Dum-Dum

By Andrew J Fountain

Andrew Wood is pushing 60, a drunkard with Parkinson’s disease. He had been a hard man. Parachute Regiment, SAS and Rhodesian special forces. And a secret agent. Why did his despised ex-spymaster boss try to blackmail him into seeking the culprit of a bomb in Paris, then give him a false lead? Why did Wood take the job, if not because of threats?

Was he still a hard man? Follow the plot as it unravels through lies, betrayal, violence, greed, lost love and revenge across two continents...

...then decide for yourself!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andrew J Fountain
• Release date: Mar 28, 2019
• ISBN: 9781916048119

Book preview

PREFACE

The bomb blew at a few minutes past one on the Champs Élysées, in the crowded British Airways office. A taxi driver sheltered from the worst of the blast area talked of his surprise at the noise as the plate glass window blew out. He said it was like slow motion; that pedestrians outside had been picked up with the smoke, flame and glass shards, to be thrown into the road, bloodied, many dismembered, most dead. He remembered seeing a shopping trolley thrown into a tree.

In Manchester, unshaven and dirty, Andrew Wood lay snoring on a cheap mattress on a bare floor in a bedsit that was held together by the dirt on the wallpaper. He was drunk – or as near to that state that there was no practical difference.

A week later, no one had convincingly claimed responsibility for the bomb. Social media could only guess and, despite COBRA meetings, overtime at GCHQ, and intense if sometimes fanciful media speculation, there was still official silence as to those responsible.

ONE

I was walking to the station. She was walking towards me. Stilettos, short, short skirt and a neckline down to her navel. She smiled. Pretty face. But hard, too.

‘You looking for a good time, darling?’ ‘No thanks.’ She gave a shrug and teetered off.

Her pimp arrived from nowhere. He was young, big and black, his eyes red-rimmed with dope. ‘You want business from my little lady?’ He smiled confidently.

I smiled back. ‘I’ve already told her. No, thank you.’

‘Then perhaps you’d like to make her a donation – pay for all that time you been talking to her.’ He pulled a knife. He still looked confident, still smiled. At probably thirty or forty years my junior, over six-foot and built like a rugby player, he probably felt justified.

He stood in front of me, full on, his legs wide apart, waiting for me to beg for mercy and pull out my wallet. He wasn’t much good at extortion with menaces.

I returned his smile. There was a pause as he waved his knife. He looked puzzled – I should have been puking with fear – and then I said, ‘Go away, little boy.’ Disbelief flashed across his face. His eyes widened, and then narrowed into nastiness. ‘You owe me.’ I shook my head, still smiling.

He lunged, aiming for my belly. I parried with my left forearm; my knee went up into his testicles and he went down onto the wet pavement, his hands clutching at his crotch, the knife falling forgotten by him into the gutter. I picked it up.

A kick in the kidneys took his mind off his balls for a moment, and he rolled onto his back into a position where he could see me. I pointed the knife, a cheap sheath knife, in the direction of his face. He looked the kind who would be impressed by the gesture.

He was, his eyes quickly widening, his mouth opening slackly. The sweat on his brow shone under the street lights. Still, I smiled. ‘Perhaps you’d like to make me a donation.’ There was no reaction. I lost the smile and looked threatening. ‘I said… perhaps you’d like to make me a donation.’

His hand went down his jogging pants and fiddled around his crotch. It was quite a thick wad that he pulled out, though not thick enough to have protected him from my knee. He held it out, and I took it, my smile back. ‘Thank you, sir, that’s most generous’. I looked over to where the girl was standing. ‘Do you want some of this?’ Looking frightened, she shook her head and walked off hurriedly, looking back over her shoulder once before she turned a corner.

I gave him another boot then, without another look at him, I dropped the knife down a grid, and continued on my way. Just down the street, there was a young girl sitting on a step in a doorway. Looking scared out of her mind, she asked me if I wanted business. ‘Follow me,’ I said, and walked on without looking back. I heard her footsteps hurrying behind me as I turned into a greasy spoon on the approach to the main railway station.

It was late, and we were the only customers in the place. I ordered an all-day breakfast and two teas, and sat down, with her opposite. She still looked scared. I introduced myself, then we sat in silence. She had just about gathered the courage to speak when the slattern behind the counter called that my food was ready. I collected it and returned to the table. The young girl’s eyes were wide as she looked at the plate. I put it down in front of her.

‘It’s yours’, I said. She mumbled a thanks and got to work. The speed the scoff disappeared, she might have been starving. As she came to the end of her feed, I pulled the pimp’s wad from my pocket and put it on the table between us. Immediately her expression was of wide-eyed wariness.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Angela.’

‘So what are you offering?’ I asked.

‘A… a hand-job for fifteen, or oral for twenty.’

‘How much for full sex?’ She blushed.

‘Twenty-five.’

‘Anal?’

‘Er…’

‘How old are you?’

‘Eighteen.’

‘How old?’

‘Sixteen… fifteen.’

‘Thirteen, more like.’

Another blush on her cheeks. She did not disagree, and looked down into the remains of her breakfast. I pushed the wad so that it was next to her hand. She did not look up. ‘Go on,’ I said. ‘Take it.’ She looked up then, puzzled, embarrassed and a little – or perhaps a lot – afraid. ‘I don’t want your body, so relax.’ She sat unmoving and silent. ‘I don’t know what you were doing on Minshull Street…’ She made to speak, and I held up my hand to silence her. ‘But it’s not the best place for you to be. Take the money. I’ll walk you to a decent hotel and see you booked in. There’s enough money there, by the looks of it, for a few nights of comfort.’

‘And you don’t want anything from me?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Promise?’

‘Promise.’

She gave a nod and a half smile, and rose as I did.

As we left the café, the tart who had seen me batter the pimp was walking up the hill towards us. She ignored me and spoke to the youngster.

‘You all right, love?’

‘Yeah. Thanks, Charlene’

The older girl flashed me a look, wary yet challenging.

‘Where you taking her?’

‘You weren’t so bothered half an hour ago.’

‘He’s given me money for an ’otel.’

Charlene’s lip curled as she looked at me. ‘So you’re as bad as the rest.’ Out of the corner of my eye I could see Angela watching me, I said nothing. It was Angela who broke the silence.

‘He don’t want nothing.’ Charlene looked at me again. ‘That right?’ I nodded. She looked puzzled, then went on, ‘Just watch yourself, mister. Elias, who you just did over, is a dangerous one to cross. Keep away from the street for a while.’ ‘Thanks.’ Without another word, she turned and walked off in the direction we had all come from.

I thought it was as well to get Angela away from the red-light district, and I walked her to a hotel nearer to the centre of the town. I saw her register at the desk, in front of a suspicious night receptionist. ‘I’m her brother,’ I lied glibly as I pushed my mobile and landline phone numbers, written on a scrap of paper I bummed from the receptionist, into her hand. She rose on her toes and kissed my cheek, then almost ran to the lift. I was walking through the front door as I heard the lift doors opening.

Charlene was waiting on the pavement,

‘So you really weren’t after fucking her.’

‘No. I like mine mature…’

‘Like me, perhaps?’

‘Like you, except that a) I’m knackered, and I doubt I could get it up anyway b) I won’t pay, and c) with Elias about, I don’t want to hang around here.’

‘Fair enough, but for what you’ve just done for Angela, I’d give you a freebie, but you’re…’

‘I’m not somebody you want to know, love, even as a punter. Look after her. There are welfare people who’ll set her straight.’

‘Welfare? They’re a bunch of sanctimonious twats. But I’ll do my best for her.’

‘What about her family?’

‘Nah, mate. I’ve not got the whole story, but it seems her old man wants a close family.’

I must have looked puzzled. ‘He was after giving her one; and her old lady’s a religious nut. If you ask me, family and social are best avoided.’

Straight off, I couldn’t think of a way to help young Angela, and said so. Charlene smiled ‘She’s not your worry. ‘Look after yourself, mister.’

‘I won’t.’

‘And don’t go near The Railway pub; it’s where Elias and his mates drink.’

‘I will.’

‘He’ll go for you.’

‘I hope he does.’

She looked dubious. I knew why. I was pushing 60, weedy but with an incipient paunch, and a specky-eyed baldy-headed, pasty-faced fucker to boot. ‘You want my mobile?’ Without waiting for an answer, she delved in her bag, pulled out a till receipt and wrote out her number for me. ‘Here. Give me yours, and I’ll let you know how Angela gets on. I did.

We said our goodbyes. I walked to the station. By the time I got there, the shakes had started. In an hour, I was home and popping my last pill of the day. In two, I was drunk. Very drunk.

When I woke, it was late morning and I felt rough. I checked my phone. Nothing from Angela. A text from Charlene: ‘E lukin 4u, tb x’. I decided to text after some scoff. I felt better after I’d showered and pushed down bacon and eggs. Tablets and patches came next. A bit late, but better than never. I put the telly on, and the local news was showing Charlene’s picture. ‘…was found dead in an alleyway near to the town’s railway station and close to the city’s red-light district, where she was known to work in the sex trade. Her body had been mutilated’, intoned the presenter.

I didn’t hear the rest of the news. I was out of my flop and heading back into town, to make sure Angela was all right. She had checked out, the receptionist – a different one from the night before – told me, early that morning. I wondered why. I cursed myself for not getting her number, but I had not wanted to spook her. I also wondered about Charlene. There was a report about her death in the newspaper, but it did not add much to what I had learnt earlier on the telly.

I fished the piece of cardboard with her number on out of my back pocket and dialled it. It rang ten times, then a dark voice answered. ‘Yo.’ Elias. I had had a feeling that if anyone answered, it would be him. I said nothing, After a while, he grunted, ‘Fuck you’, and hung up. Now, how could I find him? His drinking den, The Railway, seemed like a good place to start. From Charlene’s warning to stay away from the place, I could sense trouble ahead.

Forewarned is forearmed, but I wanted to be armed with something more tangible than knowledge. There was a gun shop nearby, on Shude Hill; but you cannot buy legal guns in England easily. It is easy to get illegal ones if you know the right people, and they will sell to you. I know the people, and some of them would have sold to me. Some of them would have given to me, because they would be too frightened not to. I also know how to use a gun. I am a poor shot, though on a good day I used to be able to hit what I was shooting at more often than I missed; but I did not have the time or, frankly, the inclination to go through all the rigmarole of illegal acquisition. You do not need a licence for a replica. I bought a realistic-enough model of a Walther P38. I wasn’t going to shoot anyone with it. But the inmates of The Railway wouldn’t know that. The replica went into my waistband. I waited for evening.

The Railway, a low bar, was, not surprisingly, near the station. The sort of place where straight, white men went to the toilet in pairs. I could hear the juke box from the street. I could smell the toilets from there, too. Everybody looked when I pushed open the door. Eyes followed me to the bar. There was no sign of Elias. The barman wasn’t busy, but he took his time getting to me.

I ordered a beer. He spilt it as he put it down. He owed me change: I did not get it. Everyone ignored me; I liked that; but I had a bet with myself that it wouldn’t last.

When, briefly, the music quieted, I spoke. ‘Have you seen Elias?’ I asked the barman over the reggae, loud enough for half the room to hear. Half the room looked at me. Still, the barman did not. ‘I said…’‘No.’ he snarled.

Still, he didn’t look at me.

I sipped my beer a while, then left it. I slipped an empty lager bottle into my coat pocket and made for the gents’.

I stood facing the trough but did not unzip. I was waiting. The wait was a short one. The juke box volume went up, presumably to deaden the sound of me being done. I heard the bog door open softly. Unhurriedly, I turned around.

There were two of them; big, muscular and mean-looking. One held a baseball bat. They smiled. I smiled. They stepped closer.

These days, when I am fit for violence, I still only have a minute or two at most; any more, and I would probably be a punch bag. In one continuous move, I took the bottle from my pocket and stepped too close to the one with the bat for him to swing it properly. I hit him in the face with the side of the bottle. I broke the bottle; the bottle broke his jaw. A knee in the nuts, and he was down.

His mate gave me a clumsy roundhouse swing. It hit the side of my head but felt like a girly tap. It takes nine pounds of pressure to dislocate a kneecap. The kick I gave him was a lot stronger than that and, screaming, he joined his mate on the floor. The bums in the bar would not have heard him over the music; or if they had they assumed that I was making the noise.

I kicked them unconscious then dragged them to the urinal, where I lay them in the piss. I picked up the bat and went back into the bar.

If the music had not been blaring, you would have heard a pin drop. They were not expecting me to walk out. I dropped the bat on the beer-wet bar. ‘I didn’t need it. You owe me change,’ I leered. Disbelief, fury and then worry flickered over the barman’s face. Still, I got my change. As I pocketed it and then moved to the door, I heard a rush to the bog.

As soon as I was in the street, I ran. I was right to. I heard the pub door slam open, and the sound of running feet. I glanced back; there were two chasing me. That was good. There were shouts. Subconsciously I registered one voice shouting to ‘let the cunt go’. The others seemed to want the cunt dead.

There was a shot but, even if you are good, it is hard to shoot at and hit a moving target on the run, and the round went wide. I turned a few corners, my breath labouring. I could not keep up running for long. Then saw what I wanted. A passage – a ginnel. It was long and narrow, and ideal.

When I got to the far end, I turned the corner on to the street and stopped, sucking the air into my lungs and waiting. I heard my pursuers enter the ginnel. It seemed they were as unfit as me and breathing just as hard as I had been. I took the imitation shooter from out of my waistband then, as they were nearly at the end of the passage, I stood silhouetted in it, pistol raised at face height.

The pistol, my finger on the trigger, brought them skittering to a halt. They were one behind the other, the one with the gun in front. If he’d been trained, he’d have got a shot off, and probably killed me. I had gambled that he wasn’t, and I had won. He stood, ashen faced. Giving him my death look, I spoke quietly. ‘Drop it.’ His gun clattered in to the rubbish on the floor. ‘Kick it to me.’ He did. ‘Back up.’ They both did. When they had given me room, I told them to kneel.

Naked fear showed in their faces as they knelt on the wet cobbles, one in front of the other. I had been in a similar position more than once, and knew what they were going through. Execution was on their minds. I also knew that they would do anything – anything – to stay alive.

I picked up the real gun from the floor and put my fake in my pocket. I roughly pushed the real gun’s cold, metal barrel into the mouth of the first. His eyes bulged. Sweat sprang up on his face. I smiled. Death look on again, I looked his mate in the eyes.

‘Where’s Elias?’

Silence. I tightened my finger on the trigger.

‘Do you want to be splashed with his brains? If he has any.’

The gun sucker groaned. There was another moment’s silence, which is long as a lifetime when you are waiting to have your head blown off. The gun sucker farted; then his mate said, ‘He gone.’ ‘Where?’ Silence. The gun sucker groaned again.