The Hitnan: A Tale of Blood and Canes Read online

  The Hitnan:

  A Tale of Blood and Canes

  By

  Wez Wallie

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are either used fictitiously or for satirical purposes. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely imagined or coincidental.

  Copyright © 2021 by Wez Wallie

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

  For more information, address:

  [email protected]

  First paperback edition May 2021

  Cover artwork by VilaDesign

  www.viladesign.net

  ISBN 979-8-7293-5687-4 (paperback)

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  For mum, for without whom I wouldn’t be here.

  And to nan, because this book wouldn’t be possible without all your super-secret stories about sneaking around London and assassinat – oops.

  Chapter 1

  Dotty Walker sat slumped in the train seat with her wrinkly cheeks smooshed up against the glass, condensation dripping down onto her floppy pink tongue. The elderly gentleman on the opposite side of the table continued to make 'tssk' noises every time her spasm-ing foot knocked his leg, or when she kept randomly choking on a gulp of air and waking herself up momentarily before drifting back into a sleepy laze.

  “Mmm, Nick Hewer…” she would murmur, sounds of a lusty dream bursting out from the depths of her gaping maw. “No, not down there… heh, no Nicky-boy… oh go on then… quick before the clock counts down!”

  The man lowered the top of the broadsheet paper with a rather worrisome brow, almost as if he was anxious as to what he would see.

  Dotty continued to talk and hum in her sleep: ♫“…Dadda, da-dadda, da dadda-dadda-dadda da da -”♫

  “Tickets please!”

  The old woman woke up with a startle.

  “Excuse me?” said the ticket inspector, with a tinge of a European accent. He was a handsome-looking stud-muffin of a thing; chiselled jawline and two of them angled sideburns shaped to match the stripes of his uniform.

  Dotty looked around trying to gather her bearings, patting down her white blouse and barnet. “Oh sorry, dear, I was miles away and dreaming about appearing on Countdown.”

  “Ah yes. God bless Richard Whitely. Don’t think much of the new fella, wozzisname… off The Apprentice…”

  “Nick Hewer!”

  “That’s the one.”

  “I think he’s a hunk!”

  The inspector laughed. “Ooh, let me guess: if you were only a few decades younger…haha.”

  Eh? Bloody decades?! thought Dotty. Be very careful, ya little punk!

  “Hmm, yes. I suppose,” she retorted, in a restrained south east London accent.

  There was a bit of an awkward silence until the inspector just feigned a smile and broke the stare-off by turning and asking for the ticket from the old fella in the corner.

  “Ah, certainly young man.” He brought the newspaper down, retrieved the orange ticket from his wallet and handed it to the official.

  “Thank you very much, Mr Fish. Have a nice journey.”

  He turned back to Dotty. “Madam?”

  Bugger. She fumbled through her coat folded up on the seat beside her, covering up her smokes. She then brought out her purse between doddery hands, amping up the fake shaking and false confusion as she fingered through the partitions of plastics.

  “Is it this one, dear?” she asked with her polite yet diddery voice, whilst holding up a medical exemption card.

  “Not unless you think this is a chemist...”

  Alright, ya sarky bastard! “Um… this one, perchance?”

  “Woolworths? I don’t even think they are still in business!”

  “This one!” – “Nope. Boots.” – “This?” – “Now that’s just a Bingo coupon.”

  “Right, last go – this is your card!”

  “Uh uh, that’s a HMV loyalty badge. Are you travelling alone, Mrs…?”

  “Walker, dear. Ms. Dotty Walker.”

  The inspector leaned over to assist: “Look madam, maybe I can have a quick peek in your purse in case it’s fallen -”

  “GEDDOUTOFIT!” The ticket man was taken aback. “I mean, not to worry, love. Now I come to think of it, I’ve just remembered I gave the tickets to my grandson for safe keeping. He’s just popped down the end of the carriage to do a loo, so I’m sure by the time you check everyone else and circle back, he’ll have them all laid out on the table here for a good day’s inspecting.”

  She smiled up at him with an angelic cherubby face, and as he stared down into her wizened visage, he couldn’t help but take pity on the old bird. (Also, the fact she looked both like his nan and the Queen helped a bit.)

  “Alright, Ms Walker, I’ll move on for now. But just call me Arnold Schwarzenegger, ‘cos -”

  “- You’re an Austrian immigrant who’s hung like a horse?”

  “No… no, ‘cos I’ll be back, innit. Like from The Terminator?”

  She just stared up at him with a blank expression and a shrug.

  He walked off with a disheartened frown as she chuckled with a mischievous smirk.

  The old bloke in the corner returned the grin, his grey furry ‘tache raising with every chortle, as he slammed his silver coffee flask down and almost choked on the stuff. “That was good; I enjoyed that immensely.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” she responded coyly.

  “You know, we’ve been sitting opposite each other for thirty minutes now and I am yet to see this mysterious grandson of yours. The phantom who holds your elusive tickets, you say.”

  Dotty was caught off guard, so instead put a hand to her head and feigned a funny turn. “Ooh, ooh, I’ve gone all dizzy, ooh...”

  “Nonsense, we’ve all done it!" he said, leaning forward with excitement and unbuttoning his grey suit jacket. "Hopping the barriers back in the day, sticking it to the man, as they say – wonderful stuff! Makes me feel less like I'm 76 and more like I’m back in my teens again. Good on you, dear. I suppose once you get to a certain age you begin to throw tact to the wind and just say, 'sod them all', eh!”

  “Steady on, I ain’t that much older than you.”

  “Oh… really?”

  “Whatever,” she said with a sulk.

  He paused for a moment before chuckling again, and then threw his hand out for a shake and introduced himself to her. “I’m Michael, my dear.”

  “Dotty. Hang about - Michael? Michael Fish? Say, you wouldn’t happen to be -”

  “An ex-BBC weatherman who had a bit of bother with a certain storm in October of '87? Guilty as charged, madam! Though in my defence, us tempest prognosticators come in for a fair bit of flack but predicting precipitory wetness is no mean feat."

  “Yeah, more of
a young man’s game, ain’t it. Older men often struggle to summon a sodden-surge in their women.”

  "Sorry, I missed that?"

  "I said, 'where are you off to today, then'?"

  "Oh, of course. I am just heading up to Liverpool to see my daughter over on the Isle of Man. She married some fancy boy so now I have to make a five-hour trip by train and ferry to spend a weekend trying to think of conversation topics and pretending I know what on earth 'Fifa' is." He sighed. "Things were so much easier back in the day, eh, Dotty."

  "Certainly was. But enough about that boring stuff - you must have met all sorts whilst at the BBC? Any juicy goss?"

  He leaned over the table mischievously with a whisper. "Well, I was going to save this for my autobiography that I always planned to write - proposed title being 'Red Herring: Michael Fish and THAT Pesky Storm' - but I did once play a round of golf with Sir Bruce Forsyth during a heavy rainfall that again came out of nowhere. It was all going swell until Brucie went to retrieve his ball on the last hole and got his legs stuck in the sandpit. 'Good game, good game,' he would say, as he obliviously started to slowly sink into the quicksand, before a team of interns had to pull him out by his rapidly descending head and tufts of hair left above the sand line. Then there was the time me and Jimmy Savile dressed up as ladyboys to surprise a fresh-faced Esther Rantzen in the women's bogs, but um, oh, I don't think I can say anything more about that, come to think of it. I signed an NDA as it happens..."

  The table went silent, and he just looked out of the window like he had PTSD.

  Gawd, I picked the wrong day to totally fail at quitting smoking, she thought.

  After a moment, Michael popped a pill from his pocket and began cheerily smiling again whilst munching on a mini pork pie, saying "let's not dwell on the past - I think it’s going to be a fine day today! The sunshine is already on its way - I'm sure of it!"

  "O...kay, so where's your wife today then?"

  "...I didn't tell you I had a wife," he said suspiciously. Dotty gulped. "Hoho, just kidding - probably saw my wedding ring, right! Heheh, your face!"

  She was fast losing patience and hoped her "grandson" would arrive as soon as possible, hopefully before this guy goes on to tell another anecdote about a '70s BBC DJ and gets them both slapped on an Operation Yewtree pedo list.

  "Nah, she's a diamond in the rough, my wife. Bit obsessed with her looks; she's constantly messing with her face and never had much confidence, but she was always just pretty enough for me."

  “So, is she not going up to Liverpool with you, or...?"

  "Oh no, she never travels with me! Oh, crumbs no. Three hours on a train with Michael Fish? No, I don't blame the woman for driving on ahead and meeting me up there."

  "Do you two not get on?" asked Dotty with interest.

  "Well, she spends all her time in the local library, so make of that what you will." He put his flask to his furry lips then pulled it away again with an arched brow. "Say, you're asking an awful lot of questions about my marriage... you're not a P.I. that she's hired again, are you? Honestly. You have one threesome with rival meteorologists from Channels 4 & 5 and suddenly you can't ever be trusted again!"

  "You see right through me, Michael Fish. You know too much!" she teased with a grin.

  "And thus you might have to kill me! Hahaha..."

  She didn’t laugh and instantly broke character.

  "Who told ya?!"

  He paused and then laughed again. So did she.

  Suddenly, she noticed her "grandson" running down the platform, trying to catch up to the train door as it pulled into the station. A chubster approaching the back end of his thirties, he wore a grey flat cap and green puffer jacket, which led him to struggle to get through the parting doors with any ease. He stood at the end of the carriage, hunched over and trying to catch his breath.

  "Excuse me one moment, Mr Fish, dear." She scooped up her coat and bag and arose from her seat.

  "Oh, of course, madam." He stood up and helped her out from around the small table as she walked graciously down the aisle, smiling at the little kiddies on the way, before hopping through the small doors and dragging the poor bloke over into the corner of the carriage division.

  "Where the bleedin' 'ell have you been, Peter?! You left me on the train, boy!" she scolded him with a slap on the head, whereby he let out a small whimper in an Irish twang as he tried to catch his breath.

  "Peader, ma’am... wit a ‘D’, ma’am…”

  “Stop talkin’ about your dyslexia, Peter, and get yourself into gear, son; look at the state of ya!”

  “I'm sorry, Ms Walker - I stopped beside de platform ta pet a wee doggy, and before I knew it de fecker had closed its doors and pulled away from de station! But ye know me an’ doggies - dey can't resist me! Lordy, I'm a sucker fer a wee bitch, Ms Walker - me mammy always said so!"

  "Really, Peter? Did she really say that?"

  "...She might have said dat I'm a 'wee sucker and a bitch,' yes I may be misremembering tings now..." He got lost deep in thought as she gave him another slap to bring him back to reality.

  "Be professional now, boy! I've made contact wiv the mark and buttered him up niiice and smoove."

  "Why does his wife want him dead again, Ms Walker?"

  "Somefing about a shed wasn't it? I dunno, doesn't matter why; contract's on and we're gonna take him out niiice and clean. Now, did ya bring me cane?"

  "Ehh, good news and bad news, Ms Walker."

  Her face fell.

  "Well, de good news is dat I definitely brought yer cane."

  "Okay... this is going well..."

  "De bad news is, de little doggy t'ought it was a stick and snatched it outta me hands before I could get on de train wid it."

  "You got robbed by a dog for a stick?"

  "Aye, it's mad! And I was about ta give chase when de train pulled away! I had ta jump on de back of de ting, like, and ride it all de way t'rough de darky tunnels and overgrown weeds an’ dat."

  "Is that why your face is all cut to pieces?"

  "Uh no, dere were a fair amount of bugs splatterin' in me face which made me really itchy. I guess I need ta cut me nails too when we get back. Aboy de kid, Ms Walker! I tink I did pretty well doing some Thomas Cruiseship stunty-lark ta catch up wit ye, like."

  "Look, whatever. You're here now and we need to figure out how to do him in quickly and discretely now we have no cane or tools."

  "Hmm," he said, putting a finger to his upper chin, deep in thought. "What about if youse seduce him into de bogs dere, and I come up behind him and choke him somehow? Ah wait naw, I fergot; I hate de killing part. Okey, goddit - I do de seducin' and youse do de sexy chokin'? Naw wait, hang on dere, let me retink dis a bit..."

  "We'll be here all day if you're making the plans now."

  "Well, I still have me train conductor uniform at least," he said, holding up his brown holdall. "We could stick ta what we were originally gonna do but den we just have ta reconfigure de ending somehow..."

  "Tell you what: you go into the lav and start getting changed. Make sure nobody else goes in. I'll ask him to escort me to the toilet whilst doing me fuddy-duddy routine and then we'll knock him out and decide how to off him once we're in there, cool?"

  "Grand."

  Dotty pulled on her long black gloves. She clutched the collar of her light-brown trench coat and with one fluid motion threw it the whole way around herself, each arm sliding straight in and the material wrapping her like it was a second skin. She rubbed her leathery hands together like she meant business.

  "Let's get to work."

  She walked back through the carriage as the train set off again, swiping a small plastic butterknife from the food cart that she had to squeeze around. She sat back down at the table just as the carriage was rocking a little. "Blimey, that wind's strong!"

  "Yes," said Michael Fish, whilst fumbling through a variety of coloured tablets on the table. "Not good for my heart. I get deep anxiety in storms as you can
imagine. Just brings it all back for me."

  "What, the devastation of Britain's streets?"

  "No, just the fact I was publicly humiliated on national TV."

  Dotty glanced at her pocket watch under the table, (Nick Hewer's giant face beamed back from inside; she only usually uses it to ensure she gets home in time for Countdown). Ten minutes had passed; that should be enough time for Peader to have changed into his disguise and come up with a plan of how to off him without the cane.

  "Oooh, ooh, I hate to ask, Mr Fish, but I'm absolutely bursting for a piddle - you couldn't help an old lady to the loo, could you? It's just, with all this rocking and shaking, I may not make it down there in one piece..." She threw in the puppy dog eyes to seal the deal.

  "Certainly," he said anxiously as he stared out of the window, the clouds darkening and cracks of thunder beginning to howl. He clutched his chest and began to do some deep breathing. Dotty just sat and watched as he tried to calm himself down at the table and gobbled down some more pills.

  "In your own time, Sir. My bladder's like a water balloon, and you don't want to be around if it pops."

  "Sorry, Dotty, come on then." He helped her up and they made their way down to the other end of the carriage, as the train swayed and groaned in the midst of the storm.

  "Ooh, my heart's racing, girl!" he cried, as they pushed the button to open the partition doors, walking through into the secluded space and stopping outside the smelly grey toilet.

  "Well, it's about to come to a stop, cos this is where you get off, Mikey-boy."

  "Excuse me?"

  She whipped behind him with surprising agility, coat swishing in her wake as she held his wrists and thrust the plastic butterknife into the small of his back. "Don't worry, that's just a wee knife in ya back, son. I ain't pleased to see ya or nuffink. But make a sound and I'll be 'aving fish & chips for me tea tonight."

  "What's the meaning of this, Dotty? Did my wife put you up to this? Gosh you're strong; I thought you were all old and feeble - and why do you suddenly sound like an east end chav?!"