The Hitnan: A Tale of Blood and Canes Read online

  "That's the name of the game," said The Hitnan. "Unfortunately for you, I'm a contractor and your wife's put a bounty on your head."

  "What, the woman that I bed?"

  "Yeah, she wants ya dead."

  "Is this about the shed?"

  "Well, I dunno, she never really said."

  "That bitch!" he spat with his blood pressure rising. "I was being polite earlier but she's a damn bunny-boiling nutcase! I bet she's only doing this so she can collect my life insurance and buy another few rounds of plastic surgery!”

  Dotty shrugged.

  "I knew it! She got smacked in the face by a rogue twig during the storm of '87 and she's never forgiven me. It was never about the bleedin' shed!"

  "Well, maybe you just haven't been paying attention to her anymore. Maybe you can start forecasting some floods in the bedroom department, if you get me drift."

  "She just turned sixty and the wells have well dried up! I may be a doctor of Doppler but I'm certainly no magician!"

  Dotty was baffled, and also bored. Countdown was on at 4pm and she long ago vowed never to miss an episode fronted by that silver apprenticey-fox.

  "Right, get in there, come on - move it!"

  "It's a toilet! We won't both fit in there!"

  She gave a quick knock on the door with a "psst, Peter," as it was green and unlocked. "We're comin' in!"

  She slid the door across and flung it back behind them swiftly. Suddenly, ex-BBC weatherman Michael Fish began having chest palpitations and struggled to breathe. He clutched at his chest and slumped down the door and was dead before his bottom touched the wee-stained floor.

  "Flamin' nora!"

  The Hitnan was perturbed by his glassy widened eyes staring over her shoulder, like the last thing he saw was too much for his traumatised heart and brain to handle and had literally disturbed him to a final death. She closed his eyelids with a rather relieved huff.

  "Well, that takes care of that, I s'pose!"

  She turned to face into the small cubicle and almost had a small heart attack of her own! Peader was lying on his knees with his neck trapped between the toilet seat and lid, and his bare pasty bottom presented in the air like some sort of perverse prize at an Alabama redneck carnival, with the black pupil of his third eye winking at her from below.

  "What. The. F -"

  "ms walker is dat youse?!"

  "You better hope it is, son! How did this even happen?! All you had to do was come in here and change ya clothes, and you've ended up getting eaten by a fackin' toilet!"

  "im sorry ms walker, i was geddin’ changed like ye said but dere was a bit of turbulence an’ i slipped taking off me pants and well ye can guess de rest, like."

  "You're lucky George Michael didn't walk in on ya, you wouldn't have stood a chance, son!

  "i tink hes dead ms walker."

  "Yeah, luckily he had a weak heart and you finished him off."

  "what how dare youse; ive never had homosexual relations wit george michael."

  "I meant Michael Fish."

  "nor him - dats slander!"

  "Careful, or I'm gonna flush the chain and give you that second baptism I was gonna get you for your birfdy. Obviously, I mean the mark. He's dead."

  "oh...yay?"

  "Right, let's get you up. I don't know what I'm looking at but I thought I just saw the tip of a tongue poke out of your botty-lips so I fink we should get you dressed and get the heck out of here."

  "me toughts exactly ms walker."

  She bent over and lifted the surprisingly heavy lids off Peader's neck, where they left an imprint in his fat folds leaving him looking like he'd just been put through a George Foreman grilling machine.

  Dotty helped him arise and he pulled up his smart black trousers.

  Before long he was dressed in his train conductor's uniform and his arsehole was nicely tucked away. "Right, fank gawd," said The Hitnan. "Remind me to never do costumes again."

  "Yeh, wasn't de best idea in hindsight. So, what we gonna do wit dis guy?"

  "Tell you what, just stick him on the seat, and it'll look like he had a cardiac arrest whilst trying to open the heavens; parting the brown sea, so to speak."

  "Ah. De ol' Elvis technique. Classic."

  He heaved up the carcass of Michael Fish and propped him up on the toilet, before pulling down his drawers and then taking a few steps back, whereby the upper torso simply gave way and slumped over its own knobbly knees.

  The Hitnan shrugged. "That'll do, donkey."

  "At least we let him keep his dignity, like. I feel dat's what separates us from serial killers and dem nasty lot," said Peader proudly, as the tips of Michael's fingers bathed in the urine puddles of strangers, beneath his cold body.

  The Hitnan stood in front of the cadaver and crossed herself with a prayer for his soul.

  "D'ye tink he deserved it, Ms Walker?"

  "Well, he did tell the nation there would be no hurricane, and then seven people died in said hurricane."

  "And now he's croaked in a storm himself! Is dat what dey call Karma, den?"

  "Could be, son. Though it's not our place to judge. We just fulfil the contracts. Speaking of, how much did the Bognor agency pay us for this gig?"

  "Seven-Fiddy an’ a Subway voucher."

  "Nice one. I'm gonna get me a footlong on the way back."

  "Cool. Den maybe I can have de Subway voucher!"

  "Wut?"

  "I'm confused."

  "Shuddit and pass me Kit-Kat. You know I have to have a bar of choclit whenever I finish me killin' for the day."

  "Oh, de wee doggy took dat de first time she got me."

  "Eh? First time?!"

  "But look, ye can have dis Double Decker I found in de pockets of dis costume here."

  "Lovely jubbly!" She unwrapped it and took a giant bite, as they exited the toilet and made their way back to their table seat, down carriage. "Ooh, free coffee!" she said, picking up the ex-Mr Fish's silver flask. "So, what time you gotta get that fing back to the fancy dress shop then?"

  "5pm taday. Dis sucks. I got all dressed up wit nowhere ta go - I feel a right eejit!"

  "Ah, Ms Walker. Did your grandson return with your tickets then?" She froze as the handsome ticket inspector stood over her expectantly.

  Peader lifted his head from his arms on the table and looked up at him.

  "Oh my, finally! They've sent someone to relieve me. Well, I can see you're already on Ms Walker's case there so I shall leave you to sort out any issues, Sir. I warn you - she's a slippery one," he said with a chuckle. He bent down and picked up Peader's formal cap from the desk. "Better pop your hat back on, mate, you know what management's like." He tapped his nose like it was their secret.

  "This is that Arnold I was telling you about," said Dotty, with a wink toward Peader. "Says he's a terminator as well."

  "Oh, really!" Peader squealed, getting up and moving closer to him with a whisper. "Who ye here ta pop, and where'd ye get yer costume from?"

  Chapter 2

  Shonny was 3 feet 9 inches tall, and would be legally classed a midget if she wasn't a child. Her long brown hair was reaching her tailbone, and her mascaraed-up lashes were an affront to The Hitnan.

  "Mal! What on earth have you done to this poor girl's face?!"

  She tried rubbing off the cheek foundation and ruby lipstick, but it just ended up being smeared across the child's face, until she looked like a cross between Batman villain "The Joker" and Eddie Izzard on a good day.

  "Stop it, nanny, I like it!"

  "Oh darling, come on, this stuff isn't for little girlies! It's for adult lady-dates and liberal luvvies."

  Marion entered the living room to see her seven-year-old daughter hopped up on her mother's lap in the corner armchair, the child's baffled mug looking like an explosion went off in a L’Oréal factory.

  "Bloody hell mum, what have you done, that took ages to do!"

  Dotty shoved Shonny's face into her clavicle: "Shut up," she scolded
Marion in a whisper. "You made her look a right tart!"

  She released her grip from the base of Shonny's skull, which left an imprint of her face in Dotty's white blouse (like a handprint of paint kids can do at the fayre, but this was of a gormless smooshed expression of a child above her left tit).

  "Sorry nanna."

  "Oh, don't worry about it, kiddo. That's what Peter's for," she replied with a wave of a hand, straightening out the child's long hair.

  Marion just shook her head and crossed her arms tight like she could never get warm. She was a thin woman in her late forties, a former drug-addict and wild child, sober since the birth of her daughter. The edges of her eyes were always bloodshot like a stain, and her nose was thin and once on the edge of collapsing. Her clothes were quite plain and functional, casual, not sporty or elegant. Her skin still bore the scars in the form of red marks and she often wore long and baggy gear to hide the wounds of a previous life that she'd rather forget.

  "The damp's getting worse in the kitchen, mum. You need to get someone 'round to have a look at it."

  "Yeah, thanks for sorting that, love, you are a good daughter."

  Marion returned to the kitchen with a 'tssk'.

  "Can I do you, nanna?!"

  "Can you do what, love?"

  "Make you pretty with mummy's make-up box."

  "What? You don't think nanna's pretty already?"

  Be very careful, you little shit.

  Shonny giggled. "Yes, but you could look like Kim Kardashian with a bit of slap."

  "Who the fudge is Kim Carcrash-ian? And who taught you to speak like an east-end whorehouse pimp?!"

  "Nanna, what's a whorehouse?"

  "Oh, dang-it. Erm, nothing love, just a bit of cockney rhyming slang which you should totally not repeat, understand? Hang on, why didn't you ask what a 'pimp' is too?!"

  "PEADER!" the girl shouted in joy.

  The front door slammed shut and Shonny jumped off Dotty's lap and ran into Peader's podgy arms.

  "Hey Shon-Shon! How's de craic dere, lass? Love de lashes, girl! Total fyyyre!"

  Dotty rolled her eyes.

  Peader stepped into the front room as Shonny skipped off to the kitchen. "Howdy, Ms Walker, what ye watchin’ dere?"

  "I don't know, I turned it off when the nipper came down." She retrieved her polka dot glasses from the table and turned the volume up; the news channel was displaying some pictures of an old guy and narrated an obituary.

  "...Michael Fish was a much-loved father, husband and ex-weatherman." They showed clips of various celebrities mourning his passing, (whilst accidentally airing a clip of Gary Lineker asking, 'Who?'), before cutting back to the news anchor Trevor McDonald, reporting that "The Queen has also sent her condolences and earlier added, 'He was the only bloke I never got 'round to Knighting...' "

  Trevor took a moment before continuing: "I personally worked with Mr Fish in the '80s. And whilst I always told him those pork pies would eventually get him, I would just like to say thank you for the laughs and may the gentle glide of British winds carry you peacefully up to Heaven."

  Dotty switched off the TV. "Well, we got away with that one, lad! Wait, are you crying?"

  "Naw, it's just…" he began, wiping away a tear from the corner of his eye. "…A heart attack, Ms Walker! At 76, Ms Walker! He had so much ta live fer!"

  "No, he really didn't, Peter. We were going to kill him ourselves, remember?"

  "Oh, right ye are, yeh... hey dat chocolate fella, dere - didn't he once interview ye about winning de 1999 Tomato Magnifico competition back in de day?"

  "Yeah, me and Trevor go way back, son. Right back to Timbuktu!" she said with a cackle.

  "Oh, I don't tink ye can say dat anymore, Ms Walker.

  Sum peeps are a bit funny about de racialisms nowdays, y'know..."

  “Don’t you call me a racialist – I sucked off Sammy Davis Jr. behind the Croydon Woolworths in ’56. The git spunked glitter but he fackin’ loved it. Yeah of course he was a bumboy but in them days you had to play the game didn’t ya, play the ol' 'Hyacinth Bucket' and all that. And trust me, even shirt lifters don’t say no to a suck job son – no matter what’s between the legs of the lips noshing 'em off to the hinge end!”

  Peader cringed, but also glanced over at his Sammy D tape collection in morbid curiosity.

  "Okey, well, I'm gonna go say howdy ta Miss Mal. And put dem smokeys away, Ms Walker. Don't be leddin' de Devilman tempt ye again," he warned, spotting the new and unopened pack of cigs lying on the table in front of her.

  "Yeah yeah, I'm just staring at 'em to show Beelzebub that I'm much stronger than he finks."

  "Ah grand. Well, I like how much effort yer putting inta de performance, wit de dribble and stuff, dere.

  "Whatevs. I gotta go water me sprogs, anyway."

  Outside, Dotty bent over to feel the red bulbs that were growing in her back garden. "Ooh, I must get some more pile cream..." She took her finger out her arse and refocused her attention on the tomatoes in front of her.

  They were round and plump, reddening nicely in the mid-July sun. There were three whole rows of about eight plant pots lined up neatly, and she watered each generously like they were her children.

  "Yumyumyumyum, drink up boys and girls, that's it, grow big and strong!"

  It was a small and modest garden in Peckham, yet the greying wooden fences boxing them in were rotting away in negligence. (It's been on Peader's 'Ta Do List, Like,' since he started this job 18 months ago.)

  When the watering can was empty, she laid it down on the cracked slabs and whipped out her phone, pressing 'record' on the camera.

  "Yo yo yo, what is going down in the slums, my peeps - we out here today showing off me big fat tommies; get a load of these bad boys!" She was sweeping the camera around the tomatoes like Hollywood director Michael Bay on steroids, doing up-close slow-motion shots of the water droplets rippling off their tight and svelte skin, mimicking the infamous Bay shooting the sweat beads dripping off Megan Fox's abs in the first Transformers movie.

  "Yeaaaah, look at how well Spartacus here is doing! And Narcissus over there in plant pot D, almost overtaking Confucius in the lusciousness department." She brought the camera directly into her face: "That one is going to be a riiight juicy-jubbly!"

  She brought it back under her chin. "Ok, Devotees, that's all I got for today. Make sure to like, subscribe and share with your friends and other Vitamin C champion-ees! This is yo main nan, Dotty, signing out - DEUCES!"

  She uploaded the video straight to her channel, where her Dotty's D groupies couldn't wait to get an update on her totally rad gardening. (Youtube was a sore subject with Peader and her bosses for obvious reasons, and neither liked the fact she was broadcasting her face all over the internet whilst going around topping fools left right and centre. Thus, she had to do these videos privately and when no-one else was around to give her a bollocking.)

  Meanwhile, back in the kitchen, Peader took off his cap and hung it on the stand. He went in for a hug with Mal but she went for a handshake and ended up cupping his groin. His left eyebrow shot through the fucking roof. Why can't everyday start like this?

  Dotty came in through the back door in the kitchen, wiped her boots and sat at the table. "Tea missy, when you've stopped fondling me carer, love."

  Marion tucked her stringy brown hair behind her ear. "Oh mum, did you really go all around the back gate rather than just come through the kitchen?"

  "Yeah, 'cos I knew exactly what you would be doing to this poor mite. Gotta be careful with him, though, he's one of them innocents. Keep doing that and he'll have to start carrying spare pants around in his fannypack."

  "Aw leave off now, Ms Walker. I'll have ye know I've had plenty'a girlfriends in me time, like," he said defensively, now having to hold his retrieved cap in front of his crotch for a reason even Shonny could see through.

  "Is that a fact, Peter? What was the name of the last one and how did you meet?"

  "Uh, sh
e uh, her title, uh, I mean her name of course be, uh, it be Rose, and uh, yeh I used to trim her bush dere -"

  "I bet you did son!"

  "Naw, Ms Walker, I mean as in topiary, like!"

  "Oh, so now you're suddenly a bush expert?! How convenient..."

  "Naw, Ms Walker, I -"

  "Oh, leave the poor boy be, mother," interrupted Marion sternly, thrusting the cup of tea in front of her mum.

  Dotty mouthed back her words petulantly. She winked at Shonny who was just laughing to herself whilst doing her colourings at the table. (Peader's face went redder than Shonny's red crayon!)

  Marion handed Peader a cuppa too and turned back to Dotty. "Why do you have to be such a damn troll?"

  "Oh, he's thirty-eight, Marion, the lad can take a joshing."

  "Ha ha. Hahaha. Ha. Yes, was a good one dere, Ms Walker. Highly enjoyable, top drawer craic..."

  "Shut up Peter 'n get me gear in the motor, son."

  "Oh, right ye are dere, Ms Walker, won't be a mo, don't ye worry about me!"

  Peader hobbled out with an awkward gait, waiting 'til he was out the door to put his cap back on his noggin. Shonny went upstairs to find some more pens.

  "Strange one that one."

  "You don't have to be so mean to him, mum. He's a nice lad."

  "Shut up you tart. You're old enough to be his mum - and ugly enough to be his social worker 'n all."

  "I'm not interested in all that monkey business anymore. I've been there and done that. My priority is looking after Shonny, not men anymore."

  "I'll believe that when I see it. As soon as my back is turned I bet I find you sheathing some pork sword in the Ikea utility closets again."

  "Mother!"

  "Oh, save it, woman. You said yourself you used to go there for the meatballs."

  "Them days are behind me, mum. I'm focusing on getting clean and...and, and cleaning up my act!"

  "Nonsense. You'd suck a hobo for a score of charlie."

  "Not anymore, mum. I wouldn't spend my hard-earned dosh on that muck now I have proper bills to pay. In fact, I have a lot of bills to pay, especially now I'm seeing a therapist and everything."