King Work

By Richard Davis

King stands close to Platform One. By a pie shop. Pies from Cornwall. Mechanically reclaimed pig brains and spinal meat in pastry. Yum.

King watches an obese punter demolish one in two bites. King shrugs, checks his watch. King has a lot of work to do but time is good.

Two fuzz stroll by waiting for terror. King doesn’t get the fuss about terrorists. If you put a boot on someone’s neck, they will fuck you up. If you take what’s theirs, they will fuck you up. Simple.

King checks out the fuzz machines. Heckler and Kochs. Like an unfunny comedy duo. Spitting death and tears. A shooting range down south flashes up from years ago. The owner knew his guns. Ex-SAS armourer. King can’t recall his name. Lost in time.

The job from above.

Thinks he’s up on a fucking jolly. Remind the cunt he stole from me. Do slow work.

King had a sense of dread. Something deep down stirred into half-life. King asked if some other yap could do it. Big Bad Boss said I trust you. I pay you. I own you. King nodded, accepted the work. But King could not shake the dread.

A train arrives from the east and spills its guts. Commuters, tourists, squaddies, students, an ugly mix getting in his face. King has one mug to look for. One face in a hundred extras. One piece of work. Focus.

King clocks his mark. Check out one Punk. King steps in front of him.

“Welcome,” King says.

Punk thinks King’s his driver. Punk thinks he’s on the up and up. King sees dead legs walking. Navy blue North Face windcheater. King ignores Punk’s outstretched mitt.

“Drinkie?” King asks.

“Cool. What’s the boss lined up?”

“Quality fizz. Snow. Titties.”

Punk grins wide and thick. King knows the kid’s a big fish in a small pond out east, but just another mug in this giant shitty. Clueless as to his futureless future.

King leads Punk into the Boiler House joint. Basement sweat pit running on chemicals. Pounding beats like heart attacks. Strobes triggering fits. King grabs a table by the bar. Scans bodies until he connects.

King winks at the denim skeleton. Its eyes shift to the right. To the khazi. King nods. King walks, dips his right hand in his pocket. Slips on the iron knuckleduster, just in case. Old Iron Teeth.

Inside the dark, piss-soaked room.

“Ket, molly, white?” the denim-clad voice offers. King trades nifties for snow. It looks messy but he doesn’t care. Done deal.

Back at the table. A young brass didn’t waste time. She clocked King and his sidekick and did the math. She sits next to Punk, her hot hand on his thigh. King drops white on the table. Punk’s eyes shine like a vamp. Robotic brass tucks in. Rails at the ready in seconds. She’s quick and King sees raw addict hunger.

“Ladies first!” she shouts over the din. King grins inside at that one. Punk offers her a silver straw. King wants it in Punk’s blood now so he’s awake for the slow work.

“My best boy first,” King says. She sits back like he pushed her. Waits her turn. King dominates the two youngsters. His shadow cast grim over the pair. This fucking work.

Her brass work. Hard, wet graft. King spots the bottle of mouthwash in her bag. Vodka and Listerine with a splash of bleach. Kills all known germs. Pink feather earrings hang long from her white lobes. King has a zap cocktail ready mixed. By the time he’s finished with Punk, she’ll beg him for it.

King looks at Punk, sees stupid like he was once stupid. King survived his stupidness. Survival of the fittest.

King thinks pest control. King kills punks, pimps, bent cops, dodgy dealers, double-crossers, shitty gamblers, vile grasses. King culls criminal wildlife, like a barber chopping a madman’s hair. Killer King.

Punk and Brass chase yellowish lines. King catches an odd similarity in the Punk’s wide smile. From years gone by. A distant connection? The dread bumps back.

“I knew your mother,” King says.

“I never did. She fucked off when I was two,” Punk says.

King remembers his own mother’s hatred. Smack in his Lucozade. Glass in his ice-cream. Boiling bath water. Mad Mother Martha. King chews his cheek.

An hour gone. Punk and Brass are ready for the next stage. King nudges him and points to the exit. King helps the kids stagger a way out. A bouncer winks so he winks back.

A fifteen-minute ride inside King’s own workhorse to a workplace. An arch under the railway bridge. Kids tonguing in the backseat, oblivious. King drives in, parks up, steps out. Takes the tool bag from the boot.

Petrol fumes and diesel dust. Oily rainbow splatter. Skins hang off wall spikes. Rusty car tools and body parts. Shattered windscreens piled up. Bullet holes in at least two of them. Lingering smell of decaying meat.

“Where the fuck are we?” asks Punk, as he alights with confused eyes. Brass hanging off him, off her face.

“Welcome to the Death Factory,” King says as he clicks the shutter lock, drops the tool bag. Punk turns on him but is way too slow. Old Iron Teeth bites his solar plexus. Punk drops gasping, Brass screams. King unrolls gaffer tape with speed. Round the wee girl three times. She runs her face into the locked shutter with arms bound. Falls over out cold.

King gets to work.

King giftwraps Punk to a chair before his breath returns. Uses one whole roll of hillbilly chrome.

King tapes Brass to a chair placed opposite Punk. She is weightless. She opens her eyes, screams, but the space is sound-proofed and the streets outside are desolate.

King slaps Punk’s face. Pinches a cheek.

“Get with it, lad,” King says.

Punk comes to. Struggles against the chrome in vain. Looks at King.

“I got money. I’ll give you what you want. Please.”

“You bit the hand that feeds you.” King says.

King plucks a canister of expanding foam from the tool bag.

“The hand wants you gone.” King says.

King reads out the instructions on the side of the canister.

“Clean the hole and remove any loose debris. Insert the applicator into the canister nozzle. Place the applicator tip into the hole and start dispensing the foam. Fill the hole partially, allowing room for expansion.”

King attaches the applicator to the canister’s nozzle. King holds it. Examines it. Where to insert it?

“Down throat or up arsehole?” King asks.

“Why this way?” Punk sobs.

“A slow work order,” King says.

“Fuck him. He’s a grass. You know he’s a grass, right? That’s what he does, why he wants me gone cos I know. The filth pay him for names and shit. Fucking cunt’s a grass. The worst. He should be getting it. Not me. You know?”

Punk’s face slick with tears. Like an angry kid. A tantrum. Brass watches, resigned. Mouth clammed tight to stop that foam.

King shakes the canister. Punk’s eyeballs stress-sweat terror tears.

“You knew my mum. You said it. You knew her.”

King practice-squirts foam on the floor. It sits for a beat. Then it expands to double, treble the size. Then it sets hard like concrete.

Punk screams. Begs. Even an inactive imagination can figure it out. Calculate the agony. Thinks of his bowel bursting. Inside out. Slushy pink horror flicks.

“What did you do to her?”

King regurgitates the memory against his will. She looked up from the rug where he pushed her. Their eyes snagged. She sobbed as he packed his pathetic shit into a sports bag. She held her belly. He left.

King looks for her eyes in Punk’s eyes. Looks for his eyes in Punk’s eyes. Eyeball to eyeball contact. Crumbling denial until the truth penny drops. THE BIG BANG. No fucking way on god’s forsaken earth can it be.

King hurls the canister at the shutters.

King’s knife cuts the Punk free. Born again. They hug like weirdos on Christian telly.

“Can’t you tell him you’ve done me?”

“Sick fuck wants a movie of it,” King says.

“What’s the plan?”

“Take her with you. He won’t be looking for a couple,” King says.

King hands Punk the cosh. Son takes it. Looks it over like it’s an alien artifact.

“It’s all I got. Use wisely,” King says.

Punk taps it in his hand.

“Go far away,” King says.

King half-turns his back. A milli-second flash and he rolls into deep space.

***

Dawn. King wakes up. The poor dead Brass stares down at him. Zap syringe stuck in her foot.

“Stupidness,” King mumbles.

King’s phone on silent. Missed calls from you know who. Number One Cunt never accepts failure. You fuck up the work, you pay me. Always the way. King knows how this will end.

King gets to his feet. Something headbutts black stars into his eyes. King pukes. Pulls his hip flask. Chugs a slug. King sees shutters up and his workhorse bolted.

King stumbles into a white dawn mist. A cat hisses at his smell.

King spits blood and remembers he’s a father.