Now I Have A Staple Gun. Ho, ho, ho.

 By Jay Stringer. 

This was originally published on this here site OVER A DECADE AGO OMG when we ran a Christmas Noir season over the holidays. 

........

 

Santa Claus was a mean old bastard.

      That’s one of the first things I ever learned.

      It didn’t matter what I asked for, I’d get whatever Santa could pick up from the all night garage on his way home from the pub.

      My fourth Christmas I asked for Castle Grayskull. I got a mars bar. King Size. The next year I asked for Optimus Prime but I got a road atlas. Seven years old, I asked for the Michael Jackson album,  but I was the only kid who had a staple gun sitting under the tree on Christmas morning.

      It wasn’t even wrapped.

      My favorite was when I was thirteen. That year I’d asked for a Sega. I got a three packs of condoms and a little note instructing me on how to use them. Three packs. He had faith in me. 

      Fifteen and sixteen he got me good presents; Liquor. First cheap bourbon and then single malt. That final year we spent Christmas day drinking our way through the presents and talking. We started to understand each other a little more, somewhere between the final drop of amber and the start of the Doctor Who Christmas Special.

      Maybe it would have been different if my mum hadn’t walked out. Mrs Sanderson across the way once told me that Dad fell apart after that. If you go for that kind of excuse.

      Seventeen was the year.

      I’d been home from work a few hours when dad got back. One look at his face as he walked in the door told me he’d forgotten it was Christmas eve. He was empty handed. He mumbled something about being right back and headed out into the cold.

      I set out two empty glasses and waited for him to come back.

      And waited.

      Waited.

      4 AM two police officers knocked the door. A tired looking man in his forties and a very serious looking woman about ten years younger. She flashed her ID but said her name was Laura, and when she used her first name I already knew what they were going to say.

      Hit and run. He’d been on his way back from the garage on foot, holding two bottles of whiskey and a plastic robot. Laura said he wouldn’t have seen the car, it came up behind and the driver didn’t have his lights on. My dad was flipped over, landed on his back but somehow had kept the bottles from smashing. He crawled to the side of the road, to a payphone, and struggled to his feet to reach the receiver.

      Laura didn't come out and say it, but it sounded like it was the exertion that finally finished him off. His broken body couldn’t cope with the movement.

      A passerby found him a short while later, already dead.

      The driver had turned himself in an hour later. He said he'd been drinking and fled the scene, but couldn’t face his family when he got home. It was an open and shut case.

      The male cop handed me a bottle of whiskey, the glass was all scratched and the label was wet. He said it wasn’t really evidence and nobody would mind if I found a use for it.

      One other thing, Laura said, she passed ,e a piece of paper with a phone number written on it. My dad had managed to dial it before he died. Before she got someone running the number on the system, did I know who it was? 

      I said I had no idea and she took the paper back, but I’d had enough time to memorize it. I’m good with numbers.

      The two cops said they’d be back later with photographs for the formal ID. I sat and drank to my old man for a couple of hours. After I’d worked up enough Dutch courage I dialed the number. A woman answered on the other end, and I caught my breath.

      I said, Mum?

      She hung up.

      Santa Claus was a mean old bastard, but he was the only dad I ever had.

Skyler Hobbs and the Yuletide Terror

By Evan Lewis

It was the day after Thanksgiving, and my friend Skyler Hobbs insisted on visiting Pioneer Courthouse Square for the lighting of Portland's official Christmas tree. I tagged along to keep him out of trouble. Or so I thought. 
Hobbs gazed up at the dark tree. “This 75-foot Douglas fir has been strung with 15,000 lights of the LED variety, meaning they are extremely energy-efficient.”
I stared at him. “You've gone green? You, the reincarnation of Sherlock Holmes?”
“Just because I am an old soul, Watson, does not mean I cannot be socially responsible.”
“Wilder,” I reminded him, “not Watson. Jason Wilder.”
The square was packed shoulder-to-shoulder with people clutching Starbucks cups and food from the Honkin' Huge Burrritos cart. Their attention was focused on the stage, where members of the Oregon Symphony, the Pacific Youth Choir and the band Pink Martini were struggling to lead the distracted crowd in Christmas carols. 
“If you start singing,” I said, “I'm out of here.” 
“Oh come, Doctor, don't be such a scrooge.”
“Computer Doctor,” I said. “As for being a scrooge...”  
But he wasn't listening, his gaze fixed on a shawl-wrapped woman worming her way toward us with an old-fashioned baby carriage.

Hobbs' brow furrowed. 
“What?” 
“That woman has recently shaved a heavy beard and mustache. She is not a woman at all.”
Hobbs sidled forward, tipping his deerstalker cap. “Happy Christmas, madam.” 
The cap slipped his from fingers, and as he swooped to retrieve it, his face came quite near the bed of the carriage.  
With a growl, the “mother” wheeled the carriage about and pushed it away into the crowd. 
Hobbs watched a moment, then stiffened. “Quick, we must stop him.”
“Huh?”
“He has abandoned the carriage. You must retrieve it!”
Then he was off.
I followed, cursing. Hobbs was nuts, but I'd learned to trust his instincts. Reaching the carriage, I shouted, “Dirty diapers coming through!” and the crowd opened a path. 
At the edge of the plaza, the streets were bare except for police cars and stern-faced patrolmen. Across the street I saw the phony mother, headed toward Pioneer Place Shopping Center with Hobbs hot in pursuit. I hurried after them.
The crossdresser stopped, yanked a cell phone from his pocket and held it up to dial. Glancing back, his eyes skipped over Hobbs, fixed on me and went wide as goose eggs. Spinning away, he turned to cross the street, but a bus was roaring past. Hobbs sprang onto the man's back, trying to drag him down.
I parked the carriage and ran to help, but the guy broke free and charged blindly into the street, just as another bus approached.
Man and bus met with a meaty crunch. The guy flopped to the blacktop and I grimaced as the big wheels ground his head to pulp.

Hobbs grabbed the carriage and hustled me away from the scene. A full block later he turned a corner and peered back.
“We are not pursued. We must take the carriage and depart at once.”
“And kidnap a baby? Forget it.”
Hobbs flung the carriage blanket aside, revealing a doll dressed in baby clothes. And beneath the doll, under another blanket, sat brick after brick of a substance resembling mozzarella cheese.
“When I stooped to get my hat, Doctor, I found none of the telltale scents of an infant. Instead, I detected the odor of the explosive known as C4.”
       
Replacing the blankets, Hobbs grabbed the carriage and hurried on.
“C4? We're carting a load of C4?”
“We are in no danger. The explosives were to be triggered by our late friend's cell phone.”
“My god, Hobbs. It would have killed thousands. We have to tell somebody!”
Reaching the next corner, we had a view of the square, two blocks away. Voices chanted, “Three, two, one . . . ” and the tree came alive with all of its 15,000 lights. The crowd began singing White Christmas. 
“Would you tell those good people they nearly died? Now, when they are gathered in the spirit of peace and goodwill?”

# 

Back at 221B SW Baker Street, Hobbs said, “I must consider this carefully,” and curled up with his pipe, immune to conversation.
I flopped in front of the TV, trying to forget the carriage full of explosives in my car.
I must have dozed, because suddenly Hobbs was there beside me, and a newsman was saying, “Tonight, the FBI foiled a plot to kill thousands at Pioneer Courthouse Square.”
The face of a thin young man filled the screen. “After a year-long undercover operation, nineteen-year-old Somalian immigrant Mohamed Mohamud is now in custody. Tonight, when Mohamud tried to ignite a truckload of phony explosives with his cell phone, agents swooped in. The crowd at the square, authorities assure us, was never in the slightest danger.”
“A decoy,” Hobbs said. “The FBI was taken in by a decoy, while the true bomber escaped their notice entirely.”
“We have to tell them. And the media. You'll be a hero.”
“No. The public can never know. Our fellow citizens would fear to leave their homes, and the spirit of Christmas would be forever tarnished.”
“So what do we do with the C4?”
“In my line of work,” he said, “it may someday prove useful. I propose we bury it in the back yard beneath the azaleas.” 
So we did.
I knew he was right about not going public. The story would cause panic and probably get us thrown in the slammer. Still, I couldn't help myself. Next morning I grabbed my laptop and started typing. 
Hobbs let out a laugh.

“What?”
“I am quite aware, Doctor, that you plan on submitting this adventure to the Internet magazine Do Some Damage, as part of their Christmas Noir celebration.”
“And you're okay with that?”
“I have made inquiries. That site caters to aficionados of the most lurid sort of detective fiction. If the editors choose to publish so wild a tale, who would ever believe it?”


--


Evan Lewis's work has appeared in such places as EQMM, BEAT to a PULP: Round One and Discount Noir. There are more Skyler Hobbs flash stories on his blog, http://davycrockettsalmanack.blogspot.com/

A Christmas Surprise

by J. F. Juzwik

"Phil?  Philsey?  Come on now, and open up those baby blues."

Phil felt sick to his stomach.  What the hell was going on?  It was so hard to open his eyes, and frankly, he wasn't certain he wanted to.  He managed to get them open to small slits, and as his head began to clear, realized he was on his knees on the roof of a cabin in the woods.  That was bad enough, but his hands were restrained behind his back by some type of material that was cutting off the circulation and his fingers were getting numb.  He couldn't move his feet either.  The same type of cord was holding them together as well.  His toes were throbbing and he wondered how long before they became numb and simply dropped off altogether.  Breathing wasn't too difficult, but there was a thick, wide, and horrid-tasting tape across his mouth that felt like it was wrapped completely around his head.  Something was terribly wrong with this picture--no doubt about it.

"Well, Philsey, glad to have you with us, finally.  Wouldn't want you to miss out on any of the fun.  Know where you are, bud?  You're on the roof of my cabin.  Oh, wait a minute.  You thought this was Pauline's cabin, didn't you?  Well, it's actually mine, just like she is.  She's my wife, you see, and here you are, getting all spruced up to come over to my cabin and deliver a big Christmas surprise to my wife.  In case you're wondering, by the way, yes, I have all her phones tapped."

Phil remembered the night he met Pauline.  Georgie had offered to set up a blind date for him and unfortunately for Phil, he had accepted the gesture.  However, on his arrival at Lumen's Bar and Grill, when he checked out the corner stool where his date awaited him, he made the decision to drop Georgie from his list of acquaintances.  Zelda, his intended, was a bit hairy for his liking since her mustache was fuller than his own.  Phil figured he'd hit Danniger's Lounge up the road for a quick nightcap, then home, alone.  A quick stop at the pharmacy to pick up some ointment first though.  All of a sudden, he was feeling a bit itchy...

The second he walked into Danniger's, he saw her.  The most beautiful creature he had ever seen.  When their eyes met and she smiled that smile of hers, he knew she was the one he had been waiting for.  Every second they were together over the past few weeks, time had seemed to stand still.  He knew she was trying to escape an abusive relationship, but when they were married, he would make sure she never felt afraid again.  When he spoke with her this morning, he wished her a Merrry Christmas Eve and told her he would meet her at her cabin at midnight and give her a big Christmas surprise.  He'd be paying on that ring set for the next two years or so, but they were worth every penny.  The stones were full of light and sparkle, just like Pauline.  He remembered being in his apartment and putting on that Santa suit he had rented for the occasion, but, then...?

"See, Philsey, my boy, she's always trying to leave me, but there's no way I can let her do that.  What would people think if I let a woman walk out on me?  No one else has ever taken her quite as seriously as you though.  When she tells them her sob story, they usually just offer a shoulder and a motel room bed and following checkout, she's back at home where she belongs.  But, you don't know when to quit, Phil, so I'm going to have to make an example of you.

Pauline's already inside and she's got a nice fire going.  Going to lower you down the chimney, Philsey, so you can become her special Santa.  Now, it's going to be a bit warm for you when you land.  Let me put it this way.  Here's a new take on an old tune.  (sings to the tune of The Christmas Song):  'Phil's nuts roasting on an open fire, Zippo nipping at your toes...'.  Always loved that one; really fills me with Christmas spirit.

Anyhow, this will remedy our situation and get Pauline back with me where she belongs.  She'll be upset, I'm sure, but I've got a doctor in the car to hit her with a sedative.  I've ordered dinner that should be delivered around 4 tomorrow afternoon, and she should be pretty much awake by then, so we can have a nice and relaxing family type Christmas.  I hate to get so heavy-handed with her, but you know, Phil, sometimes you just have to let your woman know where she stands.  Pauline will get over this and you, and if it should occur to her to try to leave me again, I sincerely believe she'll think twice about it, don't you?

Well, I'll bet the fire's going strong about now, fella, so me and Jack will ease you down the chimney.  This is Jack, by the way, one of my bodyguards.  Jack?  Phil.  Phil?  Jack.  Phil's going to take this like a man, aren't you, Phil?  Let's get him inside the chimney."

Phil tried to tell them that his big surprise was a wedding ring set, and he could still return them to Benson's for a refund and he was sure Del would stay open for him if he just made a quick call, but all he could manage was 'm-m-m, m-m-m, m-m-m....'.

"Okay, Phil, we're going to let go of the rope.  You have yourself a Merry Christmas now.  No hard feelings, huh?  Ho. Ho."

As Phil began his descent, he wondered what a different direction his life would have taken if he had just been able to work his way past Zelda's furry lips...

--END--

BIO:  J. F. has had a crime fiction novel and a horror short published.  Her stories have appeared in the ezines Crooked, A Twist of Noir, and Powder Burn Flash.  Her blog is at jfjuzwik.blogspot.com and her website is at jfjuzwik.webs.com

Secret Santa

By

Alan Griffiths

David Cook exited Canary Wharf tube station, feeling icy sleet on his face and hearing staccato out-of-tune squeaks and parps. Turning the corner Primrose was a sight for sore eyes.

“You’re a gentleman and a scholar,” said Primrose. A beaming smile exposing bad, nicotine stained teeth as he pocketed the pound coin.

“A cold morning for it, Primrose,” said Cook. “You look a seasonal picture though.”

“Aye,” said Primrose. “But the elastic on these Alan Whickers is cutting me friggin’ arse to ribbons.”

Primrose poking and pulling at his buttocks tottered on stilettos. His red silk dress rode higher; revealing a scary glimpse of hairy goose pimpled flesh, suspender belt and stocking top. Primrose’s only deference to the bitter weather was a three button M&S cardigan, straining across his barrel-chest, and a Santa hat.

Cook laughed and took a copy of The Big Issue. Saying, “Take care my friend,” as Primrose readied to let loose with the battered alto-sax.

As Cook reached the First Global Bank building he heard the old transvestite honk out the first few gruff and wobbly bum notes of ‘All I Want for Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth’.

***

Cook spotted the diminutive, mutton dressed as lamb, Georgie Bell. He could count on one hand the number of times Georgie had spoken to him since she was appointed FGB International Director. Making no secret that she regarded him as a middle-aged has been.

Reaching his desk Cook said a cheery, “Morning all.”

In her office Georgie feigned not to hear and continued to tap on her keyboard, a sour look on her face like a bulldog chewing a wasp.

Cook thinking, silly, stuck-up bint.

Firing up his computer Cook hacked into Georgie’s email account. The Human Resources email confirmed his suspicions; today was going to be the day.

Accessing the Pietersen account he began coding instructions; marvelling at the transactional procedure. One pence, disguised as a currency fluctuation, was deducted from a multitude of FGB international accounts each day and deposited into the Pietersen account. Miniscule amounts skimmed and totalling a tidy six figure balance.

***

The email arrived at 15:45, instructing him to go immediately to HR. Waiting for the lift he spied two security guys locking down his work-station. FGB was following standard dismissal security protocol.

Georgie, not bothering to attend, sent her deputy, the snivelling Derek ‘Jellyfish’ Ponting. Cook was told by the HR manager that regrettably his position was redundant. Hearing corporate platitudes: Deficit. Tough trading. Efficiencies. Rationalisation.

The Jellyfish limply shook Cook’s hand and gave him a meagre redundancy cheque. Saying, his tone as camp as a row of tents, “Wishing you a, err... happy early retirement, David.”

Cook was escorted from the FGB building with not so much as a thank you for twenty five years of unblemished service.

Doing the sensible thing, Cook found the nearest bar and downed the first of several large malts.

***

Cook tracked Primrose down to a hostel for the homeless in Vauxhall. Finding him semi-conscious in the canteen amongst empty cans of Tennent's Super.

Primrose insisted on taking his beloved alto to the Starbucks where Cook plied him with black coffee and cash and more black coffee and a guarantee of more cash; if he followed instructions to the letter.

Leaving Primrose tooting and wailing a stuttering version of ‘We're in the Money’, Cook hailed a black cab. Falling into the back seat as the driver regaled him with a barrage of insight on: London traffic. The Coalition Government. The idiotic Mayor. Tottenham Hotspur FC.

Cook managing to interrupt him for long enough to say, “Heathrow Airport.”

***

Primrose padlocked his rusty bicycle to the railings of the, oh so chic, L’Antipasto. Thinking, you can’t be too careful with these posh bastards.

The party was in full swing as Primrose made his entrance. He’d made the effort: Burlesque corset. Tutu. Fishnets. Four inch heels.

“I’m looking for the lovely Georgie,” Primrose hollered. “You’ve not seen a stripogram like me before, darling.”

Heads turned; watching Primrose stride to the FGB table and moon at the po-faced Georgie.

Georgie gagging and spraying a mouthful of mange tout.

The Jellyfish, finding his backbone, jumped up. Saying, “Get out you drunken, filthy slob.”

“I’ll take my leave then,” said Primrose. “You’re all a bunch of philistines and snobs!”

Theatrically sweeping back his long, greying locks Primrose planted his forehead square into Ponting’s pudgy face.

In the resulting confusion Primrose pulled a package from his new Prada handbag and dropped it on the pile of parcels in the middle of the table. Snaffling slices of turkey breast, a handful of brussel sprouts and a couple of roasties and washing them down with two large glasses of crisp, Pinot Grigio.

Belching loudly and breaking wind Primrose slipped out the fire exit; leaving a silent but deadly gift for the clientele to savour.

***

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Matthew Strauss, FGB Managing Director and guest of honour. “The unfortunate interruption is over and the... air is now clear. Shall we continue with the festivities?”

“Here, here,” and glass tapping chorused around the table.

Ponting gingerly dabbed his swollen nose with a blood stained handkerchief.

“Let’s have the Secret Santa,” shouted an acolyte.

Georgie stopped rubbing the vegetable stain on her sparkly designer dress and gushed, “Matt, would you do us the honour of being master of ceremony?”

***

“This... oddly shaped one, is for... Georgie!” Strauss said.

Paying reverence to tradition Georgie got to her feet and enthusiastically shredded wrapping paper; revealing a fleshy pink, ‘Rampant Rabbit Big O’. Shaking like a frightened schoolgirl as she digested the digits on the slip of paper sellotaped along the shaft.

Georgie not wanting to believe the balance of her ‘Pietersen’ slush fund account. Her addled brain thinking: Zilch. Nada. Zero. Reading the gift tag tied delicately around the thick base Georgie peed her pants:-

Dear Georgie,

I Cook-ed the books: Go f**k yourself!

Secret Santa x

***

Alan Griffiths, a rookie writer, hails from London, England. His fictional crimes can be found on websites such as: A Twist of Noir, Thrillers, Killers n Chillers and Radgepacket Online. His story Concrete Jungle features in the e-book anthology Discount Noir published by Untreed Reads. When the mood takes him he blogs at: http://britgrit.blogspot.com/

The right To Bear Arms

By Skye Chase.

Walking back to the house after hauling off Christmas trash, a noise, something jostling the brush, caught his attention. He stopped in his tracks.

The sight before him brought a feeling of relief. And…vindication. Halfway down the drive stood his cat, Misha. She’d returned.

Ten days ago he’d rushed outside with his shotgun to kill the predator that had been eating his cat’s food for over a month. Hearing the boom of the shotgun, his wife met him at the back door.

“Did you get it?”

He nodded pushing the safety on and propping the shotgun near the back door. “Not sure if it was a coon, though. Might’a been that big Tom.”

He sniffed, “Do I smell cornbread?”

“It’s on the counter along with the greens.”

Poking at the hot cornbread with his index finger he looked away muttering. “I hope it wasn’t Misha.”

He knew what he would see in his wife’s eyes if he looked at her now. Oh, she loved to rant about his guns and the money he spent on gun shows, gun magazines, hunting, camouflage, ammo.

His response was that guns were his Constitutional right, a man’s right to defend his home. And he didn’t spend any more on his guns and hunting than she did on shoes or clothes or the kids.

She asked why he needed two shotguns, three .22 rifles, two handguns, a muzzleloader and a crossbow”.

Actually, he had four .22s and five handguns...

“What - you think there’s going to be a siege and you’ll singlehandedly have to hold off a bunch of robbers?” Her eyes cut to their worn out furniture and spare belongings.

“I’m not hurting anyone. And I do put meat on the table every winter don’t I?”

She just waved her hand at him and walked off.

When Misha didn’t show up the next day, or the next, he told his wife, “I think I killed my kitty. “I don’t know if I’ll ever get over it.” And he confessed, “It’s the worst thing I’ve ever done.”

To her credit she didn’t say, ‘Imagine what the poor thing was thinking as you aimed the gun at her…’

But it didn’t keep him from thinking it.

One of his buddies suggested his wife take his guns away. One even joked that based on his accuracy in the past, he was too close to actually hit the cat.

After that, she’d gone to calling for Misha. Just in case he’d missed.

He kept telling her, in a defeated tone, “I made a good shot. She’s not coming back.”

And yet, here she was. The best Christmas present he could ask for.

She ran off because she was freaked, that’s all. He had made a good shot. He’d just been doubting himself, but now that he relived the moment, he could picture the cat he’d fired on. It was that big grey Tom.

He let out breath. Come to think of it, the Tom hadn’t been around lately either.

Misha meowed plaintively, and he moved forward.

“Where ya been, kitty?” he sang to her. “Come ‘ere, Kitty Kitty.”

She looked up at him, crying again. As he bent down to pet her, he smelled the rotten odor.

Then he saw the cause.

The shredded stump where her paw used to be.

Merry Christmas.

Snakes 'N' Ladders

By Col Bury

“What do you mean you’ve… ‘Already paid somebody’, Mrs G?” asked Barney, trying not to fuckin’ swear.

The old dear looked perplexed as she stared at the window cleaner in the doorway, from the waning warmth of her bungalow, snowflakes drifting in with the chill of night.

“Who did you pay?”

“A tall lad. He cleaned my windows yesterday and knocked on, so I paid him.”

Barney bit his lip, hard. “I work alone, Mrs G, you should know that.”

“Oh dear. I just assumed he was working for you. I’m sorry, Barney.”

“You owed a month’s worth, that’s two cleans.”

“I know. I paid him six pounds…” she dipped her head, “… plus a tip. Gave him a tenner.”

Barney pivoted, stifled a, For fuck’s sake, then turned back. “So the cheeky… even took my Christmas tip?”

“Afraid so… Oh, this is terrible… here… let me…” Mrs Groves reached for her tweed, winter coat hanging on a hook in the hallway and pulled a purse from the pocket.

“NO! I wouldn’t dream of taking it. Don’t worry, Mrs G, I’ll catch up with him.”

“You sure, Barney?”

“I’m sure. Now, you watch yourself in this weather. Merry Christmas.” He forced a smile then headed for his next customer, crunching through the snow, but feeling less than Christmassy.

***

“Not you too, Bob!”

“But he said… shit… have I paid the wrong guy?” Bob Sharples’ wrinkly brow wrinkled some more, eyes widening.

Barney gave an imperceptible nod as he stood in the flat’s communal area, now expecting the whole block to have coughed up anything, including tips, up to a ton.

“The cheeky bastard.”

“You said, he said something, Bob?”

“Er, yeah, he said he was helping you.”

“What, so he mentioned my name?”

“Yeah, so I thought nowt of it an’ just gave him a fiver… an’ a half bottle of whisky. Said he’d make sure you got it. He was so convincing…”

So he’s tall and he knows me. “Can you describe him?”

Sharples rubbed his chin, thinking. “Yeah, he’s a six-footer, white lad, medium build, say about thirty-ish.”

“What colour hair?”

“He had a Beanie hat on… bit like yours. I’d pay you mate, but am skint.” Sharples patted his pockets.

“No worries, Bob. Cheers, for the whisky thought, mate. All the best.” Seething, he headed upstairs to hear the inevitable bad news, thinking about the Chrimbo pressies he’d promised his kids, Beth and Harry.

***

Leaving the block of flats in the driving snow, with an image forming of the man who’d potentially destroyed his kid’s Christmas, Barney hoped he’d receive better news from the adjacent block. His customers were a lovely bunch, if not a tad naive, over half offering to pay him. But he’d refused them all. This was his problem and he’d deal with it.

The next block was the same, all three storeys having paid the conman. A quick tot-up told him the damage was pushing three ton. However, speaking with residents of the third block, Barney was relieved to find the first three he’d checked hadn’t paid, so he tactically left it at that, not checking the remainder.

With a measly fourteen quid in his back pocket, he went for a pint, as was tradition after collecting, in the Rock Inn.

***

He’d built up the round from scratch since being made redundant for the second time from a job in the printing industry. These technological times had lessened the need for skilled printers. He knew half a dozen of the regulars in his local had window cleaning rounds, so had initially done some cash in hand work before purchasing a cheap ladder, bucket and chamois leather. After a lot of cold calling, he’d eventually established his £800 per month round.

Sipping a pint of Carling Cold at the bar, his eyes flicked discreetly from the three lads who fitted the description. Family man, Johnno was sound and had been the one who’d ‘employed’ Barney when things were desperate, so he was out of the equation.

Johnno glanced over, perched on a bar-stool. “Been grafting for Chrimbo cash, Barney?”

“Nah, bud. Can’t in this weather.” Barney watched the other two, who were shooting pool, and purposely raised his voice. “Won’t be collecting till next week now either. It’s treacherous out there.”

“Don’t blame you, mate.”

Time to test the water. “So, how much you had in tips, Kev?”

Kevin Anderson glanced up from his shot. “Not much this year. Think everyone’s skint. What about you?”

“Not too bad. How’ve you done, Mikey?”

Mike Wetherall seemed to hesitate, studied the table and didn’t look up. “Same. Credit crunch kicking in, innit?” He missed a straight pot by inches, but still avoided eye contact. With the Beanie hat and constant visits to the fruit machine, Barney knew.

***

Temperatures had reportedly hit minus 10, and, still bubbling with rage, Barney pulled his collar up, wrapped his scarf round his mouth. The snow-covered bushes hid him from view, as the window cleaner climbed the ladder to the third floor flat on Barney’s patch.

Struggling to make out the dark ascending figure, Barney tossed looks over both shoulders, checked the windows. All clear. He edged forward toward the bottom of the ladder. Not arsed about the ‘seven years of bad luck,’ he stood underneath the ladder.

After again scanning for passers by, he looked up beyond the plethora of falling flakes. “Hey, Mikey! Call yer-self a mate, you backstabbing shithouse!” He booted the bottom rung outwards repeatedly. The ladder slid rapidly away from the building, the top end clattering and scraping the wall and window ledges, a sharp yelp from above. Barney dived sideways as the body thumped the snow, bizarrely like a human starfish, the ladder whacking the conman’s head with a sickening thud.

Barney gasped, agape. “Johnno… WHY?”

No answer, just the silent oozing claret dyeing the snow. But it didn’t prevent Barney undoing the bum bag from round his dead friend’s waist.

***

Col Bury is the co-editor of Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers, and his crime novel is being touted by a NY agent. Col's short stories can be found in anthologies, and scattered around the blogosphere. He blogs, reviews, and interviews crime authors at http://colburysnewcrimefiction.blogspot.com/

The Meek

By Don Lafferty

"Clarkie, you fat fuck, if I hafta come over there I swear to God, I

will kick you in the nuts so fuckin' hard..."

Jack Leon's threat echoed through the vast expanse of the church. It

was like there was five of him. "Get your fat head in this fucking squeegee

right the fuck now."

Clarkie shuffled up the center aisle of the church toward Leon and

the waiting mop bucket while strains of "Silent Night" drifted up from the

music room, where Mrs. Opitz practiced the choir for tonight's vigil mass.

Behind Clarkie, Father Kelly burst through the sacristy door.

"Mr. Leon, you mind your language in God's house."

"Yes, Father Kelly. Sorry, Father Kelly." Leon called back over his

shoulder, but as Clarkie drew closer he whispered, "I am gonna fuck you up

good."

The old priest genuflected and stepped backwards off the altar.

"Jesus does not look with favor on the bully, Mr. Leon.", Said

Father Kelly without breaking stride. "I'm due in the rectory for our seven

fishes dinner, but I'll be back to hear your confessions in one hour."

"Father", Clarkie asked, "Does God really forgive our sins?"

The priest paused for a moment and considered the two boys. Jack

Leon, a strapping high school football star, and Thomas Clark, three years

younger, overweight and uncoordinated. "Is something troubling you, Thomas?"

Father Kelly asked.

Clarkie hesitated. "No, father. Just askin'. I ain't got no sins on

my soul. I just wondered."

"Of course God forgives us our sins, Thomas, that is, if we're truly

sorry, and make a sincere promise to never repeat the trespass."

The priest had come to terms with the code of the neighborhood a

long time ago. It was the same in every parish. As much as there appeared to

be no justice in it, The Meek would always be taking the heat from assholes

like Leon. There wasn't enough time to intervene in every beatdown or verbal

assault. These things usually had a way of working themselves out.

"Very well, then. I'll see you gentlemen in an hour." And with that,

the priest was gone.

"I ain't got no sins on my soul, Fatha." Leon mocked in a sing song

voice as he swung his wet mop around, catching the younger boy on the side

of the head, sending Clarkie skidding headlong into the unyielding walnut of

a pew with a slap and a muffled thud. "Get your fucking head in this

squeegee before I lose it!" Leon boomed in the cavernous church.

This was their routine. Leon would squeeze his head until Clarkie

begged sufficiently to end the cruel game. Leon would insist that Clarkie

thank him for toughening him up. Every day since he took this job at Saint

Tim's he'd endured Leon's abuse. Most times while the other guys just stood

around, too scared to help him or in league with the big dope. Nobody was

about to get in Leon's way. He was too big and too scary.

Clarkie shimmied over toward the bucket on his knees, his red hair

matted to his cheek.

"That's a good dog", said Leon, "tuck your fat little coconut right

in there."

Clarkie leaned forward toward the bucket when the stench of the

filthy, gray water incited an involuntary gag reflex. Leon put a hand on the

back of his doughy neck and pushed the kid toward the open maw of the

squeegee, but Clarkie resisted just the slightest bit, causing the bigger

boy to lean on him with all his weight, and they both tumbled into the slop

bucket.

Clarkie lay face down on the hard terrazzo floor waiting for Leon's

punishing fists to pound his kidneys, but the beating never came. Raising

his head tentatively, Clarkie found Leon propped at an odd angle, a broken,

three foot length of mop handle buried in his back. The top of the mop

handle was jammed under a kneeler with the sharp, broken end tucked neatly

between Leon's ribs, the spiked tip just inches from his racing heart.

Leon's feet scrabbled for purchase on the wet floor but the odd

angle of the mop handle and the pain in his back quickly immobilized him.

Clarkie stood slowly, casting a glance at the crucifix over the

altar. He looked down at Leon and wondered if this might be his chance to

win the older boy's favor. Like the mouse who pulls the thorn from the

lion's paw, God was serving up Clarkie's redemption on a silver platter.

Clarkie took Leon's right hand and positioned his sneakers to get a solid

grip on the wet floor.

Bright pink blood bubbled from Leon's nose and mouth. His eyes

darted wildly around looking at nothing in particular, when all at once he

locked eyes with Clarkie, and in a voice choked by the unnatural leaking of

body fluids, Leon croaked, "I'm gonna bash your fucking skull in, you little

fuck." Leon wheezed and more bloody bubbles popped under his nose and

trickled down his chin.

Clarkie held Leon's hand for a moment longer and looked back up at

the altar ringed by red and white poinsettias. He thought about what Father

Kelly said. About God's forgiveness.

Turning back to Leon, Clarkie gripped down tightly on the older

boy's wet hand. Leon tried to say something, but Clarkie wasn't listening

anymore. He slipped his right foot out of his Chuck Taylor, placed it on

Leon's chest and leaned into it with all his weight, driving the splintered

mop handle through Leon's black heart.

***

"When can I talk to the kid who saw this go down, Father?" asked

Detective O'Shea.

"Let him finish his penance.", Father Kelly answered, looking over

at Clarkie, head bowed, firmly resolving, with the help of His grace, to sin

no more.

Yes, the old priest thought to himself, these things usually have a

way of working themselves out. "He won't be long at all, detective."

***

Don Lafferty is a member of the Philly Liars Club, the social media director of the literary magazine, Wild River Review, and serves on the board of directors of the Philadelphia Writers' Conference.