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.Â
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.’