A Twist Of Noir 666 - Paul D. Brazill

THE ZODIAC CLUB - PAUL D. BRAZILL

The Zodiac Club, at 666 Casanova Street, loomed ominously over Silver City like a great black spider waiting to ensnare its prey. Once a full moon clung to the sky, a sickly stew of screams and howls clung to the wind and drifted down to the city, coaxing Victor Brown from an already fitful sleep.

Retired Police Detective Victor Brown was a discarded and crumpled tissue of a man who spent night after night on his soaking bed as dark dreams and worse memories lapped at the shore of his sleep. Until he awoke, drowning in sweat.

Each night, violent thoughts brewed and bubbled to boiling point until, at last, one cold winter night, thought congealed into action.

*

Just after midnight, Victor stumbled out of his clammy bed and into the migraine bright bathroom. He splashed his face with water and looked in the cracked mirror at his battle-scarred face with its furrowed brow and drinker’s nose.

He stumbled back into the bedroom and collapsed on the bed. Wheezing, he poured himself a large Jack Daniels. His eyes filled up with tears as he looked at the dusty framed photo of his wife and child, on holiday outside Silver City. He picked it up and kissed it.

It had been ten years since their car had broken down and they had made the fatal mistake of going to The Zodiac Club for help.

Victor blamed himself, of course. He’d been on a stakeout and hadn’t answered the phone when his wife had called. He knew what went on behind the walls of the Zodiac Club once the moon was full and gibbous. The whole Police Department knew but what could they do? Nick Casanova owned the club and owned the whole stinking city.

He switched on the lone light bulb, which buzzed and flickered, revealing a room cluttered with wooden barrels and crates. And a large, battered, black suitcase.

Victor opened it wide. Inside were a Glock, three grenades,six silver bullets and a gleaming silver dagger. He said a silent prayer and guzzled from a bottle of bourbon before fastening a crucifix around his neck.

*

The moonlight oozed across Silver City’s shattered sidewalks like quicksilver; creeping between the cracks, crawling into the gutters. Victor slowly walked up the hill, his breath appearing in front of him like a spectre.

As he got closer to the Zodiac Club’s blinking neon sign, Victor could hear music and laughter. The screech of a woman suddenly sliced the air. Victor shivered, pulling the long black overcoat close to his flesh. He pulled out the pistol and carefully pushed open the large metal door. He paused and then stepped into the hallway.

Checking his pistol, Victor walked toward the sounds. He paused in front of a pair of wooden doors and kicked them open.

The room was suffocating in red velvet and leather. Half eaten corpses littered the marble floor and around them, feasting, were some sort of creatures – half man, half wolf.

Instinctively, Victor threw a grenade.

The next few moments were a flash of fireworks and explosions.

As the smoke subsided, the creatures crawled towards him.

There were about five of them. A couple of them ran toward Victor but he sprayed them with silver bullets. He threw another grenade and kept on firing as the wolf creatures pounced.

Then there was silence except for his heartbeat. And a snarling sound. Victor turned and saw the wolf behind him ready to attack. As he went for his revolver the wolf was on him, knocking him to the ground.

With a series of slashes from his silver Bowie knife, it was over and Victor was soaked with blood. Panting he struggled to move the werewolf’s corpse and blinked as a hand grenade rolled onto the ground. And then he looked into wolf’s bloody jaws. A grenade’s pin was attached to one of its incisors.

Victor gasped and started to say a prayer.

And then it all turned black.

BIO: Paul D. Brazill was born in England and lives Poland.

His stories have appeared in a number of online and print magazines including A Twist Of Noir, Beat To A Pulp, Dark Valentine Magazine, Crimefactory, Needle Magazine, Powder Burn Flash, Pulp Metal Magazine and Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers, as well as in the anthologies such as Caught By Darkness and RADGEPACKET Volume Four.

His story Guns Of Brixton will appear in The Mammoth Book Of Best British Crime Fiction 2011, edited by Maxim Jakubowski & his story The Tut was nominated for a 2010 Spinetingler Award.

And his blog is YOU WOULD SAY THAT WOULDN’T YOU?

A Twist Of Noir 582 - Paul D. Brazill

THE FINAL CUT - PAUL D. BRAZILL

The Final Cut came out of one of Patti Abbot’s Flash Fiction Challenges and appeared at Radgepacket Online in July 2010

They say that you can tell a lot about someone by the way that he looks and that you can always judge a man by his shoes. I thought about this as I looked down on my ancient, scuffed, brown brogues and immediately felt even more out of place in the trendy Soho bar than I had when I first came in. The bar was stiflingly hot and cluttered with a collection of hipsters and arseholes. I sat at a small table by the window watching the streamers of steam rise from my overpriced coffee. Beside me, a fading French film star with a sandblasted face slurped his espresso with all the enthusiasm of an ex-con in a bordello.

Coldplay were droning on over and over again and it took me all of my resolve not to run out of the place and keep on running. Fight or flight, I think they call it. Outside, the cloak of darkness had draped itself over the city and swallowed the moon. A tall, redhead woman in a screaming blue dress oozed into the bar like mercury and stood before me. She nodded and I stood and nervously held out a hand.

‘Patience,’ I said, shaking hands weakly. ‘Long time no see.’

‘Georgy Porgy,’ she said. She looked me up and down and grinned smugly. She clicked her fingers toward a waiter and sat down. I sipped at my coffee as she fiddled with a cigarette.

‘Were there many at the screening?’ I asked.

Mr Wu’s screening room was just up the street and I could see a murder of critics swooping past the window, crawing and cackling. Patience broke into a grin.

'Oh, yes,’ she purred.

‘And?’ I said.

‘I’ll be back in a tick,’ said Patience, standing abruptly.

As she got up, she clicked on a zippo before walking outside into a bustling Dean Street. The flustered looking waiter, who only minutes before had looked at me like I was something a stray cat had dragged in, beamed at me as he placed a bottle of overpriced mineral water on the table. My stomach was churning. I knew Patience was loving every second of this. Patience had always had a sadistic side- which she’d regularly shown during our marriage – that had probably  helped her media career enormously.

‘Fuck it,’ I said, as I saw her yammering away into her mobile phone and holding court with a bunch of obsequious wannabe media stars. I went up to the bar and ordered a large scotch. Three years of sobriety down the Swannee river.

‘George Boy,’ slurred a voice behind me, as I gulped down my drink.

I turned to see a heavy-jowled, hangdog man in a well-worn tweed jacket and faded green combat trousers.

‘Blake,’ I said and nodded. ‘Were you at the screening?

‘Free food and drink, George Boy, of course I was there!’

In the past, it had grated on me when Blake called me George Boy but now it was welcome as a pair of old slippers.

‘G & T?’ I said.

‘Gin makes you sin, George Boy, so, why not?’ he replied.

I finished my drink and ordered another one before we sat down. Patience swept in from outside in hail of laughter before sitting down and eyeing my drink and Blake disapprovingly.

‘So, what’s the SP?’ I said. They say that directing your first film is more painful than giving birth but I think waiting for the first reviews is as excruciating as possible.

‘Puerile adolescent drivel,’ said George. ‘Mindless flash-trash worthy of Eighties Hollywood at its most vacuous. I absolutely adored it!’

He downed his drink in one and waved over to the barman. I felt relieved alright. Blake was a bit of a cult figure and had his acolytes who would go to see anything he recommended. However, a good review from Blake didn’t automatically go hand in hand with box office success, unfortunately, and I’d invested so much money in the film I really needed a smash. I had a handful of banks and a couple of dangerous loan sharks looming over me like vampires waiting to strike.

‘Patience? What did you think?’ I said, expecting the worst.

Patience’s opinion was much more important than Blake’s. She had a hugely influential weekly film show that she’d taken over after the long time host had been murdered by an embittered fading film star. It was said that she could make or break a film in twenty-five words or less. She downed her drink and patted my hand as she got up.

‘Don’t give up the day job, Porgy,’ she said and walked toward the door. ‘Oh, and remember that the school fees are due next week. Ta ta,’ she sang before blowing me a kiss.

That was it. I knew she’d scupper me. I ordered more booze and drowned in the well of misery.

*

‘They say an artist should diversify,’ I said, my voice echoing around the empty cosmetics factory. ‘Never get stuck ploughing the same furrow, they say, eh?’

I wiped my bleeding nose on the sleeve of my Concorde Security Services uniform and swigged from my bottle of Grant’s.

‘You need to be in touch with the Zeitgeist, they say.’

I pulled back the blinds. The factory car park was deserted as it always was late at night. That’s why I preferred working the night shift. It gave you time to think. To plan.

‘And the Internet has changed so much. They say that there are so many niche markets that have opened up in the last few years.’ I switched on the halogen light and checked the camera’s tripod. ‘But I’m sure that this is just like teaching your granny to suck eggs. You’ll know all about this, eh, Patience?’

Patience said nothing. I’d gagged her and strapped her to a metal chair in the middle of the room. The floor was covered in black bin liners that ripped as I paced up and down.

‘Take snuff films, for example,’ I said, before taking another swig. ‘I’d always assumed that they were urban legends and perhaps they were but not now. Not in this day and age. There isn’t a big market, I’ll admit, but there are those who are willing to pay a lot. And celebrity snuff? Well ... even a B-list celebrity like you can attract an interested buyer.’

I paced, swigged. Paced. Swigged.

‘They say it’s a cut-throat game, the film business. It really is, too. Oh, sorry. I know how you hate puns. So, let’s go to work...’

I switched on the camera, pulled on the rubber Mel Gibson mask and walked towards Patience, knife in hand.

Cut.

BIO: Paul D. Brazill was born in England and lives Poland.

His stories have appeared in a number of online and print magazines including A Twist Of Noir, Beat To A Pulp, Dark Valentine Magazine, Crimefactory, Needle Magazine, Powder Burn Flash, Pulp Metal Magazine and Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers, as well as in the anthologies such as Caught By Darkness and RADGEPACKET Volume Four.

His story Guns Of Brixton will appear in The Mammoth Book Of Best British Crime Fiction 2011, edited by Maxim Jakubowski & his story The Tut was nominated for a 2010 Spinetingler Award.

And his blog is YOU WOULD SAY THAT WOULDN’T YOU?

A Twist Of Noir 570 - Paul D. Brazill

THE BALLAD OF THE KID - PAUL D. BRAZILL

Originally published at Thrillers, Killer n Chillers in 2009 and included in the anthology Flash! Published by Static Movement

The sun was melting the tar-coloured night into morning as we reached the top of the hill. The Kid sat down against the windmill cradling the dying Dog in his arms. I looked out across the fields towards the beach where smoke rose from the burning car. Sirens screamed in the distance, melding with the sound of the seagulls.

The Kid was sobbing and whispering to Dog. I’d spent the last thirty minutes trying to convince him to leave Dog and come with me but it had been futile, like wading through molasses.

‘The police will be looking for us soon,’ I said. ‘You know what will happen if they catch us.’

The Kid nodded, sniffing. I’d never seen him cry before. Not when we killed The Statistics and not even when his parents were burned alive.

I flashed back to two years ago. The emergency services were attending a blaze at a tower block. I’d parked my car and gone to take a look, along with the other rubber neckers. The air was thick with smoke, panic and excitement. I took out my camera and snapped away. Near me, beside a vandalised post box, looking like a chimney sweep and holding a can of petrol, was a lanky doe-eyed boy of about ten. Beside him was a black mongrel. I took a bag of peanuts from my pocket and crouched down. The dog yelped and came up to me and started eating them.

‘Dog likes you,’ said The Kid. He stunk of smoke and petrol.

I knelt down and stroked the dog.

‘He doesn’t like everyone,’ The Kid said, his eyes drawn toward the burning building. ‘He doesn’t like me ma and da. They wanted to chuck him out in the rain.’

‘Where are your parents?’ I said, guessing the answer. The Kid nodded in the direction of the fire. Suddenly, a swarm of police arrived and I started to feel edgy.

‘I’ve got to go,’ I said. As I walked away, Dog started barking.

‘But Dog likes you,’ said The Kid.

And then I had a thought. This could be a great development opportunity for The Project.

‘Do you want to come with me?’ I asked.

‘And Dog?’ answered The Kid.

‘Of course,’ I said and I saw the traces of a smile.

I’d started The Project about a year after I was laid off and a couple of months after Bev did a runner. Those times are a bit murky but I think it all started one wan November morning when I was driving back from taking photos of a motorway pile up on the A142.

A tall red haired man was hitchhiking near a Little Chef.

I remember pulling over - the radio was playing that Pogues Christmas song - and I remember him getting in the car but I don’t remember killing him or chopping him up and putting him in bin bags. As I say, my memory is a swamp these days.

After that, it became a semi-regular thing and I even started recording the details of The Statistics, as I came to know them: hair, sex, age, race, etc.

With The Kid and Dog in tow, it made collecting The Statistics even easier. People see a man with a kid and a cute dog and they automatically feel safe. Yes, The Project had been going swimmingly until today when a hippy woman took a screwdriver to me and Dog and scrambled out of the car.

The sun was like a gold doubloon, the sky was blue and I felt something I hadn’t felt for a long, long time - sadness. I had to get a move but The Kid just wanted to spend Dog’s last moments on earth with him.

‘Drink this,’ I said to The Kid and gave him the juice laced with sleeping pills that I kept for The Statistics.

I stroked Dog and headed down the other side of the hill to look for a car. I was draped in a dark cloak of gloom. I’d miss that dog.

BIO: Paul D. Brazill was born in England and lives Poland.

His stories have appeared in a number of online and print magazines including Beat To A Pulp, Dark Valentine Magazine, Needle Magazine, Pulp Metal Magazine and Thrillers Killers 'n' Chillers, as well as in the anthologies Dusted, Caught By Darkness, Don't Tread On Me, and RADGEPACKET Volume Four.

His Crimefactory story, Guns Of Brixton, will appear in The Mammoth Book Of Best British Crime Fiction 2011.

And his blog is YOU WOULD SAY THAT WOULDN’T YOU?

A Twist Of Noir 551 - Paul D. Brazill

ANGER MANAGEMENT - PAUL D. BRAZILL

Originally published at Powder Burn Flash in May 2010

I used to get angry all the time. Especially when I was a teenager. The ‘difficult years’, doctors used to call it. As if there were ever any other with a father like mine.

I’d see crimson, burn up like a volcano, rant, rave, spit, scream - the whole deal.

And sometimes I’d even black out. A switch would be pulled and I’d fall through a trapdoor straight down into the deepest well. Darkness all around.

It was after one of those ‘episodes’ that I came to with gigantic hands gripped around my throat, dangling me over the thirteenth floor balcony of some grimy tower block somewhere in East London. No recollection of getting there.

So, that was when I decided to channel my aggression. That’s when I joined The Squad.

First it was just the football; following the team to some hick northern town and screaming abuse at the bumpkins. But that was never enough. I knew there was more. I could smell it; taste it.

And then I met Tubeway, Slammer and Col. The Squad. They were a breakaway group from the mainstream hooligans. They called it ‘rucking and rolling’. Football hooliganism mixed with mugging. It made sense. This was the nineties and Cool Britannia had no place for the likes of us.

We we were the dispossessed, according to Tubeway. He liked to use words like that; flaunt his vocabulary and GCSE in Philosophy. The same Tubeway who used to listen to Hitler’s speeches without understanding a word of German.

Don’t get me wrong, I knew that they were tossers - just looking for excuses for being violent. I didn’t need an excuse, though. I knew that I liked to inflict pain; I needed to hurt. It was just a matter of when and who.

Then they introduced me to Mr Bettis - or Sweaty Betty, as he was known behind his back. He was like a giant pink slug. Col said he looked like Jabba the Hutt. I just nodded. I didn’t know what he was talking about. I didn’t watch films. I didn’t read books - I could barely read - and I didn’t like music. What I liked was violence.

Sweaty paid well. He told us to keep out noses clean. Become respectable. Invisible to the law. He’d contact us once a month with a name and a place. Maybe a picture. And we did what he asked. Sometimes we used Stanley knives. Or blowtorches. Or even guns.

I loved it. I was good. The best. I started to develop a sense of professional pride. I distanced myself from the others. They were a liability. Disasters waiting to happen, I thought. And I was right.

Tubeway had his neck broken by a transvestite in Clapaham. Col died of a smack overdose in a piss stained Wansworth squat. And Slammer got locked up for life, which I found ironic once I’d learned that word at my adult literacy class.

Oh yes, I studied. Learned to read and write. Learned history - enough to put Tubeway in his place without batting an eyelid. I learned aikido and kung-fu. I practiced yoga and I got married. And had kids.

I still worked for Sweaty but the jobs were few and far between; he only used me for the ‘prime cuts’, as he called them.

Everything seemed so right.

And then it all went pear-shaped as quick as spit disappears on hot pavement.

It’s been fifteen years since I joined The Squad and I suppose it’s taken its toll. I expect that I’m a tad jaded.

Which is why, I suppose, that the sounds and the yells of the man strapped to the tree in front of me have no impact on me. Don’t even ruffle a feather.

The golf course is empty, it’s dusk and like in the film Alien - yes, I started watching films, too - no one can hear him scream.

Time to continue the interview.

*

It always rains in the dreams. Always. Pours down in sheets. But in reality it was a burning, brandy-brimmed, summer morning. In the dreams, there were no kids, either. Just a sinister, grinning man, who looked like my father, wearing a long black coat and carrying a carving knife.

And when I wake up, I feel released. Free. But then the cold light of day hits me in between the eyes. Because there was no man in black. No pounding rain. Just two kids who got in the way of a hail of bullets. My own kids.

It all went black for a long time after that. Until I woke up drowning in sweat, booze, piss and tears. Stinking of shame, guilt and self-loathing.

And then it never went black again. It was an endless cold white.

I’ve heard it said that eighteen months of sleep deprivation can drive you crazy. Well I was mad after that anyway.

So now there’s a dead man in front of me, dangling from a tree, in an exclusive golf course, in the fresh morning dew. A slug of a man who looks like Jabba The Hutt. And he’s given me the name of the man who ordered the hit. The hit that resulted in the death of my kids.

Oh, I know. It’s just an excuse. A way of avoiding culpability. Just a reason to inflict pain. A reason to hurt. And to kill. And to keep on killing.

BIO: Paul D. Brazill was born in England and lives Poland.

His stories have appeared in a number of online and print magazines including Beat To A Pulp, Dark Valentine Magazine, Needle Magazine, Pulp Metal Magazine and Thrillers Killers 'n' Chillers, as well as in the anthologies Dusted, Flash!, Caught By Darkness, Don't Tread On Me, Howl: Dark Tales of the Feral and Infernal and RADGEPACKET Volume Four.

His Crimefactory story, Guns Of Brixton, will appear in The Mammoth Book Of Best British Crime Fiction 2011.

And his blog is YOU WOULD SAY THAT WOULDN’T YOU?

Interlude

Just got the word from Paul D. Brazill that three of the sixteen stories that he's written for A Twist Of Noir will be included in three different anthologies coming soon and later this year.

Static Movement will be publishing:

Sins Of The Father in Don't Tread On Me

and

The Friend Catcher in Caught By Darkness

and

Wicked East Press will be publishing:

The Man Behind The Curtain in A Cup Of Joe

Congratulations to Paul on scoring a trifecta of anthologies with a trio of excellent stories.

A Twist Of Noir 484 - Paul D. Brazill

EVERYDAY PEOPLE - PAUL D. BRAZILL

EVERYDAY PEOPLE first appeared at Thrillers, Killers N Chillers in October 2009

Brendan Burke was a creature of narrow habit and come rain or come shine, come hell or high water, he always ate meat on Fridays, even though, around the time of his seventieth birthday, it had begun to play havoc with his digestion.

‘Rebellion,’ said Brendan to Tony Amerigo. ‘Rebellion against the shackles of my Catholic upbringing.’

‘Power to the people,’ said Tony, raising a clenched fist.

Tony had been a butcher since leaving school, as were his father and grandfather, but business hadn’t been so good since the influx of supermarkets selling cut price cuts of meat. Curmudgeons like Brendan were a godsend for Tony.

Brendan put the meat in his checked shopping bag and headed off.

‘Post office, next?’ said Tony.

‘As per usual,’ said Brendan. The social kept trying to convince him to have his pension paid into the bank but Brendan dug his heels in, stuck to his guns. He hated banks and enjoyed his trips to the post office, the centre of the local tittle tattle. ‘And then I’m off to the naval club, though I still don’t know if I’m an inny or an outty.’

He chuckled to himself and was still chuckling when a lime-coloured scooter jumped a light and knocked him arse over tit.

*

‘Jeezus, don’t send for her!’ said Brendan.

Skye, the featherlight social worker that hovered over him – looking like a delicate flower next to the oak of a man – had suggested phoning his daughter, Sue, in London and getting her to come and take care of him for a while. He’d barely been in the hospital a week, discharging himself after complaining about missing two drinking sessions at the club.

‘She’s worse than her bloody mother was for fussin’ and fannying around,’ said Brendan.

‘Well, you do need a carer, Mr B.,’ said Skye.

Brendan shook his head as he looked at her. She was sparkling and fresh, from somewhere down south – home counties, maybe. How could she possibly have a clue about anything?

‘Do you know anyone?’ she asked.

Brendan just stared at her nose stud with disgust.

*

Oliver Sweet had ducked into his flat as soon as he saw the social worker enter the building. He’d seen her before in the record shop where he hung around. She’d bought a Janis Ian CD and had tried to made conversation about it but it wasn’t exactly his cup of cocoa. Neither was small talk.

Oliver was a bit off a mouse, who kept himself to himself, although it would have surprised most people to know that he loved to listen Sly Stone, Bootsy Collins and Funkadelic. These were what blew his skirt up. Along with taxidermy – his flat was cluttered with pigeons, rats, even a leathery black bat – collecting funk on vinyl was the centre of his life.

When Brendan moved into the flat opposite, Oliver was a bit worried that the old man would complain about the noise but after talking to him a couple of times, he relaxed. Brendan was as deaf as a post.

He was listing to Sly Stone and changing into his ASDA uniform when he heard the scream and the bang. He stuck his head out of the door and saw that Brendan’s door was was open. And then he heard coughing, choking.

‘Are you alright, Mr Burke?’ he said. No reply.

He went to Burke’s door and knocked.

‘Mr Burke?’ said Oliver, louder this time. He went into the flat and saw Brendan doubled over and red-faced. Oliver ran towards him.

‘Are you alright?’

Brendan looked up with tears in his eyes. Tears of laughter.

‘Sorry...Sorry, Sweety,’ said Brendan. Oliver blushed. He hated that nickname.

‘Couldn’t resist.’ He wheezed. ‘I just wanted her to piss off, so...’ he coughed. ‘So, I grabbed her knockers. The stuck up little cow soon scarpered then.’

‘So, you’re okay,’ said a blushing Oliver.

‘Aye,’ said Brendan. ‘Do us a favour and pass us that bottle of vodka from the mantelpiece and get two glasses from the kitchenette.’

Oliver wasn’t much of a drinker but he thought he needed to calm down before heading off to work.

He poured the drinks.

‘A toast,’ said Brendan.

‘Na zdrowia, as Polish Andy used to say. To your health.’

Brendan downed the vodka in one and Oliver did the same but it burned like molten lava.

*

After a week or two it was decided that Oliver would be Brendan’s carer. He’d do the shopping, cash his pension and pop in now and again to keep an eye on him.

Oliver started to like drinking with Brendan and the carer’s allowance that he received meant that he could give up his job at ASDA. In fact all was tickety boo until November.

*

Tony Amerigo’s voice was like a dripping tap to Oliver and the woman at the Post office was even worse. Still, he endured and managed to pop into the record shop before lunchtime to buy Parliament’s ‘Up For The Down Stroke.’

‘Pricey stuff, this,’ said John, the owner of the shop. ‘Been saving up your pennies, Sweety?’

Oliver ignored him and headed back home.

*

‘The Post Office was packed again,’ said Oliver to Brendan, as he put the shopping bags on the orange, plastic, formica table.

Brendan said nothing, of course. He’d said nothing since he’d broken his neck falling out of the bath on Bonfire Night. Oliver still liked these evenings, though. Steak, vodka and a bit of Bootsy playing in the background. He glanced over at Brendan’s massive frame as he unpacked the rest of the shopping and thought that he really should have bought some more formaldehyde.

BIO: Paul D. Brazill was born in England and lives Poland. His stories have appeared online and in print at A Twist Of Noir, Beat To A Pulp, Blink Ink, Dark Valentine Magazine, disenthralled, The Legendary, MiCrow, Needle Magazine, Powder Burn Flash, Pulp Metal Magazine, Radgepacket Online, Shoots & Vines, Six Sentences, The Flash Fiction Offensive, Thrillers Killers 'n' Chillers and in the anthologies Howl: Dark Tales of the Feral and Infernal and RADGEPACKET Volume Four.

The Stamp Of A Vamp appeared as a podcast on CAST Macabre. His story The Tut was nominated for a 2010 Spinetingler award. His serial WARSAW MOON appears online at DISENTHRALLED.

His column "I didn't say that, did I?" is at Pulp Metal Magazine. And his blog is YOU WOULD SAY THAT WOULN’T YOU?

A Twist Of Noir 460 - Paul D. Brazill

THINGS TO DO IN DEPTFORD WHEN YOU’RE DEAD - PAUL D. BRAZILL

Previously part of Cormac Brown’s Friday Flash Fiction Challenge in April

The trouble with me is that I never realise how deep in the shit I am until I’m choking on the stuff.

Take last summer, for example. It started, as usual, in a pub and ended up, as always, in a graveyard. But that wasn’t the problem.

You see, I’m a professional killer. A hit man. Twenty years in the business, man and boy. Booze and bullets and bodies are all par for the course in my game. But it was a bird that landed me in it. And not just any bird, mind you. It was the boss’s bird.

Yes, I know what you’re thinking; never shit on your own doorstep. And I’d normally agree. Shagging a married woman is a no-no for survival reasons, if nothing else.

And if that married woman happened to be hitched to an aging psychopath who had aptly earned the nickname Carl Carnage before his balls had dropped, well, you’d be forgiven for thinking that I had some sort of a death wish.

But then you’ve never met Velvet.

*

The Blue Anchor on a Tuesday afternoon is usually about as lively as a Coldplay song. I was zoning out from the barflies' heated conversation – the smoking ban, for the thousandth time – when my phone rang. It was a number that I didn’t recognise, which always set my spider senes tingling.

I answered.

‘Aye,’ I said, wringing out the sleeve of my knock-off Armani jacket, which I’d just plonked in a pool of spilt Stella.

There was a rasping sound, like a heavy breather was bashing the bishop on the other end.

‘Cormac?’ said a voice.

‘Who wants to know?’ I said.

Instinctively, I fiddled for my packet of Benson & Hedges. I had a vision of Christopher Walken as The Man With The Plan in that film with Andy Garcia and the old bloke from Back To the Future. It wasn’t filling me with a sense of well-being, I can tell you.

‘The Shadow Knows!’ said the voice before bursting into a fit of laughter.

‘Kenny, you tosser,’ I said.

Kenny just kept on giggling, starting to sound a bit like Woody Woodpecker. He wasn’t known as Kenny Cokehead for nothing and was clearly on the Jolly Dandruff already.

I gestured to Cameron the barman and pointed to the bottle of Mortlach behind the bar, thinking that if you can’t beat them then at least attempt to join ’em.

‘What’s the craic, Kenny?’ I said once the giggling had slowed down.

‘Business. Work,’ gurgled Kenny. ‘Graft.’

I sipped my drink and gazed up at Phil Collins on the TV in the corner of the room and thought of how much he looked like he was wearing a stocking mask.

‘Where? When? How much? And...who for?’ I said. I’m very choosy about who I work for, professional pride and all that.

‘Last one first,’ said Kenny.

‘Well,’ I said. ‘Don’t keep me in suspenders.’

‘Carl,’ said Kenny. ‘Carl Carnage. And he’s paying top friggin’ dollar, I can tell you.’

Cameron changed channels on the goggle box. Noel Edmonds was sat cross legged on the floor while the genius contestant got the old brain cells working, trying to make a life-altering decision.

I didn’t take so long.

*

Carl was out where the buses don’t run in both meanings of the phrase. He lived in a swanky mock Tudor detached house in the depths of Deptford – far away from where public transport ceased. And he was also mental. Barking, and I don't mean the town in Essex.

Of course, Carl had always been a little, er, off the wall, but, over the years, the Old Timer’s disease had spread like a plague and his behaviour was becoming more and more erratic.

I’d worked for Carl a few times over the years and he’d always paid well. The job usually involved a bit of travel, too. I once took out a matador in a bullring in Seville in 42 degree heat; a Helsinki politician ended up in an underground car park. Well underground.

The last couple of times I’d seen him, however, Carl was just gazing out of the window with a Teddy Bear in his arms. Velvet had done all the talking. And I’d done all the looking.

*

Velvet answered the door in a red leather dress that was made with just about enough material to make a wallet, and looking like a long limbed drink of water calling out to a thirsty man.

‘Hello, stranger,‘ said Velvet, leaning forward and giving me a chaste kiss.

I followed her into the main room and thought about my brief fling with Velvet back in the days when she was just an up-and-coming glamour model. Emphasis on the coming.

I walked into the main room. Carl and Velvet’s interior design taste was clearly similar to that of Jimmy Saville and Lily Savage and I considered putting my sunglasses back on.

And then I saw Carl.

Carl sat drooling in a leather armchair, the Teddy Bear ripped to shreds in his arms. He looked old. He was old, true, but he looked a lot older.

We followed the usual routine.

Velvet poured me a drink, I kept my eyes away from her Grand Canyon of a cleavage, and Carl handed me a large brown envelope.

I looked inside. There was a wad of cash, sure, but the prerequisite picture of the target was missing.

‘Carl,’ I said, ‘there’s no...’

‘I know,’ said Carl, sounding weak. ‘I know.’

Velvet sat on the arm chair and put an arm round him.

‘The piece of business,‘ said Carl. ’The hit...’ he coughed, ‘... is me...’

*

So, the upshot was that Carl’s Alzheimer’s was getting worse and he was losing the plot. Shitting himself. Having violent tantrums. Bouts of depression. He wanted taken care of before it he became a drooling wreck.

And so, I did the job. I took him out when he was on holiday in Dublin. Velvet claimed on the insurance - which was a bonus - and everything went tickety boo.

And me and Velvet?

Yep, we got back together. Hitched a few months back. Just before little Stardust was born.

And here I am, all domesticated. Washing up, gardening and learning how to change shitty nappies.

Oh, yes, I’m up to my neck in it now, I really am.

BIO: Paul D. Brazill has had stories in A Twist Of Noir, Powder Burn Flash, Blink Ink, Thrillers Killers n Chillers, Beat To A Pulp, and other such classy joints. He writes for Pulp Metal Magazine and has also had stories accepted for a few print anthologies in in 2010. They are: Radgepacket Four, Howl: Dark Tales of the Feral, Daily Flash, HARBINGER*33, Bats In The Belfry, Flash! He can be found stalking ‘you would say that, wouldn’t you?’

A Twist Of Noir 370 - Paul D. Brazill

SMUDGE - PAUL D. BRAZILL

Previously published at Thrillers, Killers 'N Chillers last year

‘No one gets out of life without dirtying their hands,’ said Julian ‘Smudge’ Bogajski, watching the steam rise from his muddy coffee. Fitz just nodded and started digging into his bacon and eggs with all the enthusiasm of an ex-con in a bordello.

The Star Coffee Bar was stiflingly hot and cluttered with the usual hodge podge of waifs and strays that seemed to congregate at greasy spoons during the early evening. Behind the counter, Madge, a midget with a withered arm, was serving tea in half pint glasses to a couple of ageing Teddy Boys with fading tattoos. A sound system that was twice as big as Madge, blasted out a Mott The Hoople song.

Fitz’s head was pounding and he was starting to wish he’d gone to Smudge’s office now, but he really couldn’t risk being seen going in. He wanted to keep his problem as secret as possible and Smudge had a...reputation.

‘I’ve gone arse over tit many a time, metaphorically and literally,’ continued Smudge. ‘Especially when I’ve been imbibing.’

He picked up a napkin and shined his pearl Yin and Yang cuff links. Sitting back in his chair, he flicked lint from his black Hugo Boss suit, surveyed the room disinterestedly and then looked at his potential client.

Trevor Fitzroy was an overweight man in his late forties, wearing a safari suit and with an expression so hangdog as to make a basset hound jealous. Smudge could imagine him collecting comics and talcum powdering his palms before shaking hands. He was right on both counts.

Fitz absently scratched his arm with a fork. Without looking up, he said. ‘So, do you believe me?’

‘I’m a...facilitator,’ said Smudge, squirming as Fitz pulled a string of bacon rind from his mouth. ‘I’m impartial. It matters not a jot if I believe you or not. My responsibility is to listen to your story. And to act.’

Fitz stared out of the window at High Street, bustling with Christmas shoppers and glistening with fairy lights. A group of schoolkids raced past, chased by a wheezing Santa Claus.

‘So. Take it away. One more time,’ said Smudge with a grin.

‘Well, you see, I put it down to stress,’ said Fitz, shuffling in his seat. ‘Things went pear-shaped about a year ago. This recession. You know?’

Smudge nodded.

‘I lost my job. I’ve always had a bit of a weight problem and I’d tried my best to keep it under control but you know, as an insurance salesman...well, the company said I was bad for their image. I’d been with the firm all my life. I couldn’t face telling the wife and kids so I just continued leaving the house at the same time.’

He let out a wheezy sigh.

‘I returned home at the same time. I spent my days like a...a ghost. In the park. Library. Here. And, of course, I took out all sorts of loans to keep up the lifestyle. Rolling interest. You know?’

‘Unfortunately, I do,’ said Smudge.

‘And then I kept getting this urge. This compulsion. It came during the night. In the street. I’d never felt that way before. I’d always been a clean-living kinda guy.’

He downed his coffee in one.

‘I was in Harrods when the urge reached a...a crescendo. I was in the food hall. And I saw them. A massive bunch of Cumberland sausages. Juicy. Succulent. I just had to have them. Before I knew it, I’d whipped them off the shelf and stuffed them down the front of my trousers.’

‘Ahem,’ said Smudge.

‘And then I just wandered off, in some sort of a trance.’

‘And you ended up where?’ said Smudge.

‘In the lingerie section.’

‘Aha,’ said Smudge, licking his lips.

‘I don’t remember getting there. Like I say, I was in a...sort of...’

‘Trance. Yes, you did say.’

‘I came to when this vinegary-looking woman started screaming at me. Calling me a pervert.’

‘What had happened?’ said Smudge.

‘I looked down and realized that my fly was half open and one of the sausages was sticking out. The security guards came and then the police and then I was charged. With...with...’

‘With indecent exposure?’ said Smudge.

Fitz nodded. Madge plonked a plate of apple pie and custard in front of him. He started to breathe heavily.

‘But I’m not a perv. If this gets out, well... You believe me, don’t you? I need you to believe me, Mr. Bogajski.’

‘Strangely, I do,’ said Smudge. ’But the most important question, of course, is what I need to do to eradicate your problem and, more importantly for me, if you can afford to pay.’

‘I can, I can,’ said Fitz. ‘Are you sure you can help?’

Smudge nodded. ‘Give me the information, the name of the shop, the description of the woman and I’m sure I’ll be able to...renegotiate with her.’

Trembling, Fitz pushed a stuffed brown envelope over to Smudge.

‘It’s all there,’ he said. ‘Can you honestly do what you say?’

Smudge stood up, his suit impeccable, stretched his long arms and yawned.

‘I am – and have been – many things,’ said Smudge. ‘But I’m always honest. Hence the nickname.’

‘Eh?’ said Fitz.

‘Like in the Spandau Ballet song,’ said Smudge, picking up his briefcase.

‘I don’t follow,’ said Fitz.

‘True?’ said Smudge. ‘You must know it?’

Fitz looked bewildered.

‘Baa ba ba baa ba daa/I know this...’ sang Smudge as he walked out of the cafe, patting the Bowie knife holstered below his left shoulder.

BIO: Paul D. Brazill has had stories in A Twist Of Noir, Powder Burn Flash, Blink Ink, Thrillers Killers n Chillers, Beat To A Pulp, and other such classy joints. He writes for Pulp Metal Magazine and has also had stories accepted for a few print anthologies in in 2010. They are: Radgepacket Four, Howl: Dark Tales of the Feral, Daily Flash, HARBINGER*33, Bats In The Belfry, Flash! He can be found stalking ‘you would say that, wouldn’t you?’

A Twist Of Noir 351 - Paul D. Brazill

LATE NIGHT FILM - PAUL D. BRAZILL

Originally published in Disenthralled #3 in November 2009

Fade in.

It’s spring and, teetering precariously at the precipice of middle age, I become a self-imposed exile from London and get drunk between the moon and New York City. I know it’s crazy but it’s true. I set off with a half-arsed plan to hit the road, like Jack and Tom, and like so many half-arsed plans it all goes pear-shaped as quick as spit disappears on hot pavement.

Spring soon segues into a forty-two degree summer in Madrid. Close up on me burning my hand on the side of a taxi; falling into a fountain in Sol, as drunk as fuck; a row of prostitutes lined up outside a shop called Easy Everything, one of them blind; waking up in a shop doorway in the midday heat as a policeman goes for his gun. Freeze frame.

And then summer stumbles into autumn which tumbles into a winter in Warsaw’s snow smothered streets. More close ups: beer breakfasts in a twenty-four hour pub; the football stadium’s Russian market selling Nazi memorabilia; a Ukrainian lap dancer on her knees, snorting cocaine in the middle of Old Town square.

And then cut to a sparse apartment, walls splattered with blood that looks shitty in the pissy light. Then...

Fade Out.

BIO: Paul D. Brazill was born in Hartlepool, England and lives in Bydgoszcz, Poland. He has had stories in A Twist Of Noir, Beat To A Pulp, Blink Ink and other such classy joints. He can be found stalking Paul D. Brazill at Paul D. Brazill.

A Twist Of Noir 334 - Paul D. Brazill

WARSAW GHOSTS - PAUL D. BRAZILL

Originally published at Shoots & Vines Quarterly Print Four

A shadowy melody lapped at the shore of Krystyna’s sleep until she awoke drowning in sweat and stained by sour memories. The night air tasted like lead as she sat on the side of the crumpled bed, trying to flush away her doubts and murky thoughts with bourbon.

A sliver of moon garroted the coal black sky as Krystyna’s high heels clipped across the wet concrete, echoing through the deserted old town’s cobbled streets. Her breath appeared and disappeared like a spectre as she stood outside Klub Zodiak, its shimmering and buzzing neon sign reflected in a pool of blood that looked black in the moonlight.

Krystyna felt the cold metal in her fist as she slammed on the steel door of the nightclub until it creaked open. She pushed her way to the bar, breathing in the scent of cheap aftershave, cigarettes and booze. A sultry femme fatale on a chiaroscuro lit stage whispered a torch song that sparked the embers of a dream.

‘Bourbon?’ said Andrzej, the oak of a barman, his eyes as black as bullet holes, his voice like sandpaper.

Krystyna nodded, took off her raincoat and draped it over a bar stool.

‘Is he here?’ she said, downing her drink in one.

‘Of course,’ said Andrzej. ‘Where else would he be? He thinks that the moment he sets foot outside he’s a dead man. The paranoia is eating him like a cancer.’

‘Give him this,’ she said.

The shining wedding ring rattled and rolled along the marble bar.

‘That could be a big mistake,’ said Andrzej.

‘I just want to get clean for once in my life,’ said Krystyna.

‘No one gets out of life without dirtying their hands,’ said Andrzej, pouring himself a large Jack Daniels.

‘No one gets out of life alive,’ said Krystyna as she dissolved into the Warsaw night.

BIO: Paul D. Brazill was born in Hartlepool, England and lives in Bydgoszcz, Poland. He has had stories in Blink Ink, Disenthralled, Six Sentences, Powder Burn Flash, Beat To A Pulp and other such classy joints. He can be found stalking ‘you would say that, wouldn’t you?’

A Twist Of Noir 294 - Paul Brazill

THE STAR OF BETHNAL GREEN - PAUL D. BRAZILL

The big silver star hung there all year round; day in, day out. It dangled above the bar, slightly askew, just to the left of the West Ham United clock. Its tinsel border had pretty much molted to almost nothing and the glittery red Merry Xmas greeting had dandruffed so many barflies over the years that it was almost unreadable.

But Tommy Raw remembered the night that Frank hung it up. Or, to be precise, got someone else to hang it up since Frank was a corpulent slug who rarely moved from his stool at the end of the bar and spent most of his nights glaring at staff and customers alike. This was a man who once barred someone out of The Bethnal Star for laughing too loud and was universally loathed - a fact that seemed to give him pleasure, if, indeed, Frank was capable of pleasure.

Frank was also as tight as a gnat’s arse and, only hours after he was found dead behind the bar, some wag quipped that he’d died of a heart attack after finding a foreign coin in the till. But Tommy knew differently which, he supposed, was one of the reasons that he kept the star hanging there, long after he’d taken over as the pub’s landlord.

It was a reminder. A reminder of the fact that no matter what he’d done, or would do, he would never be as big a twat as Frank.

‘Merry Xmas, brother,’ said Tommy each Xmas Day with the flicker of a grin on his ruddy face as he remembered the fateful and fatal Christmas cracker that put Frank out of his own and everyone else’s misery.

BIO: Paul D. Brazill was born in Hartlepool, England and lives in Bydgoszcz, Poland. He has had stories in A Twist Of Noir, Powder Burn Flash, Thrillers Killers n Chillers, Beat To A Pulp, and other such classy joints. He can be found stalking ‘you would say that, wouldn’t you?’ He also writes a regular column, ‘I didn’t say that, did I?’ for Pulp Metal Magazine.

A Twist Of Noir 293 - Paul D. Brazill

M - PAUL D. BRAZILL

A version of this story is available in the LESS THAN THREE ebook

Freddy looked at the razor with the same mixture of contempt and relief that he’d felt since he first started shaving at twelve. He smothered his body with shaving foam and then glided the blade down his arms, legs, back, gut – everywhere.

He’d done it so many times that he didn’t need to concentrate, he just focused on the night in front of him, savouring the buzz that the can of Kronenburg and the spliff had given him.

A song corkscrewed through Freddy’s mind; a song he’d known for almost as many years as he’d been shaving. M’s song. The first time he’d heard it, it had been like lightning hitting a plane; like a kick in the eye with a stiletto heel. M’s first big hit and he was hooked immediately. He become a fan and then an obsessive.

And it wasn’t just M’s music. He bought her books. He saw her films – derided though they were. He even bought her perfume. His bedroom had been like a shrine to M for so many years and he couldn’t believe that tonight – because of some freak accident – he was actually going to met her. And more.

Salty O’Rourke, mournful in his black suit and top hat, took the money and closed the heavy door behind Freddy, who walked to where M lay, carrying a bottle of her favourite champagne and a single red rose. She was naked except for her jewellery, her crimson lips and bottle blonde hair standing out against the snowy white skin and the lavender cushions that she lay on.

Freddy placed the rose on her breasts, popped the champagne cork and made a toast. To us, he said. As he crawled on top of M, he felt the chill of the room and her cold, hard skin against his raw, flabby flesh.

Tonight, he felt, would be like the very first time for both of them.

BIO: Paul D. Brazill was born in Hartlepool, England and lives in Bydgoszcz, Poland. He has had stories in A Twist Of Noir, Powder Burn Flash, Thrillers Killers n Chillers, Beat To A Pulp, and other such classy joints. He can be found stalking ‘you would say that, wouldn’t you?’ He also writes a regular column, ‘I didn’t say that, did I?’ for Pulp Metal Magazine.

A Twist Of Noir 235 - Paul Brazill

THIS OLD HOUSE - PAUL D. BRAZILL

Originally published in a shorter version at Thrillers, Killers 'N' Chillers in April 2009

Ten Sycamore Hill was, in Peter James’ mind, the font of all of his misfortunes. While women, work, cars and kids came and went, the only constant in Peter’s turbulent life – apart from the copious amounts of alcohol that he consumed, of course - was that weather-beaten Victorian detached house overlooking Hart Village; its increasingly battered facade and interior seeming to degenerate with each one of his trials and tribulations.

With every one of Peter’s disappointments, a window frame would crumble; with every disaster - romantic or otherwise - a door handle would come loose or slates would be ripped from the roof by an unsympathetic wind; when his health failed, so did the heating. And, as Peter’s bank account was slowly depleted, the wallpaper and paint seamed to peel itself free from the walls before his eyes.

Each night, as a drunken Peter staggered back from another interminable drinking session at the Raby Arms, he would look up at his home perched on the hill, looming over the village like a great black crow and, soaked in alcoholic self-pity, he would curse: ‘Fuck. Fuckin’...fucker...fuck.’ Or words to that effect.

And then, one October, as Halloween loomed, Peter had an idea so bright that it was positively incandescent.

*

The Raby Arms, an anonymous country pub amongst a cluster of anonymous country pubs, was always smoggy - despite the smoking ban - and, indeed, the interior, including the mirrors, the windows and the faces of most of the regulars, all seemed to have a nicotine sheen. As on most nights, the pub was half-empty.

‘You know, it’s actually possible to kill someone with a bottle of Pepsi and a packet of Mintoes?’ said JT, peeling an unlit pin-sized roll up from his bottom lip.

Peter nodded.

‘Oh, aye?’ said Peter, as he hung his camel coat on the moose head coat rack and sat opposite JT with a sigh. ‘Not a lot of people know that.’

‘Aye,’ said JT. ‘Well, it’s true. According to Big Jim. Reckons that he saw it on that YOU TUBE.’

JT, a gaunt, jaundiced-looking man with a spidery black quiff, was sat at his usual corner table, near a buzzing slot machine, drumming his fingers on his pint glass to The Shadow’s ‘Apache’, which played from to a crackly speaker.

Peter sipped his pint of Stella, gazed at the fading bat-wing tattoos on his hands and faded in on the memory of a drunken night at a Newcastle tattoo parlor that then segued into the time he first met his wife, Deborah, at Astros nightclub. Twenty five years ago now. There’d been a lot of booze under the bridge since then, he thought.

He looked at JT. A former hardman, just like him, and had a flashback to the night when it all started to go wrong. When they’d thrown a rowdy punter down the stairs at Astros with a little too much enthusiasm. The policemen on the scene had also shown a little too much enthusiasm for the arrest and the ensued injuries had, luckily for Peter and JT, resulted in a suspended sentence. But the stains remained.

There was a loud bang and Big Jim burst through the doors. Peter and JT both laughed as Jim stumbled into the toilets, his fly open, muttering to himself.

‘Here he is, the David Niven of Hart Village,’ smirked JT.

‘So you reckon it’s a non-starter then?’ said Peter, massaging his left arm.

JT took a swig of Stella.

‘Oh, aye. Great idea. Get Big Jim to burn down your house and then collect on the insurance. A foolproof plan, that. About as foolproof as that canoeist that did a Lord Lucan and ended up getting spotted in Rio or somewhere.’

JT had a point, thought Peter. Big Jim wasn’t exactly the sharpest tool in the box. He remembered the time in the pub quiz when Big Jim had answered a question about the largest Loch in Scotland with ‘Chub’. However, Jim was cheap and Peter really wanted rid of that house. The bills were mounting up and the Invalidity Benefit that he’s started getting after his first heart attack barely covered his drinking sessions.

Peter sighed again and slouched in his chair as he wiped his sweating brow with his ubiquitous tie.

‘Just think,’ he said. ‘Bonfire Night’s coming up. It’s like Full Matal Jacket out there some nights. This time of year, kids are always pushing bangers and fireworks through people letterboxes. It’s happened to me loads of times. Now, if I happen to leave some booze splashed around the place and work on my motorbike in the front room and it catches fire, well...’

They both looked up as Big Jim plonked down next to them.

‘Peter, I’m your man,’ said Big Jim.

‘I’ll take that with a mountain of Saxa,’ said JT.

*

The night stumbled on and JT and Big Jim left Peter propped up at the bar, tearing the label from a bottle of Newcastle Brown. He was watching Lewis, trying to ignore the numb feeling in his arm. It had been creeping up on him with greater regularity these days. Doctors were out of the question. Overpaid quacks, he thought. Well, he had thought that since Dr. Khan had misdiagnosed his dad’s cancer as ‘constipation’ a few years before. Feeling weak, he went to sit down when he heard the bang.

‘Bollox!’ he shouted. ‘He hasn’t... he...’

Hot, sweating and wheezing, Peter rushed out of the pub and up the cobbled path towards his burning home.

‘Tosser!’ he shouted at Big Jim, who was tripping, tumbling and stumbling down the path in a panic.

Peter was burning up with anger and the pain in his arm was getting worse. He suddenly heard a sound behind him, turned and saw a bedraggled bunch of vampires, werewolves and ghosts.

‘Trick or treat!’ they shouted.

‘Oh, bollox,’ whispered Peter and then he gasped and crumpled to the ground like a demolished building.

The weight of a mammoth was on Peter’s chest before the last stages of the coronary kicked in. The costumed kids deftly lifted his wallet and watch and, as they frisked him, Peter looked up at his burning house and saw its black silhouette against the waxing moon, his vision starting to fade.

Ten Sycamore Hill’s windows and front door seemed to light up a glowing red, like the eyes and mouth of a grinning Jack O’Lantern, the flames darting about like a lunatic’s tongue. And then he thought he heard a maniacal laugh.

BIO: Paul D. Brazill was born in Hartlepool, England and is on the lam in Bydgoszcz, Poland. He can be found stalking ‘you would say that, wouldn’t you?’.

A Twist Of Noir 145 - Paul Brazill

IN THE DOG HOUSE - PAUL D. BRAZILL

Originally appeared at Powder Burn Flash in January 2009

Bonny is volcanic. She’s so angry that she can hardly speak but, unfortunately for me, hardly is the operative word. As she tries to scrub the blood stains from my best white shirt, she goes on and on about the meal she’d cooked the night before and how long it had taken her to cook it. She keeps asking me over and over again if I want to live on burgers all my life and why, if I’m going to spend all of my time hanging around a dirty warehouse with a bunch of psychos that look like Blues Brothers rejects, I can't at least pick up the phone and call to say I’ll be home late.

My head is hurting, my stomach is rumbling and I’m tired. Bonny is starting to sound like a duck quack quack quacking, so I turn on the radio hoping it isn’t more ‘Sounds of the Seventies’, as I’ve really had my fill of that shit the last few days. The DJ’s monotone drone introduces some LA band destroying a Neil Diamond classic so I switch it off again.

Noticing that the heat from Bonny’s eruption has started to cool down, I present her with a bag containing the proceeds of my recent job. When she sees the rare coins in the bag, Bonny’s jaw drops so much you could scrape carpet fluff from it and she lets rip with a string of expletives, so strong that they would even make the young Eddie Murphy blush. Almost tearing off her nurse’s uniform, she runs toward me screaming like a banshee.

Afterwards, when I know that it’s safe, I suggest that maybe we could go out for something to eat. We could even try that Hawaiian burger joint that’s just opened up nearby. Hands on hips, Bonny laughs and says, okay, as long as I promise not to wear that dumb Speed Racer t-shirt that makes me look like a nerd.

Anything you say, I reply and start to walk into the bathroom before stopping and saying that, shit, if the service in that restaurant is any good today, I might even leave a tip.

BIO: Paul D. Brazill has been lucky enought to have had stories in A Twist Of Noir, Powder Burn Flash, The Legendary, Beat To A Pulp, Thriller Killers n Chillers, Blink Ink, The Flash Fiction Offensive, Shoots & Vines, Six Sentences and Flashshots. His print published work is in the book Six Sentences Volume Two and the Finnish magazine Ässä.(ACE) and coming soon...

He can be found stalking ‘you would say that, wouldn’t you?’

A Twist Of Noir 102 - Paul D. Brazill

THE FRIEND CATCHER - PAUL D. BRAZILL

The morning after Charlotte killed her father, the air tasted like lead and the sky was gun metal grey. She spent the day just staring out of the window of her East London flat, barely focusing on the rows of concrete blocks being smudged by the Autumn rain.

The ensuing days of gloom collided with weeks and the weeks crashed into months.

And then it was Spring.

*

Charlotte put on her make-up, rubbed talcum powder on her thighs and pulled on her XL pink shell suit before heading off to cash her mother’s pension at the post office. As per usual, she slammed the door of the flat behind her and, as loud as possible, shouted:

‘Won’t be long, mum!’

Then, she took a deep breath and headed down the emergency staircase.

Charlotte had always been blessed - or maybe cursed - with an over-ripe imagination and, as she rushed down the stairs, she imagined all sorts of spectres, smack-heads and psychos lurking in the stairwell’s darkened nooks and crannies. Still, it was preferable to using the rickety lift, which broke down more often than not.

Sweating and wheezing, she reached the bottom floor and realised that she’d left her medication - her security blanket - at home. Not feeling able to climb the stairs to the twelfth floor, she reluctantly stepped into the lift. Just before the doors rattled to a close, The Friend Catcher pushed his way in.

*

Charlotte was finding it almost impossible to tear her eyes away from the pulsating boil on the side of The Friend Catcher’s neck since, despite its size and repulsive condition, it was a far preferable sight to the one dangling like a gigantic dewdrop from the end of the old man’s crooked nose.

Given the choice, of course, she would more than happily have looked at something more edifying but, unfortunately for her, there wasn’t much else to gaze upon in the piss-smelling, graffiti-stained, syringe-strewn lift where she and The Friend Catcher had found themselves trapped between floors.

The Friend Catcher didn’t seem perturbed at all. He just sighed and scrutinised the lewd and lurid graffiti that littered the wall.

*

The Friend Catcher had moved into a flat on the same floor as Charlotte’s parents in the 1980’s, at the time when all sorts of waifs and strays and odds and ends of society were being scattered across the capital as part of Mrs Thatcher’s misbegotten Care In The Community campaign.

The strange-looking new neighbour - with his stoop, hawked nose, black fedora and greatcoat, looking like a long black shadow - quickly fed the imagination of the local children, Charlotte in particular. A situation that was heightened by the fact that, in archetypal serial killer fashion, the man kept himself to himself.

According to some of the kids, he was a vampire - although the fact that he was regularly seen in daylight pretty much scuppered that idea - while others speculated that he was, in fact, Jack The Ripper. Although his advanced age wasn’t quite advanced enough to support that theory.

However, it was his resemblance to a scary character in the film ‘Chitty-Chitty Bang-Bang’ that earned him the nickname The Friend Catcher, which, like most nicknames, stuck for years to come.

*

Eventually, he spoke.

‘Like flies in a web,’ he said, in what sounded like an Eastern European accent.

‘What?’ said Charlotte, whose legs were starting to ache.

‘We’re trapped like flies in a spiderweb,’ said The Friend Catcher as he rooted in one of his Iceland shopping bags.

Charlotte nodded. She was starting to sweat now and really wished she had the diazapam with her. She tried the deep breathing that the psychiatric nurse at the Mausley Hospital had taught her.

‘Here,’ said The Friend Catcher and he held out a bottle of some clear liquid with a label that Charlotte didn’t recognise.

Charlotte quickly remembered the stories had circulated of how he was actually a psychotic taxidermist who would snatch children from the street, drag them back to his flat and stuff them. She had visions of being drugged, filled with formaldehyde and being stuffed.

‘Relax,’ said the old man. ‘Polish vodka.’

Charlotte looked at the label and almost laughed with relief. She twisted off the cap and took a long gulp.

‘Your father used to drink it in the The Aversham Arms. I used to see your father in that pub a lot. Before his accident.’

*

Charlotte had a flashback to the night that Walter Hill had come home drunk from The Aversham Arms and, as usual, had started an an argument. An argument that had once again erupted into violence. Walter was an oak of a man who had no problems over powering his sick, stumpy wife and indeed this would have been the case had Charlotte not been there. She ran at her father, sobbing, and, with all of her weight, she slammed him against the wall. Falling on top of him, she held him down until he stopped breathing. The police accepted that he’d had a heart attack while drunk and left her to take care of her mother.

*

‘Yes, I was a pilot in the 303 Squadron. I flew in your Battle of Britain.’ said The Friend Catcher, pointing to a fading photograph on the wall of his musty-smelling flat.

‘Amazing,’ said Charlotte, who was admiring a picture of the then-handsome and young Tadeusz Koc as he stood beside a Spitfire Mk.Vb with Misia, the squadrons mascot. She was more than a little tipsy. Her mother had always said that she could get drunk on the sniff of a barmaid's apron but she was so relieved to get out of the lift that she couldn’t resist the offer of a sit down and a drink in Tadeusz’s flat.

‘My wife and I lived near Borough market, on the High Street, for almost forty years until your government decided to gentrify the area and sell it off to yuppies,’ said Tadeusz. ‘When they sent us the official letter the...’

‘Compulsory Purchase Order?’ said Charlotte.

‘Exactly! Well, my wife soon became depressed. She died on the night before we moved out.’ Tadeusz swayed a little.

Charlotte could feel herself becoming tearful and small red dots started to appear before her eyes and her head ached.

‘But...that is the past and we have to be strong, eh? We Poles are strong people. And you are a strong woman taking care of your mother for so long.’

And then Charlotte started to sob.

*

The words tumbled out of Charlotte’s mouth like a gang of drunks staggering out of a pub at closing time; disorderly and unruly. She told of how her mother’s cancer had spread and she had become more and more ill.

Again and again, she had begged for Charlotte to stop the pain and so, one cold dawn, as she saw the red splashes spreading in front of her eyes and the dull headache become a sharper pain in her forehead, she smothered her mother to death against her breast.

Tadeusz sighed and nodded.

‘An unhappy life is a vice with a powerful grip,’ he said. ‘I am alone now. And each day, I feel more and more pain...emptiness. Just...just waiting for...release.’

And then, breathing heavily, Charlotte saw the red splashes spreading like a Rorschach test and she felt the sharp pain in her forehead, as if a stiletto heel had been slammed between her eyes and so she rose to her feet and hugged The Friend Catcher with all her strength. She hugged him until his life faded away, just like hot breath on a cold window pane.

BIO: Paul D. Brazill was born in Hartlepool, England and is now on the lam in Bydgoszcz, Poland. He has had stories in (or coming up in) Shoots & Vines, Powder Burn Flash, Six Sentences, A Twist Of Noir, Thriller Killers n Chillers, Flashshots, Beat To A Pulp and the book 6S2V. He can be found stalking ‘you would say that, wouldn’t you?’ and Paul D. Brazill.

A Twist Of Noir 087 - Paul D. Brazill

SWAMPLANDS - PAUL D. BRAZILL

Swamplands was originally published in Flashshots

Elvis awoke in a cold, dank sweat, hungover from bourbon and bad dreams. The nightmare had consisted of him being hunted through a swamp by the murderous spectre of his stillborn twin and his pounding heartbeat seemed to echo through the mansion.

He stumbled into the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face and looked in the mirror to face his own ashen reflection and that of his grinning doppelganger.

Aaron tightly wrapped the umbilical cord around Elvis’ throat and pulled it until his brother breathed no more.

The king is dead, long live the king, he muttered.

BIO: Paul D. Brazill was born in Hartlepool, England and is now on the lam in Bydgoszcz, Poland. He has had stories in (or coming up in) Shoots & Vines, Powder Burn Flash, Six Sentences, A Twist Of Noir, Thriller Killers n Chillers, Flashshots, Beat To A Pulp and the book 6S2V. He can be found stalking ‘you would say that, wouldn’t you?’ and Paul D. Brazill.

A Twist Of Noir 073 - Paul Brazill

BINGO MASTER'S BREAKOUT - PAUL BRAZILL

Bingo Master’s Breakout is a reworking of Sleeping It Off which appeared at Powder Burn Flash.

In the beginning is the sound. The light comes later.

The sound is a thump, thump, thump that goes on and on and on, over and over again and drags me by my lapels into consciousness.

I open my eyes and shards of sunlight slice through the blinds. Squinting, I focus on the worn Francoise Hardy poster on the wall and the familiar red flock wallpaper. Once again I’ve fallen asleep fully clothed on my sofa, tangled up in a tartan blanket which has seen better days, and nights. The coffee table and the floor near the sofa are littered with the usual debris of beer cans and whisky and gin bottles.

I pick up a half full can of Stella, lay back and steadily sip.

Memories of the previous night trample over my thoughts with dirty feet and eventually, I turn on my side and look around the room.

As well as the usual alcohol, the table is covered in a fair amount of Colombian marching powder and in the corner of the room, next to the CD player, holding a glass of what looks like gin and tonic, face down in a pool of puke, is a man.

And he’s dead.

*

The evening was melting into night and dark, malignant clouds were spreading themselves across the sky. I pulled down the metal shutters and locked up Las Vegas Amusements as a battered yellow taxi cab spluttered to a halt in front of the arcade.

I shuffled into the back seat of the cab as the driver struck a match on the NO SMOKING sign and lit his cigar.

’Astros?’ said the driver.

‘Aye’, I replied, nodding, ‘Same shit, different day.’

‘Didn’t you say that yesterday?’ he smirked.

The taxi snaked its way along the sea front, past pubs, greasy spoons, gift shops and amusement arcades, as the rain fell down in sheets. We pulled up outside Astros as a leathery bottle blond struggled to control a black umbrella which fluttered and flapped like a big black bat trying to escape from her grip.

‘Eyes down,’ said the taxi driver when he gave me my change. Being a bingo caller, I got that sort of thing all the time and it never failed to amuse the person who said it.

*

I was trying to catch the pasty faced barmaid's eye when, dressed in a white linen suit and a gaudy Hawaiian shirt, a blast from the past that was positively seismic burst into the bar. Jim Lawson, a man with a face like a blackcurrant crumble, a liver like the Great Barrier Reef and the smell of a soggy mongrel, sidled up to me, shuffling and sniffling, moving in close and conspiratorially like a double-agent in a Harry Palmer film.

’Jesus Christ,’ I said.

‘Close but no cigar,’ said Jim, wiping the happy-talc from his nose. ‘Thought, I’d find you here.’

‘Long time no see,’ I said.

’Sounds like a Chinese take-away,’ smirked Jim.

‘Aye, you could make that into a joke. Albeit not a particularly funny one,’ I said, slowly tearing up a beer mat.

‘It’s been donkey’s years,’ I said. ‘Still doing the sleazy hack thing in Bucharest?’

‘Oh, aye,’ said Jim. ‘Still dishing out the spare change and bingo calling for pensioners at Las Vegas, eh? Clickety–click, two fat ladies and that?’

I nodded, suddenly draped in a drab cloak of gloom.

‘I imagine you’ve a few tawdry tales to tell, eh?’ I said. ‘Louche bars and lithium dens, that sort of thing?’

‘More than a few,’ said Jim.

We sat at a rickety table in the corner, with two pints of Stella and whisky chasers, near what must have been the Xmas tree version of mutton done up as lamb – emaciated and overdressed in as much yuletide tat as possible.

‘How's the great unfinished novel?’ said Jim.

‘Not so great. Still unfinished,’ I said.

‘Well, have a butcher's at this. Eyes down, ‘he said, grinning as he dumped a massive manuscript on the table. On the front was the title: ‘Destination Lurid’ by James G. Lawson.’ I was uncharacteristically speechless.

‘It won’t bite,’ said Jim, wiping a bead of sweat from his top lip.’Get stuck in there. ’

And so, I looked. And, of course,as luck would have it, it was good. Very good. A potboiler, for sure, but what a potboiler! I was hooked from the first page. Line and friggin’ sinker!

‘I’m off down the smoke to see an agent on Monday,’ said Jim, looking more than a little pleased with himself. ‘ I sent a sample chapter off to a few friends of friends and Bob’s your Uncle and Fanny’s your Aunt.’

And me? I just started pulling so hard on the threads of my life that the whole thing was starting to unravel.

I took another gulp of whisky and headed toward oblivion, like dirty dishwater down a plughole.

*

In the early hours of the morning, when I awoke back at my flat, The Walker Brother’s ‘The Electrician’ was playing at a low volume and Jim was laying on the floor foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog. And then he went into convulsions.

I drained a glass of gin, turned over and went back to sleep.

*

I take the drink from Jim’s hand, and slowly sip it until I start to feel warm and glowing, like one of the kids in the old Ready Brek advert. Then, I drag the body into the kitchen and, struggling, dump it into the freezer, covering it with packets of frozen peas and fish fingers.

James G. Lawson is as good a pen name as any, I think, as I switch on the computer to check the Monday train times to London, before polishing off the gin.

I look around, see that I’m out of booze and take a wad of cash from Jim’s wallet. No worries, it’s nearly opening time.

BIO: Paul Brazill was born in Hartlepool, England and is now on the lam in Bydgoszcz, Poland. He has had stories in (or coming up in) Powder Burn Flash, Six Sentences, A Twist Of Noir, Thriller Killers 'n' Chillers, Flashshots, Beat To A Pulp and the book 6S2V. He can be found stalking ‘you would say that, wouldn’t you?’ at and Paul D. Brazill.

A Twist Of Noir 064 - Paul Brazill

BLACK & WHITE & RED ALL OVER - PAUL BRAZILL

Originally appeared in Six Sentences last year in another form

When I think about it, my most vivid and powerful memories of childhood are in black and white. The monochrome of the Saturday morning Odeon’s Kidz-Klub, and the Hollywood films on afternoon television, seemed so much more vibrant than anything that real life could come up with.

And, as you would expect of someone who grew up living more fully in his imagination than in the day-to-day, adulthood proved to be a series of disappointments and non-events.

Nightclubs, for example, were, in my mind, bustling with tough guys in pinstriped suits, wise-cracking cigarettes girls and sultry Femme Fatales belting out torch songs on a Chiaroscuro-lit stage. So, when I eventually stumbled into the grim reality - sticky carpets, overflowing toilets and beer bellied men with no necks and faces like black current crumbles staggering around a smokey, pokey dance floor with leathery, bottle blondes - my heart sank like the Titanic.

And now, every weekend, with Sisyphean resignation, I drag myself to sit at the bar in Astros Nite-Spot where only the splashes of blood that the regulars spill as casually as their watery lager brighten up an otherwise dreary and uniform night. And, no, the irony of this situation has not escaped me.

*

It was my birthday and I was nestled on my usual bar stool, calmly contemplating the evening’s third double whisky, the ice cubes shimmering, glimmering and glowing in the wan light, when I briefly turned my gaze outside to where the rain poured down in sheets and the wet pavement reflected Astros flickering neon sign. Walking towards the bar was Melissa.

Melissa and I had been joined at the waist for just over a year before the cracks started appearing in what I had, until then, considered to be, at least for me, a fairly solid relationship, despite its sporadically psychotic episodes - which were invariable acerbated by copious amounts of alcohol. It was as winter melted into spring that the foundations of the house of love started to shake, a time that coincided with the reappearance of a blast from Melissa’s past in the corpulent shape of her erstwhile fiance, Billy Rogan.

As the months wore on, however, my temper was becoming increasingly inflamed by Billy and Melissa’s shameless flirting. So, that wet and windy night in May, after a particularly prolific drinking session, I challenged Billy to what, once upon a time, would have been referred to as a duel.

In a dark and dingy alley outside the Methodist church, stripped to the waist in the pouring rain, illuminated only by the light from a stained glass window, Billy bopped around like Muhammad Ali, albeit a fat white and wheezy Ali. I took off my horn-rimmed glasses and carefully placed them on a wheelie bin for safekeeping and, as I turned, I was sucker-punched by a big pink blancmange and sent hurtling into a pile of black binbags that spilled their rancid contents across the alley.

‘And let that be a lesson to you,’ I said to Billy, who was towering over me like a gloating Godzilla over a demolished Tokyo.

‘Wanker,’ replied puffing Billy before triumphantly waddling off, hand in glove with Melissa, leaving me alone to light a cigarette, lay back, close my eyes and inhale deeply in a manner that I hoped was reminiscent of Jean-Paul Belmondo at the close of Jean-Luc Godard’s À Bout de Souffle.

BIO: Paul Brazill was born in Hartlepool, England - a town famous for hanging a monkey - and is now on the lam in Bydgoszcz, Poland (South of Hel). He has had stories in (or coming up in) A Twist Of Noir, Beat To A Pulp, Flashshots, Powder Burn Flash, Six Sentences and, the book 6S2V. He can be found stalking ‘You would say that, wouldn’t you?’

A Twist Of Noir 059 - Paul Brazill

THE MAN BEHIND THE CURTAIN - PAUL BRAZILL

It was shortly after the pitter-patter of tiny feet had been drowned out by the rat-a-tat-tat of the debt collector’s knocks that Carole Parker considered killing her husband. But it wasn’t until many years later, when her daughter Kate had grown up and flown the nest, that she actually decided to do it.

Carole had barely been out of her teens when Doctor James Parker, as glimmering and sophisticated as a Brandy Alexander, swept through her hum-drum life like a tornado, picked her up like Dorothy and plonked her in an Oz that bore more than a passing resemblance to Chiswick, West London.

As the years trundled on, however, James’s gambling and drinking habits ballooned to the size of the Hindenburg, his mood swings and behaviour grew more and more erratic and Oz turned out to be no place like home.

Carole’s initial, overriding feeling of disappointment eventually melded into a hate that slowly marinaded until it congealed into a cold, hard contempt.

*

Carole, who had been studying Chemistry at Durham University when she met James, found that she couldn't safely rely on him for an income and she eventually took a part time job at Bogajski’s Veterinary Practice in Holland Park, an upmarket joint that pampered the pets of B and C-list celebrities. Over the years, a bottle of chloral hydrate that nestled on a shelf at work had stood out like the lone, beautiful whore in a rundown brothel, teasing and tempting Carole. The years had stretched out like a long summer shadow until, at last, she spiked a bottle of Mortlach - James’s favourite whisky - and headed home.

*

Carole got off the 94 bus at Turnham Green and glimpsed her reflection in the newsagent's window. Her heart sank like the Titanic. As she looked at the frump in the window she remembered overhearing a couple of shiny, happy WAGs talking about her as they sat in the vet's waiting room.

‘Not bad looking but a bit on the drab side’, the northern one had said.

‘Dowdy and past her sell-by date,’ commented the other, in a grating Estuary accent.

‘About time for a make-over,’ they giggled.

It had hurt but Carole could hardly disagree and she’d been depressed for days after. What had happened to the vivacious young woman who used to light up a room like a firework display? She’d been drowned in a flat cocktail of debt and drudgery but there was still a spark, she knew.

Well, she thought, with James out of the way - and his insurance money in the bank - there would be a rebirth. A phoenix from the ashes. A flush of excitement burst free like a champagne cork but by the time she stood at the gate of her semi-detached house that excitement was waning and being replaced with fear. Fear of prison if she was caught. Fear of what Kate would think. And then the guilt, the doubt and the panic hit her like a tsunami.

Then she saw the car. A big grey BMW that was parked outside her house looking like a shark that was waiting to strike.

*

‘There are, of course, myriad negotiation techniques,’ said Detective Sergent Frank Cook, in a voice not dissimilar to that of the tiger in the Jungle Book film. ‘One of the most popular is a two-hander, as it were, known as the good-cop/ bad-cop. But I, however, am here alone today and I am as far from a good cop as you can imagine so I think I’ll just stick to the Corleone method.’

Carole was focused now. She looked at James but he just looked pathetic, like a scolded schoolboy. His face was bleeding and snotty and the fingers of his left hand hung limp. With his shaking right hand, he signed the contract as Frank Cook hovered over him like Godzilla over a flattened Tokyo. James was a big man - he’d played prop forward for Durham University - but Frank was bigger, with a face that looked as if it had recently been scrubbed by a Brillo pad and big, big hands, one of which held a big, shiny bloodstained Glock 29. The moment that Carole signed the paper she could feel her life slipping away like dishwater down a plughole.

‘Congratulations,’ said Frank. ‘You are now the proud owners of ..well ... life.’ He grinned like a game show host, pushed the deeds to the house in the pocket of his Armani jacket and then indifferently threw an IOU towards James.

‘I do believe we should have a little snifter to celebrate, don’t you?’ said Frank, putting a CD into the player. ‘I think Doctor James here is certainly in need of a little hair of the dog that fucked him up.’

Carole went over to the drinks cabinet. She took a swig of Glenfidich before passing the bottle over to James, who gulped it down like a drowning man gasping for the last breath of air.
Puccini’s Tosca blasted out as Frank looked at a photograph on the wall: Carole and Jimmy on honeymoon in Las Vegas, looking full of life and future.

‘Those were the days, my friends, eh?’ said Frank, turning and spotting Carole’s Sainsbury’s bag. ‘And is that a bottle of Mortlach, I spy? I hope you’re not keeping the good stuff for yourself.’

For the next few minutes, Carole seemed to step out of herself as if she were watching a film. She poured the Mortlach for Frank and let it all happen. About halfway through Tosca’s third act, as church bells rang, Frank started babbling, puking and convulsing and, by the late evening, he was dead.

*

Outside The City Barge, a bustling pub overlooking the Thames, the speakers were blasting out an old Eddie & The Hot Rods song. A jet ski cut across the water and Carole flashed back to the previous month when she and James had dumped Frank Cook’s body and BMW in the river’s murky water, somewhere near the Isle of Dogs.

A small aeroplane left a trail of white foam across the vivid blue sky. Carole smiled to herself as she showed her friends the shiny red shoes that she’d bought from Harvey Nichols with one of James's many credit cards.

‘I think I saw your husband looking out of the window again today,’ said Sarah, a mousy woman with mousy hair. ‘Is that all he does these days? He seems to peek through the curtains whenever I park near you. Is he turning into a Peeping Tom?’

Carole laughed. That really was all James did now. Snoop. He was at the window day and night waiting for reprisals from Frank’s cronies. Reprisals that she doubted would come.

If anyone missed Frank Cook or thought that he’d been murdered, she doubted that they would suspect a boring suburban couple like her and James. And if they did, well, she had that big, shiny gun in her handbag, just in case.

‘Oh, pay no attention to the man behind the curtain,’ chuckled Carole as she drained her glass of Pimms and lemonade. ‘Same again?’

BIO: Paul Brazill was born in Hartlepool, England - a town famous for hanging a monkey - and is now on the lam in Bydgoszcz, Poland (South of Hel). He has had stories in (or coming up in) A Twist Of Noir, Beat To A Pulp, Flashshots, Powder Burn Flash, Six Sentences and, the book 6S2V. He can be found stalking ‘You would say that, wouldn’t you?’

A Twist Of Noir 058 - Paul Brazill

SINS OF THE FATHER - PAUL BRAZILL

Father Tim had sat through confession waiting for the juicy bits much as, when he was a kid, he’d sat through some ropey BBC Sunday evening costume drama hoping for the flash of a bit of tit. Although the hip flask of rum had dimmed the glare of the self-pity that he’d had to endure, it was really only the lurid details of the sinners’ sordid shenanigans that blew his cassock up these days.

The hot August evening had long since waned and Father Tim was outside St.Martin’s locking up as a shoeless Mad Mack shambled toward the church looking like a duffed-up Worzel Gummidge and sporting a split lip, bloody feet and a torn AC/DC t-shirt. Now, even on his best days, Mack wasn’t exactly what you would call a handsome man and looking at at him bathed in the light from the stained glass windows Father Tim once again doubted whether the Good Lord had, indeed, created Mad Mack in His image.

‘I need to confess something,’ said Mack, spitting and spraying blood.

‘Mortal or venal,’ said Father Tim.

‘Venal, I think,’ said Mack.

They went inside and Tim nodded toward the confessional, laying down a path of paper towels.

‘Walk on this son, it’s a right pain in the whotsit getting blood from mahogany,’ said Father Tim.

‘I feel a bit like Kwai Chang Cain,’ said Mack, chuckling.

‘Sharpish,’ said Father Tim, looking at his watch. ‘Antiques Roadshow’s on in a minute.’

*

‘Bless me Father, for I have sinned,’ said Mad Mack. ‘It’s as been five weeks since my last confession.’

‘Go on,’ said Tim, leaning his head against the lattice grid and closing his eyes.

‘Well, it all started when I went up north,’ said Mack.

‘Aaah,’ said Father Tim, nodding. ‘The north. Where up north exactly? Birmingham? Sheffield?’

‘Oh, no. The real north,’ said Mack. ‘Newcastle. You know, mushy peas, blackpudding, peas pudding, fishy-wishy-fuckin-dishy.’

Tim coughed. ‘Language.’

‘Sorry,’ said Mack, crossing himself. ‘Anyway, Frank sent me to collect some dosh from this wannabee Champions League whiz-kid who owed him a fortune from back in the day and, using my well known negotiation techniques...’ He tapped the cold Glock under his arm. ‘Everything went tickety boo. I collected the money and my usual souvenir.’

Father Tim, who was familiar with Mad Mack’s method’s, instinctively tugged on his ear lobe.

‘Then, I booked myself into a Travellers Inn for the night, knocked back a few pints of Newcastle Brown, had a few spliffs and slept the sleep of the just. But the next day, on the A1 (M), just outside Leeds - and I really effing hate Leeds, by the way -the car breaks down. Of course, it’s a ringer - one of those mish-mash jobs from Anarchy Al - and I’m up poo creek without a paddle. I can’t exactly call the AA - well, not that AA - and I don’t want to run the risk of being spotted by the filth. So, I pick up my bag of tracks and set off on shanks’ pony.

‘Two hours later, there I am, trudging along the motorway sweating like Gary Glitter in a orphanage, with a throat like a nun’s knickers, trying to hitch a lift when this big flash camper van thing pulls up. It looks just like the one in that Tintin Quarantino film. You know the one about the vampires?’

‘Oh yes, of course,’ yawned Father Tim, taking out his Nokia and starting a game of Snake.

‘But I get in and, behind the wheel, there’s this big, red-faced Scouser who introduces himself as Eddy Hill and poking her head from the back is this well-fit Latino-looking bird, who he says is his wife, Luba.’

Father Tim leaned forward, concentrating on getting the top score on his phone game.

‘So,’ continued Mack, ‘He puts on a bit of music - Roundabout by Yes, classic -and passes over a bit of happy talc and, before you know, we’re chatting away andhave a right old chinwag. Just outside Milton Keynes, Luba shouts that lunch is ready and we pull up at a lay-by near them concrete friggin’ cows.

‘Now, when I get in the back, Luba’s laying flat on her back, legs akimbo on a zebra-striped bed and she’s all done up in sussies and that, like Joan Collins in ‘The Bitch’. I look over at Eddy, who says: ‘Go on lad, fill yer boots!’ So, I pulls off my shoes and socks and, before I know it, she’s on her knees doing Come Blow Your Horn.

‘Well, I’m on me way to shootin’ my load when I spies Eddy and he’s got a camcorder on his shoulder. And then it dawns on me. This is one of those Dogging things I’ve read about in the Sunday Sport. You know what Dogging is Father?’

‘I know,’ said Father Tim, distracted from his phone game. ‘Dogging is a euphemism for engaging in sexual acts in a semi-public place or watching others doing so. A lot of these activities appear on the Internet, on ‘You Tube’ and the like.’

‘Spot on,’ said Mad Mack. ‘Now, normally I wouldn’t give a shite but if this ends up on ‘You Tube’ and Frank finds out - well, the poo really will hit the fan.

‘So, I told Eddy to put the camera down but he says: ‘No, get stuck in there, lad.’ So we argue a bit and scuffle a bit more and then him and her push me out of the back of the van and drive off. And they take my bag, my gun, the ear and the money with them. And me Nike’s.

‘Frig knows what’ll happen if they go to the police...’

‘Exactly how much money are we talking about here, Mack?’ said Father Tim.

‘About fifty grand but it’s the coppers I’m worried about. I’ve been caught on Candid Camera like Beadle’s still about, God rest his soul. Anyway, the thing is, I was hoping you’d absolve me off my sins before I go and tell Frank. And maybe put in a good word for me?’

Father Tim shrugged. ‘Have you told anyone else about this?’

‘Not a dicky bird,’ said Mad Mack.

Father Tim nodded.

‘Dominus noster Jesus Christus te absolvat; et ego auctoritate ipsius te absolvo ab omni vinculo excommunicationis...’ said Father Tim.

If Mad Mack was shocked when he saw the shining barrel of a Glock 29 pointing at him through the lattice grid, he was unable to react before Father Tim muttered: ‘Sic transit Gloria friggin’ Gaynor,’ and blasted Mack’s brains all over the confessional, producing a passable Jackson Pollock.

Cleanliness is next to Godliness, thought Father Tim, as he scraped the blood from his dog collar. It was a good job Antiques Roadshow was a repeat.

BIO: Paul Brazill was born in Hartlepool, England a town famous for hanging a monkey, and is now on the lam in Bydgoszcz, Poland (South of Hel) He has had stories in (or coming up in) A Twist Of Noir, Beat To A Pulp, Flasshots, Powder Burn Flash, Six Sentences and, the book 6S2V. He can be found stalking at ‘You would say that, wouldn’t you?’.