Hymn From A Village

By nigel bird

The work in this anthology takes some of the best stories of Nigel Bird and brings them together in the one place.

Many of the stories have been previously published in other places:

Mammoth's Best British Crime Stories 8 and 9; Needle Magazine Of Noir; Beat To A Pulp; All Due Respect; via Untreed Reads and Snubnose Press; in True Brit Grit; Off The Record; A Twist Of Noir; The Reader Magazine; at The Drowning Machine; and courtesy of Crime Factory.

'The prose is tight rope taut and the plotting first class. The central character of Liza is well drawn and the drip feed of her commentary about Archie's feelings is brilliantly done. Mr Suit is suitably odious without straying in to cliché...'Mr Suit' is a tense and thrilling novella which deserves a place on your bookshelf.' Crimesquad.com

'I can whole-heartedly recommend this one.' Heath Lowrance (City Of Heretics)

'At the risk of setting expectations too high let me say that it's something along the lines of Elmore Leonard meets James M. Cain by way of a Guy Ritchie movie.' Devil Monkey (Amazon review)

'A tremendous writer.' Donald Ray Pollock (The Devil All The Time)

'A rare talent.' Allan Guthrie (Bye Bye Baby)

If you know his work, you'll know it's worth reading. If you don't, here's the best place to find out.

Praise for Nigel Bird and his work includes:

'Really good.' Ian Rankin (Rebus)

'The stories have well written plots and all have unexpected endings which are not obvious when reading them. I found the stories to be well conceived and ideal to read in ebook format. I hope that Nigel is able to write a full size novel to further develop his writing skills. Some of the short stories here could easily have been the base for a much longer book.' Paul Blackburn (at Euro Crime)

‘This is crime writing at its best. Read this collection, it is a crime not to do so.’
Richard Godwin (Apostle Rising)

'Each story is short and sweet, most with a nice wicked twist at the end. The blurb accompanying the collection says that the stories will stay with you for a while. A couple of them have certainly been rattling round my head for a few days. I did have one complaint, however – I wanted more of them! A nice collection.' Rob Kitchin (View From The Blue Room)

‘I was surprised by every story. These are short, punchy, thoughtful, hard as a punch, but sometimes they dig in and squeeze. It's dirty stuff, done beautifully.Nigel is also responsible for the too-cool "Dancing With Myself" interview series at his blog, Sea Minor.” Anthony Neil Smith (Yellow Medicine, Psychosomatic, Hogdoggin')

‘Taking A Line For A Walk’, included here, was listed among the top 5 stories of 2010 by Bill Hayes and Naomi Johnson over at Death By Killing.

'It won't take long to realise he is also one of the best writers out there on the noir scene' Ian Ayris (Abide With Me)

‘A rare talent.’ Allan Guthrie (Bye Bye Baby, Hard Man, Slammer)

‘So nice to read a story with this much heart in it.’ Patti Abbott (Discount Noir, Pattinase)

‘Great Stuff.’ Charlie Stella (Charlie Opera, Johnny Porno)

‘Brilliantly razor-sharp, jagged slice of life.’ Paul D Brazill (ubiquitous, You Would Say That Wouldn’t You)

‘I sought out everything I could from him. I dare you to read and not do the same.’ Chris F Holm (8 Pounds)

‘Took my breath away...Powerful.’ Kathleen A Ryan (Playing With Matches, Women Of Mystery)

‘Nigel Bird continues to amaze,’ Naomi Johnson (The Drowning Machine)

• Language: English
• Publisher: nigel bird
• Release date: Oct 3, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301099788

Book preview

Hymn From A Village

stories by Nigel Bird

Too Much Too Young

They lowered Mum’s coffin into the hole.

I should have been next to Dad, but he couldn’t cope with that. Instead I loitered at the back and took in the view.

The two chimneys of the power-station pointed like guns at the sky as if ready to defend us from invaders. Don’t know why I thought of them that way. Any aliens arriving into our solar system had to be intelligent life, right? No way they’d come anywhere near Tranent.

On the Forth a container ship headed out to sea. Looked like it was floating on air the way the grey of the sky merged with the smudged hues of the water.

A kid with his hair gelled in spikes turned and looked at me. I sent him a wink. I guess his mother saw it, too - she pulled him close and bent down to say something in his ear. Didn’t think he’d be looking round again.

The priest spoke quickly, wind rippling through his robes and removing any heat from the sun’s shine. Soon as he was done, he was off.

Dad threw his handful of soil and dropped his head. Those broad shoulders of his bobbed up and down, probably trying to work out what they were doing in a suit. Margaret from next door put her arm around him, silly cow.

It was my job to hug him even if we hadn’t so much as shaken hands since the jury found me guilty.

Margaret seemed to have the required magic. He pulled himself together and left. The crowd followed.

I hung back. Goodbye Mum, I said to the box. I’m sorry.

Took my time getting home. Smoked a couple of cigarettes and psyched myself up for the party.

On the road outside, someone had been busy with a can of paint. ‘Scum lives here’ it said, with an arrow pointing right to our gate. I’d only been back a night and they were onto me.

My therapist had been right about it being a mistake to return.

I fell to my knees and started scratching at the ground with my nails. Felt a couple of them break but carried on until the fury disappeared. The paint was still there when I was done and so was half of the skin from my fingers.

Bastards, I shouted at the floor.

Saw the curtains twitch across the street, then caught sight of the old lady. Raised two fingers to her and went inside.

Half the Coalgate were there for the do.

We’d made everything in the morning and put out a frozen Black Forest Gateau. By the time I arrived, the whole lot had gone.

Still had enough booze to keep the party going, though. Dad had made sure of that soon as I told him I was paying

Sipped a can of ale, swallowed my medication and leant back against the banisters. Felt them give.

I scanned the room looking for a friendly face. Wasn’t easy the way they seemed to have their backs to me. They were big backs too, like fat had become the new thin.

In walked Tony McCaig. They used to call us ‘Laurel and Hardy’ on account of us spending our spare time together when we were at school and him being round.

How’s it going? I asked when he looked over.

Doing away, he said and walked right past me into the living room.

Tony?

He looked round. Shook his head and mouthed Piss off to me through a snarl.

I threw my can. Missed Tony and hit the Celtic poster instead.

Dad waved me over.

Johnny, he said, You know it’s awkward. Do you think you could... Felt sorry for him, I did. His eyes were yellow and wet.

What he means is could you push off? Margaret slurred. Get out of here and let us good-folk have a party in peace.

Good-folk and Tranent? Like oil and water.

I didn’t bother to argue. Dad looked at the floor. Could tell it’s what he wanted.

I left the building, tears stinging in my eyes.

The scheme was a tip. The kind of place the police don’t turn up to unless they’ve got two cars available.

You could tell who’d bought their houses and who still let from the council by their gardens. Every other building looked like a natural disaster – stained render, piles of rubbish, boarded windows, graffiti and knee high weeds. God wouldn’t piss on the place if it were on fire and it had been on fire often enough by the looks of the black scars on some of the walls.

I cut into the alley. Condoms and dog-shit just the way I remembered.

Soon as I saw the High Street, my instinct was to run, to get back to my car and drive back to England. Maybe I would have, too, if I hadn’t seen the arcade.

‘Smiley’s’ it was called. In my day it had been ‘Anne’s Amusements’.

I crossed the road and went in.

My heart raced when I saw the flashing lights and the puggy machines. Christ, it was heaven.

A couple of young girls were over in the race cars. Looked like they needed the exercise too. The sound of machine-gun fire came from over at the shooting games where a couple of lads juddered behind their weapons. An old dear in her slippers was feeding two puggies at once.

I watched them all for a while. Soaked up some of the vibe.

Wandered over to my old favourite. Same place it had always been.

The turf was as green as I remembered and the jockeys looked ready to race.

Chose 1 and 6 just like always.

Soon as I put my coins in, the whole thing lit up. A bugle sounded and everything waited in case anyone else wanted a bet.

At the sound of the bell, off they went.

6 got away like shit off a shovel. Led the field all the way to the three quarter mark then stopped as if it had been shot.

1 was hanging in the rear. 3 and 4 in the middle sprinted home with 4 winning by a nose.

Didn’t mind losing, though. It was just good to know that not everything in the world had changed.

Before I could try again, a voice piped up from one of the money fountains.

Can you watch my space? the lad said, his basin cut sorely in need of straightening. Kid hadn’t been there when I walked in, I could have sworn.

It was a 2p machine he was at, the kind I was weaned on. Promise the world, they do. Feed in your change and watch it fall. Always amazed me how many coins could balance on the edge without dropping. One time I tipped the whole thing up. An alarm went off and the thing started flashing and screaming. Got me banned for a week, that did.

Eh? I said like I hadn’t heard.

Just dropped a key-ring and it’s not come out. Can you watch my space?

I looked straight at him. Something stirred down below. First time in years I’d felt the twitch.

Here, hold this, he said, passing me his purse and going over to the desk.

My jaws clamped and I had to wipe the sweat from my face.

I watched him explain to the bloke and point over. Had me worried until the bloke put his newspaper down and picked up a huge bunch of keys.

He opened machine and I stood behind them both.

The kid was cute. His hair might have needed a trim, but it was clean and soft. I wanted to reach out and touch, but I kept my hands behind my back, squeezing the purse tight.

No key-ring there, lad, the bloke said, his arm inside up to his elbow like he was helping the thing give birth.

It went down, didn’t it Mister. The boy looked at me, his eyes flecked like circles of brown sugar.

Aye, I said. A minute ago.

The kid smiled. I could have kissed him there and then.

I’ll get another, hang on, the guy said and left us alone again.

You a puff? the boy asked when we were alone.

Yes, I said, then thought better of it. No, I tried, but it didn’t seem any better. I’m homo-sexual.

So am I. My teacher told us. I could have wet myself. Managed to cough away the laughter.

What’s your name? I tried to think about what my therapist would have said. Picked one of his wisdoms from the pack. Problem was all his techniques were set to stop me picking up little boys. We never talked about what to do when it was the other way around.

Sean, he said. Sean McArthur.

I’d known a couple of McArthurs way back when. Mean bunch. Hard as the coal faces their dad mined.

Come to my house, Sean said. There’s a couple of cans in the fridge. To say thanks, like. When he said that I got suspicious. Looked round for wires or police or cameras. Didn’t spot anything. It’s over the pet shop, he told me. I could see it from where I stood. There’s nobody in.

My heart felt like it had grown too big for my chest, as if my insides were getting squashed together and spinning in a washing machine.

The bloke behind the desk threw a key-ring over. Sean caught one-handed.

We’ve got a pool table, Sean said.

I like a game of pool, I told him and followed him out onto the street.

We went round the back of the pet shop and climbed the steps.

I got to follow him. Feasted on his slender hips and tiny buttocks.

At the top he put in the key and opened the door. I took the chance to reach out and touch his cheek. It was soft as a rose.

Come on, he said through a grin.

My body was shaking as I entered. Could feel the insides of my thighs trembling and Roger downstairs was getting bigger and bigger. The sooner I got Roger out to play the better.

The smell of cats brought me round like smelling salts. I kicked the litter tray, spilling a turd and a handful of the litter onto the floor.

Sorry, I said. I could hear the panic in my voice. I shouldn’t have been there. Needed to get out. But Roger was calling at me and I was all confused.

I fell to my knees and started scooping. Good thing for me the turd was hard and dry.

Don’t be daft, Sean said. Let me get those beers.

I needn’t have bothered cleaning up the mess. Whole place was a dump. The entrance was the cat’s scratching post. On the wall behind the phone, loads of names and numbers had been written on the wall. Reminded me of the cells I’d lived in not so long before.

Sean returned with a couple of cans. Passed one over to me then pulled a ring on his.

How old are you? I asked.

Old enough, he said and took a long gulp.

I followed suit. Downed the thing in one. Tried to get myself a sense of perspective. Decided I should leave before things got out of hand.

Want that game of pool, then? I should have said no, course I should. Nodded my head instead.

I followed him to another door. It was becoming something of a habit.

Here, he said, opening it up and letting me walk in ahead of him.

Aye-aye. If it isn’t Johnny fucking Sullivan. I didn’t recognise the voice, but knew the mouth it came from.

Bill McArthur. I tried to play it casual like we’d seen each other a couple of weeks ago or something.

He stepped out in front of me like a bouncer at a club.

Cat drag you in? Robbie McArthur was behind the door. He wore a vest top so I could see his hairy shoulders. Picked up a cricket bat and held it over his gut.

No, I... and I didn’t bother to say anything else. It was like I was Bob Hoskins at the end of ‘The Long Good Friday’.

You did good Sean. Robbie offered over the bat to the boy. Want first pop?

Reckon, he said, and I tried to get the Hoskins’ smile on my face.

The kid looked like he could hardly lift the thing.

Sure could swing it though.

Hoodwinked

John Campion was always going to do well for himself. Everyone knew it.

Day he packed up and left for college we didn’t reckon on seeing him ever again, not if them tutors could get him to tell stories the way he did down at the tavern. Like he’d swallowed the blarney stone and digested the whole darned thing. Couldn’t burp without embellishing facts and when he puked he threw up a thesaurus.

Truth be stranger than fiction, he’d say before he started. The words I ever tell you about... always got us in a huddle.

Never had to pay for a beer his whole life far as I know.

Turned out we was wrong about never seeing him again.

It was Easter.

He showed up on the mountain without sending word to man nor beast. Carried the rucksack he left with and a bag of books to give to everyone - signed copies of his very own novel.