Tag Archives: Brit grit


It’s six months to the day since I discovered that crime fiction bears no resemblance to the real thing.

+++++This is how crime really works:

+++++B pisses off A.

+++++A kills B.

+++++That’s it.


+++++I should know.

+++++I found out the hard way, last summer when my brother Ron visited me.

+++++He and I were very close. My Dad was killed in a car crash when I was a baby, my Mum worked full time to support the family, and Ron became the nearest thing I had to a father.

+++++He protected me from the local yobs. When he realised I couldn’t fight, wasn’t a natural like him, he enrolled me into a boxing club so I could learn how to defend myself. It was tough, but it worked. I desperately wanted to impress my brother, so I got stuck in and learnt how to throw a punch.

+++++Ron didn’t need boxing. He was big, but that wasn’t what made him formidable. He had a primeval sort of power. You just had to point him in the right direction and set him loose.

+++++That summer when he visited, I was at my peak.

+++++I was a solicitor working at one of the magic circle firms in London. Even though I was only three years qualified, my salary put me in the top five percent of earners in the country. Senior people in the firm were referring to me as “partnership material”. My future held out the promise of glittering prizes that were mine for the taking, if only I worked hard and kept my nose clean. Fortune was beckoning me with open arms.

+++++How could my downfall have been so sudden, so swift, and so complete?

+++++Our weekend started innocently enough. We wandered around Brixton on a hot Saturday afternoon, eyeing up the talent, and browsing in record shops. We got chatting to a couple of girls and made a date to see them in the evening. Then we bought some albums, two by Prince Buster, three by the Skatalites. They were the real thing, vinyl that could have been brought over in the 50s on the Empire Windrush. After we paid for them, we set off home to listen to some classic sounds.

+++++Because of the traffic, we’d taken the bus to Brixton.

+++++While we were waiting at the bus stop, a couple of white guys appeared on the other side of the street: black jackets, black boots, blue jeans, short hair. They crossed the road, walking briskly in our direction, then broke into a run. I wondered if that was because there was a bus coming, but when I looked, there wasn’t, which puzzled me.

+++++It should have been obvious why they were charging towards us, but some things are so hard to accept you refuse to believe they can happen. Right up until the point where they’re actually happening, you cling to the belief that everything is normal.

+++++It wasn’t until they took baseball bats out from under their jackets I realised why they were in such a hurry.

+++++They were white, with short hair and attitude; we were black.


+++++Why didn’t I work it out sooner?

+++++Probably because I’d never encountered anyone like that in real-life. My only contact with that kind of person had been via the television, where I’d occasionally seen bolshie people holding rallies, protesting against Islam, and waving the cross of St. George.

+++++I believe in standing up for yourself, especially when you’re black. You have to, because you seldom get a fair deal if you don’t. That lesson was drummed into me day after day by Ron while I was growing up. But much as I believed in what he’d taught me, I wasn’t going to stand up and take a beating with a baseball bat when I had only my fists to defend myself.

+++++“Fucking Hell, Ron,” I said. “We’ve got to run!”

+++++He hadn’t noticed the danger.

+++++“Ron, get a fucking move on!” I shouted.

+++++He turned, saw the two guys wielding the bats, and froze for an instant, caught between flight and fight. Flight won, because I grabbed his arm and dragged him.

+++++Stand your ground – that’s what Ron told me when I was a kid. It was almost a religious commandment: Thou Shalt Not Run Away. He would’ve probably taken his chances if I hadn’t been there, putting him under duress.

+++++We fled, dropping our records so we could run faster. One fell from its cardboard sleeve and splintered on the pavement; another rolled like a wheel, overtook us, then headed into the road where it was run over by a passing car.

+++++That hurt – as did taking the coward’s way out.

+++++But what option did we have? No way was I going to be brave and get my skull stoved-in, and nor was Ron – not if I could help it.

+++++Because I was busy watching a record getting crushed beneath the wheel of a Volvo, I wasn’t paying proper attention to the terrain and caught my toe on the edge of a paving slab. My feet left the ground as I launched myself into an involuntary dive. For an awful moment, time stood still while I was suspended horizontally in mid-air. Then I came crashing down, face-first, sticking out my arms to break my fall.

+++++My hands hit the pavement smearing it with blood. I was vaguely aware of skin being shredded. There must have been gravel or broken glass lying around.

+++++On any other day that jolting impact would’ve been painful, but I didn’t feel anything other than fear.

+++++I immediately got to my hands and knees, all too aware that danger was fast approaching. My back tingled with consternation.

+++++Ron helped me to my feet, the footsteps of our pursuers getting ever closer.

+++++So close I heard their laboured breathing.

+++++The imagined arc of a bat-swinging made me put a hand protectively over the back of my head. I pictured the weapon making contact with my cranium, bringing me down like a baby seal in a cull. Ron gave me a pull, the images receded, I got into my stride, and we began to leave our attackers behind.

+++++We didn’t stop running till we’d turned a few corners and they were out of sight. Luckily we’re both fit guys, which is why we were able to outpace them.

+++++While we were busy escaping, I was too stressed to give the situation much thought, but once I got home the injustice of it made my blood boil. I played that scene at the bus stop over and over in my head, imagining what I’d have done to those shits if they hadn’t had baseball bats. It wasn’t a healthy thing to do, and I wanted to think about something else, but I couldn’t help myself. My brain was out of control.

+++++It was as if there was a video in my head stuck in repeat mode. I couldn’t switch it off.

+++++It might have been good to talk about the incident with Ron, get it out of my system, but I knew the subject would just wind him up, so I decided not to mention it.

+++++My brother’s different to me. He won’t let things go. He burns until he’s done something about them.

+++++Somehow, in spite of the agitation we were feeling, we got ready to go out and meet the ladies we’d got to know during the afternoon.

+++++We had an enjoyable night which took my mind off things for a while. One of the girls came back to my place and Ron went to the other girl’s flat.

+++++When Carol – that was her name – had nodded off to sleep, I lay awake, dwelling on things. I hadn’t thought about the attack all evening, and now I couldn’t stop.

+++++I’ve had to deal with bad attitude on and off my entire life, but that was the only time I’ve come up against such venomous racism.

+++++You have to be philosophical about it and pick the fights you can win. That’s my view. The fight at the bus stop was best left alone, so I wasn’t ashamed of running away, just mad about it.

+++++When I got up the next morning I shook with anger as I climbed out of bed. Then I forced myself to calm down, shoving it to the back of my mind.

+++++Don’t get me wrong, I felt no forgiveness for those white lads with their baseball bats. It’s just that I don’t go looking for trouble, if you know what I mean. If I’d have been armed when they’d tried to jump us, I’d have fought back, hard. But I’d no interest in going out and getting revenge.

+++++Ron arrived after Carol had gone. We talked about music, our dates, stuff like that. Neither of us referred to the elephant in the room.

+++++Then Ron got up and started pacing. He became this huge silent brooding presence in my crib. He seemed capable of anything. It terrified me. He’d done that pacing thing when I’d come home, aged sixteen, and told him I’d been beaten up by a gang. He’d paced silently around before going out. Later, when he got back home, he said:

+++++“Everything’s sorted now. It won’t happen again.”

+++++And it didn’t.

+++++Because the people who’d picked on me were in hospital.

+++++“You all right, bro?” I said.

+++++He didn’t answer. Just paced into the kitchen and paced out again.

+++++“I’ve been thinking. I’m going back to that bus stop where those white cunts tried to get us. I reckon they must live round there. If either of them show their faces, I’m gonna make sure they think twice about beating up a black man again.”

+++++“Leave it, Ron,” I said. “They’re not worth it. They’re scum. They’ll get their comeuppance some day.”

+++++“That day has just arrived. Are you in or out?”

+++++“I’m out. I ain’t looking for trouble.”

+++++“Suit yourself,” he said as he left.

+++++I’d been bluffing, hoping my brother would see sense. When it came to it, I couldn’t let him face danger on his own, so I followed him. I had to be there with him, at his side. I just hoped we’d find them unarmed. If we didn’t, Lord knows what could happen to us.

+++++We took the bus from outside my flat to the bus stop where we’d been attacked.

+++++When we got off the bus my every instinct told me I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. But I had to look after Ron, save him from himself, so there was no escape.

+++++The white trash who’d tried to assault us were nowhere to be seen.

+++++Thank God, I thought. All we have to do is hang round here long enough and Ron’ll see sense, then we can go.

+++++Long enough proved to be a very long time, because Ron insisted on walking round all day in search of them. My stomach churned, my mind churned even more. Fear embraced me tightly, treating me to a lingering kiss.

+++++I was in the middle of a debate with myself about whether I had any courage to speak of when Ron nudged me.

+++++“There,” he hissed. “Right in front of us.”

+++++It was them all right, coming out of a barber’s shop with their heads freshly shaved right down to the scalp.

+++++Both wore t-shirts, which meant they couldn’t be carrying baseball bats. They walked down the street with me and Ron following on their tails.

+++++“Too many witnesses around to do anything here, bro,” Ron whispered. “We’ll bide our time.”

+++++As they cut across a patch of wasteland we closed the gap until we were a yard or so behind them. Only at that point did one of them hear something and turn his head. My heart began beating against my ribs. I felt sick

+++++Ron shouted:

+++++“Oi! Remember me?”

+++++Then we both rushed to attack.

+++++They readied themselves. It was going to be a square-go, no baseball bats this time, two against two in a fair fight.

+++++Fear bore down on me like ten-ton weight on my shoulders. Somehow I shrugged it off and tore into the one I’d chosen for myself. He was big, but size doesn’t win fights. Fighting wins fights, and I’m a trained boxer.

+++++The fear left me – funny how it does that once the action starts – and instinct took over. I was in the zone, fighting on automatic pilot.

+++++I jabbed him a couple of times then decked him with a crisp left hook. He went down as if poleaxed. It was over disappointingly quickly. I’d wanted him to absorb a few good punches before hitting the canvas.

+++++When I turned to see how Ron was getting on, I got the shock of my life.

+++++Unknown to me, he’d brought a knife – my carving knife. He must’ve picked it up when he’d been in the kitchen.

+++++He was carving up his opponent like a Christmas turkey.

+++++I haven’t had a good night’s sleep since seeing him do that. I need therapy, but there’s not much chance of getting it anytime soon.

+++++“Fucking hell, Ron, we gotta go,” I said, grabbing his knife arm.

+++++He wrenched it from me, plunged the blade deep into white bloke’s stomach, and yanked it sideways.

+++++When he pulled it out, the bloke fell to his knees. Only when his victim’s face hit the dirt did Ron allow me to drag him away.

+++++“What did you do that for, man?” I asked.

+++++“Do what?”

+++++“You know what. The knife business. You didn’t need to do that. All we had to do was rough them up a little. You might’ve killed him.”

+++++“So what? What d’yer think they were going to do to us with those fucking baseball bats?”

+++++“That’s not the point. The point is, we could get sent down for this.”

+++++“You worry too much, bro.”

+++++The coppers got onto us in a matter of hours and interviewed us under caution.

+++++My brother was charged with murder and I was charged with murder too, as an accomplice, even though I hadn’t done anything much wrong.

+++++We both got life.

+++++So here I am, looking out of my cell window on Christmas day evening, quietly getting pissed on hooch.

+++++This is real-life, not a crime novel, so there won’t be any miracle reprieve, pardon, parole, or jailbreak.

+++++I’ll see you here next Christmas.

+++++And the one after that.

+++++And the one after that.

+++++And so on.


Exit Seraglio

“I don’t work for pimps.”

+++++And I don’t. I hate ponces, one step up from the pond life on the seg-wings.

+++++“Ain’t like that, Charlie,” wheezes Vlad the Inhaler before he takes another hit on his blue plastic asthma pump.

+++++“What it is like then?”

+++++“I’m not looking to get some girl brought back. Well, I want her back – but not like that.”

+++++Mouthful left in my pint time to finish this up.

+++++“Get to the point, Vlad.”

+++++“Look, I drop her to this job, right, wait in the car. Decent hotel and I’m pals with the night manager and guy who works security. Nothing bad should happen, we got a code and shit. Anyway, an hour goes by – I ain’t worried. Another twenty minutes. Nothing from Shells. If the punter wants extra time he has to pay and she lets me know. Another twenty minutes and then I have to go and find her, like. Make sure she’s alright.”

+++++“Protect your investment.”

+++++“Exactly. My mate on the desk says no way is he letting me up to a guest’s room. But then he says the geezer has checked out!” Vlad shakes his head “So I ask if Shells was with him and he says no…”

+++++I fight against it but he’s piqued my interest now.

+++++“And what is it you want me to do?”

+++++“Find her. Make sure she’s alright.”

+++++I wouldn’t risk a fiver on it but I swear it looks like Vlad almost cares. But could be more to do with lost merchandise than human emotion.

+++++“Alright. I’ll look.”

+++++A roll of money crosses the tabletop to me. It looks like pimp money; worn, dirty, tenners.

+++++“Two hundred, Charlie. Same again when she’s back.”


+++++I find myself sat in a glorified broom cupboard with a guy in a white polyester shirt and a B.O. problem. He has some tapes for me.

+++++First off, the punter arriving, picture’s grainy but I can pick out general bits about him; late-forties, tall, average build, balding, glasses. He’s wheeling a large case from the lifts to the room like he’s in for a long stay.

+++++“Got the timings down so you ain’t gotta watch the boring bits.”


+++++The timestamp shows three hours have passed. Out of the lift comes our second contestant – Shells; mane of thick hair, long coat, nice little walk in her three-inch-heels that even on bad video I can appreciate. She knocks and goes into the room. The video moves on. The punter comes out the room after twenty minutes. Wheels his case to the lift.

+++++“He order anything to the room?”

+++++“No, but drank the mini-bar dry of Johnny Walker red-label.”

+++++“Cheers.” I tip him a pair of score notes, always good to cultivate new contacts and I know Vlad’s a cheapskate.


+++++I get my business partner, Mazza, running down the address and name that the man gave. Got a funny feeling it won’t be that simple. Stare at the pint in front of me and try to think. The girl must’ve been in the case, my only real question is whether she was dead or alive. Dead –she’ll turn up in a left-luggage office or floating in a canal.

+++++But alive, that’s a different kettle-of-fish entirely.


+++++Turns out it was as simple as that. Guy had used a skud I.D. to book the room and paid in cash but when he checked out he had to pay for the Johnny Walker. He used a card in a different name. Guess he didn’t think that a pimp could have contacts in the hotel or that we’d be able to track him.

+++++I’m outside a rundown house in Holland Park; gated, covered in ivy, dark-looking place, and stinking of money despite the appearance to the contrary. Gloves on, cap brim shadowing my face, thumb a scarf over my mouth and go over the wall.

+++++The garden’s overgrown and I see a sun dial amongst the weeds. Must be a camera up somewhere as a side-door opens and a guy steps out. Hirsute to the level that if he shaved at nine the five-o’clock shadow would be back by ten.

+++++“Private property.”

+++++“Do I look like I care?”

+++++I watch his hand slip behind his waist and come out holding a wooden cosh. Smile. The hammer drops out my sleeve. He swallows hard then swings high but I duck and go low; rattle his ribs, then clock him in the eye with a straight left. He drops like I’ve cut his strings. Step over him.

+++++Inside it stinks of more incense than a Chinese massage parlour. Walk through the fugue and listen. Moans and groans coming from upstairs. Take the stairs two at a time. Stop on the landing and listen again. Turn a door handle and step inside. The house might be dark but this room is light and plush with hung silks. In the centre of the room there’re mattresses, futons or whatever, and bodies cavorting on them. I’ve not seen this amount of naked flesh since the last time I looked at a news agents top shelf; I count at least half-a-dozen-women plus the man from the hotel. He’s dressed in lilac robes with a gold band around his head. Shells lies in the middle of it all laid out like an offering; glassy-eyed, vacant, hair damp with sweat, naked.

+++++Another nude woman, an angular faced brunette, wraps herself around my legs and moans. Look down at her; her eyes look almost as glassy as Shells. Bang, a fist catches me from my blindside. I throw a backhand into the woman who punched me, enough that she feels it but nothing permanent. Show the rest the hammer and they draw back. The man stands and reaches for a curved knife on a low table.

+++++“I wouldn’t…”

+++++They never listen. He comes at me with the blade held high and obvious. Block his wrist with mine on the downward swipe and then jam the hammer into his jaw, hard. He stumbles away spitting blood and bits of tooth. I stalk after him and the women scream. Throw a blow into his lower back and when he arches away from it. I hit him in the back of the head, not as hard as I could but enough to lay him out. The women swarm to him cooing like a loft full of pigeons and Shells goes to follow. I grab her by the top of her arm and lead her to the door.

+++++“Time to go.”


+++++Vlad sits opposite me.


+++++“Well what?” I reply.

+++++“Where is she?”


+++++He sits back, a bad look creeping up his face but then I’ve stood nose to nose with real bad men and Vlad ain’t one of them.

+++++“Didn’t tell me Shells surname did you…”

+++++“What’s that got to do with the price of shite?”


+++++I leave that hanging. Everyone around here knows the Donnelly’s. They aren’t players as such but there are a lot of them, old Irish docker stock, and they don’t take shit from anyone – especially jumped up little ponces like Vlad.

+++++“Nah, she ain’t one of them Donnelly’s…”

+++++“Why don’t you hang about. When I got her straightened out I dropped her home. Her family were well pleased. Vernon, you know – her dad, he was so pleased he said he wanted to buy me a pint,” check my watch “should be down anytime now…”

+++++Vlad comes out of his chair so quickly he almost leaves his shoes behind.



+++++“The other two hundred?”

Dry Salvage

Spaulding was in his eighties, and looked far too vulnerable to put a proper beating on, but I had agreed to give Marie Andretti at least five of his teeth in order to get my full fee. They came loose effortlessly, and the old bastard bled like a stuck pig regardless.

+++++Last year Spaulding and his associates performed 24 black-market kidney transplants in a makeshift operating room up at Paignton Yards. The way the scam was set up, middlemen took most of the money, and the surgical procedure was so shoddy that the recipient often contracted hepatitis or even HIV from the dirty medical equipment.

+++++One of Spaulding’s most recent clients was Marie’s nephew, Johnny Angelillo.

+++++No sooner had Johnny received the transplant, Spaulding’s stooges grabbed him and dragged him back into the operating theatre – ripped the organ right out of him, and let him bleed out on the gravel. Apparently, they had received a higher offer… In this town, everyone has a price.


+++++When I eventually arrive back at my rooming house, the desk-jockey eyes my bloody shirt suspiciously. He probably wants to know how soon before he rents the room out again. As I trudge up the stairs the drops of blood are barely noticeable on the maroon carpet. I inspect the gaping knife wound in my shoulder in the mirror of the communal bathroom. It looks fucking ugly. I pack it with cheap toilet paper and stumble down the hallway to my room. The door is ajar. I rub my eyeballs with bruised knuckles.


+++++My least favourite ex-cop. He is sat on my bed in a greasy suit, rat-tail sap in his right hand, cock pulsing against his tight trousers.

+++++He doesn’t look well. His skin the colour of cement dust, and big clumps of his lank hair seem to be missing.

+++++He points at my shirt with a ragged, over-long fingernail.

+++++“Still whoring yourself out to the highest bidder?”

+++++“Don’t blame me, blame market forces.”


+++++I take a hard look at him. He was always fat, but he has bloated up like a waterlogged corpse.

+++++“I thought you had left town?”

+++++He shrugs.

+++++Earlier this year he was chased out of Paignton by his ex-cop buddies after sodomising two rent-boys with a retractable baton. Afterwards, he apparently made them sodomise one another, while he wanked into a jam jar. He’s a sick fucker.

+++++I heard that he was living in Plymouth, with his ex-brother-in-law, above an ‘extreme’ tattoo parlour.

+++++I slowly reach into my boot for my pig-knife.

+++++“Don’t flatter yourself, sweetheart. I’ve won better looking boys than you in poker games.”

+++++I grunt, but keep hold of the blade.

+++++“Why are you here?”

+++++“Everyone comes back to Paignton sooner or later – even if it is just to die.”

+++++He offers me a brief, demented cackle and coughs into his handkerchief melodramatically.

+++++“Do you know Harlan Deloitte?”

+++++Paignton’s richest man.

+++++“Not personally.”


+++++“But you know of him?”

+++++Collector of the occult and the arcane.

+++++“Sure. His fucking reputation precedes him.”

+++++Hoarder of unknown horrors.

+++++“I have a job for you.”


+++++“What is this, one last pay-day, then you disappear into the sunset?”

+++++His yellow eyes twinkle, and he scratches his balls with the leather edge of the sap.

+++++“Something like that.”

+++++I glance down at my bloody clothing and feel the loose teeth in my pocket. My life feels like a series of lurid little moments – stitched together, badly.

+++++I nod, and Wet-Look offers me a rancid smile.

+++++His eyes bore into me, and I feel my balls creep up into my gut.


+++++24 hours later.

+++++The watery-looking winter sun hangs low above the ugly, scattered guesthouses on Newton Road, and casts long, awkward shadows across the railway line. One of those misshapen buildings is a halfway house for recently paroled sex offenders. At least two are crack-dens.

+++++I climb the loose breezeblock steps and enter the dented aluminium trailer that doubles as an office at Lock ‘n’ Roll Self Storage.

+++++“Mr Rey. Long time, no see.”

+++++I nod, wordlessly.

+++++Karl Krazinsky is slumped across a swivel chair behind a second-hand desk. His white cropped hair stands out against his garish purple and black jogging suit.

+++++The tracksuit is a size too small, and bulges in all of the wrong places.

+++++His eyes are blank and bloodshot. It’s after midday, so his black coffee will be laced with liqueur, or something else strong enough to dilute the bad memories. I understand all too well, but I don’t sympathise. Not after the things he and his family have done.

+++++“There has been a lot of water under the bridge, Mr Rey.”

+++++“A lot of other stuff, too.”

+++++He grunts. I put one of his brothers in hospital, another one in prison. Both of them deserved it.

+++++Frankly, I’m surprised I’m here.

+++++I knew Krazinsky when he was still called Giancarlo Rossi. Before witness protection. Before he managed a low-rent suburban self-storage unit. He was always dumber than a box of shit – a leg-breaker not a grifter. Even so, he moved up the ranks at an impressive clip.

+++++So many Andretti Family affiliates turned snitch over the last decade, local criminals nicknamed the witness protection programme the ‘Mafia Meat Locker’.

+++++Everything turned to shit when Tommy Andretti ended up in an actual meat locker, down in Plymouth, with his hair slicked back and his lips sewn shut. The wise-guy wisecrack didn’t seem so funny after that.

+++++Three of Rossi’s cousins were discovered in a self-storage unit later that month. Same ghoulish shtick. It may even have been one of the units on this site. No wonder Krazinsky looks so haunted. He can probably hear them whispering his old name as he waddles around the site at night with his fucking flashlight.

+++++He splashes another two fingers of Galliano into his coffee mug.

+++++“Drink, Rey?”


+++++Why break the habit of a lifetime…


+++++Wet-Look told me that Krazinsky was holding a stash of mummified body parts for Harlan Deloitte. Most people would dismiss Wet-Look as a fantasist, but I’ve learned not to underestimate him. According to his source, the limbs belonged to Latin American Nazis, and were found buried in Lanares Province, Chile, wrapped in a Swastika flag.

+++++Deloitte is bad fucking news. Whenever his name crops up in the kind of conversations that I have, a little piece of me dies inside. I had assumed that his interests were strictly local, but it appears that I am wrong. However Wet-Look found out, I’m impressed. This isn’t the kind of information you can shake out of a Winner Street stool-pigeon, or slap out of a bus station rent-boy.

+++++Krazinsky gazes at me thoughtfully.

+++++“Do you think you’re the only ghoul out here making me an offer?”

+++++“Honestly, I have no idea.”

+++++He looks uneasy, as well he might.

+++++When the bottle of liqueur is finished he leads me down the steps and into the labyrinthine, rusted steel maze.

+++++“Say, what’s the worst thing you have ever found in one of these units?

+++++He bristles.

+++++“I don’t look in the units, Rey. I value the customers’ privacy.”

+++++“But if the money runs out?”

+++++He shrugs.

+++++“Human ashes… shrink-wrapped parcels of marijuana… the dried-out husks of dead reptiles… jam-jars full of bodily fluids. I once found four Lithuanians sleeping on cot-beds. Hell, most of these damned units are empty now. Customers prefer newer facilities. Cleaner places with better security. Better management.”

+++++He trails off – bored, disinterested, so I stop talking.

+++++His eel-skin boots splash through the stagnant puddles, splattering the legs of his cheap tracksuit. Bloody rubber gloves dangle from his waist-band.

+++++We walk in silence, covering a lot of ground, until we are in the far corner of the lot – under the pines, where the sun never shines. I remember these woods. The care home I grew up in was nearby. Older boys with camouflage trousers, cigarette lighters and flick-knives would lead us into the bowels of the woods to show us their secret porn stashes.

+++++Krazinsky gestures to a rust-ravaged unit with his battered-looking flashlight. It looks older and more decrepit than him.

+++++“This is it.”

+++++He withdraws a bunch of keys from the pocket of his jogging suit, and unfastens the padlock.

+++++He steps back to allow me to pass, and hands me the flashlight. I switch on the torch. Its weak glow barely registers in the cavernous gloom. This unit must extend right back into the tree-line. I shuffle forwards, and stumble against something on the floor. I point the flashlight towards the ground.

+++++It’s a skeleton – face collapsed with rot, bones a deep, sick shade of yellow.

+++++Further back, I see a flicker of movement in the murkiness. I raise the flash-light.

+++++Too big to be a rat. Much too big. An unholy groan emanates from the back corner.

+++++I hear the creaking sound of old bones. A face with a complexion like a skinned rabbit lurches towards me from out of nowhere. I smash the butt of the flashlight into its face and it keels over with an inhuman shriek.

+++++I turn sharply towards Krazinsky in the doorway.

+++++He offers me a thin, bloodless smile.

+++++“I’m sorry, Mr Rey. Sometimes, the only way to succeed is to corrupt yourself.”

+++++He tries to slam the door, but I manage to thrust my fist into the gap. I feel the bones in my hand shatter. I slam my shoulder into the door, and send Krazinsky sprawling into the gravel.

+++++He tries to kick out at me, but I stomp his left knee. It gives way with a queasy crack and he screams in pain.

+++++I was always led to believe that anyone who crossed the Andretti Family ended up as landfill. They were well known for employing men with dark appetites to bury, dismember or dissolve their secrets. Maybe I was wrong.

+++++“I’m sorry, Rey…”

+++++“You will be.”

+++++I drag him back toward the doorway by the collar of his jogging suit, but the cheap fabric rips. He tries to scramble across the gravel, away from me, but a stamp sharply on his back. I crack open the door and haul his lumpy body through the gap – towards whatever fresh hell lurks inside.

+++++I retrieve the over-sized key-ring from the gravel and snap the padlock shut.

+++++As I walk away – broken hand throbbing with pain, Krazinsky’s wretched screams ring in my mangled ears.


+++++Inside Krazinsky’s office I retrieve a fresh bottle of Galliano from his filing cabinet. Helpfully, the dumb bastard filed it under ‘G’. I recline in his patched-up swivel chair, and half fill a stained coffee mug with the sickly liqueur.

+++++I start to work my way through the files, in search of Deloitte’s nasty Nazi shit, but quickly give up.

+++++Eventually, the pain from my shattered hand subsides. Eventually, a passing train drowns out Krazinsky’s howls.


+++++Overhead, the smoke from the hospital incinerator blurs the winter sky like a memory.

+++++When I get to the front gate, a drab, olive-green estate car is parked sideways across the dirt-track, blocking the exit. There is a bullet-hole in the windscreen.

+++++The driver unfolds himself from his seat and stretches. He has a Russian 8mm Baikal self-defence pistol, originally used for firing CS gas, in his left hand.

+++++His name is Butterknuckle. He has a shaven head and a badly pockmarked face. He’s big, but he’s not hard. He’s a standard-issue small town hood – the kind I’m not overly surprised to find myself going toe-to-toe with.

+++++He doesn’t point the gun at me, but I stop regardless. I take a closer look at the car.

+++++Harlan Deloitte is sat in the passenger seat, smoking a cheroot.

+++++He is 60, but looks 40. Fuck, I’m 40 but look closer to 60 on particularly bad days.

+++++He’s wearing a t-shirt and jeans and an expensive-looking overcoat, unbuttoned. He has a diamond stud in his left earlobe.

+++++He smiles easily.

+++++“Mr Rey, I presume?”

+++++I nod.

+++++“Where is Mr Krazinsky?”

+++++“Don’t worry. He’s among friends.”

+++++He looks disappointed, but his lips quickly curl into a nasty sneer.

+++++“Are you surprised to see me, Mr Rey?”

+++++“You know what, Harlan. Nothing much surprises me anymore.”

+++++“Hmm. Butterknuckle – pop the trunk.”

+++++“The trunk?”

+++++“Open the car boot, son.”

+++++He backs away, still training the gun on me.

+++++He opens the car boot and drags Wet-Look out by his hair. It comes out in clumps, so he hauls the fat man by his collar instead. His face is covered in minor lacerations, and his eyes are puffed shut. His trousers are soaked in blood, where it looks like he has been kneecapped.

+++++“What are we gonna do with these motherfuckers, Harlan?”

+++++“Throw them into a pit with a couple of broken bottles.”

+++++“Aw, man. Do I have to dig the pit?”

+++++Deloitte chuckles.

+++++“I was joking, son. Shoot them in the back and kick them into the weeds. They can die like rats.”

+++++Wet-Look is on his knees on the gravel. He looks disorientated. Butterknuckle raises the gun.

+++++“No last meal for you, fat man…”

+++++Wet-Look smiles his sick smile, and then leans across and clamps his yellow teeth on Butterknuckle’s right thigh. He screams. The gun discharges into the pine trees. Wet-Look adjusts his position and takes a bite out of the hood’s genitals.

+++++I can taste blood in my dry mouth. I lunge towards Deloitte and hit him – just about as hard as I have ever hit anyone. Only after I have punched him, do I realise that I’m using my broken hand. Like a corpse, his smile remains in place, even as his head crunches against the car’s metalwork. He keeps grinning, so I stop punching and start stomping.

+++++Wet-Look crawls across the gravel on his belly and places the Russian handgun against Deloitte’s scrawny neck. He pulls the trigger without a word, and we are both plastered in blood.

+++++Butterknuckle starts to hobble away from the bloodshed. Wet-Look aims the gun at his spinal column and squeezes, smearing him across the gravel.


+++++Two days later.

+++++I like my explosives the same way I like my pornography – homemade and volatile. I lob the improvised Molotov Cocktail towards Deloitte’s mansion with my left hand, and it smashes the window with a sharp crack. It wasn’t the window I was aiming for.

+++++“His study. That will work.”

+++++I turn to Wet-Look. He looks far too big for his NHS wheelchair. His head has been shaved, but there are small pink craters on his scalp where his hair was ripped out. The flames dance in his bleary eyes.

+++++“You’re a violent, predictable man, Joe Rey.”

+++++I shrug.

+++++“That’s why you keep hiring me, right?”

+++++He doesn’t answer me, just stares into the fire – until I wheel him back across the landscaped garden, back to the rest of our rotten lives.