewed on the letter, but couldn't make any sense of it. It had clearly been meant for him, though he had no idea who 'HM' was and couldn't recall any disagreements he'd had recently.

The 'expect a visit' part was playing on his mind and he pulled back a curtain and glanced at the street three floors below. Everything looked as per usual; people going about their business, kids playing football against the graffiti-ridden substation wall and a solitary car parked up on the road. He didn't recognise the car and strained to focus. There was someone in the driver's seat: a man.just waiting.

His vivid imagination began to zoom and he chided himself aloud, 'Joe, you daft sod. Stop being paranoid.' He knew his excessive cannabis intake didn't help with the latter.

Then the man looked up, directly at him. Joe retreated behind the curtains, his heart-rate speeding.

A moment later he checked again and the man was still sitting there, but not looking up. His head was dipped towards his lap; he was reading a newspaper, or was it a laptop?

You're being stupid, Joe, he told himself. Sometimes having the mind of a writer was a hindrance: over analytical, reading too deeply into things and all that. He decided a chat with his like-minded virtual friends was required. They understood him, unlike his family, who just regarded him as the mad, pot-smoking writer!

Joe took a long audible drag of a freshly rolled joint, harsh on his throat, but its effect instant in chilling him. Flash Fiction Feline was online and the first to comment on the thread he'd created in the hope of reassuring perspectives on the letter.

FFF stated it was probably one of his 'Friends messing about and not to worry. 'Writer Online was next: 'You could go to the police if it's bothering you, but as there's no direct threat in the letter then they wouldn't waste money on checking for prints, etc, so I doubt they'd take it very seriously.'

Creative Carl was more philosophical: 'If this idiot was the real deal then he wouldn't send a letter first. It's like when people yell from the rooftops threatening to kill themselves - they never jump. It's the quieter ones who commit suicide. I wouldn't let it bother you, Joe.'

Joe felt much better and was glad he had such great friends, even though he'd never met any of them as they were scattered around the world. He considered having a stab at progressing his novel, but the thought filled him with dread as it had been like pulling teeth lately, so he made a coffee and returned to the computer for another chat.

Three more comments on the thread he'd started. He knew he was procrastinating - a disease perpetuating his frustration - and that if he carried on like this he'd never finish the novel, but he remained on the forum to read the comments regardless. The first two were pretty much reiterating the previous postings and then he came to the third.

Hatchet Man said: 'You're not fretting are you? I once knew a bloke who'd had an online argument, but nothing came of it.'

Joe responded: 'Hi Hatchet Man, long time, no hear. That happens a lot, but it's all part of the forum thing, isn't it? Not everyone will agree all of the time.'

'Yeah, but this guy got personal.'

Joe shuffled in his seat. 'Was that on this forum?'

'You know it was, you foolish man!'

Joe's heart somersaulted. He glared at the screen as realisation kicked in. Hatchet Man. HM! Joe's hands were shaking like an MFI wardrobe as he typed: 'Did you send the letter?'

HM: 'What do you think, Mr Barron?'

Shit! He vaguely recalled coming home drunk and stoned about a year ago andhaving a minor spat with him about a topic so irrelevant he couldn't even remember.

'What did I say that's made you so pissed? It's been deleted by the moderator.'

HM: 'I can recall it word for word.'

Joe: 'Well, whatever I said, I didn't mean it.'

HM: 'Even the fact that I am supposedly a "Mummy's boy," and you were, "Gonna hunt me down and kick my arse"?'

Joe didn't respond. He couldn't deny it. He'd had a few ding-dongs in the pub that night and had had a right one on him.

HM: 'Well, there's no need to hunt me down now is there? The last man who messed with me isn't here any more. Fancy changing your pen name on here, you fool.'

Joe jumped out of his chair, clattering it backwards, and ran to the window. He saw a tall man dressed in all black, alight the car. Closing a laptop, the man glanced over both shoulders before placing it in the boot. He again gazed up at Joe and walked purposefully towards the entrance to the flats.

Joe clasped his hands on his head. 'Oh, fuck!' He felt his adrenaline pumping, making him feel nauseous. What are the chances of having an argument with someone on the net and them hunting you down? Trust me to find the only lunatic on a forum for supposedly intelligent people! And why the fuck did I change my pen name to my real name?

He called the police, but struggled to find the right words as he was that scared and stoned. When he began swearing down the phone, the silly bitch hung up! He threw the phone in anger and it smashed onto the laminate floor. Scrambling on his knees he tried to piece it back together, but it was useless.

He heard a deep voice echoing in the outside corridor. Looking through the spy-hole, he saw a distorted face staring back at him. Joe jolted back from the door.

Three loud bangs on the door. Hatchet Man would have only gone this far for one reason. He ran into the kitchen and grabbed a kitchen knife. This man was clearly a fuckin' psycho. Three more louder bangs on the door. I'll show the bastard.

Joe opened the door and lunged at Hatchet Man with the knife, plunging it straight into his stomach. The scream of a woman was followed by a door slamming across the corridor. Hatchet Man slumped to the floor, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, both hands clutching the protruding handle of the knife. A leaflet wafted to a stop beside him.

Breathless and numb with shock, Joe stared at the leaflet. It detailed a smart-looking bathroom suite with free fitting. He looked down at the man who gurgled then lay motionless.

Joe's gaze fixed disbelievingly on the growing pool of claret on the carpet and it began to trickle down the stairs. Like a zombie, he trudged into his writing room and checked for any further messages on the forum.

HM: 'I meant the last man I argued with isn't on the forum anymore. He'd obviously had enough.'

HM: 'Joe, are you there?'

HM: 'Okay, Joe. This has gone too far now. The letter was to spook you, that's all. When I'd seen you'd put your full name on I just couldn't resist it. I admit it was a childish revenge. Shall we call it quits, mate?'

*

The cell was cold, smelly and very basic, but at least he wasn't sharing. And with no internet connection, maybe now he'd finish that damn novel.

BIO: Col Bury lives in Manchester, UK, with his wife and two children. He is currently writing a crime novel and is the co-editor - along with thriller author and ex-cop, Matt Hilton - of a 'site encouraging new writers to showcase their talent: Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers, where more of Col's stories reside.

A Twist Of Noir 061 - Col Bury

THE BREAK IN - COL BURY

Also appearing at Thriller, Killers 'n' Chillers

'There's somebody in the house,' Louise whispered, nudging her snoring husband with her elbow. Malcolm stirred and pulled the duvet, leaving Louise naked and vulnerable. The sound of glass smashing made her heart flicker.

'Malc! Wake up!' She shook him this time.

'What the...? What's up, honey?'

'Did you hear that?'

Malcolm reluctantly sat upright, rubbing his eyes. 'Hear what?'

'Someone's breaking in.'

Footsteps. Voices. Louise grabbed Malcolm's arm tightly.

'Where's your mobile?'

He searched blindly in the dark on the bedside table. 'Shit, it's not there. I'm sure I brought it up.'

More low voices echoed through the house and the sound of drawers being slammed.

'Malc, what are we gonna do?' There was panic in her voice.

'Dunno. I'm thinking.'

'Should I shout out of the window?' she said, carefully turning on the bedside lamp, which offered a microcosm of solace, until she saw the fear in Malcolm's eyes.

'No. They might come upstairs. Shit, what if they've got weapons? Think, think, think!' he said, tapping his temples. He climbed out of bed and began pacing the room, then quickly pulled on a pair of tracksuit bottoms and trainers. 'Where's that fuckin phone?' he asked, searching desperately, the dressing table, under the bed - but nothing.

'What about if you shout downstairs that the police are on the way?'

He stopped to look at her. 'I could do, but I don't know whether that'd work. How's about I tell them I've gotta gun?'

'But what if they have a gun? Saying that might make them use it.'

The voices grew louder, closer, at the bottom of the stairs.

His voice was hushed and shaky. 'Maybe if we just leave it, they'll go away.'

'Yeah, and then at least we'll be safe.'

When they both clearly heard, 'Let's try upstairs,' their eyes widened in unison.

'Oh, shit.' Malcolm frantically scanned the room and fixed on his snooker cue in the corner. He gingerly made his way to the cue. There were footsteps on the stairs as he unscrewed the butt of the cue and held it up as a makeshift cosh. Edging closer to the bedroom door, he waited, his eyes manic with adrenaline.

The door creaked in the next bedroom, the shuffling of feet.

Louise gave him a brief hug and a peck on the cheek before retreating to the far side of the bedroom.

'Louise. I love you,' he said, his mouth dry with anticipation, his gaze fixed on the door, the cosh aloft. The door burst open and a man in a black balaclava rushed in. Louise screamed.

Malcolm swung the cue butt and impacted firmly on the man's head with a sickening thud. The man dropped to the floor, a kitchen knife clattering across the laminate flooring.

A second male in a face mask appeared brandishing a screwdriver. He lunged at Malcolm's midriff, banging him into the wardrobe. Louise cowered in the corner. The butt clunked onto the floor and the man stabbed Malcolm's stomach repeatedly with the screwdriver. Malcolm yelped with each thrust until he collapsed onto the bed.

Louise was sitting knees up, frozen, peeping through her fingers.

With blood oozing from the puncture wounds, Malcolm shrieked in pain, yet still managed to reach down and clasp onto the butt. He promptly struck the man on the forehead. The masked man gasped and backed off holding his head, only for the first male in the balaclava to spring back to life holding the kitchen knife.

'Fuckin' come on, then, tough guy!' he shouted as he dived on top of Malcolm.

They grappled on the bed, blood smearing everywhere. Malcolm rolled the burglar beneath him and clutched onto the knife's handle, but was then rolled back onto his side as his strength began to wane.

While their bodies entwined, Louise heard the slushy tear of flesh, followed by a low groan. She was engulfed with sheer terror. Both bodies lay still.

'Oh my God..no. Pleeease!' Tentatively, she stood up and took a closer look. The other intruder eyed her from the doorway, rubbing his head. Malcolm's body rolled to the side and the man in the balaclava sat up holding the bloody knife.

'Thank God for that,' said Louise as she lifted the balaclava and kissed her lover while Malcolm lay dead on the bed.

'Come on, Johnny, let's do one,' said the accomplice from the door.

'I'll meet you at the cottage at the weekend as agreed, Lou,' Johnny said breathlessly. 'And you were right; he was a game fucker.'

BIO: Col Bury lives in Manchester, UK, with his wife and two children. He iscurrently writing a crime novel and is the co-editor - along with thriller author and ex-cop, Matt Hilton - of a 'site encouraging new writers to showcase their talent: Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers, where more of Col's stories reside.

A Twist Of Noir 057 - Col Bury

DOMESTIC HATED - COL BURY

Originally appeared at Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers

Sarah Meek had a long-term problem. His name was Steve Fury. Sarah had a short-term problem, too.

She was presently handcuffed to a bed in only her panties with Steve edging closer to her, his eyes wide and manic, his panting like a hunting dog: 'I'm gonna fuckin' kill you, slag!'

When she'd met Steve Fury all those years ago, Sarah was still living at home with her family, relying a tad too heavily on her mum and dad to tidy up after her and mollycoddle her to the extent she'd barely lifted a finger. But then 'The Perfect Gent' had swept her off her feet.

Initially, Steve Fury had broken up a heated altercation in Manchester's trendy Swish Bar, between Sarah and her best friend, Melanie, and a robust Glaswegian woman who'd had one too many. Steve had seen the punch being thrown at the cowering Sarah and had gallantly placed himself in harm's way, taking a hefty right on his nose, before he'd escorted the portly woman over to the doormen who'd promptly thrown her out amid a tirade of expletives.

Just three months later, having been exhilarated by that elusive and long-awaited 'special' romance, she'd gleefully accepted her night in shining armour's offer to her move in with him.

The first year was sheer bliss.

The second one wasn't.

Steve had begun to show signs of possessiveness, pulling his face whenever Melanie called to see if Sarah wanted to go out on the town with the girls. Melanie had warned her she'd seen these signs before, but Sarah was blinded by love and Melanie's calls became less frequent.

By year three, Melanie was a distant memory and, by year four, Sarah had lost touch with her parents, except for Christmas and birthday cards. Steve liked to know exactly where Sarah was all of the time and had encouraged her to pack in her job as logistics clerk for a local import and export firm. After all, he'd insisted, 'My wage as a Director of a Global Consultants would more than cover the household bills, love.' Steve had told her that as long as the house was 'spick-and-span' and a 'hot meal' was on the table when he returned home from the office then he would be a happy man.

Consequently, Sarah became extremely domesticated for the first time in her life. Her parents would have been proud of her, had they known.

The ensuing years merged together, a blur of painful flashbacks. Sarah felt trapped as Steve's controlling became unbearable and if Sarah was to look at a man, even on telly for God's sake, Steve's mood would switch in an instant. The first time he hit her was when he arrived home late from 'work' (again), smelling of booze and stale tobacco. She was sat on the sofa watching a Brad Pitt film.

'Oh, a cozy night in? Just you and Brad, eh?'

And Whack!

It stung like hell. Gob-smacked - literally - Sarah couldn't believe it and put it down to him having a bad day at the office. The next day, a dozen red roses arrived with a note begging for forgiveness and professing his undying love, saying it had been a 'one off.' She was subsequently wined and dined, and the world was a beautiful place again.

Until three weeks later when he accused her of having an affair with the bloke next door. Stanley Wise was sixty-two and had a look of Albert Steptoe! When she'd laughed mockingly and said, 'Don't be ridiculous,' the first blow nearly knocked her out.

The second one did.

She awoke being cradled by the whimpering Steve Fury who was stroking her hair and forehead gently. The black-eye and swollen cheekbone only took a few weeks to clear up so it wasn't so bad. Anyhow, she'd become quite skilled in covering her injuries with make-up and clothing as well as having creative cover stories in case anyone did notice.

The police had attended on two occasions when things had gotten out of hand and once they even took Steve with them, but Sarah didn't have the heart to provide a statement as, to be honest, she was petrified of the repercussions, and he was released the next day.

All ties with friends and family had now been severed beyond repair. Steve had a knack of twisting things, especially the guilt, appealing to her kind nature to forgive him and the cycle of abuse just perpetuated itself, escalating into his kinky sex games.

And there she was lying on the bed, her heart-rate double the norm. His breath and spit showered her as he yelled, 'Do you hear me, you fuckin' whore? I'm gonna kill you!'

She'd become a great actress, Oscar-winning standard. Learning to go with the flow, knowing when to agree, when to compliment and, more pertinently, when to lie. And, although being on her own every day was a lonely life, she'd had valuable thinking time in abundance.

'You think you're fuckin' clever, switching keys, don't you? Unless you let me go now, I will kill you. Do you hear me?' continued Steve, yanking noisily at the bedpost.

Sarah had playfully dangled her cuffs with a raised hand, a look of disbelief on his face. She'd cunningly persuaded Steve to dabble in the submissive role for a change by cuffing his right hand to the bedpost, while his left held the cuff key to release him at his leisure. Although she'd not only swapped his cuff key earlier for a similar one that didn't fit, she'd also adeptly undone her own cuffs with another key acquired from her wily neighbour, Stanley 'Steptoe' Wise, the ex-cop who'd offered her so much advice over the years.

She slid off the bed as Steve Fury kicked and bellowed. No longer was she 'Submissive Sarah.' For the first time in ten years she was now in control.

She lifted a hefty snooker trophy from a shelf and strolled toward Steve.

A look of shock shot across Steve's face. 'Sarah. Now enough's enough!'

'You took the words right out of my mouth, Steve,' she said coolly.

He swung a punch with his free hand which Sarah side-stepped.

And Whack!

Steve slumped on the bed with a low groan, swelling already appearing on his forehead.

'Submissive Steve. Has a nice ring to it, don't you think?' said Sarah, returning to her side of the bed where she opened the bedside cabinet and the light shimmered off the kitchen knife's blade. She clutched onto the knife as Steve began to come round. She took in the moment; almost disbelieving it yet also savouring it. Steve Fury's true face now emerged: that of a vulnerable little man.

She raised the knife.

Steve's eyes widened. 'Pleeease. Nooo. Saraaaargh!'

And she smiled as she strolled round the bed; even allowing herself a little wink before plunging it deep into his heart, oblivious to the spurt of crimson spattering her cheeks.

She watched intently as his body tensed then jolted. When he was still, she uncuffed him then took in a deep breath.

Now for the hard bit, she thought.

Sarah Meek quickly slashed at her the palm of her right hand, wincing at the sharp, stinging pain, watching her own blood dripping onto the beige carpet. After another long breath, she cut into her right forearm and screamed.

Regaining her composure, she used her blood-free left hand to clench Steve's fingers around the handle of the knife before tossing it onto the floor along with the upturned trophy. After pushing over the bedside cabinet, she called the police, as Stanley 'Steptoe' Wise had advised her.

BIO: Col Bury lives in Manchester, UK with his wife and two children. He is currently writing a crime novel and is the co-editor - along with thriller author and ex-cop, Matt Hilton - of a site encouraging new writers to showcase their talent: Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers, where more of Col's stories reside.