#shortstory #britgrit: Guns of Brixton by Paul D. Brazill
Once upon a crime, I wrote a short story called Guns of Brixton. It was published in Crime Factory Magazine, and even republished in the 8th edition of Maxim Jakubowski’s The Mammoth Book Of Best British Crime, along with all sorts of fancy pants big name authors. Later, I turned it into a novella which was published by Byker Books, Caffeine Nights Publishing, and Close To The Bone. Anyway, it looks like those books are out of print now, but GOB had a good innings. I recently rediscovered the original short story, and thought I’d post it. So here it is!
GUNS OF BRIXTON
ONE
“White and red, Richard!” said Caroline Sanderson as she lay prone on her massive four poster bed massaging her temples. She did this at the start of each day, saying that it helped her focus, as if White House level decisions awaited her. She propped herself up on her elbows and exhaled deeply.
“But, whatever you do, don’t buy bloody Chardonnay. Everybody hates Chardonnay now, you know? It’s so unfashionable,” she continued. “Remember, okay?”
Richard resisted the temptation to ask her how, pray tell, a human’s taste buds could be affected by the fickle whims of what was considered fashionable, but he knew from experience that he’d be pissing in the wind. Caroline was on a planet far, far away from him these days. And all the better for it, he thought. Her voice was starting to sound like a squeaking gate or a leaky tap dripping throughout a sleepless night.
Richard was bursting to get out of the house. His hangover was surprisingly mild; fighting the tedium of the previous night’s New Year’s Eve party at The Oxo Tower, he’d got sloshed and satisfied himself with a few sneaky tokes of weed in the toilets with one of the glamorous Eastern European waitresses. Anyway, it wasn’t the drink that gave him headaches these days. Richard walked into the migraine bright bathroom. The face in the bathroom mirror wasn’t exactly what you’d call handsome but neither was it particularly ugly. A lived in face, perhaps. With more lines than the London Underground, though. Well, he was a kick in the arse off fifty and teetering on the precipice of a mid-life crisis. What did he expect? He was lucky, though, in that, unlike most of his mates, he hadn’t developed a beer belly. The fake, black Hugo Boss suit fit him as well as it had fifteen years ago when he’d bought it in Bangkok. The fact that he still wore it, pissed Caroline off no end, which was a bonus, of course.
Richard straightened his tie in the bedroom mirror, picked up his stainless-steel briefcase and headed downstairs, barely noticing his long-neglected guitar that was propped up in the corner.
“Oh, and Richard. Could you pop into Muji and get some of that string stuff?” shouted Caroline as he reached the bottom stair.
“Eh?” said Richard.
“You know, it was in Australian Elle? To make the plant pots look more rustic.” Richard grunted an affirmative, but he was already on his way out of the door; the more he listened to Caroline, the more he felt as if he was drowning in a well of disappointment. He supposed he should have asked her a little more about who was going to be at the dinner party, but the weight of numb indifference overwhelmed him. It would probably be the usual hodgepodge of fourth tier media tossers and middle management wankers, he guessed.
Richard got into his Mercedes, threw his briefcase into the back seat and opened up the glove compartment. He took out a fist sized hip flask. Drinking in the morning – especially when he had a drive south of the river to Winopolis – probably wasn’t the best idea in the world but it would help him keep his life at arm’s length. He thought of the WC Fields line: “She drove me to drink; it’s the one thing I’m indebted to her for.”
Richard pushed the hip flask into his jacket pocket and opened a packet of L&M cigarettes. He took a big hit and gazed up at his six-bedroom West London home. There were only him and Caroline living there but it still felt claustrophobic, suffocating. One of his old mates had referred to it as Xanadu – like the cavernous house in Citizen Kane; stuffed with “the loot of all the world” but containing nothing Kane’s wife “really cared about.” Roxy Music’s “In Every Dream Home A Heartache” corkscrewed through Richard’s mind every night as he walked up the garden path after another uneventful day at work.
He buckled up, started the engine and switched on the radio. Dexy’s Midnight Runners were singing “Burn It Down” as he pulled out of the driveway into Sycamore Road. Not a bad idea, he thought. Not bad at all. He turned into Bath Road and headed south. It was a cold, granite coloured morning. He stared out of the car window, barely focusing on the rows of detached houses being smudged by the January rain. For a while he drove aimlessly, listening to the music. Ten years of this he thought. You’d get less for murder.
TWO
“I learned it from them Andy McNab books, didn’t I?” said Big Ron cleaning the blood from the dagger. He threw the stainless-steel briefcase into the back seat of his Red Jag.
“You stab them under the ribcage, see? So the blade isn’t deflected by bone and then you puncture the heart and twist,” he continued.
Sean Rogan wheezed as he lifted Half-Pint Harry’s body from the ground. “Shit, I’m out of condition,” he said. He’d once been a semi-professional footballer but now a full-time barfly. He’d even given up playing for the Blue Anchor’s Sunday league team, and he got a hot flush when he bent down to fasten his shoe laces. Big Ron nodded as he took Harry’s legs. Ron was as much use as a condom in a convent most of the time, thought Sean, but when it came to the heavy lifting, he was the man for the job. He was built like a brick shithouse and bearing more than a passing resemblance to one too. His face was so lived-in, even squatters wouldn’t stay there.
“He looks a mess, eh Sean?” said Big Ron.
“He was no oil painting when he was alive, mind you. Would make a good Jackson Pollock, though, eh?” said Sean. “Picasso, even ...”
“Jackson Bollocks, more like it.,” said Ron, with a 5000-watt grin.
“Very droll, Ron. Very sharp. You’ll be cutting yourself if you’re not too careful,” said Sean.
They stuffed the body in the boot of the Jaguar and slammed it shut. The car was Ron’s pride and joy. He’d had it since it was new and he considered it a classic car from back in the good old days. Ron was a man who didn’t like change. An aging Teddy Boy, his car even had an old eight track cartridge that exclusively played the two Eddys – Eddy Cochran and Duane Eddy.
“Right annoying fucker, though, eh? Non-stop motor mouth. Geordie twat,” said Ron.
He took the hose pipe and sprayed it around the lock up.
“He wasn’t a Geordie,” said Sean.
“Eh?” said Ron.
Sean grinned.
“Half-Pint Harry. He wasn’t from Newcastle. He was from Sunderland, James. Was a Mackem,” he said.
“What’s a fucking Mackem when it’s at home?” said Ron.
“A Mackem ... is like a decaffeinated Geordie,” said Sean, chuckling to himself.
“The north’s all the same to me,” said Big Ron.
“I wholeheartedly agree,” said Sean. “Mushy peas, black pudding, Pease pudding, fishy-wishy-fuckin- dishy. I usually start to hear the duelling banjos from Deliverance as soon as I get north of Finchley.”
Ron wasn’t listening, though. He was rubbing a pair of black tights between the fingers of one hand and scrutinising a pair of black patent-leather high-heels like they were a magic eye painting.
“You not too keen on Plan B, then?” said Sean with a grin as he dropped his trousers.
“Do we have to?” said Ron
“Not much choice now that Half-Pint Harry’s worm meat. This clobber is our best front door key,” said Sean.
He clumsily stripped to his snowman boxer shorts and struggled to pull a gold sequined dress over his shaven head.
THREE
“Did you go The Lord Albert last night?” said Lynne, before using the Clarkson’s Jewellers complimentary pen to snort a hill of cocaine. Eight o’clock on New Year’s Day wasn’t the best time for her to start work and she knew she’d need a little lift. She passed the pen to George. It was mass produced shit, and the Brixton address had been misspelled but then the Clarkson’s were cheap bastards. They’d made money hand over fist over the last few years but still cut costs wherever they could. Lynne has been manager there for four years now and had only had one pay rise. It was a trap but there she was in her mid-forties, single and under qualified. She didn’t exactly have a bucket-load of choices.
“Oh, I did,” said George, “but it was completely dead. About as much fun as Morrissey’s stag night.” He took a big snort. Lynne checked her make up in the mirror and pushed up her breasts, her best asset, she thought.
“Somewhere to park your bike,” said George looking at her cleavage.
Lynne tossed her dyed red hair back dramatically. “Sure you don’t want me to turn you straight, Georgy Porgy?” she said.
She was only half joking. George was a good-looking lad. Tall, blond and half her age. And he was always immaculately dressed. He was certainly a cut above the rough and tumble types she met in the Brixton Hill Arms. However, he was as camp as Christmas, unfortunately.
“Mmmm,” said George. “Well, maybe if I can flip you over and play your B- side!” he guffawed, loud and vulgar, as Lynne battered him with a feather duster.
FOUR
“There ain’t no cure for the Summertime Blues.” sang Sean and Big Ron at the top of their voices. Sean held the steering wheel in his left hand and checked his make up in the mirror. It was a good job he’d shaved that morning, he thought. The stubble still showed, though. He adjusted his curly blond wig as he pulled up at a Pelican Crossing and waited for a staggering smack head to wobble across the road. Sean usually loved driving in London on a Bank Holiday; there was almost no traffic, leaving the city to the real Londoners. But today was New Year’s Day and it was like a scene from The Walking Dead with the overspill from the previous night’s parties wandering the streets. As he raced down Walworth Road he swerved around the Elephant and Castle roundabout, narrowly missing a group of rat-boys being chased by a red-faced Santa Clause, he started to feel nostalgic.
“Remember the sixties, Ron?”
“Just about,” said Ron, opening up a can of Stella and handing one to Sean who held the steering wheel with one hand as he opened it.
“August Bank Holiday Monday. Brighton Beach. Mods versus Rockers. Kicking ten bags of shit out of those little twats on hair driers.”
“Happy days”, said Ron.
Sean sipped his can of Stella, gazed at the fading bat-wing tattoos on his hands and remembered a drunken night at a Brighton tattoo parlour that then segued into the time he first met his wife, Deborah. Ex-wife now, of course.
“Grab a bunch of them,” said Sean. He threw a well stuffed wallet to Big Ron. Ron opened it up and pulled out a wad of cash.
“More leaves than you’d see in a cabbage patch, eh?” said Sean. “Help yourself. Half Pint Harry doesn’t need them.”
“Won’t Uncle Frank want this?” said Ron, an edge in his voice.
“It’s a little bonus from Frank, James. He doesn’t give a toss as long as he gets that back,” said Sean. He gestured over his shoulder toward the shining metallic briefcase.
“After we get rid of Half-Pint Harry and do this next little job we can head off down the Blue for a gargle, eh?”
Ron fiddled with his bra strap and adjusted his long blond wig.
“Great minds drink alike, Sean” he said.
FIVE
Lynne wiped her nose and looked up as a black Jaguar pulled up outside the shop. “No way! Customers at this time of the morning?” said Lynne, putting on an extra layer of make-up.
“It’s New Year’s Day. We’re supposed to be shut.”
“Now, you know that Mrs. Clarkeson said that we have a no closing policy. Tight twat, that she is,” said George.
“Well, they’ll have to wait until we’ve finished the stock taking, said Lynne, indignantly.
The car door slammed and two tall, glittery blonds got out, wearing more gold than you’d find in Fort Knox.
“No! Russian Princess alert,” said George, perking up. Russians usually spent a fortune, and he worked on commission. The men – bullet heads with no necks - terrified him but the women usually seemed to take a shine to him.
“We’ve got to let them in, I’m off to Barcelona next weekend.”
Lynne just shrugged and finished off the cocaine. George wiped the white powder from his nose, pressed the button to open the security door and painted on a smile as wide as the Grand Canyon.
“Morning ladies,” he beamed. Then he saw the Glock and his jaw dropped so much you could have scraped carpet fluff from his bottom lip.
Lynne screamed as glass from the shattered cabinet showered her and pebble dashed her face.
“Shut the fuck up,” said Sean, pressing the gun against George’s left eye as Ron stuffed a big black bag with jewels.
SIX
“Well, I’m as happy as pig in shit,” said Sean, swigging on his can of Stella and swerving the car around the corner into Druid Lane. He pulled off the wig and threw it into the back seat.
“Let’s have butcher’s at this,” said Ron, wiping the make-up from his face. He leaned into the back of the car and pulled the bag of jewels towards him. As he opened the bag, he took a swig of Stella.
“Oh, for fucks sake,” said Ron. The beer he’d spilt over his crotch was cold. He started rubbing at the wet patch.
“Looks like you’re enjoying that,” said Sean.
“Sure you’re not shaking hands with the one-eyed milkman?” They both howled with laughter and then Sean froze.
“Bollox!” said Sean, as a white Mercedes hurtled towards them.
SEVEN
Richard was feeling pretty smug. It had been an effort, but he’d managed to find as many bottles of Chardonnay as his credit card would allow. He’d deliberated over stopping off for a swift half in one of the East End’s striptease pubs that were bound to be open, even on New Year’s Day and felt the urge for another nip from the hip flask. Resisting the temptation, he fumbled in the back of the Mercedes‟ glove compartment for a CD.
“Shit,” said Richard.
As he looked up, The Best of the Undertones in his hand he saw a black Jaguar career toward him. “It’s a one way ...” Richard floored the pedal and swerved the car away. He bounced the Mercedes onto the pavement.
EIGHT
Sean swerved and slammed into a wall between a kebab shop and a Poundshop. The air bag deployed, punching him in the stomach. Fuck, he was trapped. Taking a deep breath, he struggled in his trouser pocket for his Swiss army knife and punctured the airbag which deflated with a wheeze. He struggled out of his seat, the radiator hissing like a snake as the steam escaped. The car alarm was wailing, and Big Ron didn’t look too good at all.
NINE
Richard staggered out of his car and saw the Jag: a face was sliding down the passenger door window like a snail leaving a trail of blood.
“Christ...” he said
“Hey, you!”
He looked up and saw a bald transvestite stumble out of the mashed Jag carrying a big black bag, spilling necklaces and jewels, in one hand and a silver briefcase in the other. Richard fumbled in his pocket for his phone and felt cold steel against his forehead.
“I’m taking your car.” said Sean, who looked as dazed and confused as Robert Plant. “And you’re driving.”
Shit, Richard thought, as he heard the approaching sirens in the distance. Why not? Can’t be any worse than Caroline’s dinner party.
The end?
© Paul D. Brazill.