A Twist Of Noir 625 - Lee Hughes

STAGE LEFT - LEE HUGHES

Regis scratched his neck. Someone had done a number on the broad. Looked liked they’d tried combing her hair with a hammer. The tool lay caked in blood and blond beside her.

The police hadn’t been informed.

Regis’s boss had put the theatre on lock-down. The woman sprawled on the carpet was the boss’s niece. The boss had been watching the show from the boxes, he’d gone back to congratulate his niece only to find her mushed.

Regis had an eye for details. If one of the boys was found perforated in a dumpster then the boss sent Regis to handle the situation, figure out who the fuck had the brass-balls to fuck about with his business, that was where Regis came in, he’d hand them on a plate.

Regis took in every detail. He knew the theatre life.

His mother had looked like the dead woman. She’d trod the boards before winding up battered to death out the back of a gin-joint.

He walked the room.

A smile creasing his lips as memories of watching his mother ready herself for a show returned. He fingered a rabbit-foot charm in the untidy make-up box. He looked at his finger, there was rouge on it. His mother had applied rouge in the same manner. The dressing room was just as he remembered it. No shoes on the chairs, nor shoes on the tables.

Theatre folk were superstitious.

He stared at a bouquet. The flowers weren’t fresh, no tag, no wrapping. Just a bunch of flowers with a rubber-band about the stems. Its angle, as though cast aside, unwanted. He wondered if that had been the catalyst.

An infatuated lunatic? Definitely not a mob hit to wind the boss up. This had been done by someone who hadn’t an idea about her connections.

The flowers were his hint.

Pinning it on the handyman was like hanging the theft of a single shoe on the nearest one-legged man. There was no reason for the hammer to have been in the dressing-room. Superstition forbade pictures to be hung upon the wall.

He backtracked his mind to the corridor. A square of pristine wallpaper surrounded by nicotine stains. He remembered the two signs on the floor. One was crisp and new, the other just as filthy as the walls. The handyman had probably been caught short and hadn’t been able to finish putting up the new sign and left the hammer there to continue after the show.

Whomever had used the hammer on her head had picked it up on the way to see her.

Regis wondered.

If you were going to go promise undying love for a woman would you take a hammer?

It was someone she’d not tried to run away from. She’d cast aside the gift of grave flowers, for that was what they were. A bouquet stolen from a grave. Tradition, flowers from a grave to be given at the end of the run. Symbolizing that the show could be laid to rest.

Regis pulled out his wallet and removed a photograph and tore it in half.

He looked at the flowers. He’d seen them the day before. He walked to the door and came face to face with his boss.

The corridor was littered with nervous looking workers.

“Well?” His boss asked.

“Here’s your guy.”

The boss took the picture and looked at the man in it. “Who is he?”

“The man that killed your niece. One favour, though.”

“What?”

“Make it quick.”

“Why?”

“The man’s got problems.”

The boss nodded. “I’d say he’s got a big fuckin’ problem, me.” He handed the photograph to one of his hoods who took it and went looking for the ‘live’ version.

Regis pocketed his hands and walked.

BIO: Lee Hughes's short fiction has appeared on Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers, Powder Burn Flash, Blink-Ink, MicroHorror, The Daily Tourniquet, FlashShot, Everyday Fiction, The New Flesh Magazine and, of course, A Twist of Noir. And in print in Cern Zoo: Nemonymous 9. Find out more at http://www.leehughes.net/.

A Twist Of Noir 455 - Lee Hughes

THREE MEN AND A LITTLE BOAT - LEE HUGHES

An entry in Jason Duke’s RED HOT Writing Contest

The waves jostled the small boat. It was a paltry fiberglass affair, fourteen feet from prow to stern and had a piss-poor outboard engine, wouldn’t be much use for anything, except a little leisure fishing. It had no business being way out to sea, nor did the three shifty blokes inside it.

It was a challenge, yet they were managing to keep their distance from each other whilst casting accusatory glances, their hands never straying too far from the inside of their coats.

*

Three hours ago, there were four of them. Their business had been done, dusted and the suppliers had departed. The exchange of fifty-grand cash for the hundred-grand worth of Belushi was complete and they knew things were looking good.

The beam from the watchman’s torch stroked the area, sending the four of them scattering for a place to hide.

Bill gave it a couple of minutes before crawling out from beneath a boat trailer. He hissed into the night. “He’s gone, where the fuck are you lot?”

After a few moments’ silence, there came an “Over here.” It was Sammy’s voice worming its way from around the port side of a catamaran.

Jack came out of the shadows next wiping the shit of wherever he'd been hiding from his pants and elbows. “That was too fuckin’ close. Since when did they hire a night watchman?”

Bill looked around as he said, “Since people started doing drug deals around here? Where’s Donnie?”

“Donnie!” Jack called out, as quietly as he could whilst still being audible.

The only noise was the slapping of the waves behind them as they rubbed shoulders with the dock.

Bill shook his head. “Let’s spread out and look for him, he won’t have done a runner.” Bill patted the bag with the goods; Donnie hadn’t screwed them over and that was something.

Jack won the game of ‘Find the Donnie.’ The problem was Donnie was dead, sprawled out and very much camping out at the Pearlies.

The others joined him. The trio swapped glances between each other and the dead body on the floor. There was blood on Donnie’s lips and plenty around his nose like he'd been beaten to death; there was also a black puddle about the back of his head.

Bill took a few deep breaths. The wheels had been coming off for the last few deals. Now it looked like one of them was trying to up their personal profit margin.

Bill sniffed. His free hand moved to dip into his coat. “One of you gonna own up to it?”

Jack made the same motion to his own piece. “Fuck you, Bill, how the fuck do I know you didn't batter the fuck outta him?”

Sammy wasn’t gonna be the only one standing there like he just had his piss-pump in his hand for protection and made for his own gun. “It certainly wasn’t me.” His eyes narrowed at Bill. “Come to think of it, Bill, you’ve been talking about disbanding the crew for a while, what better way?”

“Don’t even fucking think of going there.” Bill’s hand inched ever closer. None of them got a chance to grab their guns as the night air blistered with the wailing of sirens and the harbinger of flashing lights.

Bill looked towards the entrance. “Fuck this. I'm gettin’ out of here.”

“Not with our share of the coke you’re not,” Jack replied.

Sammy nodded. “I ain’t letting it outta my sight neither.”

Bill turned and started running towards the water’s edge. They climbed down onto the nearest boat. It didn’t matter that it was small. Bill thought it was probably for the best, less chance to get seen. Besides, they only needed to go a little way down the coast, and then they could abandon it.

Jack stared at the little engine.

Bill asked. “You know how to sail?”

“Fuck, no, but seen them driven on films. It’s just like starting a lawnmower.” He yanked the cord a couple of times but it did fuck all.

“Have you turned the petrol on?” Bill asked.

Jack fiddled with something on the side and then yanked the cord again. The engine chuckled to life. The whole time Jack was getting the engine going he kept an eye on the bag.

*

They’d gone maybe a nautical mile before the engine made a guttural noise and ground to a halt.

Jack tugged on the cord. “Must be out of petrol.”

There were utterances of cusswords from each of them.

“Now what?” Sammy asked.

Bill shrugged. “Let’s hope we drift to shore, you’ve seen the state of the beaches. There’s a pretty good chance we can make it if a turd can.”

“What about the Coast Guard?” Jack threw in, still keeping his hand near his gun.

There was only enough moonlight to make the three of them grey shapes.

Bill answered. “This isn’t America, there are no gun-boats. Besides, their radar ain’t gonna pick up this tiny bathtub.”

Sammy hoped Bill was right. “What we gonna do in the mean time?”

Bill glanced down at the bag, then to each of them. “Gives us plenty of time to find out which one of you killed Donnie.”

“There we go again, trying to bounce the blame away from your own doorstep,” Jack said, though he looked straight at Sammy hoping to see some kind of reaction on the few features that the simple moonlight offered.

Sammy had a thought and they were usually very few and far between. “Whoever killed Donnie gave him a beating. Someone’s knuckles must be a bit fucked up.”

“We’re not gonna be able to see shit in this light and I’m not gonna let either one of you get close enough to pitch me over the side,” Jack said.

Bill nodded his agreement in the darkness. One of those pair in the boat was a crooked cunt and, until he knew which one it was, he was going to stay at more than arms-length. It was bad enough they had guns.

The silence was broken by Jack, who’d been racking his brains. He came up with, “Hey, Sammy.”

“What?” he asked.

“It was only the other month you and Donnie were having a wrestle in the car park outside of Byrne’s pub.”

“We were drunk and he’d cheated at pool. Not something I’d fuckin’ kill him for!”

“So you say,” Jack said, then looked to Bill. “And you. You’ve been acting funny for months.”

“I’ve been acting funny because you lot have been becoming greedy little fuckers.”

“Hey,” Sammy cut in.

Bill ignored him and continued. “Shut up, you know you have. Jacking up the prices, cutting the shit even more, fighting amongst each other out the back of pubs. Is it any wonder I wanna wash my hands of you all?”

Jack took that as a confession. “So you’re admitting it now?” He had his gun out faster than Bill would have thought.

“Jack, don’t be a dumbfuck. If I wanted to disband the gang I’d just up and fuck off, not one of you is worth killing.”

“Hey!” Sammy cut in again, this time a little louder.

“Sammy, I’m sorry, but it’s the truth. And the truth is what I'm telling, which is in fact more than you pair of pricks are managing.”

“Fuck this shit,” Jack said, keeping the gun on Bill. “When I was a kid, if either my brother or me done something wrong and my mother couldn't work out who should be punished, you know what she did? She took her slipper to us both.”

Jack pulled the trigger. Putting two in Bill’s chest and then swinging it around and popping one into what he hoped was Sammy’s face.

There wasn’t even a grunt as Sammy toppled backwards. A splash followed so Jack reckoned it was job a well done. He didn’t feel too bad; one of them had killed Donnie and would no doubt have tried to shallow grave him at some point down the line.

Bill couldn’t lift his arm. He’d managed to get his shooter out. It was still in his grip, there just wasn’t any strength there to hoist it up and put Jack out of the world’s misery.

He tried to talk instead. “Jack.”

“Fuck. You not dead?” Jack lifted his gun and took aim again.

“I remember you telling me a while back you can’t swim,” Bill managed to say around mouthfuls of blood and bubbles.

“So? I’m in a fucking boat.”

Bill squeezed the trigger and shot a hole in the bottom of the cheap boat. He managed a second hole before Jack let off another three rounds that all buried themselves deep in a mixture of chest and face.

Bill didn’t say anything else.

Jack could feel water taking refuge in his shoes. His heart took up a sprinter’s pace. He started swearing as loud as he could. His anger was not aimed at the fact he’d passed up every opportunity to learn how to even doggie-paddle as a kid. It was aimed at Bill for putting him in this situation. He emptied the gun in Bill’s slumped and lifeless body. He dry-fired it a couple of times as his ankles grew damp.

He fell to his knees and started bailing the water out with his hands. It was futile. He’d scooped out a hundred handfuls and there was still more in than when he started.

“You’re a fucking cunt, Bill, a proper fucking cunt.” He stopped bailing. Bill’s weight wouldn’t be helping anything; it was more than likely speeding up the whole miniature re-enactment of the Titanic’s final moments.

He crawled through the water on his knees, grabbed Bill by his submerged ankles and tipped him out, then went back to bailing.

*

“What do you think killed him?” the copper asked.

Detective Inspector Sanders looked up from the body to the wooden-top, who had no business asking such things.

“What do you think?” Sanders asked.

The uniform shrugged and said nothing.

“That’s why I get to wear my own clothes.” Sanders went back to scrutinizing the body.

The nose had bled quite heavily before actual death had occurred. There were no sign of trauma to show he’d been punched. There was blood on the lips, yet no signs of lacerations. The only evident wound was the back of the head that was caked in gummy blood and was obviously cracked open.

Sanders started going through the corpse’s pockets until he found what he was looking for. A nice sized baggy of white powder.

There’d been fuck-tons of the stuff on the streets lately.

Sanders could see it in his head.

The numpty had decided to get high on his own tainted supply and had gone into the embrace of an overdose which brought on both nasal and oral bleeding. Then he’d collapsed and twatted his head.

Sanders had no pity to offer. He stood up, looked around. It was barely mid-morning and bodies were filling up the morgue. Two had been found a little ways up the coast, gunshot wounds. A little further up another body had been found. Cause of death? He’d tried to drink the sea by the sounds of it.

It had all happened last night. A patrol car had even been around after the night watchman had thought there’d been trespassers. The officers said they’d turned on the sirens and the lights in the hopes of scaring the trespassers out but hadn’t found anything amiss so had fucked off back to the station for a cup of tea.

Sanders twisted his lower lip and bit it in thought. He reckoned it all had to be connected. But who really cares if a few scumbags end up six-foot under. Besides, tomorrow was his day off and he had a little fourteen-footer that he liked to take out and do a little bit of fishing from to relax and get away from the stains of so-called civilization.

BIO: Lee Hughes's short fiction has appeared on Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers, Powder Burn Flash, Blink-Ink, MicroHorror, The Daily Tourniquet, FlashShot, Everyday Fiction, The New Flesh Magazine and, of course, A Twist of Noir. And in print in Cern Zoo: Nemonymous 9. Find out more at http://www.leehughes.net/.

A Twist Of Noir 240 - Lee Hughes

FIRST, SECOND, AND THIRD - LEE HUGHES

An Entry In Eric Beetner's FIST Contest

We were both roughly the same size and build, but that meant fuck all. Declan told me with a dip of his shoulder what he was about. He missed by a country mile.

He had a Roman nose.

I threw my first.

From Roman nose, to broken nose. His head snapped to one side. I didn’t hesitate.

Threw my second.

Blood trickled from his left ear. I’d probably burst the drum.

My third?

There was no third. I didn’t need it. Declan was on his knees and wondering which way was up.

The laughter and the cheering started.

I could see Declan’s Da looking all disappointed. My Da, on the other hand, was fuming mad, even though I’d fuckin' won again. He was holding his hat and shouting, “The third, for fuck sake!” pointing at Declan, who still looked half asleep and was busy making funny faces at me.

Da has this rule; he lives by it. No matter what, you always make sure you get the first, second, and the third punch in.

There was no fight left in Declan. Besides, us fifteen year-olds, we were just half-time entertainment in between the dogs and the big men fuckin’ each other up.

The dogs and the big men, that’s where the money was. Us kids, we fought for our Da’s pride and bragging rights. Me? I couldn’t give a fuck if my Da was proud, the man’s a cunt.

Declan looked at me, eyes still glazed. I think he was half expecting me to chin him and put him into the black proper.

A year ago, I would have. People change.

I headed over to Da, but only because he had me jumper.

I got me jumper and a crack to the back of the head.

It took everything to stop myself from flattening the prick.

“You get the first, second, and the third in, always. What the fuck were you thinking? I thought I’d brought you up proper.” He gave me another cuff.

“Brought me up? More like fuckin’ dragged me up.” I’d had a fuckin’nuff of him.

“What did’ya just say? Ya fuckin’ little shite ya.” He spun me around.

I saw him make fists. His knuckles were all fucked and lumpy from scrapping. I saw a man that demanded respect but deserved fuck all. It had been comin’ for a long time. I reckoned I was big enough. I was fuckin’ hoping so anyway.

“You wantin’ a fuckin’ go, are ya?” Da demanded. Shock and anger in equal measure like a pox about his face.

“Yeah, but for money.” I figured if I was to end up spitting teeth and having my ribs clattering like wind-chimes when I breathed then I might as well make a few quid while I was at it.

He hoped to stare me out. He gave up and went to get it sorted. It was something that was always welcome at meets, an extra unexpected bout to bet on. No wonder outsiders called us Pikeys.

Uncle Brendan was none too happy. “You’re not going to fight young Aidan now!”

“It’s him, the little cunt that’s wantin’ to fight. Gonna teach the little prick some manners.” My Da worked himself out of his tee-shirt. You could see the stains where muscle had been. Like a party balloon a day or two after the party.

Uncle Brendan could see something in my eyes so he decided to shut the fuck up.

Plenty of people got shoulder to shoulder to watch this. Not many people liked my Da. I, for one, could understand why as he danced about from foot to foot and snapped off heavy punches in thin air. A bigger bollox never put his arm through a coat.

I’d seen my Da fight too many times to count. Never saw him lose. Some were easy fights, like against Ma when he’d be full to the gills on the black stuff.

I felt like one of the scrap-dogs we’d put up against Diamond, our best pit-bull. It’d be a dog we’d not much care for, well, one that Da didn’t much care for, and he’d set it against Diamond to get its confidence up for a proper fight.

Fat-fuck beckoned me, egging me on.

I knew what the fucker was up to. He wanted to get the first, second and the third digs in to prove his point good and proper.

I had a point to make, too. You didn’t have to get the third in if it wasn’t needed.

He kept sending fake tells. He’d taught me them. I don’t think he realised he wasn't as fast as he used to be. He tried to catch me out by throwing what he expected me to take as a red-herring.

I knew it was a real one.

I ducked and delivered my first. It was a decent uppercut that struck twelve o’clock on his chin. I could tell by the way that he staggered back that it had rattled something.

I sidestepped a haymaker and flung out my second. It was an eye-shutter. Problem with those is that it takes a minute for the eye to swell closed. They were both solid punches. They didn’t really do much damage to him. I’d have to land the third after all.

I threw it, and missed.

He threw and landed his first proper one. I felt a stomach’s worth of air fly out of me. And Christ Almighty if me legs didn’t go and buckle. Da was fuckin’ deadly with the body shots.

He threw his second before I was on me knees. I felt my jaw go loose, couple of teeth ended up under my tongue. I blew a couple of blood bubbles and stared at him.

He’d won. I knew it. He knew it. The crowd knew it.

He just had to stick to his fuckin’ rule.

I don’t remember the third.

BIO: Lee Hughes's short fiction has appeared on Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers, Powder Burn Flash, Blink-Ink, MicroHorror, The Daily Tourniquet, FlashShot, Everyday Fiction, The New Flesh Magazine and, of course, A Twist of Noir. And in print in Cern Zoo: Nemonymous 9. Find out more at www. LeeHughes.net.

A Twist Of Noir 134 - Lee Hughes

THE GOODS - LEE HUGHES

Officer Harper bounced Tommy onto the hood of the car and slapped the cuffs on him.

"Duck," Harper said as he pushed the man's head down and into the back of the car.

Harper got in the front. He looked over his shoulder. "You don't think it's so funny now, do you?"

The man in the back grinned.

Harper was used to getting grief from the scum on the streets. But sometimes; on days like this one it was just too hard to ignore it. So when the idiot in the back had started 'oinking' in through the window he wasn't going to take any shit.

Now the tool was gonna end up with a fine for his stupidity. Maybe that would put him off being a joker in future, Harper hoped so.

The man in the back spoke. Harper had been thinking of other things. "What did you just say?"

"I asked you if you thought you're wife enjoyed other men's dicks more than yours? Is she dirty? Think she'd let me do her up the shitter?"

"What the..." Harper pulled the car over, released the seat-belt and twisted in the seat. "What the fuck did you just say?" Harper had heard him; but couldn't quite believe it.

The man smiled the kind of smile you couldn't help but want to wipe clean away.

"Ooh. Touched a nerve there? Has your wife been up to no good? Sucking cock not attached to Officer Bacon? Do you think she swallowed his jizz or just let him splash it all over her face?"

Harper just went blank as he dived through to the back and started wailing on the idiot. He could feel cheek, lips and nose giving way under his thumps.

Harper unleashed a good half dozen licks before he gained control of himself. He dragged himself back into his own seat and panted. He felt sick, he felt weak, and he basically felt like crying. He looked back at the bloodied face of the tool in the back with eyes that asked only one thing, 'Why the fuck did you make me go and do that, why?'

Harper put the car into gear and pulled away from the kerb. He knew he was in the shit now. He might as well just pull over, leave the keys in the car and walk to the job-centre.

"Don't worry, I won't tell," the cretin said in the back through blood.

Harper didn't turn around. "Who cares what you say? You got that resisting arrest as far as I'm concerned."

"Okay." Was the reply.

*

Harper signed him in for breaching the peace in a public place. The desk sergeant looked over the man and raised an eyebrow in Harper's direction.

"He fell trying to get away from me." Harper could feel his stomach sink as he told his lie.
The desk-jockey looked to the man. Who in turn nodded to show it was the truth.

*

Harper went through and got changed. There was only another twenty minutes until his shift ended. He showered and got into his civvies. He had never felt so vile in his whole life. He had joined the force so that he could live an honest life and give others the chance to live a safe one. And now what? He'd beaten up a man who was handcuffed.

It was the idiot's fault just as much as his own for saying such things. Yes, his wife had left him for another man and was probably doing all those things with him and more, but he didn't need reminding about it. Harper rested his head on his locker and closed his eyes in a bid to let the stress inside his skull lessen.

*

Harper started walking home. 'Home' was a word that tasted like shit in his mouth. It wasn't a home any longer. It was just a place for him to crash before getting up and going back to work each morning. After today, he felt he was lucky he still had a job to go back to.

"Oink-Oink," came a voice.

Harper snapped his head around. It was the idiot he'd arrested riding in the back of a very expensive car. His face was still swollen but it looked a lot better now the blood had been washed away.

"I'm not in the mood," Harper said and took up walking again.

The car kept pace with him. The man spoke; the words were a little rough due to his thick-lip.
"I'm just kidding. You at least owe me a minute of your time seeing as I didn't go telling tales on you." The man was smiling as best as he could, it still managed to look smug.

Harper didn't stop, didn't even slow. "You got what you deserved, you were lucky I was on duty or you'd have gotten a hell of a lot worse."

"You're not on duty now," the man pointed out.

Harper kept walking.

The man's patience drained away. "I said stop." He tapped the driver on the shoulder, who then drove the car up onto the pavement. The man opened the door and got out. Harper stood staring at him.

Gone were the street clothes. He was wearing as suit as though off to court.

"Do you want arresting again?" asked Harper.

"I don't think that's going to happen. Have a gander at these." The man reached into his jacket and pulled out some photographs and handed them to Harper.

Harper looked at a couple. They were pictures of him arresting the man.

The man sniffed. "Not a scratch on me when I got into the car. Then there are these pictures of me getting out and I look like I've gone ten rounds with Ali."

Harper felt his breath catch in his throat. "What do you want?"

"A minute of your time, get in." The man nodded with his head towards the open door of the car.

Harper had the photographs still in his hand. He looked from them, to the man, then to the back of the car. The man had him by the balls and he knew it. That sick feeling returned to swim in his guts again as he ducked his head and climbed into the back of the Beemer.

The man got in and shut the door. Harper was relieved that they didn't pull away from the kerb. The man seemed happy to just be parked up. He pointed to the photographs that Harper was still holding.

"You can keep them."

Harper was about to say something. The man held up a finger.

"Now's not the time to talk, now's the time to listen. You're going to be doing a few jobs for me."

"Listen," Harper tried to butt in.

The man stopped him again. "No. You listen. I can change my mind and inform them that you beat me up in the back of your police car. I have proof, which alone will get you thrown off the force. Answer me this: you didn't check your pockets before ending your shift did you?"

Harper thought about it for a moment. "No," he admitted. The sinking feeling just worked its way deeper into his gut.

"Then you didn't find the coke I slipped in your pocket while you were wrestling the cuffs on. So imagine I decide to put in a complaint about your police brutality and tell them I had drugs on me that you stole. They check and find that no drugs were signed in. Quick search later and they find it in your locker. Oh shit, now that would have you out of the force and into the slammer; you'd look like a real bad-ass."

Harper opened his mouth.

The man cut him off. "All angles are covered. You return to work now, you'll have to sign in after hours. That'll look bad in itself when put with what I'll tell them. Add that with the beating and the shit hits and sticks."

The man smiled and continued.

"Besides, we can help you out with your wife Jeanette. You don't think I just happened to choose you on the off-chance, did you? We'll sort out the man whose making himself at home in her knickers and you, well, you'll do us a couple of favors. Take tomorrow, for instance. I need you to give me a lift in your nice police car. To be more accurate, I need you to pick me up in it. You'll be paid well, don't worry. So all you've got to ask yourself is this: do you want to be sacked and put in prison or do you want to earn some cash? I'll be at this address tomorrow at two o'clock. Do not be late." The man nodded to the door, clearly his way of showing that the meeting was over.

Harper got out and watched the car drive away. He looked at the scrap of paper in his hand. His eyes widened at the address.

BIO: Lee Hughes's short fiction has or is due to appear on Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers, Powder Burn Flash, Blink-Ink, Microhorror, The Daily Tourniquet, FlashShots and, of course, A Twist of Noir. And in print in Cern Zoo: Nemonymous 9. Find out more at www. LeeHughes.net

A Twist Of Noir 123 - Lee Hughes

THE WAGES OF SIN - LEE HUGHES

Alex smoked his cigarette, no longer caring if the stink was on his breath. Maggie wasn't around to bitch and moan. Same went for his whiskey breath. He felt as free as when he'd gotten out of prison that day she'd packed her bags, declaring that she'd had enough of his dirtbag ways. Alex had waved, said a 'cheerio' and listened to the windows rattle as she slammed the door hard enough to move the house an inch to the left.

All the things she'd griped about he was now free to do again. Her crone voice still echoed through the corridors of his head, and would continue to do so for a little while yet. Smoking makes your breath stink, booze makes you a bastard, and robbing banks gets you put back inside.

He took another drag of the smoke, sipped the whiskey from his hipflask and eyeballed the bank that he was planning on robbing; single life was good.

Alex stormed across the road towards the bank. He made it halfway before getting smacked by a car. He went up and onto the bonnet, all the way to the windscreen with enough force to shatter it. The car slammed on the brakes, Alex rolled off, and the concrete cushioned his fall.

The whole world was spinning and his right kneecap felt as though it were on backwards. He heard the sound of the driver's door opening and slamming, it seemed so far away.

“You okay?” the driver asked. The front of his car was crumpled, the windscreen busted and he wondered whether the bloke smeared over the road was okay after doing that much damage.

Alex struggled to suck in breath. Getting run over had winded him. He managed to hold up a hand, hoping that it would signal that he was alive.

“I'm phoning an ambulance!” the driver said.

“No!” Alex wheezed, forcing himself to at least try and get up.

“Stay there and don't move you could have internal bleeding.” The driver fretted.

Alex sucked in as much air as he could. The idiot had watched too many hospital shows.

“I'm fine,” Alex managed.

“It's okay. I've called the police, they've probably called for an ambulance as well,” reassured the driver.

Alex looked up. There was a resigned look in his face. “Why the fuck did you have to go and do that for?” He'd managed to get to his knees.

He looked around. There were enough gore-seekers gawking. Some were even getting footage on their mobile phones.

The pistol in his pocket felt like lead. It was heavy enough to sink him into finishing the eight-year stretch that he'd been freed from early. He drew the pistol.

“Get back in the car,” Alex said to the driver.

The driver just looked at the gun as if it were an oddity. England still wasn't accustomed to seeing guns up close and in real life. The spectators didn't scream, run, or duck for cover. They carried on watching as if the whole scene had just gotten better.

“I said, get in the fucking car. Now!”

The driver snapped out of it and retreated to his wrecked car. He seemed happy once he was back inside the safety of his vehicle. That didn't last long. Alex got in the passenger's side.

“Drive.”

“Where?”

“Just drive.” Alex's breathing was a little more regular. The driver fired up the engine and leant up close to the shattered windscreen.

“I can barely see.”

“Then barely will have to do for now.”

The car moved forward. Alex got his cigarettes out. The driver looked about to reprimand him on smoking inside his vehicle, but very wisely decided to keep it shut.

“Where to?” he managed.

“Just head to any underground car park.”

“Which?”

“Any.”

“The Marks and Spencer one's the closest.”

“Then get there, quick.” Alex wound down the window. His knee felt on fire and his elbows burned where he'd lost the skin to the tarmac.

*

Alex limped away from the car.

The driver shouted: “Wait a minute!”

Alex looked back over his shoulder. “What?”

“Let me help you.”

“Why the fuck would you want to help me?”

“Because I want your help in return.”

*

The police stood around the side of the car. The driver, a local businessman by the name of Arthur Harrington, sat looking shaken, with a nasty graze to his forehead.

“I know you've been through a lot, Mr. Harrington, but I need you to tell me again exactly what happened,” the detective said.

They listened as he retold how the man had forced him at gunpoint to drive him to the underground car park. And then had changed his mind and had demanded to be driven to this piece of wasteland. The man had demanded his wallet, which he had handed over without question. But then he had tried to take his briefcase. That's when he'd decided enough was enough. The briefcase had his employees' weekly wages in it. That was where he had been heading, out to the building site. He still paid cash, his employees preferred it that way. He'd put up a struggle and the man had gun-walloped him.

An officer corrected Mr. Harrington. “It's pistol-whipped.”

It didn't matter what it was called, the man hit him and then made off with the wages. Mr. Harrington had a little sob whilst a paramedic had a look at the wound on his head.

“When he brought me out here, I thought it was to kill me, you know, so no one could hear the gun?”

"How much cash was in the briefcase?" the detective asked.

"About a hundred grand."

There were whistles from the gathered.

"That's a hell of a lot of cash."

"We're in the last month of the build, as much overtime as they want, it soon builds up." Mr. Harrington moaned.

The paramedic had been checking out Mr. Harrington's head, he looked to the detective. “It'll not need stitches, but it'll need checking out back at the hospital. You bringing him in?”

“Yeah,” said the detective. The detective scanned the damage to the car. “Any preference where you want this towing to?”

“Just back to my house, please. My brother has a garage, it'll be cheaper there,” Mr. Harrington said, as he got out of the car, sighing.

The detective patted him on the shoulder. “Look, I wouldn't worry about it so much. The insurance will cover the theft. And it won't be long until the bastard is found. What with all the footage from passersby, we already have a name to a face. It'll be a matter of hours.”

“That's reassuring,” Mr. Harrington said, as he made his way over to the detective's unmarked car for his trip to the hospital.

*

They drove along.

The detective took a little nip and passed it on back. Mr. Harrington took a long pull on it before putting the hipflask back inside his pocket.

“I wouldn't have any more of that whiskey, just in case they need to med you up at the hospital,” the detective suggested.

Mr. Harrington nodded, hoping the booze would ease the adrenaline that was still pumping.

BIO: Lee Hughes's fiction has or is due to appear on, Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers, Powder Burn Flash, FlashShot, Microhorror, The Daily Tourniquet, Blink-Ink and not forgetting, A Twist of Noir. In print in the anthology, Cern Zoo: Nemonymous 9. Check out Lee Hughes Writes for even more information.

A Twist Of Noir 116 - Lee Hughes

Writer's Note:

RRP To RIP can be found here.

The Man Who Watches The Watchers can be found here.

These are pretty much stand alone stories. But The Man Who Watches the Watchers explains the bricks.

--Lee

THE MELTDOWN - LEE HUGHES

Ed and Tony watched as the police and the two numpties from Customs and Excise slumped out of Joey Rowland's office. They were empty-handed and with their tails firmly between their legs.

"Don't I even get an apology?" Joey Rowland called after them, then chuckled.

If apologies came in the manner of a slammed door, then he got one. Joey Rowland turned in his seat and watched them on the screens to make sure that they were actually leaving his club.

He gave Ed and Tony his attention. "Thanks for that, boys."

"No worries, Mr. Rowland," Ed said. All Ed wanted to do was get the hell out of there.

Ed stood, Tony followed suit. Tony was under strict orders to keep his mouth shut. They both shook Mr. Rowland's hand before heading for the door.

Mr. Rowland called out after them. "Come by sometime in the week. Like I said earlier, need to talk with you pair about some guns."

"Sure, Mr. Rowland," Ed replied, as he moved to open the door.

"Oh. And lads?" Mr. Rowland added.

Ed looked over his shoulder. "Yeah?"

"Don't forget your bricks," Mr. Rowland said, as he went back to doing his crossword.

Ed kept his cool, nodded to Tony and they went and picked up the hold-alls filled with bricks that Mr. Rowland had made them bring in the first place.

They tipped the bricks out of the bags around the corner of the club, leaving a nice pile of rubble.

Ed sparked up a smoke, sucked on it, blew it out. "Well, that's pretty much fucked everything up." He watched the club as the last of the punters left it.

"Nah. It's still on," Tony said, with a beaming face. "He's gonna suspect us even less now. After what we've just done for him and everything."

"Let's go have a pint. Should make last orders at the Lion," Ed said. "I need to have a little think."

*

They stood at the bar and ordered a couple of pints. Karen passed Ed his change. He nodded and they headed over to one of the tables.

Ed had to keep warning Tony to talk with his voice down. Tony took a few calming breaths. "Seriously, Ed. I mean, it's why we got those guns in the first place."

"And look where that got us. We've ended up with a van full of the fuckers and enough bullets to restock Bin Laden."

"Think of it as a long term investment," Tony said, then paused as something occurred to him. "Do bullets go off?"

"I should fucking hope so," Ed said, with a grin, as he took a swig.

"Prick. You know what I mean. A use-by date?"

"Ain't got a clue, probably not."

"Then we're sweet. We can sell everything off slowly whenever we can. But I reckon we should definitely do this. I mean, it's a hundred grand's worth of gold. With only Joey Rowland between us and it. We've got it all planned, Ed."

"You're right, it's..." Ed trailed off there as a bloke that just entered the bar caught his attention.


"What is it?" Tony asked, as he turned on his stool. It took a couple of moments for it to click, but click it did. "Fucking hell."

"Yup," Ed replied.

They both swivelled back around. It was one of the Customs and Excise pair. A familiar face passed the table.

Ed reached and caught the fat man's arm. "Moobs, sit down a minute."

The large bloke lowered himself carefully. He looked to them both at the same time. He could accomplish this feat because he was badly cross-eyed. It was like one eye had gone to the shops and the other was already back with the change.

"Alright, Ed?" Moobs said. And without moving his head. "Alright, Tony?" They both nodded.

Ed said, "Not bad, Moobs. As usual, things could be going better."

"Always the way, innit? Got a load of dodgy cigs if your looking," Moobs offered.

Tony asked, "How many you got?"

Moobs looked over at the fag-machine and began to mentally calculate how many packets of fags the machine was likely to be holding.

Ed broke his concentration as there were more important things at hand. "Moobs. You do know that there's filth in the house?"

That caused Moobs's eyes to widen. He looked around as though being cross-eyed gave him a panoramic view. "Where?" he asked.

"At the bar. The bald bloke. In the pale jacket," Ed described.

Moobs clocked him. "You mean Tom?"

"You know him?" Ed asked, showing more than a little surprise.

"Yeah. Usually comes in on a Wednesday. Plays on the darts team. Only night you usually see him."

"You know he's filth, though, right?"

"Customs and Excise," Moobs corrected.

"Same thing," Tony chipped in.

"He's alright. Sometimes sells me old man stuff that the lads back at the compound have kept for themselves." Moobs shrugged.

Any other time, Ed would have chuckled and found it funny as fuck. But not when a couple of hours ago he'd seen him trying to bust Joey Rowland.

"I'm sure Joey Rowland is going to be okay with the fact that you and your old man are letting one of the boys that just tried to have him arrested beer it up in your boozer."

"What?"

"Couple of hours ago, the circus came into town and the clowns decided to set up shop at the Swing Room," Ed said.

"Fuck," Moobs replied. He gave a clumsy glance back towards the bar. "I'd best go tell dad about it." Moobs struggled to lift his weight from the stool and waddled over to the bar and managed to quickly get his old man's attention.

"If we're doing this job tonight, then I want to make sure there are no fuck-ups, okay?"

"As long as we're doing it I don't care how we go about it," Tony grinned.

He was just chuffed that they were actually gonna do the job. They sat and watched as Finny, the pub lunatic, went and purposely bumped into Tom, the bloke from Customs and Excise. An argument ensued over the spilled pint, though the argument was a little one-sided. The bloke from Customs just kept on saying he'd had a wank day at work and all he wanted was a pint. The Customs bloke got decked by a head-butt.

Finny grabbed him by the throat and dragged him towards the door with Moobs's father shouting that, "I'll have no anti-social behaviour in my establishment. You're both barred...for life!"

Five minutes later, Finny was back inside the pub. Moobs's father had already pulled him a pint in way of thanks.

Ed drained his pint. "Come on."

*

They stood in the garage they'd been letting for the fortnight since the incident with Gruffyd the Welsh arms dealer. They'd gotten the motor home and the guns. Gruffyd had gotten dead.

Tony was manhandling the big guns. Ed picked a Beretta nine-millimetre for himself and knew he'd not get away with anything so tame for Tony. But there was no way that he could let Tony arm himself up with an assault rifle. A little bit of bartering later and they had met in the middle and Tony would be allowed to carry an Uzi, but the stock had to be folded.

They were using a second-hand motor. They parked it around the side of the Swing Room. It wasn't too close to the door that they planned to burst through, yet not too far away should they need to reach it at a run.

Ed looked to Tony. "You sure you're ready for this? No going back once we start."

There wasn't a shadow of a doubt to be seen on Tony's face. Ed didn't know whether to be apprehensive or a little bit jealous.

Ed took himself on board a deep breath. "Let's do it."

*

Tony did the business on the door with a police-issue battering ram he'd won last Christmas in the charity raffle at the Lion. They burst through to find Joey Rowland standing there in the loading bay watching on as his boys made a nice little mound of bullion bars. The flower pot furnace was still smoking.

Ed ran over and pistol-whipped Mr. Rowland. It was a sign that if he was willing to put the big boy down then he wouldn't hesitate with the ones on the payroll. Ed had been practicing a fake Irish accent all week, so he was going to do all the talking. Tony hadn't been able to get the hang of any accent other than a Welsh-sounding Pakistani so he was under orders to keep his trap shut.

"No fucker move!" Ed shouted, sounding like something from My Left Foot.

*

Mr. Rowland seemed as though he had a lot to say about the proceedings but the rag that had been thrust halfway down his gullet muffled the most of it. Ed tied up the two lackeys whilst Tony kept them under control with the Uzi levelled at them. Once everyone was secure they began to fill their hold-alls with the gold bullion. They grabbed a bag apiece and made for the door.

They yanked off their balaclavas so that they didn't look suspicious. They moved around the bricks on the footpath and turned the corner. They bumped straight into the bloke from Customs and Excise. Finny had smeared his nose right across his face.

The Customs bloke clocked them straight away, recognising them from the club earlier in the night.

"You pair of pricks!" he said.

His words sounded bunged up and the coherency was retarded through him being as pissed as a fart to boot. Ed decided to try and ignore the buffoon and opened up the boot of their car. Tony slung his hold-all in.

The Customs bloke growled. "What the fuck is it with you pair and these bags of bricks anyway?" He grabbed for the bag that Ed had put down. Both went to stop him until he said, "If they mean so fucking much to you, here, let me help some." He lifted the bag, swayed a little and then managed to deposit it into the back of the car. He gifted them with the 'V' sign, told them that they were "A pair of cunts, both!", turned and staggered off around the corner.

Ed and Tony laughed as they heard him fall over the pile of bricks. They got into the car and drove away feeling pretty good about themselves for pulling it off so cleanly.

*

Tom struggled to get up from the pile of bricks that he'd fallen over. He swore at the pile and then spat at it. It took a good few moments for his booze-addled mind to put two and two together. Noise from a door down the side of the club stopped him from wanting to weep at the reality of it. It was Joey Rowland making all the noise.

Tom gave a drunken snort. "Lost something, have you?"

Joey Rowland ran and grabbed him by the neck. Everyone was grabbing him by the neck tonight it seemed, mused Tom as he struggled for breath.

"Who was it?" Joey demanded.

Tom half-laughed, half-choked. "Those two fucking builders of yours!"

"What?" Joey couldn't make out what the idiot was on about. He spied the abandoned bricks. He let out his anger on Tom and straightened his nose for him. Joey regained his composure. There were two very dead men somewhere in what would soon become a very, very small town.

BIO: Lee Hughes' short fiction has appeared or is due to appear on Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers, A Twist of Noir, Powder Burn Flash, MicroHorror and The Daily Tourniquet. He is in print in the anthology Cern Zoo: Nemonymous 9. Visit Lee Hughes Writes to find out more.

A Twist Of Noir 112 - Lee Hughes

THE BENNY FACTOR - LEE HUGHES

Melissa waved to her daddy before driving off. He waved back with a solemn look and yawned. Neither noticed the car that pulled away from the kerb which began to follow her.

Melissa was singing along to her music and looking forward to buying everything in the new summer collection from her favourite designer, Antoine Gars.

She glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw a car practically up her arse. The car indicated. So she slowed to help make the overtaking manoeuvre easier for the busted-up Ford. The Ford sped up. Then slowed when it got to the side of her car. Melissa looked at the driver and her mouth fell open. The driver was wearing a maximum restraint mask. It hid the majority of his face. The Ford's passenger leant forward, so he too could be seen. He was wearing the same gruesome facial apparel. The driver, without preamble, slammed his rust-bucket into the side of her soft-top Mini. Melissa swerved and parked her pride and joy into the thick bole of a roadside tree.

The brakes from the Ford were jammed on to full screech. Masked men rushed the Mini. One dragged open the door whilst the other dragged Melissa out. She kicked. She screamed. She got hit hard enough in the face to make her hush down. The passenger. He jabbed her in the arm with a needle and gave her a healthy dose of night-night. Melissa went as limp as three-day old lettuce.

Melissa came 'round. It took a few seconds for her to focus. She was in a garage. The place smelt like armpit. Her tongue felt heavy and dead. The rag that had been stuffed into her mouth kept soaking up the moisture. She struggled. She could see the two men. Her abductors had changed attire. Gone were the boiler-suits and the Lector masks. Now they wore suits like the men that fixed the cars in Formula One that her Daddy loved so much. Their faces were hiding behind flame retardant balaclavas.

Melissa tried to speak. It all just came out in the air as a clumsy muffled noise. The taller of her captors raised a finger to his covered lips.

"Shush," He lowered the finger. "We know all that we need to know, so there's fuck-all we want to hear from you."

The captor turned to his cohort.

"Bill. Watch her whilst I go make the call."

Melissa freaked. She began to struggle as if she was fitting. Bill, the one that had been silent, he watched her. His eyes enjoyed her terror.

"Won't be long," said Steve, followed by, "And, Bill, don't lay a finger on her."

Steve headed over to a privacy divider, like the ones they have for people who end up in shared wards because they don't know the meaning of the word BUPA. Melissa still struggled to get free. She could see the silhouette of Steve as he changed out of the racing overalls. A door slammed and the silhouette was gone.

Bill walked back and forth in front of Melissa. Every couple of passes, he would pause and feign hitting her. Melissa fell for it each and every time. There was a look in his eyes, Melissa could see it. The man, Bill, really wanted to follow through and land his hand hard. She struggled some more.

Melissa wept. Her mother had passed away a year ago. The loss had crippled her father. Melissa had not been allowed at her mother's deathbed in the moments before her passing. Her mother wanted some private time to share some words with her husband.

After the funeral, her father had then thrown himself into his work. It became everything. Making money was something that took a hold over him stronger than it ever had. It reflected on his generosity towards his only child. Before the death all of her demands had been met without argument. Then after afterwards getting enough cash for a weekend break to somewhere nice became like pulling teeth. Even the soft-top Mini that was now wrapped around a tree was a slap in the face. She'd wanted a Beemer for her twenty-first. And that pokey, little thing was what she'd gotten. Simply, something had to be done.

Tears streamed down her face. Not today. Why did this have to happen today?

Her crying ceased momentarily as Bill came at her with his hand up again. Melissa had more to worry about than this fuckwit's silly games. She didn't bother flinching. Shame, really, because Bill wasn't feigning. Melissa's head snapped back. Bill hooted with delight.

*

Time went by. Melissa was unsure how much as the smack from Bill had knocked her halfway to the moon. It had appeased the twisted fucker by the looks of it. He was sat down, busily amusing himself with a newspaper. Melissa could see it in her mind. Tomorrow's newspaper, her face plastered all over it.

A fresh breeze brought Melissa's attention back. With the breeze came the silhouette as Steve changed once more into his disguise.

Steve noticed that one of Melissa's cheeks was larger than the other.

"Bill, did you hit her?" He looked from her face to Bill, who was still reading the daily rag in the corner. Bill looked up from the pages.

"Just the once, to keep her in check."

"Once is too many. Keep your hands to yourself." Steve walked over to Melissa and dragged free her gag. "Any reason your dad wouldn't answer the phone? I mean, he's a business man, he should always be available. Wouldn't you think?"

Melissa worked her jaw. She tried to bring spit up into her mouth. None came, she tried words instead.

"He's at home," she whispered.

"Tried ringing there, too."

"He's unconscious," she admitted.

Bill put down his paper. Steve's eyes narrowed. He got a little closer to her. "How do you know this? We saw him waving to you."

"I spiked him," she started to cry.

Steve tried not to show how puzzled he really was, "Why would you do that?"

"Because I want him dead. That's why!" Her eyes were wild. A split-second switch from feeling sorry for herself to being the spoilt bitch that expected the world.

"How?" demanded Steve. With her father dead, there would be no one to collect from.

"I drugged him and a friend is going to make it look like suicide." She was starting to snivel. If it was an attempt to elicit some form of sympathy from him, Steve reckoned there was fuck-all chance of it working.

Melissa cleared her throat, "If he dies, I'll inherit the money. I can pay you then!"

"What, in six months to a year? Screw that." Steve tried the number again. He no longer cared about the triangulation of his position. He let it ring, still nothing.

"Oh sweet..." Steve didn't finish. He was already at a run towards the door.

Bill didn't know where to look. He resembled something from a slapstick comedy. One where an unseen hand slaps the buffoon's cheek. The buffoon looks in that direction and gets another slap from the other side.

*

Steve got out of the disguise as he ran towards his Astra. Every swear word that he knew got an airing as he broke the speed limit in a bid to get to Melissa's house as fast as he could.

Steve gunned it all the way. He left the engine running as he banged on the door. He tried it.

Unlocked.

Steve opened the door.

"Mr. Jackson?" he called.

No answer came. He ventured inside.

The interior was just how he had imagined it would be. Years of there being no issue with cost when it came to the décor had made the place a sight to behold.

The ground floor was empty. He worked his way up the stairs. He kept shouting Jackson's name out. And for each call, he garnered silence. The landing was empty. The bedrooms were the same. It was in the bathroom that he found Mr. Jackson.

Mr. Jackson was no more. The water in the tub was crimson. Melissa's accomplice had opened his wrists for him. Steve lowered the seat on the toilet and sat down. This had turned to shit.
There was no money. The only heir was tied up back at the lock-up. It would be months until she inherited. And besides, he thought, what's to say she'll even cough up then? He supposed they did have the death of her father to hang over her head in exchange for the money. Steve figured that was basically their only option of salvaging something.

He got up and walked from the bathroom. He wasn't expecting the bat to the head.

*

Benny stood over the intruder, his anger burned. He wondered why she hadn't trusted him. Why she'd sent the goon? Melissa had talked him into helping off her old man in exchange for some pussy. And, boy, had he wanted that pussy since the beginning of high school. Then last week, as he'd been working the drive-thru at Maccies, she'd actually talked to him. Something she had refused to do during their high school career. What with her being one of the popular kids and him being the bipolar spotty kid that had tried to burn the school down twice. After his shift had finished, they'd gone for a drink. She'd driven him home. Stopping somewhere quiet on the way, they'd fooled around. She'd given him half a wank and then told him if he really wanted her then he had to do something for her. Something secret.

And now what? Now she'd gone and gotten a second boyfriend? As that was how he saw himself, they were practically a couple. It had been less than a week and she'd been cheating on him. He dragged the bastard outside. The Astra had to be his. Benny had a hard time with the dead weight of his rival. Benny opened the boot and struggled to put Steve in it. But what he lacked in upper body strength he made up for by being a mental case and accomplished it in the end. Benny pulled out a knife and without ceremony removed his love-rival from the equation, permanently.

Benny drove the Astra away.

*

Bill kept looking at her. Melissa had tried not to make eye-contact with the lunatic in case it made him want to strike her again. She began to cry once more. Each tear that fell was one of self-pity. It would have been so perfect if these pair of pricks hadn't ruined it. She stopped there. They hadn't ruined it as yet. The one called Steve had dashed off to be a hero. But he'd be too late. That freak Benny would have done the deed by now. And, by now, he'd be sat at home waiting to do some other deed. It had been bad enough tugging him off a little. But the thought of his scrawny mass between her legs made her shudder. But she would have done it. She changed the way she thought. It might still work out all right. She looked to Bill and smiled. Tried to make it look open and friendly.

Through the oval of the balaclava, his eyes went wide. "What you smiling at?"

"You." Her legs were bound at her ankles but she was able to open up her thighs a little. That was not missed on Bill. He was no longer looking at her face. His eyes were set lower. Bill was a beast and couldn't help himself. It wasn't enough to just look. He walked over. Melissa's smile letting him know it was alright to do so. So he did.

*

Melissa stamped a half dozen times. She didn't stop until Bill's thoughts were spread on the floor. Her hands were still tied but Bill had needed to undo the rope at her ankles to get her jeans and knickers off. His hands were just about to reach the honey-pot when she'd lashed out and kneed him in the balls. Bill went down. Both eyes crossed as he mouthed the word bitch. That was when she started to stamp. When there was nothing left of his knackers, she had stamped on his head until the skull opened. Melissa used a saw that was hanging on the wall to cut through the bindings on her wrist. She got dressed before going through the dead man's clothes for a phone.

*

Benny wasn't looking forward to the long walk back to town after dumping the car up at the quarry. His phone rang. He looked at the name and number and smiled. It was Bunny. Melissa didn't know it yet but he'd already made up a pet name for her.

"Hey, babe." He tried to sound cool; he came across as a twat.

"Where are you?" asked Melissa.

"Out having a stroll after killing lover-boy."

"Who?" Her voice sounded puzzled.

"The prick you sent to make sure the job was done."

"You killed him?"

"I'm not into all that manage a tois stuff, unless it's two chicks."

"Good."

"It's the way I play." he said, smiling.

"No. Good that you killed him."

"I'm a man of many talents, baby. As you'll soon find out." He was strutting along but it looked more like he was walking with a stone in his shoe.

"Sounds wonderful. Now I need you to come get me. You know the industrial estate? The one with the B & Q?"

"Yeah."

"Meet me there."

"We're gonna be rich!" he shouted into the phone.

"Something like that." And she hung up the phone.

*

It barely made the news. A convicted armed robber and sex-offender found beaten to death in a lock-up. Another convicted armed robber found dead in the boot of his own car. The police wrote them up as underworld killings.

A twenty-one year old was found dead on waste ground at the rear of an industrial estate with his pants down. No one really cared about that one when they saw the name in the article. Benny Jenkins, known arsonist and local freak.

Melissa wept. The tears were real and so was the grief.

The lawyer didn't really know what to say. Mr. Jackson had changed his will after his wife had passed away and it was all to go to the charities that he had listed.

It felt as though someone had reached into her chest and wrenched free her heart. The contents of the will disclosed what had been said on her mother's death-bed. Her mother had confessed that Melissa was not Frank's child. That Melissa was the result of an affair that had lasted a couple of years. Frank had then gone and had tests done that proved two things. He was a jaffa and, Melissa, she wasn't his daughter. That explained so much, yet left her with so little. She was entitled to nothing.

The information that wasn't available in the will was the anonymous hiring of thugs to kidnap Melissa by Frank Jackson. And that Frank had no intention of paying to get the bitch back. Each day, seeing her in his home was like a kick in the balls and it had lasted for an entire year. Her spoilt, greedy bitch face. So much like her mother's.

BIO: Lee Hughes lives and works on the Isle of Man with his wife and two fish. He is currently putting the finishing touches to his first novel. His short fiction is to appear in the upcoming Cern Zoo: Nemonymous 9 by Megazanthus Press, regular spots on Thrillers Killers 'n' Chillers and, of course, here at A Twist Of Noir.

A Twist Of Noir 092 - Lee Hughes

RRP TO RIP - LEE HUGHES

The man did his business in a top-of-the-range motor-home. He'd parked in Sainsbury's car park, hiding the criminal activity in plain sight. But he was no paddy-piker organising dog fights. Gruffyd was Welsh and dealt in arms. The proper deal, no hacked-down farmer's shotguns. The interior looked more like an American gun shop. Ed and Tony both knew that if they swung by this way again in an hour, there'd be no trace of this home from home.

Tony hadn't liked the idea and had suggested buying a shooter from Moobs at the Red Lion.

Ed had shook his head. "No fuckin' way. Remember Billy Rabbit?"

Tony nodded. "Lanky ginger?"

"Yeah, him. Well, Billy bought a getaway car from him. 'Reliable little motor', the fat cunt had said. Yeah, good little runabout for his mum's weekly visit to Weightwatchers and back but completely wank if you needed to go over forty for more than five minutes. The plod had surrounded Billy as he was stood on the engine block, pissing into the radiator. There were six bags of sand in the passenger's seat and a sawed-off beneath it. So, no, we ain't gonna buy so much as a packet of fags from him. Besides, Charlie's told me about this geezer. Says he's diamond, bit fuckin' loop-the-loop, but a top bloke when it comes to guns."

And so that had led them to the current meeting with Gruffyd, no second name offered and they didn't want to ask.

As they entered, Ed looked to Tony. "You got the cash?" he asked.

Tony looked affronted. "Not on me, Ed, I'm not a muppet. You think I'm gonna wander into some unknown meeting with four large on me? The money's somewhere safe. If the deals good, I'll nip out and get it."

Gruffyd was a small bloke with a facial tic. He looked a little too edgy for the line of work he had chosen. He was sat on one of the seats by the central table.

In other motor homes, the central table would have been home to a plate of luncheon-meat butties with Ribena at the side. Or, at the very least, a half-played game of Connect Four. Gruffyd's table looked like it was from the prop room of Rambo Umpteen.

Gruffyd, with his little tic of the cheek, picked up a machine gun and held it like it was a child. He was obviously just babysitting it, going off what he said.

"This is Mikhail Kalashnikov's child," beamed Gruffyd.

"Looks like an AK-Forty-Seven to me," Tony said as he checked the time.

And Tony should know as he'd watched Lord of War like it was educational, so it practically made him an aficionado.

Gruffyd looked at Tony like he had just blasphemed. "I think you need to not speak anymore, boyo, or until you stop talking bollocks." Gruffyd shook his head.

Tony was about to say something. Gruffyd, in one movement, smacked home a magazine and took the safety off. Tony found that what he had to say wasn't that important after all.

Gruffyd turned his attention to Ed. "What are you going to be gunning for?"

"I don't really wanna to get into details if you know what I mean," he said amicably, definitely not wanting to offend a crackpot with a loaded machine gun.

Gruffyd stroked the gun like it was a lover. Ed tried not to show on his face what was going on inside his head. One minute, the lunatic was cradling it like a child; the next, he was trying to get it wet.

Gruffyd leant forwards. "The more you tell me, the more help I can be. The guns, they talk to me. Let me...let them...help you."

So now the guns talked to him. Ed wondered if the Kalashnikov spoke to him in Ruskie. Gruffyd kept on talking.

"You know what makes me the best in my business?" he asked, his voice lowered to a conspiratorial level.

"No. But I've got a feeling you're gonna tell me." Ed was starting to think that a backfiring, misfiring old antique from Moobs might not be so bad after all.

The jumpy taffy nearly leapt clean out of his skin as Tony's phone went off. Tony mouthed 'sorry' and took out his phone and read the message. Tony slumped a little in his seat as he read the text.

Gruffyd composed himself and remembered what he had been saying.

"Because I know the nature of guns. They're built to kill. The bullet doesn't care what it hits. The gun doesn't care where it is aimed and the shooter shouldn't put too much thought into any of the dynamics of death and just let the gun do what it was created to do. That's what make's me a great weapons dealer. I don't have any qualms about what gun I put into which hands and what the outcome is. Now do you..." He pulled a string of funny faces like he was trying to make a child chuckle as he crumpled to the floor.

Tony was standing there with a silenced nine-millimetre borrowed from the table. He raised his hands. "Ed, don't blame me, the bullets...or the gun. It just did what it was born to do."

Tony turned back to the table. "You should come see some of the stuff he's got back here, it's fuckin' sweet." He glanced back to Ed and confessed. "Besides, that four large you gave me to look after for the deal just fell in the two-twenty at Cheltenham."

BIO: Lee Hughes lives and works on the Isle of Man with his wife and two fish. He is currently putting the finishing touches to his first novel. His short fiction is to appear in the upcoming Cern Zoo: Nemonymous 9 by Megazanthus Press. And regular spots on Thrillers Killers 'n' Chillers.

A Twist Of Noir 090 - Lee Hughes

BAD TIMES & BUSINESS IS BUSINESS - LEE HUGHES

"You sure about this crew you've dragged together?" Carly asked as she helped Reuben on with his suit jacket.

Reuben straightened the cuffs and replied. "As they say, you can't polish turds. But, for the job at hand, they'll do."

*

Billy held the end of the knackered belt tightly in his teeth. He slapped his forearm a couple of times and then dug the needle in good and deep. He grinned like a simpleton.

*

Lou sat at the kitchen table putting the denomination bands around the wads whilst whistling. His missus, April, came into the kitchen with a full linen basket. She opened up the washer and took out the half brick and set it down on the counter. She dumped the crumpled notes on the top and fed the machine the dirty laundry.

*

Ellis looked at himself in the mirror that was attached to the front of the bathroom cabinet. He felt better for just working off the stress that had been plaguing him. He opened the cabinet to snoop. The altered angle of the mirror showed the woman sprawled on the bed, the ligature still about her neck.

*

Carly was right, all three were ne'er-do-wells. But the point wasn't to band together a small group of professional thieves. That was above and beyond the call of duty. It was too hard to rob banks and get away with it anymore and building societies were pretty much the same. The world was becoming more and more a place where virtual money had more sway over the real, foldable variety.

Criminals, on the other hand, they lived for the stuff they could touch, the paper they could flash. This was where these three came in.

Billy Jones, a hopeless heroin addict. Reuben didn't care, that was all that Billy had to be, a real honest junkie.

Ellis Poole, a hard man and a right old finger-breaker. A complete lunatic when he lost the plot but perfect for what was at hand.

And old Lou. He was a face that Reuben had known from years back. A top safe-cracker before arthritis took the fiddle from his fingers. But he reckoned he had enough dexterity for the type of lockbox they were likely to encounter.

*

This job was a soft one and also to be Reuben's last one. All he wanted was a few thousand to see him on the way to warmer climates. He'd made money throughout his career but had spent it as fast as he had got it. Houses, holidays, motors and mares was the way it had been wasted. The houses had gone with the new law that gave the courts the right to confiscate anything that they thought had been purchased through illegal gains. A thud on the door of the transit van got his attention.

Reuben wound down the window. "You're early, get in the back," he said.

Billy looked like shit run over twice. Billy slid open the side door, sniffing all the while. "Thanks for this, Mr. Beaumont. Really appreciate it." He sounded sincere and also sounded as though he was starting to need another hit.

"You okay, Billy? You had a hit today?"

"Yeah, Mr. Beaumont, this morning. But starting to get shaky."

"We'll be done with the job soon and you'll have all the money and smack you need."

"Sounds good, Mr. Beaumont!"

Billy took to staring at his shoes. Nice new shoes, the kind a runner wears. Reuben looked in the rear-view mirror to see Billy. That was the face of the future of England. Disgusting. A few minutes later, Ellis turned up and got into the back. Lou turned up with his large workbag and got in the front. Reuben put the borrowed van into gear.

"You're never going to come across a job as easy as this again. The simplicity is what will make it work. Billy-boy in the back has told me of a dealer who is expecting a large delivery this evening. Billy's seen the safe at the dealer's den so we're hoping he has the cash in there instead of under his bed. We'll check there as well, just in case."

That brought chuckles from them all.

"So, it works like this: Billy goes and knocks, wanting to score. As he's being let in, I run up shouting that 'I'm police!'. That should start a panic. This is where Ellis comes in. Ellis, you run in after me and start making people relax. Then Lou comes in and opens up the safe. Any questions?"

"How far can I go?" asked Ellis. He was holding a crowbar like it was an extension of his hand.

"We don't want anyone dead. Dead people attract police. Hurt drug dealers don't tend to call the Old Bill so feel free to knock 'em about a little." Reuben's words looked to cause a little disappointment. Ellis shrugged, he'd get to work out his stress later and he'd also be a hell of a lot richer.

*

They left the house and headed for the van. Reuben had the bag of cash. Billy kept looking at the bag and then down to his new running shoes. He wanted to grab the money and run, as was his plan.

And then it was too late. They were back in the van and heading towards the outskirts of town where they were going to dish out the shares.

Reuben applied the handbrake.

"Before we get down to business, I just want to say well done!" He was about to say more when Ellis swung his crowbar and caved in the side of Billy's head.

Ellis was bringing it back to take a swipe at Reuben when there was a loud bang. Lou had been carrying a piece. It was only a small thing, suitable for a woman's purse and would have been laughed at any other time. The small calibre bullet tore out Ellis's throat. He toppled over, the crowbar still in his grip.

Reuben blew out air.

"Whoa, shit. Fuck-me!" was all he could say as he watched Lou put the gun away.

"Thanks," he finally managed. He took a few steadying breaths. This wasn't the way it was supposed to go down. He hadn't ever planned on sharing the loot with any of them but it most certainly wasn't supposed to be played out like this. He pulled out his own gun and aimed it at Lou.

"Lou, I know this looks like a right cunt's trick after what you've just done. So that's why I'm gonna just tell you to get the fuck outta the van and I'm gonna let you live."

It was the least he could do.

"You shitting me, Beaumont?" Lou's dentures were practically rattling in his mouth.

"Bad times and business is business. Need me to count to three?" Reuben figured Lou didn't need a countdown but asked anyway. Lou got out of the van with his tool bag and stood looking disgusted as the van took off.

Reuben opened up the bag as he drove, all those lovely notes, fifty grand shared one way. That would last him a good while into his retirement. When he got home, Carly was waiting for him.

"Well?" she asked, her bags already packed.

"I did it baby." He shook the bag.

"I wanna see." She was reaching out.

Reuben pulled the bag away from her a little and told her off. "You look with your eyes, not your hands." He opened the mouth of the bag wide.

The Queen was staring up at him. He stared back at her, grinning. The grin began to slip slowly, like the moment an echo upsets the snow. Then it picked up pace and his grin became an avalanche, slipping from his face. He stared at the queen. She stared back.

The problem, it seemed, was that the Queen had a moustache.

BIO: Lee Hughes lives and works on the Isle of Man with his wife and two fish. He is currently putting the finishing touches to his first novel. His short fiction is to appear in the upcoming Cern Zoo: Nemonymous 9 by Megazanthus Press. And regular spots on Thrillers Killers 'n' Chillers.