KC tried to pull up his pants, his belt buckle rattling. Johnny’s dad walked over to him and pushed him. KC did this sort of hopping dance, still holding onto his pants. Then he fell over. Johnny tried to get up off the sofa, but his dad got to him first and held him down with one hand over his throat. I thought he was going to hit Johnny, but no. He just kept on squeezing his throat like he wanted to strangle him. I said: “Stop.” That’s all I said. Johnny’s dad turned and slapped me on the ear so hard I could hear humming.
Now Johnny was turning red, trying to knock his dad’s arm away. But he was too little and weak. He was making clucking noises in his throat. And what was really scary was that his fucking father still hadn’t said a goddamn word. Both me and KC felt sure he was going to kill his own kid. We kept yelling at him to stop but he was like a maniac. The guy was so mad his forehead was throbbing.
KC was crying his eyes out. He picked up the shitty dusty old TV and used it like a battering ram, slamming Johnny’s dad in the side of the head. Johnny’s dad looked confused and blew out air like he’d just done ten push-ups. Then he fell over. KC smacked the TV down on top of the guy’s skull. The TV didn’t break. The guy’s head did. When he was lying down, all three of us started kicking his head and stamping on it. There wasn’t nothing mean about it. We were just scared shitless of what the bastard might do if he ever stood up again.
When we’d finished stomping, it was pretty fucking obvious the guy wasn’t much of a threat to anyone no more. He wasn’t moving, his eyes were wide open and his tongue was hanging out. He looked like a dog I saw once that had been hit by a car.
“He fucking deserved it,” said Johnny.
“He really fucking did,” I said. Even my voice was shaking.
KC hadn’t stopped crying the entire time. “You dumb fucking bastards,” he kept saying. “Now we’re all going to get lethally injected, just like that guy Griff told us about.”
I was scared and trying not to show it. “They won’t kill us. We’re minors.”
“They wait until you’re eighteen and then they fucking do it,” said KC.
“They won’t do nothing,” said Johnny. “Because they ain’t gonna find out. My dad had no friends. He never spoke to nobody. Who’s gonna know?”
“The body’s gonna stink,” said KC. “It fucking stinks already.”
“There’s a big old freezer in the garage,” said Johnny. “We can put him in there.”
“I ain’t gonna cut anyone up,” I said.
“We don’t need to,” said Johnny. “We just take the frozen stuff out and lift him in.”
“Someone’s gonna know,” I said. I was shivering just like Scott of the Antarctic. “You can’t live here on your own without someone knowing.”
“This is America,” said Johnny. This kid was calm as anything. I think he was even relieved. “Long as you keep paying bills, no one cares about you. I lived in lots of places, that’s how it works. People only knock on the door if you owe them money or they want you to join their church. I’ll keep going to school, just like normal. I’ll pay the bills and sign checks while the money lasts out.”
The more we thought about it, the more it seemed like the ideal solution. Even KC could see the sense of it. We wouldn’t admit to killing Johnny’s dad, we’d just pretend he was alive. It wasn’t such a big lie, anyway. Most kids spend their entire childhoods pretending their parents are alive.
BUMPING UGLIES by Donna Moore
“Hey! That’s my fucking bag, you fat junkie bitch.” Nice mouth on her, for all her expensive gear and fancy-looking Prada handbag. The handbag that was now in my possession as I legged it across the concourse of Central Station. Serves her right for putting it down on the seat beside her. Everyone knows that Central is like a well-stocked buffet of Glasgow’s junkies, pickpockets and lowlifes. I considered it teaching her a lesson.
I could hear her stilettos pecking away like a crow on steroids as she tried to run after me. I wasn’t worried that she would catch me – the shoes were too high and her skirt too tight. As I dodged startled passengers hurrying for their trains, I heard a shriek followed by the thwack of a bony Versace-clad arse hitting concrete. Excellent. Now I just had to avoid the cops. Half of Strathclyde’s finest hang around Central Station. It’s an easy way of meeting their arrest targets for the month. Just nip into Central and huckle a few likely characters – the nylon shell suits and Burberry baseball caps are a dead giveaway.
There are plenty of exits out of the station and, within seconds, I was down the stairs and out onto Union Street.
“Fuck’s sake, hen…” The Big Issue seller I slammed into spun like a bearded prima ballerina.
I raised my hand in apology but didn’t turn. “Sorry pal.” I didn’t stop until I got to the Clyde where I stood puffing and wheezing for a while, wondering if I was going to throw up. Running is not my forte. My chest is too big and my lungs are too wee. It was quiet by the river at this time of day and I sat on a bench and emptied the contents of the handbag out beside me, giving each item the once over before laying it down on the flaking blue paint of the bench.
First out was a wallet containing five crisp twenties, some loose change, gold credit cards and a handful of store cards -Frasers, John Lewis, Debenhams. Mrs Gillian McGuigan – according to the cards – certainly treated herself well. Then there was a top-of-the-range mobile phone with a diamante-studded G hanging from it. Tacky. Enough MAC cosmetics to stock a stall at The Barras, an appointment card for hair, nails and sunbed at The Rainbow Room and a couple of letters. She lived in Bothwell, and she would certainly fit in there amongst the footballers wives and ladies who lunch. High maintenance and flashy.
I opened the mobile phone and thumbed through the messages from oldest to newest. There were a couple from female friends and one or two from someone called Stewart. Since they were of the “Need loo rolls” and “working late, c u at 9” type, I assumed that Stewart was the poor, long-suffering Mr McGuigan. Probably had to work late to keep his wife in bling.
Most of the texts were from Tom. “Wear the red basque on Friday,” “Kate at sister’s this weekend. Can u get away?” “Can’t live without u. We need to do something about K and S” and “Seeing lawyer Thurs.” It looked as though poor Kate and Stewart were in for a shock.
There were a couple of texts from someone called Billy. The most recent read, “One hit £10k, cd do both for £15K.” Billy might be the solution to the problem, but if he was a lawyer, he was pricing himself out of the market. I checked the rest of Gillian’s received texts and moved on to the sent box. They told quite a story. It would appear that the shock for Kate and Stewart was of the “shot in the head and dumped in the Clyde” sort rather than the “I now pronounce you ex-husband and wife” sort. Still, it was nice to know that “buy one, get one half price” extended as far as contract killings. I assumed that even taking into account the cost of the hitman, Gillian stood to make more as a widow than she would as a divorcee.
As I sat with the phone in my hand, pondering the best course of action, it rang. I might have guessed. The woman had to be my age at least. Nearly forty and she had a Justin Timberlake ring tone. The screen said “Home” so I flipped it up and answered.
“Gillian McGuigan’s secretary. How may I help you?”
“You can fucking help me you cheeky fucking skanky whore by letting me rip that greasy ponytail out by the fucking roots you bitch. I want my bag back.”