#fiction: The Tut, In The Cold, Cold Night and This Perfect Day, by Paul D. Brazill

The Tut.

After enduring forty-five years of a marriage that was, at best, like wading through treacle, Oliver Beacock Robinson eventually had enough and smothered his wife with the beige corduroy cushion that he’d accidentally burned with a cigarette two fraught days before.

Oliver had been, for most of his life, a temperate man and he had survived the sexless marriage – its colourless cuisine and half-hearted holidays – with a stoicism that bordered on indifference. But his patience had been stretched to the breaking point by Gloria’s constant disapproval of almost everything he did.

And then there was the “tut.”

The tut invariably accompanied Gloria’s scowl whenever Oliver poured himself an evening drink or smoked a cigarette. She would tut loudly if he spilled the salt. Or swore. Or stayed up late to watch the snooker. The tut, tut, tut was like the rattle of a machine gun that seemed to echo through their West London home from dusk till dawn until he reached the end of his tether.

Wrapping his wife’s body in the fluffy white bedroom rug, Oliver supposed that he should have felt guilty, depressed or scared – but he didn’t. Far from it. In fact, he felt as free and as light as a multi-coloured helium balloon that had been set adrift to float above a brightly lit fun fair.

Oliver fastened the rug with gaffer tape and dragged the corpse down the steps to the basement. As the head bounced from every step, it made a sound not unlike a tut and he had to fight the urge to say sorry.

He’d done enough apologising.

***

Oliver poured himself a whisky – at eight o’clock in the morning! – and it tasted better than any whisky he had ever tasted before. Looking around his antiseptic home, the sofa still wrapped in the plastic coating that it came in, he smiled.

Savouring the silence, he resisted the temptation to clean Gloria’s puke from the scarred cushion that had been the catalyst of her death. Taking a Marlboro full strength from the secret supply that was hidden in a hollowed-out hardback copy of Jaws – Gloria didn’t approve of fiction and would never have found the stash there – he proceeded to burn holes in every cushion in the house.

And then he started on the sofa.

Oliver’s brief burst of pyromania was interrupted when he thought he heard a tut, tut, tut from the hallway. His heart seemed to skip a beat or two, but then he gave a relieved laugh when it was just the sound of the letter box, flapping in the wind.

***

Disposal of Gloria’s body proved much easier than Oliver would have expected. On a bright Sunday morning in April he hauled Gloria’s corpse into the back of his car, keeping an eye out for nosy neighbours, and drove towards Jed Bramble’s rundown farm, and the village of Innersmouth.

Jed was an old school friend and fellow Territorial Army member whom Oliver occasionally used to meet for a sly drink in the Innersmouth Arms’ smoky, pokey snug. He was also a phenomenal lush. The plan was to get him comatose and then feed Gloria’s body to his pigs. Oliver knew the farm was on its last legs, along with most of the livestock, so he felt sure that the poor emaciated creatures would be more than happy to tuck in to Gloria’s cadaver.

Perched on the passenger seat Oliver had a Sainsbury’s bag stuffed with six bottles of Grant’s Whisky. Just in case, he had a bottle of diazepam in his pocket, which he’d used to drug Gloria.

Just outside Innersmouth it started to rain. Tut, tut went the rain on the windscreen. At first it was only a shower but then it fell down in sheets. Tut, tut, tut, tut, tut.

Oliver switched on the windscreen wipers but every swish seemed to be replaced by a tut. He opened up a bottle of whisky and drank until the rain resumed sounding like rain.

Outside the dilapidated farmhouse, Jed stood with a rifle over his arm, looking more than a little weather-beaten himself. His straggly hair was long and greasy and his red eyes lit up like Xmas tree lights when he saw Oliver’s booze.

***

The cold Monday morning air tasted like tin to Oliver as, hungover and wheezing, he pulled Gloria’s body from the car and dumped it in the big sty. The starving wretches took to their meal with relish. Watching, Oliver vomited, but he didn’t try to stop the proceedings.

Back at the farmhouse Jed was still slumped over the kitchen table, snoring heavily. Oliver collapsed into a battered armchair and started to sweat and shake. He’d decided to stay with Jed for a few days, keeping him safely inebriated until Gloria’s remains were completely consumed. But as the days grew dark the tut returned.

The tick tock of Jed’s grandfather clock, for instance, was replaced by a tut, tut. The drip, drip, drip of the leaking tap kept him awake at night and became a tut, tut, tut. The postman’s bright and breezy rat-a-tat-tat on the front door seemed to pull the fillings right from his teeth. He turned on the radio but even Bob Dylan was tut, tut, tutting on heaven’s door.

***

The usually bustling Innersmouth High Street was almost deserted now. The majority of the local people were cowering indoors – in shops, pubs, fast food joints. Oliver walked down the street with Jed’s rifle over his shoulder. No matter how many people he shot he still couldn’t seem to escape the sound of Gloria’s disapprobation.

Tut went the gun when he shot the postman.

Tut, tut when he pressed the trigger and blew Harry the milkman’s brains out.

Tut, tut, tut when he blasted fat PC Thompson to smithereens as he attempted to escape by climbing over the infant school wall.

Oliver heard the sirens of approaching police cars in the distance and realised there was only one thing left to do.

Pushing the gun into his mouth he squeezed the trigger.

The last sound that he heard was a resounding TUT!

IN THE COLD, COLD NIGHT

The purr of a passing car grew to a roar as Bruce Cooper swung the hammer and smashed Billy Kipper’s brains over the grubby flat’s threadbare carpet, producing a more than passable Rorschach test, the bloodstains looking black in his flat’s wan light. Out of the smudged window Bruce saw a murder of crows slice through the night. Somewhere in the distance, sirens screamed, and a church bell echoed.

Despite his many crimes and misdemeanours, Bruce had never thought he’d be the kind of person to kill a man but with the bloody corpse staring up at him, well, there really was no doubt in his mind that was exactly the sort of person he was. It would also have surprised the earlier incarnation of Bruce as to how little emotion he now felt over the killing — no shame, no guilt, no fear, no…horror. Just a nagging sense of inconvenience, like a loose tooth filling or a hole in his sock.

He looked around the dirty flat and found a grubby Persian rug that he draped over the body. The feet still poked out of the bottom of the rug and his spikey bleached hair stuck out at the top, so Bruce draped a few plastic shopping bags over them and decided that it would have to do for now.

He went over to the cracked sink and washed the blood from his hands and face with the drips from the leaking tap. He glanced at his face in the spiderweb cracked mirror and saw no change to the man he’d seen when he’d shaved the night before. He was still a bloody good-looking bastard. He grinned.

Bruce found some paper towels and dried himself as well as he could.  He looked down at Kipper’s body and decided to deal with that little problem at a later date. He really didn’t have the energy at the moment. He needed a drink. He checked Kipper’s pocket for whatever cash he could and left the flat.

The high street was pretty much deserted due to the lockdown. Bruce put on his Ray-Bans and pulled his paisley scarf over his mouth. He heard a raspy, nicotine-stained voice:

‘Alright Bruce, surprised to see you up and about so bright and early.’

Bruce turned.

Hanna McGee stood smirking on the other side of the street. She was wearing a pink dressing-gown and held two stuffed and overflowing Lidl carrier bags.

‘Morning Hanna. Yeah, I had a bit of a heavy session last night and I’m just popping out for a bit of an eye opener at The Blue Posts.’ This was, in fact, true though Bruce neglected to mention that the drinking session had ended in a murder.

Hanna shook her head.

‘See you later,’ she said. She walked down the empty street occasionally peeking back at Bruce.

For the first time since killing Kipper, Bruce started to feel uneasy. Hanna was a fully qualified small-town gossip and nosey parker. She was sure to be sniffing around him, now. Women like her were truffle hounds for trouble.

He crossed the road and turned the corner into the alleyway where The Blue Posts was. Bruce checked his black leather gloves and flaked off the bloodstains. He opened the door to the pub and went inside. The joint was almost empty. Most of the customers sat at different tables to each other. All were wearing gloves and some wore surgeons’ masks. A couple of familiar looking old soaks propped up the corner of the bar, as they had done since god was a lad.

‘What can I get for you, sir?’ said the massive Polish barman.

Bruce sighed. The optics behind the bar sparkled invitingly but he ignored them and ordered a half pint of Guinness. He’d need a clear head today.

The music in the bar shifted awkwardly from soporific classical to jaunty trad jazz as Quentin Welles shuffled his girth onto the bar stool next to Bruce. He was hardly practising social distancing. Bruce took a sip of Guinness while Welles gulped down half a pint of strong lager. He gestured for the barman to pour him another drink.

‘It’s bloody ridiculous that they still don’t sell pints in here,’ said Welles.

‘It’s tradition,’ said Bruce. ‘It’s been that way since the war when a French bloke owned the place.’

‘Well, like most traditions it’s bloody stupid. Tradition is just peer pressure from dead people.’

Bruce shrugged. The barman put Welles’ drink on the bar and the big man sipped it.

‘So, I bet you want to know about this, eh?’ said Welles. He tapped the rusty bullet that he wore on a chain around his neck.

‘Aye,’ said Bruce, wearily. ‘Desperate, I am.’

‘Okay. Well, this particular story goes back to World War One. 1916, to be precise. The Battle Of The Somme, in fact, when a Bavarian soldier had one of his balls shot off. The name of that particular soldier, of course, was Adolf Hitler – hence the popular World War two song ‘Hitler has only got one ball.’

He chuckled.  Bruce forced a smile.

‘And you’re saying that’s the bullet in question?’ he said.

‘Indeed, it is. But there’s more to the story than that.’

He finished his drink and gestured for another one.

‘Can I confirm that you are picking up the tab?’ said Welles.

‘Yeah, if you like,’ said Bruce, instinctively patting his wallet pocket.

‘Let’s have a Jim Beam chaser with that, then,’ said Welles to the barman. Bruce cringed.

‘Go on, then,’ he said.

‘So, you see the bullet that passed through Hitler’s scrotum eventually lodged in the reproductive tract of a Bavarian nurse and she became pregnant with Adolf Hitler’s child. Nine months later, that child was born, unbeknownst to the future Führer of Germany despite proclaiming that she was a virgin!’

Bruce slumped in his chair.

‘It’s complete and utter cobblers,’ he said. ‘It’s an apocryphal story. I think it even dates back to the bloody American Civil War!’

Welles winked.

‘But it’s a good yarn, eh?’ he said.

‘I suppose so.’

‘Worth a couple of free drinks?’

‘Oh, why the hell not. But what about the bullet? What’s the real story behind it?’

‘Ah, well that is a tad less colourful tale but still is far from mundane.’

He drained his drink and Bruce gestured to the barman.

‘Same for him and…a gin and tonic for me,’ he sighed.

Welles licked his lips.

‘It was during the Eighties. All yuppies, New Romantics and Relax t-shirts. I was working for the civil service. We had a nice little office in Whitehall and a couple very tasty boozers just round the corner. We had flexi-time and expense accounts and…’

He closed his eyes and smiled.

‘It sounds idyllic,’ said Bruce.

‘It was. Or as near as dammit. Until that bloody American bird turned up, that is.’

Bruce closed his eyes. He was starting to feel the hangover bite and he was ready to do a runner but he didn’t want to attract attention to himself. To do anything out of the ordinary. So, as per usual, he’d sit and listen to Welles’ bullshit. And he’d try not to get drunk and tell Welles about the murder. But, as late afternoon melted into early evening, Bruce headed toward drunken oblivion like dishwater down a plughole and knew that, better safe than sorry, he’d have to kill again.

© Paul D. Brazill.

THIS PERFECT DAY

Well, I’ll tell you something for bloody nothing, I really bloody hate that Danny Blake, I really do. I just can’t stand the bloody bloke. Then again, he’s a pretty easy person to hate. You see, Danny’s a whinge-bag. A self-pitying moan-machine. His shoulders have more chips than a Blackpool casino, you know? So, when Fat Tony says he’ll pay me a ton to knock ten buckets of shite out of the little fucker, well, I jump at the chance. It’s more of a pleasure than a chore, to be honest.

Now, you might expect Fat Tony to have more tolerance for Danny’s ways - what with them being step-brothers and the like - but, just as he does with pretty much everyone I know, Danny sets Tony’s teeth on edge. Gets his back up. And, anyway, Danny owes Fat Tony a shed load of dosh and Fat Tony is as tight fisted as he’s fat.

Now, this isn’t exactly the first time that someone has paid me to beat somebody up, that’s for sure. It happens quite a lot because, well, I’m bloody good at it. I’m methodical, you see. I don’t rush into things. I bide my time and get the job done properly.

In fact, I usually liked to scope out my targets for a bit before I do the dirty deed. To check out their habits and choose the right place and time. But Danny Blake is as predictable as fuck.  Come rain or come shine, he’s in The King John’s Tavern at half past 11 on Friday night because that’s when Boyd, the pub’s landlord, gives him a free couple of pints and a vodka chaser. Danny probably thinks it’s because Boyd likes him but really Boyd does it to clear the pub out faster. The more pissed he is, the more annoying Danny is and he’s much more effective than a last orders bell, I can tell you.

So, I sit in the pub’s beer garden smoking a Silk Cut and sipping a half pint of Carling, waiting for Danny to stagger out of the pub. Which he does, just after midnight.

He’s wearing a purple, nylon shell-suit that I can hear crackle as he staggers past me. He’s with Peter Squirrel, a ginger fat bloke that used to work in the slaughterhouse. Squirrel won the lottery last year and spends most of his days getting as drunk as fuck, as most of us would in his position.

Danny is almost spitting in Squirrel’s ear.

‘I just don’t like to think that someone’s trying to have one over on me,’ says Danny. ‘That someone’s pissing down my back and telling me it’s raining.’

I chuckle at that because it’s the one thing that Danny does like. It gives him a reason to bear a grudge. Not that he ever really needs one, when I think about it.

Squirrel says something to Danny and then he staggers over to Keith’s Kebabs.  Danny is barred from the place, as he is from most of the takeaways in the town, so he carries on up Park Road. He leans against the graffiti-stained metal shutters that cover an estate agent’s windows and starts to piss, muttering to himself. I quickly catch up with him. He doesn’t notice me as I get behind him and give him a couple of kidney punches. He staggers forward and bangs his head against the shutters. They rattle. He shouts as I grab hold of him and throw him onto the piss-stained pavement. I kick him in the sides and in the balls.

He makes the usual whinging and wailing sounds but I try to switch off. Try not to listen. I kick him in the mouth, hard.  But even when I can’t hear what he is saying there is something in Danny Blake’s eyes that rubs me up the wrong way until I keep on kicking. And then I start stamping on his head.

It isn’t until I calm down that I see that Danny is dead. I sigh and look around. At least there are no witnesses. I hope Fat Tony won’t be pissed off. Some hope, mind you.

*

So, Fat Tony is not friggin’ happy.

‘I’m not friggin’ happy,’ he says.

Not that I need telling. He’s already thrown a plate of spaghetti bolognaise against his office wall and is now slamming his fist on his mock-mahogany desk.

‘Did you search Danny for the dosh?’ says Tony.

‘I did but he had nothing on him,’ I say. ‘He was skint.’

Tony takes a swig of his drink. He drinks half-pints of Peppermint Schnapps these days. He’s supposed to be on the wagon and he hopes that if he drinks the Schnapps, Marie, his missus, will just think he cleans his teeth a lot. His office reeks of peppermint air-freshener too, to add to the camouflage. Of course, Marie knows he’s boozing again but doesn’t actually give a shit. She just wants to keep Tony on his toes, so he doesn’t find out about her shagging his cousin, Fat Anne. It’s a tangled web, it really is.

‘Did you get his house keys?’ he says.

‘Yeah, I frisked him before I took the body up to Jed Brambles farm,’ I say.

Jed Bramble is a local pig farmer whose livestock has a massive appetite for corpses. They’re sure to polish off Danny Blake in no time.

‘I’ve got his keys, his wallet and his mobile phone,’ I say.

‘I’m guessing there’s nothing in the wallet,’ says Fat Tony.

‘Not a lot. Ten quid and a bunch of business cards.’

‘Business cards,’ says Fat Tony. ‘What use would Danny Blake have for business cards?’

I shrug.

‘I have no idea,’ I say. ‘They all seem to be travel agents’ cards.’

‘Well, we’d best leave that little mystery to sort itself out. Pop round Danny’s place and have a mooch around, eh? See if there’s anything valuable in there, though chance would be a fine thing.’

‘Do I have to?’ I say. ‘I’ve been up all night. I’m cream crackered.’

Although I’ve never been to Danny Blake’s flat it has the reputation of being a shithole and a visit there isn’t exactly the most appealing thought.

 I yawn.

 ‘Just do it,’ says Fat Tony. ‘And take Meatloaf with you.’

Oh, this just gets better and better, I think.

*

‘You see,’ says Meatloaf. ‘It’s just mind over matter. Focus. Visualisation.’

Meatloaf got his nickname because of his remarkable resemblance to the late American rock singer, even when he was a kid. But he went on the Atkins Diet a few years ago and he’s really dropped the weight so the resemblance isn’t so acute. He’s since become a bit of an Atkins Diet evangelist, too.

‘Well, good luck to you,’ I say.

I’m not in the mood for Meatloaf’s self-improvement sermons. I’m knackered.

We’re sat in a stuffy post office van that Meatloaf has borrowed from one of his mates. It stinks of pork pies, energy drinks and farts. Meatloaf is driving since I lost my licence a few months back after an incident involving an ice cream van and a hen night that were doing the conga down York Road. 

Meatloaf jumps a red light and jerks the battered and rattling van into one of the darkened streets that lead to Mayfair Street. None of the streetlights is working, of course, but there is a little light from the occasional bonfire. Packs of feral teens hover around the flickering flames knocking back cheap Ukrainian vodka. The lone, open kebab shop is like lighthouse for weary drinkers. Meatloaf drives slowly and carefully, past the boarded-up post office, shops and pubs, watching out for sudden movements in the shadows. Through the window I see night melting slowly into day.

I drop off to sleep for a few minutes and jerk awake when the van stops.

‘We’re here,’ says Meatloaf. ‘Mayfair Street.’

I yawn and rub my eyes. We’re outside a closed down hairdresser’s called Curl Up and Dye.  The shop’s window and front door have rusty metal shutters pulled over them.

‘I thought Danny lived in a block of flats,’ I say.

‘He did. But he’s been squatting here for the last six months.,’ says Meatloaf.

I sigh.

‘Let’s get on with it, then,’ I say.

As we get out of the van, it starts to rain. I turn up my coat collar.

Meatloaf goes up to the door. It’s padlocked shut and the padlock is rusty. He rattles it but it doesn’t give.

‘It looks like this door hasn’t been used for years,’ he says.

‘Can you imagine Danny using the front door anywhere?’ I say. ‘Letting people know where he is?’

‘Aye. Would make him a bit of a sitting target. Round the back, then.’

‘Aye. As that’s what she said.’

We walk to the end of the street and turn into the backstreet. It’s pitch black and smells of … well, it stinks of lots of things and none of them are that pleasant.

We use our smartphones as torches.

‘Can you remember the number we’re looking for?’ I say.

Meatloaf grunts.

‘Yes, I can,’ he says. ‘Some of us pay attention to these things.’

I let that one slide.

‘Who owns that hairdressers’, anyway?’ I say.

‘It used to be one of Tony’s places,’ says Meatloaf.

‘Yeah?’ I say. ‘How come I don’t know that?’

‘Tony doesn’t tell you everything. Food chains and all that.’

I ignore the jibe and am reminded that Meatloaf is almost as annoying as Danny.

‘So, who owns it now?’ I say.

‘The local government bought it off Tony a few years back.’

‘Really?’ It doesn’t look like they’ve done anything with it, though.’

‘Yes, I had spotted that,’ said Meatloaf.

He stops in front of a graffiti-stained wooden door.

‘Fuck, it smells even worse here,’ I say.

Meatloaf takes a pair of black leather gloves from his jacket pockets.

I do the same.

Meatloaf tries the handle but the door is unsurprisingly locked.

‘Foot or shoulder?’ I say.

‘Feet,’ says Meatloaf. ‘One, two, three.’

We both kick the door and it slams open.

‘Ladies first,’ says Meatloaf.

I bite my tongue and walk into the darkened yard. It seems to be cluttered with piles of dining chairs. I use the torch on my phone to find the kitchen door. I try the handle and it opens. I fumble around for the light switch. A strip light buzzes and bursts to life. The room is migraine bright. And almost empty. Almost being the operative word.

‘For fucks sake,’ says Meatloaf, stepping into the kitchen.

‘Yep, that’s not something you see every day,’ I say.

There’s an American Bald Eagle in the middle of the room. A real one, too. Dead and stuffed, yes, but there it is. And not that I’m any expert on taxidermy but it looks in pretty good nick.

Meatloaf shivers and I remember about his ornithophobia, his fear of birds.

‘Come on,’ he says and walks down the darkened hallway. He goes into a room and switches on a light.

‘For fucks sake,’ he says.

I follow him into the room and actually gasp. It’s full of stuffed animals. Cluttered with them. There’s a dog, a cat, a kangaroo, a baboon, a wolf and a python. All but the kangaroo are in glass cages. Two stuffed kestrels and a seagull hang from the ceiling.  But there are also stuffed people on a black leather sofa. I recognise them as a couple of smack-heads that used to hang around outside Booze n News trying to cadge money for cheap cider.

And then one of them moves and Meatloaf screams.

***

The smack-heads move bloody fast, I can tell you. One of them knocks me to the ground and the other one is quickly on top of Meatloaf, stabbing away with a Stanley knife. I kick my smack-head away from me before he can do any damage with the broken beer bottle in his hand. He falls against his mate and Meatloaf and then they all collapse into a heap. They struggle to get to their feet and it’s almost comical. And then they’re up.

Now, I’m not averse to a scrap. Far from it. I like to use my fists, feet, elbows, knees, head. Maybe a knife or a screwdriver. I like to get up close and personal. To get my hands dirty. Not like those soft Yanks hiding behind their guns. But things change and we all have to move with the times so these days I keep a Glock in an ankle holster.

So, I lean over and pull it out. I’m not the best shot, I’ve hardly used the thing, and I just keep shooting until the smack-heads hit the ground. I stand up and walk over to them. One is most certainly dead – a bullet went through one of his eyes - and the other is grasping his throat as he gurgles out blood. I shoot him in the head.

I can see that I’ve hit Meatloaf, too. In the shoulder and in the stomach.

‘Fuck it, help me, you daft twat,’ he says.

I smile and crouch down. I put the gun in his mouth and fire.

‘Food chains and all that,’ I say.

I spend about half-an hour searching the flat before I find the money that Danny owed Tony. I find a lot more money too. And jewellery and drugs and Russian passports. And an AK47. Danny was into something very, very dodgy, that’s for sure and not only do I not know what it is, I don’t want to know.

I find a couple of holdalls and stuff as much in there as I can. I leave the house and walk to the end of the street. The inky-black night has melted into a grubby-grey morning. The town is waking now and I can see the windows of the granite tower blocks are starting to light up, smudged by the early morning rain.

I phone Tariq’s Taxis and have a cigarette while I wait. Tariq’s there within five minutes. Tariq is one of the few friends I’ve got left in the town, truth be told.

I get in the taxi. It’s warm and smells of air-freshener. Tariq is listening to Queen’s Greatest Hits, as usual.

‘Where to mate?’ he says.

I’m about to give him Fat Tony’s address but realise I’m too deep in the shit to come up smelling of roses now.

‘Best take me to train station,’ I say.

Tariq starts the car.

‘Going anywhere nice?’ he says.

 ‘I’m not too sure, mate,’ I say. ‘But it’ll be somewhere that’s not here and that’s bloody good enough for me right now.’

© Paul D. Brazill