Authors: Julie Shaw
Vinnie felt his lips begin to quiver. He knew the feeling and he welcomed its arrival. This cunt was actually making him feel physically sick. He could feel it rising up within him, like a tide. He cleared his own throat and was rewarded by a mouthful of phlegm, which he spat with precision into the old man’s face.
Melvin tried to twist away, but Vinnie’s grip was too strong for him, and as he watched the glistening phlegm make a track across his mouth, Vinnie tightened it further, watching with pleasure as Melvin’s face, engorged with blood, grew redder and redder and his eyes began to bulge. But, pleasing thought it was, it was too soon to have the cunt pass out on him. He relaxed his grip. ‘You calling my sister a liar?’ he said. ‘You scummy piece of fucking shit. Are you really that stupid, old man? And did you think you could hide from me? Did you really fucking think I wouldn’t hunt you down? I’ve spent fucking years fantasising about what I was going to do to you, Melvin, and now you have one chance – one fucking chance – to admit what you did. You’re going to die tonight, and no mistake, you only have two options. You’re going to die slow or you’re going to die slower. Up to you, old man.’ He squeezed again, smiling down. ‘Up to fucking you.’
Vinnie could see the resignation begin to dawn in Melvin’s eyes. He knew what his fate was going to be tonight. He must do. But no harm in pressing the point home, Vinnie supposed, feeling as calm as he had in a long time. Leaning back, he used his free hand to grab the bin bag from where it sat, then tipped it out to spread the contents on the floor. That done, he grabbed a handful of Melvin’s hair, to twist his head round, so that he could see the contents for himself: a large carving knife, a pair of pliers, a litre pop bottle of petrol and a box of Swan Vestas.
‘I don’t hold with safety matches,’ he said conversationally. ‘Where would the fun be in that? Anyway, take a good look, old man, before I punch your fucking lights out.’
Melvin looked and even as he did so, Vinnie could feel his hands start twitching, and gripping the hair tighter, he released Melvin’s neck, then started smashing his fist repeatedly into his face. It was a full minute before he paused to draw breath. Melvin’s eyes were already swelling and his mouth was pouring blood, and he was limp as a doll when Vinnie released his hold on his hair.
‘Fag break,’ he said, standing and reaching into his coat pocket for a cigarette, and giving Melvin another slap as he reached down to grab the matches. Melvin groaned. ‘Getting the picture now, you old cunt? he asked, taking a deep draw on his cigarette, then shrugging off his coat and looking for a relatively clean place to put it. He settled on the door handle, to keep it off the shitty, pissy floor. ‘I tell you what, Melvin,’ he said conversationally, ‘it’s nice and fucking warm in here mate, isn’t it? Well, I don’t know about you of course, but I’m fucking sweating buckets!’
Melvin groaned again, and tried to lift his head and shoulders off the mattress.
Vinnie leaned in close. ‘What was that, old feller? You got something to say?’ He cupped his hand behind his ear and waited. ‘Only, if it’s a priest you’re wanting for your last rites, you’re out of luck, mate. I’ve just left Father Henry, see,’ he said, nodding towards the window, ‘having a double-up with Sister Agatha and the convent cleaner. Shame.’
Melvin cleared his throat again, and spat blood from his mouth. Then seemed to try and rearrange his features into a defiant sneer. ‘Little Josie, eh?’ he said finally, through his thick blood-stained lips. ‘I almost forgot how good she was, your sister. Right little fucking goer an’ all. Thanks for leaving her for me, by the way. Nice tight little snatch, she had, couldn’t fucking get enough of me, that one …’
Vinnie launched himself on top of Melvin then, pinning the man’s arms under his knees. He pressed his lit cigarette into the bastard’s flabby cheek and was a little disappointed that it went out so quickly. ‘Is that right, you filthy cunt?’ he said, leaning in close and, breathing out hard because it was actually making him retch to even think about it, took a deep, disgusting bite out of it instead. He was frenzied now, and the more Melvin bucked and screamed beneath him, the harder Vinnie laughed and continued biting.
But something in the old fucker seemed determined to continue. Perhaps these were the last rites of filthy cunts who molested children – to shout their fucking filth to the world. ‘Your Lyndsey’s kid’s the same!’ he screamed, trying in vain to get Vinnie off him. He was fucking strong though – the pain must have been indescribable, but he still continued his taunts. ‘Though she prefers a finger job,’ he rasped.
Vinnie could no longer see straight. Much as he was driven to extract a confession from the bastard, hearing it actually spoken was quite another thing. Reaching to his side, he grabbed his pliers and, holding Melvin’s mouth open with one hand, forced the pliers inside and clamped them round his tongue. Melvin really struggled now – did he know what was coming? But Vinnie’s thighs were immeasurably stronger. Clamping the old man between them, he then grabbed the knife and, in one swift movement, sliced out his tongue. He then hammered with the pliers into the gaping mouth and throat, and, finally, teeth, blood and gore splattered everywhere, Mucky Melvin stopped talking.
He was conscious, if only just, and fading quickly. He’d be losing blood at a lick now, and it would probably choke him. Vinnie stared hard into his eyes, which still stared back at him. ‘Take them thoughts to the fucking grave, cunt!’ he spat, slapping him back into the present. ‘Oh, and don’t worry about the cold. My grand finale will warm your cockles. Cunt!’
A sickening gurgle was the only sound Melvin could now manage, which turned into a cough which spewed blood and bits of flesh from his mouth. And Vinnie was suddenly aware that his arse felt warm. Lifting himself up slightly – Melvin was now well beyond bucking – he saw the large stain spreading down the front of the old man’s trousers, at the same time, breathed in the smell of fresh shit.
Disgusting and gagging, he plucked the knife up from where he’d put it and began plunging it into the old man’s chest. ‘You dirty old fucker!’ he screamed, stabbing his chest with each syllable. ‘You’d piss and shit on me, you dirty fucking cunt?’
He was crying now, he realised, surprised to feel the tears tracking down his cheeks.
Crying
? He hadn’t cried in fucking years! And now he’d started, he couldn’t seem to stop crying either so he let them flow, unabashed, as he continued making stab holes, up on his knees now, to avoid being further contaminated by the body – and it was surely just a body now – still leaking piss and shit beneath him.
It seemed a long time, but the tears stopped eventually. He clambered off then, moving carefully to avoid touching anything he didn’t want to and, as he staggered to his feet, felt a calm descending. It was a calm he’d not felt before, cathartic – a sort of cleansing, and as he took the lid off the pop bottle to start pouring the petrol, he felt a lightness he didn’t expect to feel.
But there was work to do and he needed to get on and do it, so he began – pouring the petrol in an orderly fashion, first into Melvin’s crotch – a good half bottle there, just for the symbolism – then in a circle of sprinkles around his body. He then made a second circuit – wider this time – and then a more general sprinkling, finishing with a trail that reached out into the hall.
That done, he gathered his bag of tools – no point in making it easy for the fuckers – and collected his Crombie from the door. He had just the one fag left and he put it in his mouth gratefully, popping the bag down for a minute so that he could strike a match and light it. He drew on it deeply, enjoying the relaxing flood of nicotine for a moment, then, holding it in his mouth, took the match he’d just used and lit the rest of the matches with it, before throwing the burning box across to the soaking mattress. He watched for a minute or two, enough to be sure a sufficient blaze had started, then let himself out and began the walk home.
It was 5 a.m. before Vinnie opened the back door of his own house, and his nostrils were immediately assaulted.
Stew!
He thought, feeling his stomach begin to rumble. Then he remembered. His mam had left him another plate of stew and dumplings.
For when you get back from the pub
, she’d said.
Put some meat back on that body
. And, keen to get to bed and set his clock, he’d forgotten.
Moving quietly, pulled the still lukewarm plate from the oven, salivating even as he transferred it to the tin tray, even though, as he did so, he saw a fleck of something pink and formless stuck to the back of his hand. Bless his mam, he thought, taking his second dinner into the living room. He ate it on the couch and, though he had a half-thought there was something he should be doing, he lay down then, his belly full, his mind empty.
He slept where he lay, numb to everything except his exhaustion.
Babies, thought Josie as she trudged along pushing Paula’s pram, should come with a set of instructions. All night she’d been up – she’d not had so much as a single wink of sleep – and still Paula fretted and fussed and grizzled. She had no idea what the problem was – colic? Might she be teething? Was she even old enough? But hopefully she wouldn’t cry for much longer. If there was one thing she had learned since having her own baby, it was that, if everything else failed, constant movement often did the trick.
Not that traipsing round the estate at this hour, dog tired and bleary-eyed, was ever going to be Josie’s movement of choice. But she felt she had
no
choice. It wasn’t fair on Eddie to be kept awake all night. He was working ten hours a day at the moment – he was on a big decorating job currently – and toiling almost every weekend just to provide for them both. And till Josie went back to her machining job at the local factory, it was only fair that she do her bit and look after the baby.
There were Eddie’s mum and dad to think about as well. It had been kind of them to take them in till they reached the top of the housing waiting list and though she couldn’t wait till that day came and they could set up home properly, she was also mindful of what a stress it was for them having a baby in the house – not least because of the constant round of smelly nappies and crying.
Paula was settling now, at least, and judging the time to be about eight now, Titch knew she could safely think about heading home. Eddie would be off to work soon and, with any luck, his mam would be happy to take over the reins, allowing her to get her head down for a much needed nap.
On the other hand, she was halfway to her own mam’s place now. Maybe she should stop by there and see if they were up. She didn’t often these days – her mam was still a bit narked that she’d moved in with Eddie – but now Vinnie was home she felt a pull to go round there. Yes, it was a long shot, seeing as he’d spent two nights down the bloody pub now – chance would be a fine thing for her! But maybe he’d be up and they could have a cuppa and a proper catch-up. She’d hardly seen anything of him since he’d been home, after all.
She pushed the pram across the street and turned onto Ringwood Road, but when she did so, something prickling in her nostrils made her stop and look around. She sniffed the air. That was it – so she hadn’t been mistaken. She’d thought she’d smelt something odd when she’d first left the house, but now it was definitely much stronger. She sniffed again. That was it. She could smell smoke coming from somewhere.
Josie carried on for a bit, wondering if someone had left a bonfire burning down by the youthy, but when she reached the top end of Dawnay Road and turned to look down it, what she saw made her stop in her tracks.
Shit
, she thought. A house fire. And a big one, by the looks of it. There weren’t any great plumes of smoke – they’d obviously got the worst of it under control now – but there still seemed to be lots going on. There were two fire engines, both flashing red and blue lights, and even at a distance she could hear the sound of men shouting to one another, as they continued to mill around the scene of the dying blaze.
She stood for a moment, watching, trying to imagine what it must be like to have your house go up in flames, and wondering if anyone had been hurt or killed. Whose house was it? Might it be anyone she knew? Dawnay Road … why was Dawnay Road ringing bells for her? She’d head it mentioned recently, but with her sleep-deprived brain, she couldn’t seem to remember what it was.
It was only when a police car reversed out of the gathering of various vehicles that the something started to resolve itself in her brain.
Shit
, it was
Sammy
. Of course it was. She shook her head to try and clear it. Yes, that was the thing she needed to remember. Wasn’t the squat on Dawnay Road the place Sammy had mentioned? The place where Mucky Melvin was now holed up?
Shit
, she thought again, as the police car put on its sirens and began speeding up the road towards her. Christ, it couldn’t be, could it? She watched the car approach and pass her, a streak of white flashing by, and an even more shocking thought slammed into her brain. Could it be that …? Oh, God,
please
don’t let it be that, she thought distractedly. Please don’t let that have happened …
She spun the pram right around, and then broke into a run, following the car. She had no hope of keeping up with it, but at least she could still see it. And she had a sickening sense that she didn’t even need to. And when she saw an indicator flash on she knew exactly which street it was turning into, and that she’d have her worst fears confirmed. ‘Oh no!’ she howled, increasing her speed, the pram now clattering over all the pot holes. ‘Oh, no, Vinnie,’ she began to sob. ‘Not again!’
June was standing in front of her dressing-table mirror, nightie hitched up slightly at the back. She’d thrown it on in a flap, having been woken up by something – but what was it? She’d gone to the top of the stairs but heard nothing. And it obviously wasn’t Vinnie crashing in and making a noise about it – she’d already checked his bedroom and it was empty. Probably pulled some bird down the Bull after she and Jock had left, June decided, and found another bed for the night. Well, she thought, smoothing the fabric down properly, fair enough. He did have a bit of time to make up.