With Love and Squalor (10 page)

Jimmy despised the people in this part of town. Never saw them on the High Street or hanging around. Must have had better things to do and more money to do it with. He spat on the floor as the thoughts corroded his mind.

At Church Row, he ducked under the fence and descended into the cutting at the Heugh. He had a look around. Made sure there were no police or social workers about.

A couple of his mates were already hanging out.

Viz, Charlie and Craig were gathered round a wheelie bin. Jimmy could see that they’d already started.

Craig stood, lifted the lid and stuck his head right in. The smoke rushed out and filled the air with the acrid smell of burning plastic. Craig rocked back on his heals and fell back into a sitting position, his head resting on his arms.

Viz did the same, only his head stayed in for longer. This time it looked like they were sending out smoke signals to the town.

When Viz emerged he was laughing like a hyena on dope.

“How’s it going,” Charlie asked as Jimmy joined them.

“Going away,” Jimmy said and they all touched knuckles. He looked round again to make sure they were in the clear. Anyone caught them and they were in deep shit.

“Fancy a shot?”

“Nah. Last time he tried he had an attack. His inhaler wasn’t strong enough. Had to call an ambulance to take him to Sick Kids. “No good for my asthma.”

While his friends smoked from the bin, Jimmy puffed on cigarettes and joints.

Pretty soon they’d all disappeared into their own little worlds. Every so often one of them would burst into laughter. The others would follow suit as if sharing a hilarious telepathic joke.

Another half an hour later, when the rain began to fall, the gang decided it was time to call it a day.

Craig, Viz and Charie headed to meet up with their mates outside school.

Jimmy decided to go over to old Mrs Lorimer’s to do some of the gardening. Might as well get an hour of his Community Service crossed off as anything else. He’d still have plenty of time to get cleaned up before the football.

***

Jimmy saw a ball lying at the side of the path in a mesh of brambles. Was thinking about the evening’s match, booted the ball clear and lifted it up with his toe for a bit of keepie upie. Left foot, right foot, right knee, left. Down to the right foot and up in the air for a header. “Lie forritt, Hibees,” he shouted.

He hadn’t expected opposition, but there it was, some enormous hound flying up to his face. Before he could do anything it had his skin.

He felt sharp points rip into his flesh. Was surprised that it didn’t hurt.

Next he knew he was lying on the floor unable to breathe under the huge weight that was pressing on his chest.

The hound tore into his cheek and gave accompanying, slobbering growls.

Jimmy felt his mind drift.

It took him to many places, but he couldn’t get a hold in any of them, like he was a balloon lost at a fair and trying to get down to its owner only floating further and further away.

“Oi. Lay off him, Count.” Jimmy knew the voice. Kris’ brother Mikey for Christ’s sake. His voice coming from somewhere close. Sounded like an echo. Jimmy couldn’t open his eyes. Just lay there listening.

The weight moved from Jimmy immediately. He opened his eyes for a moment and saw the huge dog lying down, its tongue lolling out, Jimmy’s own blood on its fangs.

It stood, walked casually to the ball, picked it between his jaws and dropped it at Mikey’s feet. Jimmy’s eyes closed again. He felt hands frisking his body and reaching into his pockets.

Next he knew his inhaler was being forced between his lips. He felt the spray go down into his lungs. Amidst all the action, he’d forgotten about breathing. Now he moved his chest, in out, in out. Counted to three. Did it again.

Felt his phone taken from the side pocket of his combats.

“Ambulance,” he heard Mikey say, then everything went dark.

He was a balloon again, passing the moon and the stars and headed out for the edge of the universe.

Thanks

I'd like to thank the following for their help and encouragement:

JT Linroos for the cover

the blasted heathens over at
www.blastedheath.com
for their work and for their cover sale

the folk at Crimespree Magazine and The Reader Magazine for starting the journey off

Maxim Jakubowski over at Mammoth for his tireless efforts on behalf of so many writers

Les Edgerton for the great review of Smoke and the tag line for this collection

everyone involved in A Twist Of Noir, Apollo's Lyre, All Due Respect, Voluted Tales, Crimespree, Crime Factory, Pulp Metal for all their hard work and for giving my confidence huge boosts by chosing my stories

to Christopher Grant for sending my name through for the Pushcart Prize

to Absolutely Kate for the pancakes and for November

to Snubnose Press for Speedloader and everything since

to J.D. Salinger for the title

for the John Kenyon, Luca Veste and Paul D Brazill for including me in forthcoming anthologies

to all the folk at crimefic writers for their editing suggestions

to AJ Hayes and Allan Guthrie

to readers everywhere

everyone who's taken time to review my work

and Chris Rhatigan and Steve Weddle for doing such an amazing job with
Pulp Ink
.

All material contained herein © Nigel Bird 2009 – 2011. All rights reserved.

Cover design by JT Lindroos

Photo by photojenni

The stories contained here are works of fiction. All names of characters, places or incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to people, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.

a Sea Minor Publication

© 2011