The car ripped through hogweed and barbed wire, turned on a fallen tree and smashed into the beck. Karl’s head hit the dash. He groaned, his sight flickered, but he was alive. Icy water rushed through the shattered window. ‘Sue?’ He said. She stared up at him; the belt held her tight. ‘We have to get out.’ He unlatched; fell sideways, landed on her and something warm hit his face. In the back of the car was a kilo of cut heroin they were taking to Dale. That was Karl’s second and biggest thought. He reached through and grabbed the sports bag. Sue’s head was turned an impossible angle, facing him, half-drowned by the black water. She was bleeding from her mouth. He touched his face and his hands came back red; the water was coming fast. There was a sweet perfume above the fuel, hot to the nose, and some part of him knew it was death. Long black hair waved in the rushing stream and he saw how that side of the vehicle was mangled. Her face was under the water now and her blue eyes beckoned through its prism, flat as polished stones. Madness chewed him as he climbed into the back and through the side window, landing in mud that squelched over his ankles. He’d been out of Durham prison for a month, and no matter how much he’d loved her he wasn’t going back just to set the record straight with the law. She’d been driving after all, it was her car. Dale hadn’t known she was the one Karl arranged to pick him up; if he hadn’t got drunk with the Turk back in Borough, none of this would have happened. He pushed forward through the weeds, parting them with his good hand, picking his way slowly through the black. A pale moon hung like a fishbone over the country. It wasn’t his fault, he just wanted to scare her by grabbing the wheel; if she was scared it was always good, it lit against his lack of fear and he needed her to know how tough he was, that he could take care of anything. He stood on the dark road. Wind moved the wet branches of overhanging trees as he shivered and looked down at the car; its broken headlight shone ahead into the woods, illuminating rough barked thorn trees and reeds growing by the water and mouldering fence posts. He couldn’t take care of shit.
+++++It was morning before Karl limped into Gristhorpe. He’d stuck to the back roads; clutching the bag, sneaking between scrappy trees beside the potash mine and heading up to the village as the sun rose. Dale Mullany was waiting with his brothers, the three of them seated at a scarred kitchen table, smoking rollies, the blinds drawn and the Formica counter top littered with half empty glasses of vodka. There were violet bruises round the older man’s eyes and greasy black hair hung across his shoulders. He stroked his beard, looked over at Karl and said, in a still voice, ‘Why is it you’re three hours late?’ His brothers said nothing. A bull terrier in the corner snarled and slobbered over something’s thigh bone and Karl felt his throat dry. He was 23, a good ten years younger than the youngest Mullany, and he knew how these boys had filled those ten years. He tried to think of something, but the whisky still had a pillow pushed over his mind; he stammered something about a bus. Jig Mullany reached behind him and pulled a knife from the counter. It was a hunting knife, a foot long; bone handle worn and dulled by use. He stroked his goatee with the sharp edge and Karl watched a few severed hairs fall to the table. The youngest brother, Shaun, drank from a glass before him and said, ‘You got it though? The Turk was all right?’
+++++Karl grinned and walked over with the bag, which he set it on the cluttered table. ‘I took care of it, like I said I would. Just like I always said I would when we was inside, Shaun, eh? You know I’m good for it.’ He closed his eyes and saw Susan staring through the water.
+++++Shaun said. ‘I had no doubts, mate; you stink though, what you been gettin’ up to?’ He looked inside the bag and nodded to Dale.
+++++‘I fell into a ditch, comin’ through the dark. That’s all. Been inside stone walls too long mate, not used to it, am I?’
+++++Dale spoke. His voice was a rumble starting deep in his thick chest. ‘I spoke to the Turk; ’bout an hour back.’
+++++Karl felt the world rushing past stop suddenly and turn to face him. The tick of an old plastic clock above a never used cooker kicked through the drink fuzz and a shiver wormed up through his bones. He shook a little, looked into Dale’s black eyes and asked why he’d called. Didn’t he trust him? It was Karl’s way to spin fierce when backed up and afraid. It was why he’d been inside the past 5 years.
+++++Dale held his gaze, reached forward slowly for the sports bag, lifted it from the table and lay it by his feet. He wore a dirty checked shirt and baggy jeans and the chair creaked as he stood. ‘Turk said someone picked you up; didn’t say nothing about a bus. Said it was a lass, nice one an’ all, and you’d be back soon; who were it?’
+++++‘He’s lying,’ Karl said. ‘Oh aye, trust that get over me why don’t you. I told you how it was; Shaun, back me up. Why would I be lying? Why would I be lying, eh?’
+++++Shaun winked at Jig who slashed down with the knife and slit Karl’s hamstrings. He collapsed. Blood pumped over the pale tiles towards a nicotine stained fridge; he grasped helplessly at the back of his leg, mouth falling open and shutting back with a crack of teeth. His crimson shot eyes were wide with a slaughterhouse terror. ‘What have I done?’ He said at last, flailing on the blood-wet floor, trying to get himself back against the wall.
+++++Dale stood over him. ‘You lied to us son, an’ if you’ll lie over something small as this, how can we trust you with our business?’ He crouched, stared at Karl, and smoothed the long hair behind his ears. ‘Plus you got a white top on riddled over with blood I can see isn’t your own. You think I wouldn’t be all over knowing what you were doing? Think I wouldn’t know Susan was coming for you?’ He shook his head; his brothers stood behind him, silhouetted against the hazy light. Karl looked to the door, tried to move his leg and found it wouldn’t obey. The dog walked over slowly and started to lick his blood from the floor. ‘So you tell us where she is,’ Dale said, ‘and I’d better like the answer, or you’re going a place you really don’t want to.’
+++++Karl swallowed and started to talk, too quickly for it to make any kind of sense.
+++++Dale reached into his pocket and pulled out a butterfly knife that he fanned and flipped open with one hand in a graceful, well-practiced movement. He held it close to Karl’s right eye and said, calmly, ‘So come on, son, where’s our baby sister?’
+++++Karl glanced at the door; the sun was behind the glass, already hot against his face. He shook his head, closed his eyes and waited.

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Gareth Spark

Gareth Spark was born in Whitby He began writing the pieces that became his first collection, At the breakwater (Mudfog Press, 2001) in the late 90’s. His second collection Ramraid (Skrev Press, 2004) followed soon after. In 2007, he moved to Spain, where he began to write his third collection Rain in a dry land (Mudfog Press, 2008) while working in various bars. His short fiction and poetry appeared in Close to the Bone, Shotgun Honey, Line Zero, Ink, sweat and tears, Out of the Gutter, NAP, Poetry Bus and Deepwater Literary Review, among others. His story American Tan won second place in the GKBC International Short Story competition in 2013. The publication of his first collection of stories Snake Farm (Electraglade Press) followed in 2015. He reviews online for Fjords Review, among others, and is a member of the Zelmer Pulp writing collective.

Latest posts by Gareth Spark (see all)

• This notion of a fire - October 31, 2016
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• The English Dark - October 13, 2015