Choices

by D. Siddall

In truth it began with Micky. He knew I was having difficulties – money difficulties that is and had phoned me on some pretext before telling me about his girl and the rip off merchant she called a business partner.

“Five grand,” he says, “five grand is what the snidey bastard owes us.”

I'm nodding, only half listening to his words when I say, “A good hiding is what he wants mate.”

“Yeah,” says Micky. And then he's quiet see, just for a minute until he asks, “How much?”

Well I'm not sure I hear him right and ask what he means.

“Come on,” he says, “you know people, how much?”

I swallow long and hard and before I know it, seven-fifty, sort of slips out.

“Seven-fifty?” says he.

“Seven-fifty”, says I. “I know someone.” And then there's silence and I wonder if he's winding me up or had second thoughts. But he hasn't, he was just thinking.

“Good,” he says, “set it up.”

* * *

Vinnie's a thug – no other way of saying it. Baldly headed cunt of the first degree, thinks nothing of cracking a bloke for, ‘looking at him the wrong way', and drinks in the sort of boozer where you can get anything from a Boa-Constrictor to a pair of socks.

I knew him - in fact we were on first name terms. I'd bought him the odd pint see, played pool with him even seen him right once when things were bad and he couldn't even afford a beer. So I make him an offer. I tell him it's nothing serious, just a smack and put the frighteners on a bit. Vinnie's agreeable, happy to oblige even. So later that night, I pull Micky and tell him it's on. He gives me an address and a photo of the guy in question. I tell Vinnie Tuesday at midnight . Somehow, it seems appropriate.

* * *

Vinnie's had a few when we meet. He tells me he's been out early. It's Ladies darts night see and he likes to watch the action. I take one myself. Just the one mind, I don't need Dutch courage me but it helps to grease the wheels if you know what I mean. He's got this little bag with him. “What's in that?” I say.

His eyes disappear behind folds of pale flesh and a noisome hiss I take for laughter escapes his mouth. “Tools,” is all he will say and I get this cold, cold feeling. But it's too late to back out now, too late to say -Hold on Vin, I'm not sure about this. So I say nothing, swallow the J.D in front of me and we're off.

It takes half an hour. We park off the main road and walk a tree-lined avenue to the address Micky's given us. Cressington's classy and 88 Glaystock Avenue is top draw. Black and white gable ends, Welsh slate roof and neat lawns surrounded by a sandstone wall. The gates are open and we follow the curve of a shale drive to a black panelled door. The house is in darkness, no lights except an automatic which trips as we near. My bowels churn. I gasp, nearly turn and run but Vinnie grabs my shoulder and shakes sense back into me - then he opens his bag. I need a minute to compose myself and walk to the garage. Soon as my back's turned there's a crack like a rifle. Vinnie's huge bulk stands by the door. It's open and there's a jemmy in his hand. I want to scream but fear gags my throat. I can't move. I wait - and wait. There's no alarm. It's not been set and Vinnie flashes me a grin, rolls down his balaclava and disappears through the open door. This is it. I guess I could go, leave Vin to it and keep out of his way for a few weeks. Instead I pull on the ski mask he's given me and follow him inside.

I step into the hall. Stairs to the left, kitchen to the right, lounge in front. At any moment I'm expecting voices, a noise from upstairs and the house to erupt in screams and shouts of alarm. But there's nothing - just the silence of empty space.

“Vinnie,” I say and cringe. It comes out louder than intended and it echoes through the deserted hall, reverberates from wall to darkened wall and creeps up the stairs towards the bedrooms. I freeze push myself into the space beneath the stairs and wait for an explosion of sound. Again, there's only silence. Then, just as I get myself right, just as I regain a bit of self-control, a foot falls on a loose floorboard. I catch my breath, press myself into the wall hoping to disappear or merge with the shadows, wishing I'd never listened to Micky and Vinnie was just an acquaintance who talks big and looks bad.

But it is Vin. He lumbers down the stairs two at a time and takes off his balaclava.

“No one home,” he says.

Secretly thankful, I let out a breath. “Let's go,” I say, “no sense hanging around.”

“Nah,” says Vinnie. “Look first.”

He opens the door to the lounge. It's even darker and it takes my eyes a moment to adjust. Beneath the window is a leather sofa and to its side, backed against the wall is a glass cabinet full of little porcelain dolls. A coffee table sits in front. I take in the pictures, the trophies and diplomas, the photographs in silver frames. I pick one up and recognise the guy from Micky's picture. He's got an arm around a woman with blonde hair and is resting the other on a girl's shoulder. She's uncomfortable, not used to having a picture taken with mummy and daddy and trying to conceal the braces lurking behind her smile.

I look at Vinnie. He's going through cupboards and drawers tipping the contents

onto the floor, delighting in the destruction of a neat and ordered world. I gaze again at the picture - and I get this bad, bad feeling.

“Come on Vinnie,” I say, “there's nothin' here.” But it's too late because I hear the crunch of tyres on the drive, the squawk of brakes, the metallic slam of doors and then voices – voices laughing, voices coming near and my heart's pounding like it's set to burst from my chest and I'll drop dead, right here, right now on the floor and there'll be just a single column in the local paper to mark my passing: ‘Intruder found dead at scene of crime'.

Vinnie smiles, puts a finger to his lips and rolls the balaclava back over his face. This is bad, real bad but there's nowhere to run nowhere to hide and all I can do is watch and wait. I hear their voices – the moment they see the open door, the moment they realise their home has been violated; the moment she says, ‘Robert – don't.' But the soft bastard doesn't listen and steps inside. He reaches for the light switch but doesn't make it because Vinnie moves and so do I.

Vinnie's quick and hits him across the head with the jemmy. One, two, three times and down he goes. His skull cracks like a seaside shell and before I know Vinnie's grabbed the wife and I grab the kid just as she's about to scream and wake the neighbourhood. I clap my hand over her mouth. She's older than her picture, more - developed like and I pull her inside and away from the door. But she's scared now, seen her folks attacked and instinct takes over. She lashes out, kicks me in the shins and digs with her elbows. She's a real handful. I push her towards the kitchen and she struggles, she struggles as if her very life depends on it. Squirming, biting, and flailing like a windmill in my arms. And then we fall. She gasps as the air is squeezed from her lungs and she lies still.

Vinnie hisses. The flesh around his neck quivers with excitement. He's got one hand over the woman's mouth and his other arm's wrapped around her waist strapping her arms to her side. And her eyes are huge, pleading for help but there isn't any because no one knows and her husband lies bleeding on the floor. Then Vinnie drags her into the lounge and kicks the door shut behind him and the kid opens her mouth and I know she's about to let go an almi ghty scream.

I hit her.

Not hard but enough to break the skin. A thin trickle of blood escapes her mouth and runs from chin to neck and onto her breast.

And then it happens. I'm part but not part of the scene if you know what I mean. I'm floating above, watching him – the other me that is as he reaches beneath her skirt, watching as he fumbles with her panties, watching as he…

Well I guess you get the picture huh?

Time passes. I run my tongue over my lips, catching the salt sea flavour of blood and the sweet, sweet taste of her musk. She weeps. Arms around her knees, she tugs at her skirt and I want to tell her so that she understands, tell her I would never really hurt her - tell her that sometimes, I just can't help myself.

But no words come.

Instead I listen to her sobs and I remember Vinnie. It's gone very quiet. So I push the door of the lounge with my foot. In the shadows I see him. He's bending over the woman, stroking her long blond hair and she's not moving, not moving one little bit and I know this is bad, this is really bad and I go to him and say, “Vinnie, what you done?”

He just looks at me, kind of sad and shrugs. “Had to,” he says. And his bag lies open on the floor and he's holding a blade and in the half light I see a dark pool beneath the woman and it's getting bigger and bigger and bigger.

Vinnie hands me the knife and I see him nod towards the door behind me where the quiet sobs of the girl can just be heard. “Now you,” he says.

I drop it. “No way. I can't – couldn't.”

Vinnie grabs my collar pulls me down and as I look into his eyes, all I see is pure, natural madness. “Got to,” he says and he pushes the knife back in my hand.

The knife is cold. I look at it and feel dead inside. Vinnie's so close I can smell his breath. The girl's just outside.

I look again at the knife. What choice do I have?