Interlude Stories: Rob Kitchin

CASANOVA SUCCUMBS TO TWO-TON TINA - ROB KITCHIN

The three Dublin cops stared up at the red Georgian door, its paint peeling to reveal a drab, grey undercoat, the semi-circular window above covered in grime.

‘Are you sure this is the right address?’ Harry said.

‘That’s what Lil’ said,’ Pete replied. ‘Number 46, Flat B. He’s been missing two days; never returned from the job.’

‘Some job.’

‘Someone’s got to do it.’

‘Male escort! Just a glorified vibrator. Why the hell would a woman pay for it when blokes like us would do it for free?’

‘Because they don’t want to sleep with fat fucks like you,’ Chloe Gaines bristled. A bright young guard on the up, she’d yet again been saddled with an afternoon of Harry and Pete, a pair of middle-aged, hapless, lazy, misogynist cops wobbling along the slow road to retirement.

‘No need to get your knickers in a twist. It’s a valid question. What’s your problem anyway, Gaines, you not getting any? You need a glorified vibrator?’

‘My knickers aren’t in a twist! And I’ll never need to resort to an escort agency unlike you pair of losers.’

‘They’re after some Chippendale wannabe who’s hung like a table leg,’ Pete interjected, hoping to calm things, ‘and have no complications in the morning.’

‘I’m not putting up with this!’ Chloe snapped. ‘I’m reporting you both for sexist comments.’

‘I’m built like a tripod,’ Harry boasted, ignoring his colleague. She was forever threatening to report him, occasionally making good her promise. His career progression long dead, another reprimand was simply one more on his tally.

‘Only if you’re lying on the floor,’ Pete said. ‘Even then the shorter leg is a bit iffy.’

‘Fuck you. Come-on, let’s check it out.’ Harry set off up the short flight of stairs. ‘Probably just fecked off for a saucy weekend away.’

He pressed the bank of buzzers in order until someone answered and let them in. The wide hallway and staircase was shabby, barely hinting of its former glory as a fashionable townhouse. Flat B was on the right hand side.

Harry hammered on the door, waited a few moments, then thumped it again. ‘Nobody’s home,’ he muttered.

‘Or they can’t answer the door,’ Pete said. ‘Lil’ said the name on the credit card is Clementina Hines. Repeat customer. No bother previously, but isn’t answering her phone.’

‘Great. Well, I guess we better let ourselves in; have a scout around.’ Harry pulled a large bunch of keys from his pocket. ‘One of these should do the job.’

‘For god’s sake, Harry,’ Chloe said, ‘you can’t just break in! We need to check with the neighbours; find out if she had a landlord.’

‘Feck that,’ Harry said, selecting a key and slotting into place. ‘It’s an emergency, isn’t it? Missing glorified vibrator. We’ll have a quick shufti, then head on.’ He tried another key.

At the fifth attempt the door swung silently inwards. The three guards stepped across the threshold into a largish reception room with a high ceiling which was tastefully decorated and furnished with plush, sash curtains, a set of Pre-Raphaelite prints hanging on the deep red walls. An open bottle and two wine glasses rested on silver coasters on a glass-topped coffee-table. The room smelt of stale potpourri, wine and cigarettes with a lingering hint of something more repugnant.

‘I’ll take through there,’ Harry said pointing to a half-closed door. ‘You have a look that way,’ he said to Pete.

‘What about me?’ Chloe asked.

‘Sit and take notes,’ Harry said dismissively, moving to the half-closed door. ‘There’s only two doors, Gaines; you decide which one you want to look behind.’

Pete rounded the table, followed by a peeved Chloe, and opened a closed door.

The smell of shit rolled over them like a silent fart.

‘Jesus!’ Pete fanned at his nose and entered a bedroom. ‘Jesus, Joseph and Mary!’ He reeled back, bouncing into Chloe and the two of them fell into the reception room.

‘Do you want me to leave so you two can have a bit of privacy?’

‘Fuck off, Harry,’ Pete replied. ‘She’s in there ... she’s ... she’s ...’

Harry stepped past his two colleagues and entered the bedroom. ‘Fuckin’ massive! My god, she must need a crane to get up in the morning! The Michelin Man has less fuckin’ tyres on him.’

‘Harry!’

‘What?’

‘What if she’s alive?’ Pete said, staggering in behind him.

‘What’s she going to do? It’s not like she’s going to be able to chase me, is it? In any case, she’s as dead as a beached whale.’

‘How do you know that?’ Pete asked, staring hesitantly over at the enormous, glutinous body laying prone on a king-sized bed, greasy brown hair extending down her back.

‘Oh my god,’ Chloe hissed, the colour draining from her face.

‘Because she’s cold, she’s not moving, and she’s shit herself,’ Harry said, moving to the far side of the bed.

‘Jesus,’ Pete repeated.

‘And so is Casanova.’

‘What?’

‘There’s a hand here. Our missing glorified vibrator is under her!’

‘Under her?’ Chloe muttered.

‘I reckon the excitement was too much for her, she keeled over and suffocated the poor bastard.’ He leaned down and picked up something from the floor. ‘Jesus, look at this.’ He held up two large circles of thread.

An involuntary shudder ran through Pete as he realised it was a gigantic g-string.

‘Now there’s a fantasy to keep you warm at night,’ Harry joked. ‘You could use these as a skipping rope.’

‘Whatever extends your tripod, Harry,’ Pete said, feeling queasy.

‘Even fully extended it wouldn’t be long enough to make a skipping rope for ants,’ Chloe said. ‘Put it down, you sick bastard. Try and show some respect.’

Harry ignored her and moved to the other side of the bed, standing on a sheet that had slipped to the floor, and lifted up the dead woman’s lank hair. ‘Holy moly! It’s Two-Ton Tina, queen of the flannel pant suit! My god, imagine riding Two-Ton Tina!’

‘Try looking in the mirror, Harry,’ Chloe protested. ‘You’re no picture book.’

‘I’d sooner not,’ Pete replied to Harry’s suggestion, blanching. Two-Tina might have had a nice flat, but she’d been a cranky, sarcastic balloon of a woman who’d waddled, wheezing, from pub to chipper and back again, constantly moaning about something or another. ‘Come-on, we better ring it in,’ he said, turning away.

‘Lil’ is going to have a fit,’ Harry said. ‘Losing one of her star performers.’

‘We should get him out from under her,’ Chloe said. ‘He might be still alive.’

‘You’re joking me, right?’ Harry said. ‘The only thing he’s breathing is flabby breasts.’

‘Well, you’d know all about those. Come-on, we need to roll her off,’ Chloe said, moving to the naked woman’s side. ‘We’ll tip her over that way. I’ll do the feet and legs, Harry the torso, Pete the head and shoulders.’

‘You want me to hold her head and shoulders?’

‘Stop being such a cry-baby. She’s dead, not toxic. Come-on.’

Pete shuffled past Chloe and Harry.

‘Okay, on the count of three,’ Chloe said. ‘One, two, three!’

The three guards lifted and pushed at the cold, clammy skin and fat.

‘Jesus Christ,’ Harry said, struggling to lift and roll her hip. ‘She weighs a ton!’

Eventually she reached a tipping point, resting on her side to reveal a thin, tanned man in his late twenties.

The three of them leaning over, holding Tina in place, stared down, mesmerized by his manhood. Still sheathed in a condom, his flaccid cock was thick and long.

‘Holy moly,’ Harry muttered. ‘Now, that, you could use as a skipping rope.’

‘I guess that’s why women paid to sleep with him,’ Pete replied. ‘But they won’t be any longer; he’s definitely dead.’

‘Harry, get round there and help ease her down,’ Chloe ordered, snapping out of the trance.

‘Just let her roll.’

‘Harry!’

‘Okay, okay, keep your knickers on. Damp or not.’

Harry let go of Tina’s hip and circled the bed.

‘Okay then?’ Chloe asked. She and Pete let go of the body, pulling back from leaning over the prostrate body of Casanova.

Tina teetered for a second and then rolled over onto her back, her flab swaying like a shaken jelly. One of her legs dropped down to the floor next to Harry, the rest of her starting to roll after it.

Harry scrabbled to keep her body on the bed, dropping to his knees to try and get sufficient purchase to lift and push, but he was too late. He slipped to the floor, Two-Ton Tina landing face down on top of him, perfectly wedged between the bed and wardrobe.

‘Jesus,’ Pete said. ‘Two Casanovas succumb to Two-Ton Tina.’

‘Fuck,’ Harry wheezed. ‘Get her off.’

Chloe pushed Pete to one side and draped the sheet she’d picked up off the floor over Tina’s body. ‘Let’s try and give her some dignity. Find something for Mr Tripod,’ she directed Pete, pointing at the male escort.

‘What about me?’ Harry said. ‘I’m not dead yet.’

‘We’ll have to call for back-up,’ Pete said, still transfixed at lumped mass at the side of the bed. ‘There’s no way we’ll be able to get her up on our own.’

‘You’re joking me, right? I’ll never live this down. I can barely breath. You have to get me out from under her.’

‘There’s a lesson for you here, Harry,’ Chloe said, pulling her radio mic towards her mouth. ‘A good woman always ends up on top. Especially with a loser like you.’

BIO: Hiding out in Ireland, Rob Kitchin spends his spare time reading or writing crime fiction. He blogs at http://theviewfromthebluehouse.blogspot.com/ where he publishes reviews and a weekly drabble (a story of exactly 100 words).

A Twist Of Noir 619 - Rob Kitchin

UNDERGROWTH - ROB KITCHIN

‘For fuck’s sake,’ Pete muttered, ‘how come we always get the crappy jobs?’

The rain was drifting in on a cold, east wind; a fine mist that managed to work its way through outer layers. They’d already scoured the laneway for a knife or bloodied clothes, poking away at the foliage with stakes. Now they were wading through sodden ferns under the canopy of a small copse, their clothes snagging on tangles of brambles, hands stung by nettles.

‘You’d sooner be pushing paper, yeah?’ Harry replied.

‘We’ve got the fucker, so why can’t we wait until it stops fecking raining?’

‘Because Johnny Cronin knows this is the only way a skanky fucker like you gets a shower. We’re just here to make sure you wash the shampoo off properly.’

‘Says the man who only has three pairs of underpants and only does a wash once a week,' Pete scoffed. ‘I say we call it quits. All we’re going to catch is pneumonia. We’re just wasting our time.’

‘Will you two stop bloody moaning?’ Chloe Gaines snapped. She’d no idea what crime she’d committed to be punished by an afternoon with Harry and Pete, two dinosaurs from another era - unreconstructed, misogynist cops on the slow road to retirement. ‘Jesus, it’s only a bit of rain.’

‘I don’t see you stripping off yer’ wet gear,’ Harry replied, ‘dancing around to some rain god.’

‘Rubbing the shampoo in,’ Pete added.

‘For god’s sake - how old are you, five?’ Gaines asked, rolling her eyes.

‘What the...’ Harry trailed off, picking at the ground with his staff, revealing a withered condom. ‘Ah, Jesus, you could have cleaned up after yourself, Pete.’

‘What?’

‘Well, it looks like your size.’

‘If that was mine you could tie five knots in it and it would still be bigger than that.’

Gaines snorted in derision. She pressed on ahead, wondering how either man had managed to find a wife.

Harry shared a look with Pete and nodded conspiratorially towards Gaines. ‘Here’s one for you. How’s a woman like a condom?’

Pete shrugged and ducked under a low branch.

‘Both spend more time in your wallet than on your prick.’

Gaines swivelled round, her face flushed red. ‘I’ve warned you before. Any more jokes like that and I’ll be reporting you for sexual harassment.’

‘Relax will you, Chloe. It’s just a joke. Jesus.’

‘It’s not just a joke.’

‘What do you do with 365 used condoms?’ Harry continued, as if to make a point. ‘Melt them down, make a tyre, and call it a Goodyear.’

As he uttered the punch line, his footing shot out from under him and he slid down a bank which had been hidden from view by the undergrowth, plunging into freezing black water.

Harry let out a roar. ‘Fuck! Jesus wept!’

Chloe and Pete hurried back and stared down the slope at him, neck deep in water.

‘Relax, you big girl,’ Pete said. ‘I’ll pass you the shampoo.’

‘Fuck you! I’ve found that fuckin’ knife.’ Harry’s hand emerged from the filthy water clutching the blade, blood seeping out between his fingers.

‘Don’t bleed on it!’ Gaines said. ‘You’re contaminating the evidence.’

‘Are you’re taking the piss? I’ve just managed to stab myself.’

‘Yeah, on a murder weapon! For Christ’s sake, Harry.’

‘I’ve just scared the shit out of myself sliding down here; I stab myself, and all you’re worried about is the poxy knife.’

‘It sounds like you better wash you underpants whilst you’re down there,’ Pete added.

‘And fuck you, too!’ Harry spluttered, shivering in the freezing pool. 'Get down here and help me out.’

Gaines kicked the condom, it plopping into water next to him. ‘Here, grab hold of that life raft.’

BIO: Rob Kitchin is director of a research institute in Ireland and is the author of two police procedural novels and author or editor of seventeen other books. His passions are reading and writing crime fiction and undertaking research on social issues. He blogs at The View from the Blue House and Ireland After NAMA.