Headstone.
Opposite them was the girl. Currently answering to Bethany. That changed as frequently as her mood. Her current look was Goth, deathly pale face, black mascara, eyeliner, lipstick, and, of course, raven hair to her shoulders. As Ruth Rendell titled her novel,
An Unkindness of Ravens.
She was very pretty beneath all of the gunk and she knew it. More, she knew how to use it. She was twenty-three, burning with a rage even she no longer knew the motive for. She had embraced hatred with all the zeal of a zealot and relished the black fuel it provided.
On the throne was Bine.
Older than all of them and so intoxicated by power he never even thought of his real name anymore. In front of him was a small bust of Charles Darwin. Bine had studied and completely misunderstood what he read.
His crew were as he’d ordered, dressed in black sweatshirts, combat pants, and Doc Martens. With the metal toe installed. To his side was a wooden crate containing:
Six grenades.
Three assault rifles.
A riot of handguns.
Eight sticks of gelignite.
Two years, count ’em, two fucking years, to bribe, cajole, steal to assemble that arsenal. They were, he felt, almost… almost ready. He gestured to Bethany, said,
“Drinks.”
Like most raised in privileged fashion, he had no fucking manners.
A fleeting frown crossed her face but she rose, fetched the bottle of Wild Turkey, the inevitable bottles of Coke,
…. cos everything goes better with it, right
Brought them to the table, thinking,
“Same old macho bullshit.”
Jimmy, always anxious to please, fetched the heavy Galway Crystal tumblers and Bethany poured lethal dollops of the Turkey, with a splatter of Coke, handed the first to Bine.
He raised his, toasted,
“To chaos.”
As was the custom, they near finished the drinks on a first attempt and all managed to stem the
“Holy fuck” that such a dose of Wild demanded.
Bine, his cheeks aflame, said,
“To business.”
Sean stood.
Once, he’d sat while reporting and Bine slashed his face with the Stanley knife. Sean said,
“Attacks:
We’ve hit the old priest, the lesbian, and await your next target.”
Bine moved his finger, meaning
“Refills.”
That done, he almost seemed relaxed. He caressed his manifesto.
By mangling Darwin, he’d managed to convince them of the urgency of ridding the city of: the misfits, the handicapped, the vulnerable, the weak, the pitiful.
Bethany thought it was a crock, but Bine gave her a cold icy channel for her rage, so she acted as if she bought into his motives. And though she despised herself, she had such a lust for him she was prepared to go along with whatever frenzy he’d envisaged. It sated her need to have to lash out alone.
Bine said,
“James?”
Jimmy leapt to attention, went and got the nose candy, a mini headstone, with cocaine done in nice consecutive lines and, naturally, presenting a fifty-euro wrapped note, offered the gear first to Bine.
He did three lines fast, moved the stuff to Sean, who did similar, then Jimmy, and, finally, Bethany.
She didn’t give a proverbial toss that they were as chauvinistic as the very society they decried, she did four lines just to fuck with the system.
She smiled as the dope jolted and at their almost boyish cries of “Sweet Jaysus,
Darwin rocks,
Bring it on muthahfuckahs.”
She watched Bine carefully, even as she felt the icy dribble down her own throat. Christ on a bike, that was A-1 dope, she was in danger of speaking, such was the potency. She knew the K could take him either way: magnanimous or malevolent.
He caught her stare, asked,
“The knife?”
She produced the new Japanese blade he’d ordered, serrated edge and as sharp as a bishop avoiding child molestation allegations.
He studied it, asked,
“And this for whom?”
She bit down, said,
“As you desire.”
Fuck, even to her own self she sounded like a wench in an Elizabethan drama or, worse, a bad Russell Crowe medieval romp. He moved his finger along the edge, letting the fine blade draw blood, sucked at it, the blood on his lips, his eyes on fire, and she knew, sex would be rough, and violent, and the stupid bollix, he’d probably bring the knife to their bed. Men and their macho toys. He said,
“Mmmm…in keeping with our strategy, I want a retard, but I want him gutted.
Can you do that?”
She wanted to say,
“How fucking difficult can it be, kill a handicapped person?”
Went with,
“When do you want it to happen?”
He smiled. If warmth had ever touched that expression, it had long since fled. He had his teeth filed down to points, adding to the sardonic effect. He said,
“As soon as you find a suitable dribbling idiot.”
She wanted to say,
“Have you been in the pubs in Quay Street recently?”
But irony was not his strong point.
He suddenly leapt to his feet, the Japanese knife curled in his right hand. He said to Sean,
“More drinks me-finks.”
Sean knew when Bine tried to speak Brit, shit was coming down the pike. And hard. He poured the Wild into Bine’s tumbler, trying to disguise the tremble in his hand. Bine began to move down the table, humming, We are the champions. Stopped behind Jimmy, who began to turn till Bine laid a hand on his shoulder, asked,
“Why does the priest live?”
Almost a metaphysical question.
Before Jimmy could mutter some answer, Bine leant forward, slashed his cheek from eye to mouth. Blood gushed onto the headstone. Jimmy gasped, raised his hand to stem the flow.
Bine said,
“Let it bleed.”
Cue to Bethany, who moved to the sound system, put on Exile on Main St. As Jagger began to moan and Keith laid on the heavy thump, Bine moved back to the map of the school, said, “December Eight, the Feast of the Immaculate Conception, they’ll be having their special treat of turkey in the canteen.”
Swung around, eyed his crew, said, as he literally cackled,
“A turkey shoot.”
God holds unique plans for those who label others
….handicapped.
– Jeff, dad of Serena-May
Tom Reed had been born with Down syndrome.
“Mild,” the doctor had said.
Tess, Tom’s mum, nearly screamed,
“Fucking mild to you, you golfing bastard!”
And sure enough, the doc was due on the links in, like, jig time, so he didn’t have a whole lot of time to mutter the platitudes. The woman was whining blue murder and he wanted to say,
“You’ll get used to it.”
She never did.
Never.
When her husband heard, he did what was becoming more common: he fucked off.
Permanently.
Then the legion of social workers, with the Gestapo suggestions, “Give him up for adoption.”
Right.
They were just lining up to grab a child with DS. Ten grand bought them a cherubic dote from Russia or the third world. Tess was brief in her response to the suggestions.
“Fuck off.”
She raised Tom with every ounce of spirit and guts she had. Got him through school, then a job in a warehouse. Sometimes, the Gods there be cut a poor bitch some slack, not much but a thread. The lads in the warehouse were all from Tess’s neighborhood, Bohermore, one of the few real communities in the city. They watched out for him. He began as a messenger boy, then over the years, thanks to the lads, he learned to drive a forklift and that was one shit proud day for all.
Not to mention the extra few euros it brought into their home. Tom was tall, unusual for his condition, with dark hair, the eyes of a fawn, and the nature of an angel. The day he got to drive the forklift, he literally ran home to tell his mum, shouting, “Mum…Mum, I got me license, I can drive the big machine.”