I had a rush of blood to the head the other day and decided it would be a good idea to gather all my crime fiction short stories together and publish them in one collection. The result is Bad Times, comprising Gone Bad, Show No Mercy, and Wired.
If you fancy a taster from the collection, I've reprinted Behind Blue Eyes below. (It's also in the charity anthology Off The Record, along with many other excellent stories.)
Massive thanks to Steven Miscandlon for another fantastic cover. Check out his book cover design portfolio.
Bad Times is available now from Amazon in the UK and the US.
If you fancy a taster from the collection, I've reprinted Behind Blue Eyes below. (It's also in the charity anthology Off The Record, along with many other excellent stories.)
Massive thanks to Steven Miscandlon for another fantastic cover. Check out his book cover design portfolio.
Bad Times is available now from Amazon in the UK and the US.
Behind Blue Eyes
‘It was a mistake, Mac. I’m sorry …’
Bob was on his knees, hands tied behind his back, head bowed. His voice was muffled by the hood. The rope was cutting into his wrists, the skin abraded, but for all it was painful, it was the least of his worries.
Mac sighed audibly, almost theatrically. ‘What am I to do, Bob? What choice have you left me with?’
‘Mac, please. It’s my Ruby Wedding next month. Me and Jeanie. And we’re going to be grandparents soon—’
‘You should have thought of that before you stole from me.’
‘It was only a few hundred quid.’
‘It was thousands. You’d been at it for months.’
‘I needed the money.’
Gambling debts. Mac knew. ‘You should have come to me if you were in trouble. Haven’t I always seen you right?’
‘I know, Mac, I know. And I wish I had. If I could turn the clock back … I was going to pay it back, though. Every penny.’
‘You know as well as I do that once you start down that road, you don’t stop. You never pay it back. It only ends when you get caught.’
‘I was desperate.’
Mac could imagine how Bob must have felt. Trapped. Scared. Caught between a rock and a hard place, his bookie at his back chasing him for money, this confrontation with Mac always just a step ahead. Inevitable.
‘You should have come to me,’ Mac repeated.
Bob was sweating, and it had nothing to do with the hood or the fact that it was summer. It was freezing in the warehouse, kneeling on concrete, the wind blowing in off the river robbing the night of any heat it might have held.
He knew he’d been stupid, but he and Mac went back, right back to school days. Fifty years they’d been friends. He and Jeanie were godparents to all three of Mac and Marjorie’s kids. He’d kept Mac’s secrets, covered for him with Marjorie when he was playing away from home, given him an alibi whenever the coppers were breathing down his neck so close that he’d needed one. Fifty years watching each other’s backs. You didn’t throw that away over a bit of money. And it wasn’t like Mac couldn’t afford it.
Bob figured he was just trying to teach him a lesson, to scare him into never doing anything like it again. And he wouldn’t. He’d get help. There was an organisation, Gamblers Anonymous, like AA but for folk addicted to betting. For Bob, it was the dogs. He’d had one good win and it had been his downfall. After that he was always chasing the next one, always believing it would turn around, telling himself that after one more good win he’d stop. The trouble was, to get a good win, he had to put on a good bet, and his money had run out.
Mac would probably let Big Liam finish what he’d started when he punched Bob to the floor in the club, dragged him outside and threw him in the back of the van, then tied his hands and put that stinking bag over his head. It had only been lifted once since: to let him see that Mac was waiting for him when they got to the warehouse.
Mac might let Liam break something, make sure the message got across loud and clear to anyone else with designs on his millions: not even family get away with it. Bob shuffled on the concrete floor, the cold seeping into his old knee joints. He’d suffer for this. The arthritis was biting at him anyway and this would just make things worse. He heard Mac moving around behind him, stamping his feet and rubbing his gloved hands together. He couldn’t hear Big Liam, but he knew he was there, standing still and solid as a rock.
Liam didn’t say much. Liam listened. And obeyed.
‘You bloody fool,’ said Mac.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Bob.
‘Sorry doesn’t do it, not for this. Sorry doesn’t even begin to cover it.’
Bob heard the sorrow in Mac’s voice, and the determination, and adrenaline surged through his veins. Realisation hit him hard as fear wrapped itself around his heart and squeezed, robbed him of breath and stopped his tongue.
‘I can’t let it go, Bob, you must see that. You betrayed me.’ Mac walked over to where Liam was standing, the footsteps heading away from Bob. Then he came back and stood behind him. ‘It’ll be quick and clean,’ said Mac, ‘and I’ll do it myself. That’s the best I can do.’
‘Mac, no!’ Bob struggled to accept it. His childhood friend. He had never truly believed, not deep down, that it would ever come to this. ‘I’ll pay back every penny, with interest. I’ll sell the house. You can have it all, everything I own.’ He was tripping over the words in his haste to get them all out, to find the ones that would change Mac’s mind before it was too late.
‘Not good enough.’
Bob felt the barrel of the gun touch the back of his head and he whimpered. A small part of him still hoped Mac was just trying to scare him. He felt his bladder give and the fear was tinged with shame.
‘It’s not personal, Bob, you know that. I’ll miss you myself. But I can’t have people thinking I’m an easy touch or that I’ve gone soft.’
‘Mac—’
‘I’ll take care of Jeanie,’ said Mac, as the shot from the gun echoed through the warehouse. Bob crumpled to the floor and Mac put a second round in his head. The silence that followed was deafening.
Without speaking, Mac handed the gun to Big Liam and they walked out of the old warehouse. He nodded and Liam jumped in the van to drive back to the club. Mac’s driver stood by the rear door of the car and he opened it when he saw his boss approaching. Mac slumped in the back seat and the driver shut the door and climbed into the front.
‘Back to the club?’ he asked, watching Mac in the rear view mirror. Mac nodded and he fired the engine.
In the back of the car, Mac pushed the button to raise the screen between him and the driver. Opening a small cabinet, he took out a cut crystal glass and a flask and poured himself a scotch, then sat back in the seat, the leather soft as butter, cradling his form. As the car was guided expertly through the darkened streets, Mac brooded. No one knew what it was like to be him. No one understood the responsibility, the loneliness. The darkness inside.
Back at the club, the car door was opened for him and Mac stepped out into the night air. Liam at his back, he walked into the club, up the stairs and into the bar. His men waited. He looked at them through blue eyes as cold as ice, taking in each face, seeing the respect, the fear.
‘Bob has retired from the firm,’ he said. ‘Someone organise flowers for Jeanie.’
‘It was a mistake, Mac. I’m sorry …’
Bob was on his knees, hands tied behind his back, head bowed. His voice was muffled by the hood. The rope was cutting into his wrists, the skin abraded, but for all it was painful, it was the least of his worries.
Mac sighed audibly, almost theatrically. ‘What am I to do, Bob? What choice have you left me with?’
‘Mac, please. It’s my Ruby Wedding next month. Me and Jeanie. And we’re going to be grandparents soon—’
‘You should have thought of that before you stole from me.’
‘It was only a few hundred quid.’
‘It was thousands. You’d been at it for months.’
‘I needed the money.’
Gambling debts. Mac knew. ‘You should have come to me if you were in trouble. Haven’t I always seen you right?’
‘I know, Mac, I know. And I wish I had. If I could turn the clock back … I was going to pay it back, though. Every penny.’
‘You know as well as I do that once you start down that road, you don’t stop. You never pay it back. It only ends when you get caught.’
‘I was desperate.’
Mac could imagine how Bob must have felt. Trapped. Scared. Caught between a rock and a hard place, his bookie at his back chasing him for money, this confrontation with Mac always just a step ahead. Inevitable.
‘You should have come to me,’ Mac repeated.
Bob was sweating, and it had nothing to do with the hood or the fact that it was summer. It was freezing in the warehouse, kneeling on concrete, the wind blowing in off the river robbing the night of any heat it might have held.
He knew he’d been stupid, but he and Mac went back, right back to school days. Fifty years they’d been friends. He and Jeanie were godparents to all three of Mac and Marjorie’s kids. He’d kept Mac’s secrets, covered for him with Marjorie when he was playing away from home, given him an alibi whenever the coppers were breathing down his neck so close that he’d needed one. Fifty years watching each other’s backs. You didn’t throw that away over a bit of money. And it wasn’t like Mac couldn’t afford it.
Bob figured he was just trying to teach him a lesson, to scare him into never doing anything like it again. And he wouldn’t. He’d get help. There was an organisation, Gamblers Anonymous, like AA but for folk addicted to betting. For Bob, it was the dogs. He’d had one good win and it had been his downfall. After that he was always chasing the next one, always believing it would turn around, telling himself that after one more good win he’d stop. The trouble was, to get a good win, he had to put on a good bet, and his money had run out.
Mac would probably let Big Liam finish what he’d started when he punched Bob to the floor in the club, dragged him outside and threw him in the back of the van, then tied his hands and put that stinking bag over his head. It had only been lifted once since: to let him see that Mac was waiting for him when they got to the warehouse.
Mac might let Liam break something, make sure the message got across loud and clear to anyone else with designs on his millions: not even family get away with it. Bob shuffled on the concrete floor, the cold seeping into his old knee joints. He’d suffer for this. The arthritis was biting at him anyway and this would just make things worse. He heard Mac moving around behind him, stamping his feet and rubbing his gloved hands together. He couldn’t hear Big Liam, but he knew he was there, standing still and solid as a rock.
Liam didn’t say much. Liam listened. And obeyed.
‘You bloody fool,’ said Mac.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Bob.
‘Sorry doesn’t do it, not for this. Sorry doesn’t even begin to cover it.’
Bob heard the sorrow in Mac’s voice, and the determination, and adrenaline surged through his veins. Realisation hit him hard as fear wrapped itself around his heart and squeezed, robbed him of breath and stopped his tongue.
‘I can’t let it go, Bob, you must see that. You betrayed me.’ Mac walked over to where Liam was standing, the footsteps heading away from Bob. Then he came back and stood behind him. ‘It’ll be quick and clean,’ said Mac, ‘and I’ll do it myself. That’s the best I can do.’
‘Mac, no!’ Bob struggled to accept it. His childhood friend. He had never truly believed, not deep down, that it would ever come to this. ‘I’ll pay back every penny, with interest. I’ll sell the house. You can have it all, everything I own.’ He was tripping over the words in his haste to get them all out, to find the ones that would change Mac’s mind before it was too late.
‘Not good enough.’
Bob felt the barrel of the gun touch the back of his head and he whimpered. A small part of him still hoped Mac was just trying to scare him. He felt his bladder give and the fear was tinged with shame.
‘It’s not personal, Bob, you know that. I’ll miss you myself. But I can’t have people thinking I’m an easy touch or that I’ve gone soft.’
‘Mac—’
‘I’ll take care of Jeanie,’ said Mac, as the shot from the gun echoed through the warehouse. Bob crumpled to the floor and Mac put a second round in his head. The silence that followed was deafening.
Without speaking, Mac handed the gun to Big Liam and they walked out of the old warehouse. He nodded and Liam jumped in the van to drive back to the club. Mac’s driver stood by the rear door of the car and he opened it when he saw his boss approaching. Mac slumped in the back seat and the driver shut the door and climbed into the front.
‘Back to the club?’ he asked, watching Mac in the rear view mirror. Mac nodded and he fired the engine.
In the back of the car, Mac pushed the button to raise the screen between him and the driver. Opening a small cabinet, he took out a cut crystal glass and a flask and poured himself a scotch, then sat back in the seat, the leather soft as butter, cradling his form. As the car was guided expertly through the darkened streets, Mac brooded. No one knew what it was like to be him. No one understood the responsibility, the loneliness. The darkness inside.
Back at the club, the car door was opened for him and Mac stepped out into the night air. Liam at his back, he walked into the club, up the stairs and into the bar. His men waited. He looked at them through blue eyes as cold as ice, taking in each face, seeing the respect, the fear.
‘Bob has retired from the firm,’ he said. ‘Someone organise flowers for Jeanie.’
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