Dogmeat

By Justin Hamlin

What is DOGMEAT?

It’s a young boy crouching trembling in a closet, waiting for the moment to stab a raging hooligan... it’s a giant homeless simpleton, accompanied everywhere by the mysterious ‘Kenny’, searching frantically for refuge... it’s macho transvestites aiming to hit the town in style... it’s the Shankill Jedi Boys out marching with their drums and their light-sabres, hoping for a ruck... it’s a biker gang attempting to cope with their leader being the reincarnation of a depraved Roman Emperor...

It can only be a collection of Justin Hamlin stories!

All of the above and twenty-five other tales are to be found in DOGMEAT. You’ve never read anything like it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Justin Hamlin
• Release date: Jul 10, 2015
• ISBN: 9781943846979

Justin Hamlin

Justin Hamlin was born in 1971. He has lived in the Tunbridge Wells area since the age of seven months and has been writing since his early teens. His work is published as 'urban fantasy' but also incorporates elements of crime thriller and horror.Writing not being a reliable source of income, he works in private security. He has also been employed variously as an HMRC clerk, barman, model, supermarket cashier, rat breeder, warehouseman, bouncer, despatch rider and pantomime horse. In his spare time he enjoys photography and hill-walking, although writing is his true passion.He is unmarried and is overjoyed to have no children.

Book preview

STEEL AND CONCRETE

They came into the Brackwell branch at nine twenty, just after the first queue of early birds had left. There were two of them, woollen green balaclavas probably from an army goods shop, one with an Adidas shoulder-bag from which he was drawing a sawn-off double-barrelled shotgun, the other with a black crowbar. Nigel, one of the two floorwalkers on duty, raised his eyebrows. This could be interesting, he thought.

Before either robber could speak, Angie behind the counter opened her mouth and screamed once, a sharp whistle that woke everyone else up with a flinch. "Everyone lie down except you! Shotgun shouted to the two girls behind the glass. No, not you! You stand! Hands where I can see them! You others! Faces down on the floor, now!"

Nigel got to hands and knees before lying down. He put his face to the floor as Shotgun had said. His nose touched cold tile; his chin did not, for he had barely any chin at all. As he did this, he wondered how this was going to play out. Shotgun's voice had sounded a bit strained, as if he was not used to giving orders. But the man was still confident. He had done this before, at least once.

There was only one customer, a housewife who had been arguing the ins and outs of her contract with the manageress at the side table. All five of the minimum required staff were on duty and visible, none of them working in the back offices. Given this, it was likely that the robbers knew someone on the inside here, to strike at such a time. But whoever the insider was – if it was anyone at all – was a question Nigel could ask himself later. Right now, he reckoned that the robbers would probably want to exert their authority in some way, probably by making an example of someone.

You and you. Out from behind there. No, leave that door open, came Shotgun's voice. "And you, lock the front door. Don't do anything stupid while you're at it."

Nigel heard the clack of the manageress' heels and felt the change in the air as she walked past his head. Lie down, Shotgun was saying to the two girls. There came the click of the front door bolt going. Nigel imagined the manageress switching the sign to 'Closed'. He couldn't imagine her doing anything stupid. Her training was to put the safety of her staff first. He knew that much. The girls were just as unlikely to make waves. They were ordinary young women with boyfriends and babies and mothers. If anyone was going to get it first, Nigel thought, it was going to be Clive. Clive was bigger and better-looking than Nigel and was probably in line for a promotion next month. Plus, Nigel considered it more than likely Clive's self-regard would not allow him to lie down on the floor submissively enough for the robbers' taste.

This had only just occurred to him when there came the sound of a thud and Clive grunting in pain, followed by several more thuds. No – no – please – Clive gasped from a few feet away.

An unfamiliar voice, that of Crowbar, shouted "Lie down! Or else!" There was a single, final blow and a whimper from Clive. Everything was obviously going to plan. Through the strong whiff of tile cleaner Nigel could discern the new sweat of female shock. The robbers' display of punishment upon Clive had certainly been effective in persuading the four ladies of the possible consequences of any transgression. Not Nigel, though. It caused him to wonder, as moments of high drama often did, why some people did feel other people's pain like that. There were no nerves connecting them to Clive. Why, then, did they feel his pain? Nigel did not feel Clive's pain. Infact, he had never felt anyone else's pain, not in his entire life.

"All right, we told you and you didn't listen, now you know what happens, came Shotgun's voice as he addressed the five staff on their faces around him. Now, who's got the keys to the vault?"

It was definitely not Shotgun's first time. If it had been his first time, he would just grab it from the counter tills and leave.

I have one, said the manageress.

Give it here, Shotgun said. There was the jingling of metal.

Oo's got the other one? asked Crowbar.

"He has, said the manageress. In his inside jacket pocket. Don't hurt him any more, please."

Some scuffling, and more jingling. Nigel considered what would happen next. The vault took two people to open. It would be unlikely to be both of the robbers, as that would mean leaving the hostages unattended. One robber and one hostage, then. If it was Crowbar, he would probably take a woman, due to his lesser weapon. The same reasoning dictated that if it was Shotgun who opened the vault, he would take a man, specifically the man who hadn't just had his head kicked in. Nigel hoped it was Shotgun who would open the vault. He did not want to lie on the floor while the money was being taken. That would be less interesting.

Nigel waited. Presently, a foot nudged his shoulder. Okay, you, came Shotgun's voice. Get up.

Nigel got to his feet, the key still in his hands. Shotgun was aiming two-handed in his general direction. His black eyes glared through the balaclava's eye-holes.

Don't look at me, Shotgun said.

Nigel lowered his eyes to the four bodies on the floor, the bank girls in their skirts and jackets and the customer in her sweater, and Clive. There was a bit of blood on Clive's ear, but he was still breathing.

Instead of speaking, Shotgun reached out, took Nigel by his upper arm and turned him towards the counter door. Nigel kept pace with his captor. As they passed through in single file Nigel felt something metal touch the back of his head. Shotgun was holding it on him. Nigel was not unduly concerned at this, however. There was no reason for Shotgun to actually shoot Nigel, unless it was by accident, and accidents were far enough beyond Nigel's control not to merit worry.

Shotgun steered Nigel along behind the counter, through the inner door and out into the back way, where there was no carpet and the walls were cool concrete. The foot-thick vault door was twice as wide as an ordinary door and rounded at the corners and about six inches off the floor, much like the bulkheads on a ship. Its bolts were turned by a handle in the middle; on either side of the door was a keyhole. Supposedly the spacing of the keyholes was such that it was impossible for one person to turn both keys at once. Although, Nigel mused, a man suffering from gigantism could probably manage it. That Robert Wadlow from America for one, when he was still alive.

Oi. Wake up. Shotgun prodded Nigel in the small of his back with the end of the barrels. In his other hand he was holding out one of the keys. I do the right, you do the left.

Possibly Shotgun worked, or used to work, for another bank. But that was beyond Nigel's interest. Nigel wasn't a detective. Both of them put their keys up, slotted them in. Nigel looked at Shotgun's eyes and Shotgun gave a brief nod. Latches snapped.

Want me to open the door? Nigel offered.

"Yeah. You fuckin' open the door." Shotgun stepped back, giving himself a generous space to aim.

Nigel stepped to the centre of the door and began turning the handle to wind the bolts back. The heavy metal was well-greased, and soon there came the familiar hollow boom which meant the vault was unlocked. Nigel pulled on the handle. The door weighed almost as much as a small car, but had been balanced so that anybody, even one of the girls, could pull it wide with one hand. Nigel pulled it about halfway. Inside, the fluorescent bulb automatically flickered on.

Shotgun lifted the bag from his shoulder and handed it to Nigel. Fill it up, he said.

Nigel stepped into the dim cavern. The notes were in bundles in crates on the shelves. Quickly, so as not to raise Shotgun's ire, he began tipping the crates and scooping the money into the bag.

Hurry UP! Shotgun barked. He had stepped inside the vault himself, in order to keep his aim on Nigel. Nigel did not quicken his pace. He wondered what it might be like to die. He had not planned on dying this early, but if it happened anyway, at least he would get to see what happened. He had heard stories about tunnels of light; it would be interesting to see if such stories were true.

The bag's weight strained at his arm. He turned to Shotgun. Finished.

"It's not full, is it!? Shotgun stuck the gun in Nigel's face. Nigel blinked, but did not flinch. I said FILL it!"

Feel it. You can't carry more, said Nigel, laying the bag at the floor. This, by the way, was true. People who did not handle large quantities of money rarely had any idea how heavy it could be. The fact that it was impossible for one person to lift a million pounds, for example. It had turned out that Shotgun had not worked in a bank after all.

Shotgun looked down at the bag, then raised one foot to push it open so he could check inside. As he did so, Nigel reached out with his other hand, caught the edge of the vault door with his fingertips and gave it a pull. It swung shut just as Shotgun was raising his head, auto-locking with a hiss of hydraulics.

Shotgun looked at the door, then at Nigel. Open it.

It only opens from the outside, Nigel replied.

I'm not buying that. Shotgun snapped back something at the rear of the gun, and looked down its length at Nigel.

I'm not selling it, Nigel replied. He pointed to the door. There are no keyholes on this side.

Open the DOOR! Shotgun shouted.

How should I do that? Nigel asked.

"I DUNNO how you fuckin' do it!" Shotgun took a step forwards and pressed the two circles of the gun's muzzle against Nigel's forehead. "Just DO it!"

It only opens from the outside, Nigel repeated.

Who's got the keys?

We have.

Not THOSE keys! The spare keys! Nigel could feel the gun trembling. "There's got to be a spare key!"

There's a set at our East Kent Head Office, I think.

Where the fuck's that?!

Cannonville.

Shotgun was silent for a moment, then took the gun away from Nigel's forehead, reversed it and hit him on the side of the face with the butt. Nigel staggered with the force of the blow and blundered off-balance into the opposite wall. A moment later the pain hit him. But Nigel had never had a problem with pain, even his own. He could look at his own pain just the way he could look at a manhole cover or a red pillar box.

I'm going to kill you, Shotgun said. "I'm going to shoot you, with this gun. You are fucking dogmeat."

Nigel had steadied himself against the shelves and now stood in silence, hands by his sides, watching Shotgun. He wondered what it might be like to kill. The stories said it was hard, or at least that it was the first time; they also told of Vietnam vets living alone in anguish, drinking their sorrows away. Nigel thought it highly unlikely that he would suffer anguish and drink his sorrows away, were he himself ever to kill someone. After all, he did not feel other people's pain. On the other hand, however, even he might get a small sensation if he were to actually watch the light in someone's eyes go out. It would be interesting.

Oh, you... Sweat glittered around Shotgun's eyes; there was more than sweat there, too. "You... you bastard. Shotgun stepped away from Nigel, lowered his weapon and reached into his pocket. He had a small clamshell mobile phone that he flipped open and began dialling with his thumb. Pacing back and forth, he tried dialling again, then held the phone up in the air and tried a third time. Fucking Nokia," said Shotgun.

Nigel said nothing. He doubted that any other phone manufacturer could get a signal through two feet of reinforced concrete either.

There a phone in here? Shotgun asked.

Nigel shook his head.

Shotgun paused, then put the mobile back in his pocket and pulled off his balaclava. He was probably about twenty-five, but looked like a teenager with his skinny face and his spots. Nigel thought Shotgun might be into drugs. Nigel had been given drugs himself when he was a boy, by the doctor after he put detergent in that girl's orange juice back at St Luke's Infants. He didn't mind drugs, but some people apparently really liked them.

So what do we do now? Shotgun demanded.

Nigel shrugged, just a little.

What about Andy?

Andy? Nigel asked, before realising who Andy must be. Oh, I don't know. I don't know what he would do.

What's going to happen to Andy? Shotgun asked again.

Nigel gave this some thought, but not much. I suppose he's run away, or been arrested by now.

"Arrested!?" Shotgun shouted.

The police, Nigel explained. The nearest armed response unit is in Nine Ashes, so they may or may not have got here already. I don't know.

I don't HEAR no alarms, Shotgun said, striding forward and putting his face a few inches from Nigel's, his brows lowered. And no-one's called the police.

Carla will have pressed the alarm already, Nigel said.

"Who?"

Carla. The lady you got to lock the front door. There's an alarm underneath the side table.

"I don't hear no alarms," Shotgun said again.

It's a silent alarm.

Shotgun stared at Nigel, then put the gun under Nigel's chin and forced his face up. "Why'd you do it!? he shouted. Why'd you do it! I mean, you knew I was gonna kill you! Why'd you fuck it up like this?"

Nigel paused. I wanted to see what would happen.

"I'll show you what happens," Shotgun said through gritted teeth.

Nigel waited for the bang and for whatever would follow. Darkness, perhaps. Or maybe the tunnel of light. Perhaps consciousness would remain for a split second, and he would hear the sound of his own body hitting the floor.

Ohhhhh, Shotgun said. He staggered away from Nigel, lowered the gun again, looked at nothing. "Ohhhhhhhhhhh."

Nigel watched, and waited. The anticlimax was bothering him.

"I need to pee," Shotgun said.

It was two hours later before the police got the door open. By then the light inside the vault, which was on a timer, had switched itself off, so the officers’ torch-beams went tearing through pitch darkness.

Lie down with your hands behind your head!

One man lay down with his hands behind his head. The other did not move at all, for most of his own head was missing.

The lead cop, huge and heavy, threw himself upon the living man, grabbing at his hands. Unarmed! Unarmed! he roared to his comrades. Four other police, all in body armour with helmets and visors, seized the man by a limb each and carried him from the vault dangling like a hammock. Three more were already inside, sweeping the inside of the chamber with their torches and their own guns. Clear! Clear! they called.

Carla the manageress appeared behind two more officers. She saw who they had. That's him! she called. That's Nigel.

Nigel was spun vertical again and dropped on his feet. I'm sorry, Nigel, said a policeman. Are you OK? Can you walk?

I'm just fine, said Nigel.

We have to follow procedure, you know, the cop explained. With everyone at the crime scene and all.

Nigel, are you all right!? the manageress asked, running forward and patting Nigel down. "Your poor face... he hurt you?"

I'm fine, said Nigel.

He's dead, said another cop to his senior. Suicide, it looks like. Sat down and put the gun in his mouth.

Oh God, the manageress was saying, as she led Nigel away by the arm. "It must have been terrible for you."

Nigel considered that. It had not been terrible. Infact, it had not been an unpleasant experience at all. It had been...

It had been interesting.

SURTSEY STREET

With barely five minutes to go, Harry Dawson rounded the corner into Surtsey Street, brought the car to a halt and turned to his ex-girlfriend’s son. Liam’s face was fully lit by the streetlight across the road: Harry’s own was in shadow, with only the glitter of his eyes and of the gold chain around his neck showing. Right, I’ve had enough of this, said Harry. "If you’re gonna say something, you’d better say it."

It wasn’t anything, Liam snivelled.

"No, I wanna hear it, Harry said. I wanna hear what’s been going on in that noggin of yours. And, like, now."

I’m getting a new job, Liam blurted out, sounding as if he was close to tears.

"You? Getting a job?" Harry chuckled. What kind of outfit’s gonna employ someone like you?

Mickey Dolan.

"Mickey Dolan? That muppet couldn’t tie his own laces."

"But he is legit," Liam put in.

Harry gave Liam a vicious stare for a second, which was all he could afford. Time was of the essence in Surtsey Street.

And I’ve been thinking, Liam continued. After what happened with Trevor Smith –

"Oi!" Harry shouted. "I told you never to talk about that!"

Yeah but it was us who know where he’s buried. And if people see us together –

"That never happened. That was in the past. Put it behind you. Harry was exasperated. Like I promised Beryl before the cancer, I’ll always take care of ya and I intend to keep that promise. But it’s not about Trevor at all, is it?"

Not really, Liam admitted. Well, it was sort of... it was Michelle who said I should go...

"Michelle!?" Harry could barely believe his ears. Why was his daughter, of all people, giving Liam career advice? Michelle herself was only behind the bar at the Duke of York. Someone was going to need a talking-to.

Well, Michelle said I needed a new vocation, what with the baby due in August and all...

"Michelle? ... Baby?" Harry took a few moments to put everything together. Liam? And his Michelle? And he was unaware of this? He turned away from Liam, gunned the engine and blasted his car out into the road.

Wha... ? Liam was still saying. "You didn’t know... oh God... I’m sorry..." Harry’s house was only a few doors down and he was already slowing the car again. As he approached he could see pulsating coloured lights and hear chattering voices and the bump bump bump of music.

What’s all this? Harry said to himself as he pulled up outside the party. Liam drew breath to answer, but Harry cut him off with "You stay right there. Don’t move a muscle. And don’t say a word. You hear?"

Teenagers stepped aside as Harry strode across his lawn. Boys in shell suits, some wearing caps. Girls in tight clubbing dresses. As he came in through the open front door, a pretty brunette with hair down her back came up to Harry and put her bare arms around his shoulders.

Oi, Harry said, easing her off and pushing her away. It was Michelle’s friend Dani. "What’re you doing?"

"Ah come on Harry, said Dani, slurring her words a little. You’ve been flirting with me all year. That has to mean something. She placed both hands on his beer gut and stroked it lasciviously. At least give us a snog."

Just then Michelle came down the stairs, a glass of wine in one hand which she quickly put behind her back as if Harry hadn’t noticed. Hey! she shouted at the pair of them, for he was practically wrapped in Dani’s arms now. What’s going on ‘ere!?

Dani’s eyes widened in shock and she half-stepped half-fell backwards. Me an’ Harry, we was going to tell you, honest –

"Tell me what!?" Michelle’s eyes blazed.

"Tell you nothing. Nothing’s been going on. Harry shoved Dani away and advanced a step up. Michelle was still looking down at him from above and he did not appreciate that. You’re the one who’s got some explaining to do. What’s going on with you and Liam? A baby?"

Michelle’s mouth fell open. Well, me an’ Liam...

"You and Liam what!?"

Michelle’s face changed, suddenly resolute. "You think you can tell me what to do my whole life, think you can own me, well let me tell you, I’m a grown woman now and I can make my own choices. All right!?"

"It’s too late for ‘all right’! Harry roared. This party’s over! He stormed into the sitting room and snapped off the music with a ringed finger. A dozen faces turned and there was a simultaneous moan of despair from all around. Everybody out! Now! As crowds began to file out the door, Harry turned again to Michelle. And as for you, young lady... He was suddenly cut off by the sound of breaking glass outside. What the...?"

"Oh no! That’s Spike!" Michelle put a hand to her mouth.

"Spike? What’s Spike got to do with it?"

"Spike... Matthew told him it was his baby..."

Without a word Harry turned and shoved his way through the crowds blocking the front door. Outside Harry’s car Liam and Spike were standing facing one another. As Harry approached he saw very clearly Spike prod Liam in the chest with a finger, then Liam lose it like he always did and shove Spike in the chest with both hands. Spike took a quick couple of steps backwards but did not fall over.

Oi! Harry shouted.

Liam turned to him. Spike did not. Spike was reaching inside his jacket for something.

"Look out! screamed Michelle from the house doorway where she was propping up a half-conscious Dani. He’s got a knife!"

Harry reacted without thinking. As he came up on Spike he gave Spike a light slap. Instantly, Spike collapsed limply to the pavement.

"Oh my God, you’ve killed him!" Dani gasped.

Spike, lying across the kerbstone, did not move. In his hand he still clutched the cigarette lighter he’d been taking out when Harry had slapped him. Harry frowned, and bent over the young man’s prone body. Just then, a familiar set of loud drumbeats rang out, and the Surtsey Street theme music began.

Damn! Liam shouted in frustration, looking down the street to where the credits were rolling up. From their own vantage point, the credits were in mirror-writing. "Why does it always have to happen now!?"

Dunno, said Harry, straightening up.

"We’re going to have to wait until Monday before we find out if he’s dead," lamented Michelle as she looked down at Spike.

No we won’t, Liam said. It’s on Saturdays as well.

Harry snorted. Was there no end to Liam’s gormlessness? "No, Liam, that’s just the omnibus episode that’s on Saturdays." He too stole a glance at the credits, trying to find Spike’s name. If Spike was listed in the main body of the cast rather than as a guest character, then maybe he had not killed Spike, and Spike would be back next week. But that in itself was hardly a reliable sign. He sighed, placed a fag in his mouth and took out his own lighter. At least he could have a smoke now. Harry was one of the veteran characters. He had been in it since it started back in the Eighties, and he really missed the days when smoking could be shown on Surtsey Street.

THE DRESS

Sean clocked out at the end of his day and went to get his jacket. In the dingy cloakroom three of the lads from C-shift were goofing around. Ash, Rory and Macsen.

"So she goes, What do you even care? Macsen was telling the other two. And yez know how I am, I tell the truth about what I’m thinking so I go, You’re right. I don’t care. I don’t give a toss how it looks. That’s a bird thing. You want an opinion on how it looks, you go to one of your friends... Awright Sean."

Awright, said Sean, only half-acknowledging the other three.

Gonna be down the Dog and Ferret tonight? Rory asked.

Sean was punching his arms down his jacket sleeves. Naah. Got a prior engagament.

This seemed to have all three of them impressed. Macsen was the first to speak. Oh aye? Anyone we know?

"No-one you know," said Sean.

But this only aroused his mates’ curiosity. "Wooooah, Ash and Rory chorused, and Macsen raised his dark brows. All subtle tonight are we?" His voice was friendly, but there was irritability underneath. Macsen was not getting what he wanted.

Doncha worry, Sean consoled him. I’ll give you a full and detailed account when I see ya tomorrow.

"You do that," said Macsen, and the other two laughed.

Sean went striding back along the corridor, past Reception and out into the evening twilight. He hurried down the street alone. Prats, he muttered under his breath.

Just then a car pulled up beside him. He bent to see who it was. Roger was at the wheel, a cigar stuck firmly between his teeth, his beer-gut hanging over on his ample thighs. Get in, said Roger.

Sean opened the passenger door and got in.

"And don’t hurry like that, Roger continued as he moved off again. They see ya hurrying and they’ll know you’ve got something to hide."

Crouched in his seat, fists shoved down into his jacket pockets, Sean just nodded. Roger glanced sideways at him.

My, you’re all hyped up, he observed. "Still, I was the same the time I got my first one. My first proper dress."

Roger had a flat on the estate. Behind drawn curtains Sean waited apprehensively while Roger opened a long cardboard case on the floor and rustled through the tissue paper inside. Okay, Roger said. You can turn around now.

Sean turned and saw Roger holding up the dress by its shoulder straps. It was a long dress, an evening gown, light green although not bright enough to be indiscreet. When worn most of its wearer’s front would be fully covered, but as Roger turned it Sean saw that the back would be bare. He drew breath to speak – but found himself speechless. He had been expecting something like this, but to actually see it was something else entirely.

Good, innit? Roger grinned. That Spiro certainly does his job, doesn’t he?

Sean was still wowed. He does...

Yeah, good man that Spiro, said Roger. Been doing it twenty-odd years. You can trust Spiro – he’d never say a thing to anyone. Probably doesn’t want his family to find out about it.

Sean recalled a fortnight ago, standing in just his boxers while the little Greek had silently flitted around him with his tape measure. "Isn’t he into it, then?" Sean asked.

Him? Well, you never know. Still holding the dress, Roger took a step closer and laid the dress against Sean’s body, as if assessing how it would fit. They reckon it takes all sorts, but... I dunno. Ready to try it on?

Sean swallowed. Gglnk... Yeah.

"Well ya can’t, Roger came back, very loudly. To wear something like this with all that factory filth still on ya would be an insult to a craftsman such as Spiro. He respectfully laid the dress back in its box. Go in the bathroom and have a shower first. You can use my towel..."

The laundry basket in Roger’s bathroom, overflowing with the utilitarian clothes of a middle-aged working man, sparked in Sean the memory of how he’d first got involved. He recalled the events yet again as he stood in the shower, soaping himself down. Up until a few months ago he had only indulged himself in private, walking and posing behind the locked door of his own flat. In those days he’d been buying off the