THUMBS UP
By
Nathan O'Hagan
Nathan O'Hagan
Grant lent over the pub pool table and lined up his shot. He drew back the cue, but hesitated. He slowly edged it forward and nudged the white ball to the side. Although this slightly improved the angle of the shot, his primary motivation for doing this was to avoid the divot in front of the ball, caused by one of many ciggie burns to the baize. This was how old the table was; the smoking ban came in ten years ago, and the many burns on it predated that by many years. There were so many burns and scuffs on it, it looked more like a 1980's second division football pitch than a pool table. With the shot now re-angled to avoid the first and most prominent blemish, Grant drew the cue back again.
*
Greg sat near the back of the bus and tried to ignore the gang of school kids pissing about down the front. He watched the buildings flying by, counting the number of shops and pubs that had closed down since he was last year, which seemed roughly approximate to the number of pound and 99p shops that had sprung up in the same time. He lost count when one of the kids' phones blared out with some sort of music. It might have been hip-hop, or possibly grime.
"Oi!" Greg shouted. "Shouldn't you lot be in school?"
"Fuck off you old cunt!" one of them shouted.
"You little bastard. I might be a cunt, but I'm not fucking old," he replied, though it was at least partially drowned out by the laughter.
He sat and seethed for the rest of the journey, as the kids unsubtly took the piss out of him, the music now blaring even louder. As he approached his stop he pressed the bell to alert the driver. Waiting until the bus had already stopped, he walked to the stairs, and when at the top, reached over and grabbed the offending phone, before jumping the full flight, landing almost at the door. Before the kids could even react he was running off the bus, as the door closed behind him, trapping the kids who were only now giving chase behind them, shouting and gesturing at him. He waved them away, bent over and stuck the phone down the back of his trousers, rubbing it against his arse crack.
*
He walked round the corner, past more defunct businesses on the last leg of the journey. He walked into The Crown and approached the bar. He didn't recognise the fella there, but was about to speak to him when he saw who he'd been looking for. Grant was bent over the pool table, saggy jeans hanging halfway down his skinny arse. Greg approached him silently, watched him readjust the position of the cue ball like the cheating cunt he was, and waited for him to take his shot. Just before he hit the white, Greg hoofed him as hard as he could up the arse. The cue flew out of Grant's hand as he screamed, and flew across the table, clattering onto the floor. He grabbed a pool ball off the table and span round, stopping as he realised whose head he was about to slam it into.
"Greg! Fuck me, man, what the fuck? When did you get out?"
"This very morning mate. About ninety minutes ago, in fact."
"Shit! I didn't know, I thought you weren't out for a few months yet. Why didn't you tell me?"
"I wanted to surprise you."
"Well, you managed that. I wasn't expecting to get someone's toe up me fucking hole till at least lunch time. Come on, what are you drinking?"
"Well, we're in The Crown, so I'd say weak, pissy tasting lager from pumps that haven't been cleaned since I went away."
"Right, two dirty piss pints it is then."
*
Two hours and several pints later, the two of them were sat at a small table, their half-drunk pints in front of them.
"Fucking hell mate," Greg said. "I'm flagging here. Haven't touched a drop in months, going straight to me fucking head."
"Oh yeah, didn't think of that," Grant nodded, not looking much better for ware himself.
"You got any whizz or anything?"
Grant rummaged in his pockets. He pulled out a small plastic bag of white-ish powder and threw it onto the table.
"There you go, little welcome home present."
Greg picked it up and headed towards the bogs.
"You can just do it here, Dave won't mind," Grant said, nodding towards the bloke behind the bar.
"I know, but I could do with a shit anyway."
Greg sat on the toilet, scooping the speed into his nostrils while simultaneously squeezing out a crap he'd been holding onto all morning, determined that his first bowel movement of the day would be as a free man. He finished the speed and fiddled with the phone he had stolen. As it was unlocked when he swiped it, he was able to change the lock code on his way to the pub, and now he perused his victim's social media accounts at will, whilst receiving regular angry texts from the lad's friends, threatening to track him down and kill him. Greg found the camera option and hit record, and filmed directly into the bowl as he leant back and pulled his legs up. Months of stodgy prison food had clogged his bowels up pretty badly, but the rank lager he'd been drinking all morning had now lubricated things up nicely, and he filmed as a resulting turd slithered its way out of his anus into the bowl. He posted the video to the owners' Facebook, Instagram, Twitter and Snapchat accounts, as well as sending it via WhatsApp to 'Mum'.
He walked back into the bar to see Grant talking to someone whose face he knew, but couldn't place straight away. As he finished fastening his belt, it hit him. He began to back his way towards the bogs again, but the man looked up and caught his eye for a second, looked away, then sharply back at him. He narrowed his eyes a bit and leant in to say something to Grant, who half turned his head towards Greg and nodded. The fella nodded back before leaving the pub, glancing back in Greg's direction as he passed through the door. Grant staggered back over with another couple of pints of pissy lager.
"Was that who I think it was?" Greg asked him
"I dunno. Depends who you think it was. If you think it was Gloria Gaynor, you're way off. If you think was Bryan, then you're spot on."
"Fuck me."
"What?" Grant asked, mopping up a spillage with a beer mat.
"What do you mean 'what'? Fucking Bryan?"
"Yeah?"
"Bryan, who works for Big Danny Wobba?"
Grant shrugged his shoulder as he sipped his pint.
"Big Danny Wobba who we owe money to?"
The look of confusion in Grant's eyes slowly turned to one of contemplation, to one of recognition, before, finally, to one of anxiety, all while continuing to sip from his pint.
"Oh right. Fuck. I'd forgotten about that."
"Clearly."
"Is it that big a deal? I mean, we don't owe him that much do we?"
"Five grand."
Grant nearly choked on his lager. "Five? Five fucking grand? How is that fucking much?"
"Well, let's just say Danny's rates of interest aren't as competitive as the average high street bank."
"Shit, man."
"And instead of repossessing your house, he takes possession of your fucking thumbs."
"Your fucking thumbs?" Grant nearly shouted, now even more anxious than his mate. "You fucking serious?"
"Well, he used to, but I don't know if he still does. He used to feed them to his shark."
"He's got a fucking shark?"
"Yeah, well he used to. Everyone knows that."
"I fucking didn't."
"That's where his nickname comes from."
"What nickname?"
"Wobba."
"That's a nickname?" Grant asked, seemingly becoming more confused as the conversation progressed. "I thought he was part German or Dutch or something."
"What? No, that's not his actual fucking name you thick cunt. It's short for Wobbegong."
Grant didn't even reply this time, but stared right through Greg, who rubbed his face, growing as frustrated with this conversation as Grant was confused.
"Fuck me. Right, so Big Danny has a thing for exotic animals, right? He's got all these little bronze statues of...I dunno...alligators, fucking bears and shit. About ten years or so ago, somehow, he comes into possession of a tasselled wobbegong."
"Hang on," Grant said, slamming his almost-empty pint down. "Am I supposed to have the faintest fucking clue what a fucking tasselled wobbegong is?"
"No, probably not. But it's a shark. It's one of those weird flat ones, it's got these fucking beardy things on the front. Ugly fucking things they are. They're mostly found round Australia I think."
"How the fuck did Danny end up with a fucking Australian shark?"
"Oh it was some fucking smuggler or something, I dunno, it's a long story. Probably."
"Alright then David Twatenborough, get on with the fucking story."
"Right, so when he gets it, it's just a baby, or a pup, whatever they call them, and the mad fucker thinks it's fully grown, so he keeps it in this old fashioned tin bathtub he kept in the warehouse. He fucking loved it, treated it like a baby, you know? But of course it started growing, and before long it was filling the fucking bath, like. Couldn't even turn itself around. It was thrashing about, as though it was going mad, like those Russian bears they keep in tiny cages or something."
"So what did he do?" Grant asked, now gripped by the story.
"Well after a week or two, Big Danny finally accepted that it was cruel to keep it like that. Broke his heart to admit it, but it was acting like it was going mental. I suppose Danny was mindful of the old lyric; 'if you love someone, set them free', so he decided he'd take it down to the docks in his van, and chuck it in there. He figured it was a shark, so it'd be fine in water."
"And was it?"
"Of course it fucking wasn't. It's from Australia, it's used to warm water. You ever been in the water down at the docks? It's fucking freezing. Even in summer. Plus it wouldn't have had anything to eat. I'm no wildlife expert but I reckon a shark needs more sustenance than some empty beer cans and used johnnies. It froze to death, probably within a few hours. The next day there was this big fucking shark floating on the surface, belly up. It was in the local rags. I guarantee, to this day, that'll remain the only ever sighting of a deceased tasselled wobbegong down at Bridge Street docks."
"Are you making this shit up?"
Greg held his hands up. "I fucking swear. No word of a lie."
"Fucking hell."
"Yeah. So that's where the name comes from. But right now, I'm not worried about how he got his name as much as I'm worried about him taking our fucking thumbs."
"Oh I don't think it's gonna come to that. I mean, I've been walking around the whole time you've been inside, and nobody's come looking for me. And they all know where to find me," he said, gesturing around him, "I think you're blowing it out of proportion."
"I'm fucking not. The only reason he's left you alone is that the money was owed by both of us together."
"So?"
"He's got a weird sense of honour and principle. I promise you, if it'd just been you that owed it, you'd be struggling to hold that pint glass by now. If it was just me, he'd have had me done inside. He's been waiting for me to get out, all the while, letting the interest accumulate."
"I still think you're getting a bit carried away. I'm sure we can reason with him."
"A man who keeps a fucking shark in a bath and removes thumbs? Yeah, you're probably right."
*
A couple of hours later the two of them staggered out of the pub. They had barely turned into Grant's street when a voice called their names. They turned around and Bryan was leaning out of his car window.
"Erm..alright Bry," Grant said.
"Alright," said Greg.
Bryan didn't return the greeting. "Danny wants to see you two," he said.
"Erm, we're a bit busy right now," Grant began. "Can you tell him-"
"Now, lads," Bryan interrupted. "Get in."
Greg and Grant looked at each other nervously, but complied.
*
They drove in silence, Greg next to Bryan, Grant in the back seat. They pulled up at an old warehouse close to the docks. Bryan got out and they followed him in. He closed the door behind them and they instantly spotted Big Danny in the corner, his back to them.
"Wait here a sec," Bryan said, and walked towards Danny.
Grant turned to Greg. "Right," he said, speaking quietly, "let me do the talking. I say we just brazen it out, be as chummy as possible, and see if we can work something out. I'm pretty friendly with Bryan, so that might help. Ok?"
"Worth a try I suppose," Greg said, shifting his weight from foot to foot.
"What you fidgeting for?"
"Fucking need a piss, man. That lager's been going through me."
"Just take it easy, it'll be fine, just leave it to me."
"Alright fine. Don't mention the shark though."
"Why?"
"Apparently he's very sensitive about it. He's very sentimental for a mad, thumb-removing gangster type."
Bryan and Danny started approaching them. Greg followed as Grant approached them, arms out in a friendly gesture.
"Danny," he said as they met halfway. "How the hell have you-"
He didn't get to finish the sentence as Danny slammed his fist into Grant's face, sending him straight to the floor with blood pouring from his nose. Greg felt his bladder tightening, and his bowels loosening.
"Fucking hell," he said involuntarily.
"You fucking what, you little cunt?" Danny shouted.
"Nothing Dan, it's ok mate."
"It's not fucking ok. You fuckers owe me money. Eight fucking grand."
"Eight?" Grant managed to say through his fingers, as he tried to stem the flow of blood. "I thought it was five?"
"IT'S FUCKING EIGHT!" Danny yelled, kicking him in the guts.
Greg did a quick calculation in his head. "Oh right, yeah. It is more like eight. My mistake."
"Both of your fucking mistakes. So where is it?"
"Danny, mate," Grant said, kneeling up. "We were on our way over to see you about that, honest mate. We were gonna come right over and sort it."
"Oh really? Oh well that's different then isn't it? Hear that, Bry, they were on their way over." He knelt down next to Grant. "So, where is it then? It doesn't look like you've got that sort of money in your pockets, and I'm afraid we're currently unable to accept cheques or debit cards."
"Well, the thing is, we haven't got it. Not right now. I mean, we thought we could work out some sort of payment plan."
Danny punched him in the face again. Greg's bladder strained inside him, and he let out a little groan of discomfort, mixed with one of fear.
"Of course we can work out a payment plan. The plan is, you fucking pay me. Now. Or," - he reached into his trouser pocket and took out a small silver item which the boys couldn't quite see - "I take your fucking thumbs."
Danny grabbed Grant's hand and shoved the thumb into what everyone now saw was a cigar cutter. He closed it until it was cutting into Grant's thumb. He screamed out, and Greg finally lost the war with his bladder, and felt his crotch and leg go warm as he pissed all over himself.
"No, please Danny," Grant yelled. "I need me thumbs."
"Don't!" was all Greg could manage to yelp, his embarrassment now equal to his fear.
"Fucking hell, Danny, look at this one," Bryan shouted, laughing. "He's fucking pissed himself."
Danny momentarily stopped what he was doing and looked over at the huge wet patch spreading over Greg's jeans.
"You fucking dirty bastard," he said.
"Please Danny," Grant said, using this unexpected lull to try and keep his opposable digit. "Don't do this. We must be able to sort something out. We'll do anything, Danny. Please."
"What could I possibly want from you two scuzzy little twats?"
"Actually, Dan," Bryan said, "there is something."
He beckoned Danny towards the corner, and Danny, seemingly intrigued, followed. "And you two, fucking stay there."
Grant got back up to his feet, wiping the blood on his sleeve.
"You ok?" Greg asked.
"Not really. What about you?" he asked, gesturing at the piss marks.
"I've been better."
They watched Bryan and Danny confer in the far corner.
"Should we just fucking leg it?" Grant asked,
"Where've we got to run to?"
"Good point."
After a few minutes, Danny looked back towards them. "Right, come here," he shouted.
Grant started walking towards him.
"And you too, pissy trousers," Danny shouted, and Greg followed.
"Ok, we've got an offer for you," Danny said, his foot up on an upturned crate.
"What offer?" Greg asked.
"Well, either I take your thumbs, or you do something for me."
"What would we have to do?"
"You two know Kev?"
"Kev Johnson?" they asked in unison.
"The very same. Well, Kev, like yourselves, owes me. But Kev's debt is...of a different nature to yours. It's the kind of debt that can't be covered by a couple of thumbs. Or any number of fingers for that matter."
"So where does that leave us?"
"Well Grant, Kev has pushed his luck one too many times with me, and he needs to go."
"Go where?" Greg asked with trepidation.
"Use you fucking imagination, lad."
"What?" Greg shouted. "You want us...you want us to kill Kev? Kill him? Us?"
"Seriously? Danny? Come on, I know we owe you, we can sort something, anything, but you can't expect us to-"
"I don't expect you to do anything. I'm just making you an offer. You know what the alternative is, so the choice is yours."
Grant looked at the mark on his thumb where the cigar cutter had begun to slice into the skin, and the blood on his sleeve. Greg looked down at his trousers, the front of them now entirely a few shades darker thanks to his lack of bladder control.
*
Greg passed the spliff back to Grant as they sat crossed legged on the floor of Grant's flat.
"Does he really deserve to die though?" Grant asked.
"Do we really deserve to lose our thumbs?"
"Well, we sort of do. In that we owe money to someone who's notorious for removing the thumbs of people who've wronged him."
"True. But are we prepared to lose them?"
"Clearly not, we've agreed to kill some poor fucker so that we don't."
"Poor fucker?" Greg spluttered. "Let's not stretch it mate. He probably doesn't deserve to die, but he's not some poor fucker. He's a fucking annoying prick, always was. If we don't kill him, then someone else will at some point, if not Danny."
"What's the best way to do it? I mean, obviously a gun would be best, but we can't get a gun, so what's the best option for us?" Grant asked.
"I dunno. We could poison him. Get a fuck load of rat poison and tell him-"
"What, tell him it's fucking sherbet?"
"No, we could make him something to eat, and put it inside."
"Yeah, coz us offering to bake him a fucking Victoria sponge won't make him suspicious will it?"
"Alright then, smart arse, what's your suggestion?" Greg said, taking the spliff back again.
"Fuck me, I dunno. We could push him in the fucking docks. In tribute to Danny's fucking wobbegong."
They sat in silence for a few minutes, their eyes occasionally flicking around the room as though on the lookout for some sort of murderous inspiration. Grant let out a big sigh.
"A hammer?" he said.
"You what?"
"We could use a hammer."
Greg weighed it up for a moment.
"A hammer is easily obtainable," Grant said. "In fact I've got one under the sink."
"Alright," Greg replied, "fuck it. A hammer."
*
They waited on the corner, just down the road from The Crown. Grant held an off-licence bag full of cans of lager and bottles of cider.
"Right," he said, "so we're clear? We catch him on his way out, invite him back to mine, get him properly smashed, then properly smash his head in. Ok?"
"Whatever," Greg said without making eye contact.
"Oh what the fuck's up with you now?"
"Nothing."
"Are you still pissed off because you've gotta do it?"
"Well wouldn't you fucking be," Greg said, turning to face him.
"Well yeah, but somebody's got to do it haven't they? And we agreed on scissor/paper/stone. We could have gone for the coin toss, but it was your choice."
"We should have done best of three."
"We DID do best of three!"
"Well fucking best of five then!"
"Oh fucking grow up, will ya Greg. It was fair. Somebody had to lose."
"You should have offered to do it. As a gesture."
"Why?"
"Because I've just got out."
"That was fuck all to do with me, Greg. I didn't put you there."
"Alright, fine. I'll kill the fucker. I'm actually sort of looking forward to it now, the fucking trouble he's caused."
"Well, in a way, he's actually saved our thumbs."
"Suppose he has," Greg said. "Never thought about it like that. We owe him big. Still gonna kill the cunt though."
Moments later the cunt in question emerged from the pub, singing an Elbow song loudly to himself.
"Tell you what," Grant said, "if he doesn't stop singing that fucking shite, I'll kill him meself, right here."
They waited for him to approach, and turned the corner in time to bump straight into him.
"Alright lads," he said, adopting an arms-out stance. "You're out then Grant?"
"Yeah, I'm out, but I'm Greg, that's Grant."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, sound. Sorry mate. Had a few, you know?"
"Yeah, no worries," Greg continued. "So, what you up to now?"
"Nothing much, like. Yourselves?"
"Just got a few cans and that," Grant said, lifting the bag up. "Fancy joining us?"
"Oh well, that's very generous of you lads. Very hospitable, like. I'd love to. Lead on, McDuff, lead on."
*
Back in Grant's flat, Kev leaned over the side of the armchair, rifling through Grant's CD collection.
"Haven't you got any Stone Roses, mate?"
"Yeah, in there somewhere," he said. He looked over at Greg, who had barely said a word since they got there, and was now sat in the corner, staring at Kev and knocking back a can.
"Ah here we go, bit of Oasis, that'll do nicely," Kev said, placing the CD clumsily into the player. He skipped along a few tracks till the opening riff of "What's The Story" blasted out. He turned up the volume and stood up, doing a lame approximation of a Gallagher swagger around the room. "Fuckin' tuuuuune," he said over the music.
Grant caught Greg's eye. He gestured to Kev, his eyes now closed in rapturous celebration of the music. This was the time, clearly. Greg hesitated. Grant urged him on with his eyes, and hand gestures. Kev knocked over empty cans as he danced around the room. Greg finally stood up, and pulled the hammer from under his chair. He approached Kev from behind, Grant also getting out of his chair.
"Need a little time to wake up, wake up," Kev sang atonally. Greg lifted the hammer above his head and approached Kev. He was now within clear striking distance, he just had to bring the hammer down. He held it in the air for what seemed like an eternity, Grant still silently encouraging him. But he lowered the hammer, leaving it hanging at his side, just as Kev turned round to face him and opened his eyes, looking straight at Greg. He looked down at the hammer hanging at Greg's side.
"Aye aye," he said, "what's the story, morning glory?"
Greg swung the hammer from low, catching Kev full in the temple. Kev put his hand to his head, pulled it away and looked at the blood on it, as some more of the red stuff trickled from his wound.
"No need for that, Greg," he said, as though his feelings were more hurt than his head. Greg swung again, but made weaker contact this time, the hammer glancing off Kev's head. This seemed to spur Kev into action. He grabbed Greg around the arms in a bear hug and lifted him up off the floor.
"This isn't how you play host," he shouted into Greg's ear.
"Fucking do something," Greg managed to say to Grant as he struggled for breath. Grant, until now frozen to the spot, picked up a cider bottle and hit Kev on the back of the head with it. Being plastic, though, it simply bounced off and onto the floor. The impact seemed enough to distract Kev, though, who turned around to face him. Grant threw the kind of weak punch people throw when they're more scared than angry. Again, Kev looked more upset than hurt, or even angry.
"I'm gonna tell everyone what kind of parties you throw you bastards."
Greg, who had now recovered his breath, hit him on the back of the head with the hammer. Kev turned to face him again.
"Look lads, can't we solve our differences amicably?" he asked.
"Fucking hit him again," Grant shouted to Greg. Greg did as instructed. This time, Kev was knocked instantly unconscious, hitting his head on the corner of the table on the way down to the floor. This time, there was more than a trickle of blood from the head wound. Grant quickly put a tea towel under his head to soak some of it up.
"Fucking hell," Greg said, sitting down, "that was harder than I expected."
"Is he dead then?" Grant said, also sitting down
"Fucking looks it to me." Greg said, still catching his breath.
"Aren't you gonna check?"
"You fucking check. I'm the one who fucking killed him, the least you can do is make sure."
"Alright, fine," Grant said. He walked gingerly over to the body. He bent over and looked at it. He nudged it with his foot. No movement. He nudged it a bit harder. Still nothing.
"Yeah," he said, "he's definitely dead."
"AAAAARRRRRRRGH!!!" Kev yelled as he leapt up and rugby tackled Grant to the ground. "I'll teach you to invite me here under false pretences," he shouted as he pinned Grant to the floor.
Greg was in action quickly, picking the hammer back up and swinging it into the back of Kev's head several times. It slowed him down, but didn't stop him, as he grabbed Grant around the throat and began to squeeze. Greg turned the hammer around and swung it, claw end first, with all that remained of his strength. It embedded in the top of Kev's skull. Greg tried to pull it out but it was stuck. Kev let go of Grant's throat and stood up, trying to pull the hammer out. He staggered around the room a while, his movements becoming slower and slower. Eventually, he sat down on the floor in the corner, no longer trying to remove the hammer. His breathing slowed and he stopped blinking.
"Fucking hell," Greg finally said after they'd stared in silence at him for several minutes. "Killing people is really fucking hard work. It's not like in movies. I'm fucking knackered."
"I'll bring the car round," Grant said.
*
Grant's Ford Ka was uninsured, had no M.O.T. and was barely road worthy, but they didn't have the option of procuring another vehicle. They carried Kev out to the car. Grant, walking backwards holding the head end, struggled to get his keys from his pocket. Kev slipped from his grasp and hit the floor with a heavy thud.
"Oi!" The voice made both of them jump. They were surprised to see three teenagers emerge from behind a nearby hedge. Greg recognised at least one of them straight away. "Where's me fucking phone yer prick?" he asked Greg.
"Your fucking phone? Seriously?"
"Yeah," the teen said. "I've been fucking tracking it. There's an app on it you thieving twat. Now fucking give it back."As he was talking, one of his friends looked down at the ground, and began tapping him on the arm. "Fucking what?"
His friend pointed to the body, its head on the floor, pouring with blood, its feet in the hands of the phone thief. The lad looked from Kev's mangled head, to Greg, to Grant and back to Kev's head.
"Keep the fucking phone mate," he said to Greg, before he and his friends legged it.
They bundled Kev onto the back seat and set off.
"Where is this place then?" Greg asked.
"Not that far. Maybe a twenty minute drive. We'll be off the motorway in a few minutes then it's really quiet roads after that, especially this time of night. It's just woodland where we're going, nobody ever goes there, it's too out the way, even for dog walkers."
"Ok, sounds perfect."
Greg closed his eyes and let his head rest back against the seat as Grant drove. Grant blinked hard to keep his eyelids from closing.
"Frrrgnyr,"
"You what," Grant asked.
"I didn't say nothing," Greg replied.
"You were talking in your sleep."
"I wasn't asleep."
"Well then what was-?"
"AAAAAARRRRRRGH YA BASTARDS!"
Kev sprung from the back seat and grabbed them, an arm around each neck.
"Fucking hell Kev," Grant shouted. "I'm trying to drive here."
Greg tried to throw his fist back to punch him, but the angles were against him and he couldn't reach. Grant swerved all over the road as Kev squeezed their necks harder. He slammed on the breaks, and Kev's grip finally gave way as he flew through the windscreen and landed with a horrid thump on the road, thirty yards in front of them.
"Jesus cunting Christ," Grant shouted, "what is he, fucking Rasputin?"
"Why won't he fucking die?"
"Oh he must be dead now. Surely? He went through the windscreen for fuck's sake."
Just as Greg said this, the body began to shuffle on the ground. Slowly, Kev began to kneel up.
"Oh come on!"
Kev stood unsteadily up, looking around, as though trying to figure out his whereabouts.
"Just fucking die will ya Kev, for fuck's sake. This is fucking stupid now, mate."
Kev turned slowly round at the sound of Greg's voice. He squinted through the glassless space where the window used to be, raised his hand slowly, and, as though seeing Greg and Grant for the first time this evening, waved.
Grant revved the engine before driving as fast as the clamped out Ka could manage, straight into Kev. His battered body bounced off the bonnet and over the car, crashing down behind them. Grant hit the brakes, before reversing back over him, then drove forward over him once more, for good measure.
"Right!" he said. "If he's not fucking dead now, then I fucking give up. Danny can have me fucking thumbs for all I care. Maybe he'll let us keep one each, for at least trying."
"Maybe go back and forth over him once more? You know, to be sure."
"Yeah alright."
*
Twenty minutes later they were standing in front of a large wire fence. 'Building site secured by Heritage Security' the sign on the fence read.
"Great. A fucking building site. Well that's just fucking perfect isn't it, Grant?"
"I didn't fucking know they were building here."
"And you didn't think to fucking check?"
"Obviously fucking not!"
"Brilliant, so what the fuck do we do now?"
"I don't fucking know, do I?"
"Fuck me!" Greg said, kicking the fence a few times.
"We'll have to get him back to mine."
"For fuck's sake. Yeah, I suppose you're right. Then what?"
"Fuck knows," Grant said. "We'll figure it out when we get there."
They walked the twenty yards back to where they'd left the car and got in. As they buckled their seat belts Greg turned his head to the back seat and stared at it for a moment. He turned back to look out of where the windscreen used to be.
"Grant?"
"What is it?"
"He's gone."
"Eh?"
"I said he's gone."
Greg didn't even bother turning round to check. At this point, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. They got out of the car, took the torch from the boot and began scouring the nearby woods, the building site, and the road for a mile in either direction. There was no sign of Kev, not even a trail of blood.
"This is getting a bit fucking supernatural now," Grant said.
"It's not fucking supernatural, it's just fucking annoying. He's taking the piss now."
They stopped walking and stood in the middle of the road.
"Look," Greg said, leaning over with his hands on his knees, "we've checked the roads, we've checked the building site. The only place the fucker could have gone is deeper into the woods than we checked. Right?"
"I dunno. Maybe, yeah."
"We're miles from anywhere. There's no fucking way he can survive the night. If he doesn't bleed to death, which he absolutely fucking has to, then the internal injuries will kill him. And if they don't, then he'll probably fucking freeze to death, or go into shock and just...fucking...die. Right? I mean he fucking has to!"
"I wouldn't be too fucking sure. Not after what he's already survived."
"Look, that was just some sort of freak occurrence. Maybe he's one of them freaks who can't feel pain. Yeah? And he's just taking longer coz the pain isn't registering or whatever. You know?"
"Yeah..."
"I say, we go back to yours, we go and see Danny in the morning and tell him it's done, and that we buried him in the woods, like we said we would. He doesn't need to know all the details, just that the cunt's dead. Agreed?"
"I suppose so. I just wanna go home, I'm fucking exhausted."
*
The next morning, they paid a visit to Danny. No mention was made of Kev's superhuman levels of pain endurance, just that he had been despatched and disposed off. Danny was satisfied, and the debt was written off.
*
Despite the pressure being off, Grant and Greg decided to get out of town for a couple of days and stay with some of Greg's family in North Wales. Three nights after their visit to Danny, they arrived back at Grant's flat. As they entered the living room, Big Danny Wobbegong was sitting in the same arm chair Kev had occupied. The door was shut behind them, and Bryan and another thick-necked associate of Danny's knocked them both to the floor.
"What the fuck? What's going on Danny?" Grant asked, with a mixture of fear and indignation.
"What's the matter? Ha, he's a funny cunt this one isn't he Bry? Did you forget our little deal, Grant? A certain person being got rid of, and you keeping certain parts of your anatomy?"
"What you on about?" Greg said, trying to stand but being kept in a kneeling position by the two goons. "We did what we said we were gonna do. We told you that. It was all taken care of."
"Oh is that right? Well then why is it that Bryan saw our mate Kev in The Crown last night, with nothing more than a fucking bandage around his head, and a slight fucking limp?"
Grant and Greg looked each other. Danny reached into his pocket, pulled out his cigar cutter, and smiled at them.
"Thumbs up, lads."
*
Greg sat near the back of the bus and tried to ignore the gang of school kids pissing about down the front. He watched the buildings flying by, counting the number of shops and pubs that had closed down since he was last year, which seemed roughly approximate to the number of pound and 99p shops that had sprung up in the same time. He lost count when one of the kids' phones blared out with some sort of music. It might have been hip-hop, or possibly grime.
"Oi!" Greg shouted. "Shouldn't you lot be in school?"
"Fuck off you old cunt!" one of them shouted.
"You little bastard. I might be a cunt, but I'm not fucking old," he replied, though it was at least partially drowned out by the laughter.
He sat and seethed for the rest of the journey, as the kids unsubtly took the piss out of him, the music now blaring even louder. As he approached his stop he pressed the bell to alert the driver. Waiting until the bus had already stopped, he walked to the stairs, and when at the top, reached over and grabbed the offending phone, before jumping the full flight, landing almost at the door. Before the kids could even react he was running off the bus, as the door closed behind him, trapping the kids who were only now giving chase behind them, shouting and gesturing at him. He waved them away, bent over and stuck the phone down the back of his trousers, rubbing it against his arse crack.
*
He walked round the corner, past more defunct businesses on the last leg of the journey. He walked into The Crown and approached the bar. He didn't recognise the fella there, but was about to speak to him when he saw who he'd been looking for. Grant was bent over the pool table, saggy jeans hanging halfway down his skinny arse. Greg approached him silently, watched him readjust the position of the cue ball like the cheating cunt he was, and waited for him to take his shot. Just before he hit the white, Greg hoofed him as hard as he could up the arse. The cue flew out of Grant's hand as he screamed, and flew across the table, clattering onto the floor. He grabbed a pool ball off the table and span round, stopping as he realised whose head he was about to slam it into.
"Greg! Fuck me, man, what the fuck? When did you get out?"
"This very morning mate. About ninety minutes ago, in fact."
"Shit! I didn't know, I thought you weren't out for a few months yet. Why didn't you tell me?"
"I wanted to surprise you."
"Well, you managed that. I wasn't expecting to get someone's toe up me fucking hole till at least lunch time. Come on, what are you drinking?"
"Well, we're in The Crown, so I'd say weak, pissy tasting lager from pumps that haven't been cleaned since I went away."
"Right, two dirty piss pints it is then."
*
Two hours and several pints later, the two of them were sat at a small table, their half-drunk pints in front of them.
"Fucking hell mate," Greg said. "I'm flagging here. Haven't touched a drop in months, going straight to me fucking head."
"Oh yeah, didn't think of that," Grant nodded, not looking much better for ware himself.
"You got any whizz or anything?"
Grant rummaged in his pockets. He pulled out a small plastic bag of white-ish powder and threw it onto the table.
"There you go, little welcome home present."
Greg picked it up and headed towards the bogs.
"You can just do it here, Dave won't mind," Grant said, nodding towards the bloke behind the bar.
"I know, but I could do with a shit anyway."
Greg sat on the toilet, scooping the speed into his nostrils while simultaneously squeezing out a crap he'd been holding onto all morning, determined that his first bowel movement of the day would be as a free man. He finished the speed and fiddled with the phone he had stolen. As it was unlocked when he swiped it, he was able to change the lock code on his way to the pub, and now he perused his victim's social media accounts at will, whilst receiving regular angry texts from the lad's friends, threatening to track him down and kill him. Greg found the camera option and hit record, and filmed directly into the bowl as he leant back and pulled his legs up. Months of stodgy prison food had clogged his bowels up pretty badly, but the rank lager he'd been drinking all morning had now lubricated things up nicely, and he filmed as a resulting turd slithered its way out of his anus into the bowl. He posted the video to the owners' Facebook, Instagram, Twitter and Snapchat accounts, as well as sending it via WhatsApp to 'Mum'.
He walked back into the bar to see Grant talking to someone whose face he knew, but couldn't place straight away. As he finished fastening his belt, it hit him. He began to back his way towards the bogs again, but the man looked up and caught his eye for a second, looked away, then sharply back at him. He narrowed his eyes a bit and leant in to say something to Grant, who half turned his head towards Greg and nodded. The fella nodded back before leaving the pub, glancing back in Greg's direction as he passed through the door. Grant staggered back over with another couple of pints of pissy lager.
"Was that who I think it was?" Greg asked him
"I dunno. Depends who you think it was. If you think it was Gloria Gaynor, you're way off. If you think was Bryan, then you're spot on."
"Fuck me."
"What?" Grant asked, mopping up a spillage with a beer mat.
"What do you mean 'what'? Fucking Bryan?"
"Yeah?"
"Bryan, who works for Big Danny Wobba?"
Grant shrugged his shoulder as he sipped his pint.
"Big Danny Wobba who we owe money to?"
The look of confusion in Grant's eyes slowly turned to one of contemplation, to one of recognition, before, finally, to one of anxiety, all while continuing to sip from his pint.
"Oh right. Fuck. I'd forgotten about that."
"Clearly."
"Is it that big a deal? I mean, we don't owe him that much do we?"
"Five grand."
Grant nearly choked on his lager. "Five? Five fucking grand? How is that fucking much?"
"Well, let's just say Danny's rates of interest aren't as competitive as the average high street bank."
"Shit, man."
"And instead of repossessing your house, he takes possession of your fucking thumbs."
"Your fucking thumbs?" Grant nearly shouted, now even more anxious than his mate. "You fucking serious?"
"Well, he used to, but I don't know if he still does. He used to feed them to his shark."
"He's got a fucking shark?"
"Yeah, well he used to. Everyone knows that."
"I fucking didn't."
"That's where his nickname comes from."
"What nickname?"
"Wobba."
"That's a nickname?" Grant asked, seemingly becoming more confused as the conversation progressed. "I thought he was part German or Dutch or something."
"What? No, that's not his actual fucking name you thick cunt. It's short for Wobbegong."
Grant didn't even reply this time, but stared right through Greg, who rubbed his face, growing as frustrated with this conversation as Grant was confused.
"Fuck me. Right, so Big Danny has a thing for exotic animals, right? He's got all these little bronze statues of...I dunno...alligators, fucking bears and shit. About ten years or so ago, somehow, he comes into possession of a tasselled wobbegong."
"Hang on," Grant said, slamming his almost-empty pint down. "Am I supposed to have the faintest fucking clue what a fucking tasselled wobbegong is?"
"No, probably not. But it's a shark. It's one of those weird flat ones, it's got these fucking beardy things on the front. Ugly fucking things they are. They're mostly found round Australia I think."
"How the fuck did Danny end up with a fucking Australian shark?"
"Oh it was some fucking smuggler or something, I dunno, it's a long story. Probably."
"Alright then David Twatenborough, get on with the fucking story."
"Right, so when he gets it, it's just a baby, or a pup, whatever they call them, and the mad fucker thinks it's fully grown, so he keeps it in this old fashioned tin bathtub he kept in the warehouse. He fucking loved it, treated it like a baby, you know? But of course it started growing, and before long it was filling the fucking bath, like. Couldn't even turn itself around. It was thrashing about, as though it was going mad, like those Russian bears they keep in tiny cages or something."
"So what did he do?" Grant asked, now gripped by the story.
"Well after a week or two, Big Danny finally accepted that it was cruel to keep it like that. Broke his heart to admit it, but it was acting like it was going mental. I suppose Danny was mindful of the old lyric; 'if you love someone, set them free', so he decided he'd take it down to the docks in his van, and chuck it in there. He figured it was a shark, so it'd be fine in water."
"And was it?"
"Of course it fucking wasn't. It's from Australia, it's used to warm water. You ever been in the water down at the docks? It's fucking freezing. Even in summer. Plus it wouldn't have had anything to eat. I'm no wildlife expert but I reckon a shark needs more sustenance than some empty beer cans and used johnnies. It froze to death, probably within a few hours. The next day there was this big fucking shark floating on the surface, belly up. It was in the local rags. I guarantee, to this day, that'll remain the only ever sighting of a deceased tasselled wobbegong down at Bridge Street docks."
"Are you making this shit up?"
Greg held his hands up. "I fucking swear. No word of a lie."
"Fucking hell."
"Yeah. So that's where the name comes from. But right now, I'm not worried about how he got his name as much as I'm worried about him taking our fucking thumbs."
"Oh I don't think it's gonna come to that. I mean, I've been walking around the whole time you've been inside, and nobody's come looking for me. And they all know where to find me," he said, gesturing around him, "I think you're blowing it out of proportion."
"I'm fucking not. The only reason he's left you alone is that the money was owed by both of us together."
"So?"
"He's got a weird sense of honour and principle. I promise you, if it'd just been you that owed it, you'd be struggling to hold that pint glass by now. If it was just me, he'd have had me done inside. He's been waiting for me to get out, all the while, letting the interest accumulate."
"I still think you're getting a bit carried away. I'm sure we can reason with him."
"A man who keeps a fucking shark in a bath and removes thumbs? Yeah, you're probably right."
*
A couple of hours later the two of them staggered out of the pub. They had barely turned into Grant's street when a voice called their names. They turned around and Bryan was leaning out of his car window.
"Erm..alright Bry," Grant said.
"Alright," said Greg.
Bryan didn't return the greeting. "Danny wants to see you two," he said.
"Erm, we're a bit busy right now," Grant began. "Can you tell him-"
"Now, lads," Bryan interrupted. "Get in."
Greg and Grant looked at each other nervously, but complied.
*
They drove in silence, Greg next to Bryan, Grant in the back seat. They pulled up at an old warehouse close to the docks. Bryan got out and they followed him in. He closed the door behind them and they instantly spotted Big Danny in the corner, his back to them.
"Wait here a sec," Bryan said, and walked towards Danny.
Grant turned to Greg. "Right," he said, speaking quietly, "let me do the talking. I say we just brazen it out, be as chummy as possible, and see if we can work something out. I'm pretty friendly with Bryan, so that might help. Ok?"
"Worth a try I suppose," Greg said, shifting his weight from foot to foot.
"What you fidgeting for?"
"Fucking need a piss, man. That lager's been going through me."
"Just take it easy, it'll be fine, just leave it to me."
"Alright fine. Don't mention the shark though."
"Why?"
"Apparently he's very sensitive about it. He's very sentimental for a mad, thumb-removing gangster type."
Bryan and Danny started approaching them. Greg followed as Grant approached them, arms out in a friendly gesture.
"Danny," he said as they met halfway. "How the hell have you-"
He didn't get to finish the sentence as Danny slammed his fist into Grant's face, sending him straight to the floor with blood pouring from his nose. Greg felt his bladder tightening, and his bowels loosening.
"Fucking hell," he said involuntarily.
"You fucking what, you little cunt?" Danny shouted.
"Nothing Dan, it's ok mate."
"It's not fucking ok. You fuckers owe me money. Eight fucking grand."
"Eight?" Grant managed to say through his fingers, as he tried to stem the flow of blood. "I thought it was five?"
"IT'S FUCKING EIGHT!" Danny yelled, kicking him in the guts.
Greg did a quick calculation in his head. "Oh right, yeah. It is more like eight. My mistake."
"Both of your fucking mistakes. So where is it?"
"Danny, mate," Grant said, kneeling up. "We were on our way over to see you about that, honest mate. We were gonna come right over and sort it."
"Oh really? Oh well that's different then isn't it? Hear that, Bry, they were on their way over." He knelt down next to Grant. "So, where is it then? It doesn't look like you've got that sort of money in your pockets, and I'm afraid we're currently unable to accept cheques or debit cards."
"Well, the thing is, we haven't got it. Not right now. I mean, we thought we could work out some sort of payment plan."
Danny punched him in the face again. Greg's bladder strained inside him, and he let out a little groan of discomfort, mixed with one of fear.
"Of course we can work out a payment plan. The plan is, you fucking pay me. Now. Or," - he reached into his trouser pocket and took out a small silver item which the boys couldn't quite see - "I take your fucking thumbs."
Danny grabbed Grant's hand and shoved the thumb into what everyone now saw was a cigar cutter. He closed it until it was cutting into Grant's thumb. He screamed out, and Greg finally lost the war with his bladder, and felt his crotch and leg go warm as he pissed all over himself.
"No, please Danny," Grant yelled. "I need me thumbs."
"Don't!" was all Greg could manage to yelp, his embarrassment now equal to his fear.
"Fucking hell, Danny, look at this one," Bryan shouted, laughing. "He's fucking pissed himself."
Danny momentarily stopped what he was doing and looked over at the huge wet patch spreading over Greg's jeans.
"You fucking dirty bastard," he said.
"Please Danny," Grant said, using this unexpected lull to try and keep his opposable digit. "Don't do this. We must be able to sort something out. We'll do anything, Danny. Please."
"What could I possibly want from you two scuzzy little twats?"
"Actually, Dan," Bryan said, "there is something."
He beckoned Danny towards the corner, and Danny, seemingly intrigued, followed. "And you two, fucking stay there."
Grant got back up to his feet, wiping the blood on his sleeve.
"You ok?" Greg asked.
"Not really. What about you?" he asked, gesturing at the piss marks.
"I've been better."
They watched Bryan and Danny confer in the far corner.
"Should we just fucking leg it?" Grant asked,
"Where've we got to run to?"
"Good point."
After a few minutes, Danny looked back towards them. "Right, come here," he shouted.
Grant started walking towards him.
"And you too, pissy trousers," Danny shouted, and Greg followed.
"Ok, we've got an offer for you," Danny said, his foot up on an upturned crate.
"What offer?" Greg asked.
"Well, either I take your thumbs, or you do something for me."
"What would we have to do?"
"You two know Kev?"
"Kev Johnson?" they asked in unison.
"The very same. Well, Kev, like yourselves, owes me. But Kev's debt is...of a different nature to yours. It's the kind of debt that can't be covered by a couple of thumbs. Or any number of fingers for that matter."
"So where does that leave us?"
"Well Grant, Kev has pushed his luck one too many times with me, and he needs to go."
"Go where?" Greg asked with trepidation.
"Use you fucking imagination, lad."
"What?" Greg shouted. "You want us...you want us to kill Kev? Kill him? Us?"
"Seriously? Danny? Come on, I know we owe you, we can sort something, anything, but you can't expect us to-"
"I don't expect you to do anything. I'm just making you an offer. You know what the alternative is, so the choice is yours."
Grant looked at the mark on his thumb where the cigar cutter had begun to slice into the skin, and the blood on his sleeve. Greg looked down at his trousers, the front of them now entirely a few shades darker thanks to his lack of bladder control.
*
Greg passed the spliff back to Grant as they sat crossed legged on the floor of Grant's flat.
"Does he really deserve to die though?" Grant asked.
"Do we really deserve to lose our thumbs?"
"Well, we sort of do. In that we owe money to someone who's notorious for removing the thumbs of people who've wronged him."
"True. But are we prepared to lose them?"
"Clearly not, we've agreed to kill some poor fucker so that we don't."
"Poor fucker?" Greg spluttered. "Let's not stretch it mate. He probably doesn't deserve to die, but he's not some poor fucker. He's a fucking annoying prick, always was. If we don't kill him, then someone else will at some point, if not Danny."
"What's the best way to do it? I mean, obviously a gun would be best, but we can't get a gun, so what's the best option for us?" Grant asked.
"I dunno. We could poison him. Get a fuck load of rat poison and tell him-"
"What, tell him it's fucking sherbet?"
"No, we could make him something to eat, and put it inside."
"Yeah, coz us offering to bake him a fucking Victoria sponge won't make him suspicious will it?"
"Alright then, smart arse, what's your suggestion?" Greg said, taking the spliff back again.
"Fuck me, I dunno. We could push him in the fucking docks. In tribute to Danny's fucking wobbegong."
They sat in silence for a few minutes, their eyes occasionally flicking around the room as though on the lookout for some sort of murderous inspiration. Grant let out a big sigh.
"A hammer?" he said.
"You what?"
"We could use a hammer."
Greg weighed it up for a moment.
"A hammer is easily obtainable," Grant said. "In fact I've got one under the sink."
"Alright," Greg replied, "fuck it. A hammer."
*
They waited on the corner, just down the road from The Crown. Grant held an off-licence bag full of cans of lager and bottles of cider.
"Right," he said, "so we're clear? We catch him on his way out, invite him back to mine, get him properly smashed, then properly smash his head in. Ok?"
"Whatever," Greg said without making eye contact.
"Oh what the fuck's up with you now?"
"Nothing."
"Are you still pissed off because you've gotta do it?"
"Well wouldn't you fucking be," Greg said, turning to face him.
"Well yeah, but somebody's got to do it haven't they? And we agreed on scissor/paper/stone. We could have gone for the coin toss, but it was your choice."
"We should have done best of three."
"We DID do best of three!"
"Well fucking best of five then!"
"Oh fucking grow up, will ya Greg. It was fair. Somebody had to lose."
"You should have offered to do it. As a gesture."
"Why?"
"Because I've just got out."
"That was fuck all to do with me, Greg. I didn't put you there."
"Alright, fine. I'll kill the fucker. I'm actually sort of looking forward to it now, the fucking trouble he's caused."
"Well, in a way, he's actually saved our thumbs."
"Suppose he has," Greg said. "Never thought about it like that. We owe him big. Still gonna kill the cunt though."
Moments later the cunt in question emerged from the pub, singing an Elbow song loudly to himself.
"Tell you what," Grant said, "if he doesn't stop singing that fucking shite, I'll kill him meself, right here."
They waited for him to approach, and turned the corner in time to bump straight into him.
"Alright lads," he said, adopting an arms-out stance. "You're out then Grant?"
"Yeah, I'm out, but I'm Greg, that's Grant."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, sound. Sorry mate. Had a few, you know?"
"Yeah, no worries," Greg continued. "So, what you up to now?"
"Nothing much, like. Yourselves?"
"Just got a few cans and that," Grant said, lifting the bag up. "Fancy joining us?"
"Oh well, that's very generous of you lads. Very hospitable, like. I'd love to. Lead on, McDuff, lead on."
*
Back in Grant's flat, Kev leaned over the side of the armchair, rifling through Grant's CD collection.
"Haven't you got any Stone Roses, mate?"
"Yeah, in there somewhere," he said. He looked over at Greg, who had barely said a word since they got there, and was now sat in the corner, staring at Kev and knocking back a can.
"Ah here we go, bit of Oasis, that'll do nicely," Kev said, placing the CD clumsily into the player. He skipped along a few tracks till the opening riff of "What's The Story" blasted out. He turned up the volume and stood up, doing a lame approximation of a Gallagher swagger around the room. "Fuckin' tuuuuune," he said over the music.
Grant caught Greg's eye. He gestured to Kev, his eyes now closed in rapturous celebration of the music. This was the time, clearly. Greg hesitated. Grant urged him on with his eyes, and hand gestures. Kev knocked over empty cans as he danced around the room. Greg finally stood up, and pulled the hammer from under his chair. He approached Kev from behind, Grant also getting out of his chair.
"Need a little time to wake up, wake up," Kev sang atonally. Greg lifted the hammer above his head and approached Kev. He was now within clear striking distance, he just had to bring the hammer down. He held it in the air for what seemed like an eternity, Grant still silently encouraging him. But he lowered the hammer, leaving it hanging at his side, just as Kev turned round to face him and opened his eyes, looking straight at Greg. He looked down at the hammer hanging at Greg's side.
"Aye aye," he said, "what's the story, morning glory?"
Greg swung the hammer from low, catching Kev full in the temple. Kev put his hand to his head, pulled it away and looked at the blood on it, as some more of the red stuff trickled from his wound.
"No need for that, Greg," he said, as though his feelings were more hurt than his head. Greg swung again, but made weaker contact this time, the hammer glancing off Kev's head. This seemed to spur Kev into action. He grabbed Greg around the arms in a bear hug and lifted him up off the floor.
"This isn't how you play host," he shouted into Greg's ear.
"Fucking do something," Greg managed to say to Grant as he struggled for breath. Grant, until now frozen to the spot, picked up a cider bottle and hit Kev on the back of the head with it. Being plastic, though, it simply bounced off and onto the floor. The impact seemed enough to distract Kev, though, who turned around to face him. Grant threw the kind of weak punch people throw when they're more scared than angry. Again, Kev looked more upset than hurt, or even angry.
"I'm gonna tell everyone what kind of parties you throw you bastards."
Greg, who had now recovered his breath, hit him on the back of the head with the hammer. Kev turned to face him again.
"Look lads, can't we solve our differences amicably?" he asked.
"Fucking hit him again," Grant shouted to Greg. Greg did as instructed. This time, Kev was knocked instantly unconscious, hitting his head on the corner of the table on the way down to the floor. This time, there was more than a trickle of blood from the head wound. Grant quickly put a tea towel under his head to soak some of it up.
"Fucking hell," Greg said, sitting down, "that was harder than I expected."
"Is he dead then?" Grant said, also sitting down
"Fucking looks it to me." Greg said, still catching his breath.
"Aren't you gonna check?"
"You fucking check. I'm the one who fucking killed him, the least you can do is make sure."
"Alright, fine," Grant said. He walked gingerly over to the body. He bent over and looked at it. He nudged it with his foot. No movement. He nudged it a bit harder. Still nothing.
"Yeah," he said, "he's definitely dead."
"AAAAARRRRRRRGH!!!" Kev yelled as he leapt up and rugby tackled Grant to the ground. "I'll teach you to invite me here under false pretences," he shouted as he pinned Grant to the floor.
Greg was in action quickly, picking the hammer back up and swinging it into the back of Kev's head several times. It slowed him down, but didn't stop him, as he grabbed Grant around the throat and began to squeeze. Greg turned the hammer around and swung it, claw end first, with all that remained of his strength. It embedded in the top of Kev's skull. Greg tried to pull it out but it was stuck. Kev let go of Grant's throat and stood up, trying to pull the hammer out. He staggered around the room a while, his movements becoming slower and slower. Eventually, he sat down on the floor in the corner, no longer trying to remove the hammer. His breathing slowed and he stopped blinking.
"Fucking hell," Greg finally said after they'd stared in silence at him for several minutes. "Killing people is really fucking hard work. It's not like in movies. I'm fucking knackered."
"I'll bring the car round," Grant said.
*
Grant's Ford Ka was uninsured, had no M.O.T. and was barely road worthy, but they didn't have the option of procuring another vehicle. They carried Kev out to the car. Grant, walking backwards holding the head end, struggled to get his keys from his pocket. Kev slipped from his grasp and hit the floor with a heavy thud.
"Oi!" The voice made both of them jump. They were surprised to see three teenagers emerge from behind a nearby hedge. Greg recognised at least one of them straight away. "Where's me fucking phone yer prick?" he asked Greg.
"Your fucking phone? Seriously?"
"Yeah," the teen said. "I've been fucking tracking it. There's an app on it you thieving twat. Now fucking give it back."As he was talking, one of his friends looked down at the ground, and began tapping him on the arm. "Fucking what?"
His friend pointed to the body, its head on the floor, pouring with blood, its feet in the hands of the phone thief. The lad looked from Kev's mangled head, to Greg, to Grant and back to Kev's head.
"Keep the fucking phone mate," he said to Greg, before he and his friends legged it.
They bundled Kev onto the back seat and set off.
"Where is this place then?" Greg asked.
"Not that far. Maybe a twenty minute drive. We'll be off the motorway in a few minutes then it's really quiet roads after that, especially this time of night. It's just woodland where we're going, nobody ever goes there, it's too out the way, even for dog walkers."
"Ok, sounds perfect."
Greg closed his eyes and let his head rest back against the seat as Grant drove. Grant blinked hard to keep his eyelids from closing.
"Frrrgnyr,"
"You what," Grant asked.
"I didn't say nothing," Greg replied.
"You were talking in your sleep."
"I wasn't asleep."
"Well then what was-?"
"AAAAAARRRRRRGH YA BASTARDS!"
Kev sprung from the back seat and grabbed them, an arm around each neck.
"Fucking hell Kev," Grant shouted. "I'm trying to drive here."
Greg tried to throw his fist back to punch him, but the angles were against him and he couldn't reach. Grant swerved all over the road as Kev squeezed their necks harder. He slammed on the breaks, and Kev's grip finally gave way as he flew through the windscreen and landed with a horrid thump on the road, thirty yards in front of them.
"Jesus cunting Christ," Grant shouted, "what is he, fucking Rasputin?"
"Why won't he fucking die?"
"Oh he must be dead now. Surely? He went through the windscreen for fuck's sake."
Just as Greg said this, the body began to shuffle on the ground. Slowly, Kev began to kneel up.
"Oh come on!"
Kev stood unsteadily up, looking around, as though trying to figure out his whereabouts.
"Just fucking die will ya Kev, for fuck's sake. This is fucking stupid now, mate."
Kev turned slowly round at the sound of Greg's voice. He squinted through the glassless space where the window used to be, raised his hand slowly, and, as though seeing Greg and Grant for the first time this evening, waved.
Grant revved the engine before driving as fast as the clamped out Ka could manage, straight into Kev. His battered body bounced off the bonnet and over the car, crashing down behind them. Grant hit the brakes, before reversing back over him, then drove forward over him once more, for good measure.
"Right!" he said. "If he's not fucking dead now, then I fucking give up. Danny can have me fucking thumbs for all I care. Maybe he'll let us keep one each, for at least trying."
"Maybe go back and forth over him once more? You know, to be sure."
"Yeah alright."
*
Twenty minutes later they were standing in front of a large wire fence. 'Building site secured by Heritage Security' the sign on the fence read.
"Great. A fucking building site. Well that's just fucking perfect isn't it, Grant?"
"I didn't fucking know they were building here."
"And you didn't think to fucking check?"
"Obviously fucking not!"
"Brilliant, so what the fuck do we do now?"
"I don't fucking know, do I?"
"Fuck me!" Greg said, kicking the fence a few times.
"We'll have to get him back to mine."
"For fuck's sake. Yeah, I suppose you're right. Then what?"
"Fuck knows," Grant said. "We'll figure it out when we get there."
They walked the twenty yards back to where they'd left the car and got in. As they buckled their seat belts Greg turned his head to the back seat and stared at it for a moment. He turned back to look out of where the windscreen used to be.
"Grant?"
"What is it?"
"He's gone."
"Eh?"
"I said he's gone."
Greg didn't even bother turning round to check. At this point, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. They got out of the car, took the torch from the boot and began scouring the nearby woods, the building site, and the road for a mile in either direction. There was no sign of Kev, not even a trail of blood.
"This is getting a bit fucking supernatural now," Grant said.
"It's not fucking supernatural, it's just fucking annoying. He's taking the piss now."
They stopped walking and stood in the middle of the road.
"Look," Greg said, leaning over with his hands on his knees, "we've checked the roads, we've checked the building site. The only place the fucker could have gone is deeper into the woods than we checked. Right?"
"I dunno. Maybe, yeah."
"We're miles from anywhere. There's no fucking way he can survive the night. If he doesn't bleed to death, which he absolutely fucking has to, then the internal injuries will kill him. And if they don't, then he'll probably fucking freeze to death, or go into shock and just...fucking...die. Right? I mean he fucking has to!"
"I wouldn't be too fucking sure. Not after what he's already survived."
"Look, that was just some sort of freak occurrence. Maybe he's one of them freaks who can't feel pain. Yeah? And he's just taking longer coz the pain isn't registering or whatever. You know?"
"Yeah..."
"I say, we go back to yours, we go and see Danny in the morning and tell him it's done, and that we buried him in the woods, like we said we would. He doesn't need to know all the details, just that the cunt's dead. Agreed?"
"I suppose so. I just wanna go home, I'm fucking exhausted."
*
The next morning, they paid a visit to Danny. No mention was made of Kev's superhuman levels of pain endurance, just that he had been despatched and disposed off. Danny was satisfied, and the debt was written off.
*
Despite the pressure being off, Grant and Greg decided to get out of town for a couple of days and stay with some of Greg's family in North Wales. Three nights after their visit to Danny, they arrived back at Grant's flat. As they entered the living room, Big Danny Wobbegong was sitting in the same arm chair Kev had occupied. The door was shut behind them, and Bryan and another thick-necked associate of Danny's knocked them both to the floor.
"What the fuck? What's going on Danny?" Grant asked, with a mixture of fear and indignation.
"What's the matter? Ha, he's a funny cunt this one isn't he Bry? Did you forget our little deal, Grant? A certain person being got rid of, and you keeping certain parts of your anatomy?"
"What you on about?" Greg said, trying to stand but being kept in a kneeling position by the two goons. "We did what we said we were gonna do. We told you that. It was all taken care of."
"Oh is that right? Well then why is it that Bryan saw our mate Kev in The Crown last night, with nothing more than a fucking bandage around his head, and a slight fucking limp?"
Grant and Greg looked each other. Danny reached into his pocket, pulled out his cigar cutter, and smiled at them.
"Thumbs up, lads."
