Short Story (WARNING: Small bit graphic!)

ballyrhy86

I'd love some feed back on this story I just finished. Thanks!

Blood and Laughter

Was the man fat? No, he was f*cking corpulent. The kind of man who could sh*t himself and not notice, just storing it up there in between his arse cheeks. I turn away in disgust from the naked body laid flat on its back across the worn old carpet. But I had to take the photos the old detective wanted me to. Every angle was accounted for, the bloody smile across his neck, the bloody nubs of his finger, the raw bloodied skin on his heels. What animal had dragged this fat bastard across the carpet?

Jimmy Kelly directs me to the drag marks then. “Snap them young man,” he says, pointing at the bloody streaks, “trace them from the bathroom right to his heels.” There was the blood spatter in the jacks as well, blood sprayed across the tiles in a slanted line, like a drunkard pissing blood against a back alley wall. Blood has congealed in the toilet bowl and pooled around the base. What the f*ck happened in here? The fat-man sits naked on the bog and just lets this guy just walk up to him and slash his f*cking throat? I picture it then, an Aryan beast grabbing the fat man by his sweaty mop of black hair, jerking back his head and pulling the blade across his neck. The blood sprays out across the room as the killer laughs with glee. I photograph it all then flick through the images on the viewfinder, checking for quality and searing the bloody shambles into my mind.

This makes five in four days. A common thread: sh*thole apartments and down-and-outs with their throats slashed. The killer’s zone is small: the Coombe; Carmen’s Hall, Garden Lane, Swift’s Alley. This city had never seen the likes. The Metro Gardaí are under pressure, the station at Kevin Street is just around the corner and not a soul there has a beat on the man. Vague descriptions litter the papers, the Aryan I picture in my mind slashing necks and laughing, a beetle browed scumbag with animal eyes, a well-dressed professional with a mad man’s arrogance, the Metro, the Sun, the Star, none of them agree. Truth is it could be anyone, and the city is sh*tting itself.

I walk back to the station and I’m a bundle of nerves. I hate this part, the space between taking the photos and getting them safely onto a hard-drive. What if I get there and all I have is a blank memory card? There can be no second chances, the fat man’s on a slab in the city morgue. On the other side of the road is a big German tourist gaping up at Saint Patrick’s like God Himself built it. Get the f*ck home matey, or you’ll have a cell to yourself for a week and your balls kicked out through your ears. I make the station at half six in the evening and practically weep as the creaking Dell hums and beeps its way to life. “Your password will expire in six days. Do you want to change it now?” No I want to get these pictures off my f*cking camera before my f*cking head explodes. The pictures are good thank God, now get them big glossies printed out, drop them down to Kelly and wash your hands of the fat, dead bastard.

I set off for home, walking through quiet, empty streets. I live here you know, in the kill zone, where fear stinks up the streets. Four days in hell, that warm week in June that promises summer but lies. People hurry home and bolt their doors. No evenings spent pottering around town and no late walks in people’s park. Home; lock the door; safe. All I want to do now is head for my parents, leave this f*cking city, run for the west. I can wait there until this monster gets caught or gets bored of Dublin’s bottom dwellers and lets me out of his clutches. What’ll they do, fire me? Absenteeism? I’m public sector baby; unless I’m the f*cking killer then I’m golden. The thought makes up my mind. Pack up the feshty and head home for mammy’s dinners and the aul buck’s boozing. A spring in my step now, I bound up the building’s stairs to my apartment on Oliver Bond Street, slick urban cubes for slick urban professionals. I throw a few shirts, a couple of pairs of jeans and some jocks in the gear bag, there’s ne’er a sock dry in the house. Mammy will have some.

I lied earlier by the way. The cops do have a beat on the man. Blond hairs stuck in drying blood, big footprints in sticky pools of the stuff, my Aryan nightmare come to life. What did we ever do to the f*cking Germans? I know what you’re thinking: Germans, that’s f*cking racist, it could be any blond c*nt. I see it in the pictures though, I see his ghost in them, I see his shadow in the glossies of every blood-f*cked apartment. I don’t know why, I don’t know if I’m right, I just know what I see. Others see it too. Jimmy Kelly for one. We don’t get killers like this here, he says, he must be a tourist. Yeah I’m right f*cking with you Jimmy.

I throw the bag on the bed and sidle towards the window past the binoculars on their tripod. Nothing creepy, they’re just to keep an eye on the neighbourhood. I place my forehead against the cool glass and take a look straight down at the street. That’s him, out for his walk, right by the front door of my apartment block. Tonight I’ll have a follow. I lied again you see. He’s my friend this German demon, I know exactly who the killer is. He is my window to the world I always dreamed of. And tonight I’ll dream of blood and laughter.

.............................................

“Well it’s about f*cking time,” Jimmy says. “Five men dead and four different detectives chasing the same f*cking killer. What were you thinking?” His frustrations are valid and the sergeant-in-charge knows it. The murders are coming in thick and fast and policy dictates a fresh body on each one. Stupid, when the same f*cker’s offing them all. They’ve a bona fide spree killer on their hands.

“Yeah, well, we didn’t know what we had Jimmy.” Bill Higgins pleads. “Look you’re in charge now. It’s all yours, you call the shots and you catch this sick bastard, please.”

“I’ll do what I can, but Christ Bill,” Jimmy tells him, shaking his head and not giving the boss an inch. He’s sticking the knife in, but in truth Jimmy doesn’t know if he could have made any difference. He would’ve liked to have been given the chance though.

“I know, I apologise. You’ll have to do whatever you’re doing quick, because I’ve got some bad news.” Jimmy sits forward and bows his head almost between his knees, running his hands through his thinning hair. Bad news is all he f*cking needs. Bill continues, “The commissioner got a call from the minister this morning and he wants the army to come in.”

“Jesus Christ Bill,” Jimmy says to the floor, his still bowed and hands flat on the crown of his head.

“He wants a heavy presence, curfews, the works. So you have tonight, and tomorrow night maybe.” Bill sits back, bad news delivered and hoping the messenger doesn’t shoot his f*cking balls off.

“Ah Christ Bill. One night?” Jimmy balls his hands into fists, pulling loose a few more hairs he can’t afford to lose.

Bill decides it’s time for the good news. “Look Jimmy, I’ve the whole station out there waiting for you. You tell them what you need and I’ll make sure they listen to you.”

Jimmy gets to his feet and straightens his back, standing tall and narrow and defiant. “You’re looking for miracles Bill.”

Now it’s Bill’s turn to bow his head. “I know I am,” he mumbles. “Thanks Jimmy.”

.............................................

The meeting room at Kevin Street Garda Station is packed to capacity. Every Guard the station has to offer is packed into the place and it’s standing room only. The room rumbles with whispered conversations and shuffling feet. “Okay attention everyone, eyes on me,” says Detective Sergeant Jimmy Kelly. The rumble continues. “Shut your f*cking mouths,” he snaps. The rumble ceases. Jimmy stands up tall in front of them and runs his eyes across the room. “Okay ladies and gentlemen, you know why you’re here. We’ve got a bad man in the neighbourhood and it’s time to make him stop.” Some nod along with Jimmy while others absently pick their noses. Jimmy continues on. “Here’s what I want. I want you to go home and find your boozing clothes. Run them under the bed and round the back garden and get them covered in dust and muck and sh*t. Put them on you, put on an old pair of runners, pack a pair of cuffs and pack any bit of heat you’ve got hidden away.” A few of the assembled chuckle. This is starting to sound good, it’s starting to sound like fun. “Then you go out and you hit the streets. Keep your wits about you but ignore the pushers and the prozzies and wife beaters. Tonight is not about a Garda presence. Tonight is not about protecting the innocent. Tonight is about catching that demented f*cker and putting him away.” More are nodding their heads now, and less are picking their noses. Some remain unconvinced.

A tall garda with his arms crossed shouts up from the back, “And what exactly are we trying to catch, Jimmy?” he asks, a note of sarcasm in his tone.

“Garda Barry,” Jimmy says addressing the tall Garda with the greying hair and the arrogant look, “and all the rest of you I’m sure, know exactly what we have on this guy. We have blond hair and big footprints.” Jimmy spreads his empty arms wide. “That’s it folks, that’s all we have. And I want you to forget about it. Don’t mind that sh*t, ignore it. Instead I want you to hit every sh*thole pub, every offy, every needle exchange, every clinic, every f*cking spot you can think of where a man might find a bum that he can follow home. I want you sitting on street corners with the homeless in a cardboard box with half a sh*t in your pants. I want you sitting in the backs of pubs with a pint in front of you, eyeing every asshole who walks in the door. Every f*cking one of you is undercover tonight. And you’re not looking for a blond-haired, blue-eyed monster. You’re looking at any c*nt who doesn’t look like he belongs. He might be too smartly dressed, too quiet, too sober, too shifty, too handsome, too ugly, too f*cking anything. You grab him, you get cuffs on him and you bring him in. Arrest each other, I couldn’t give a sh*t.” Jimmy shrugs his shoulders and gives them an easy smile. “It’ll happen too, Christ knows, and it’ll be in the f*cking papers.” The room rumbles with nervous laughter. “Anyway f*ck that. F*ck the evidence too. We get the man, we get the confession and then we get the evidence, okay?”

Jimmy had opened himself up for questions and naturally some dickhead obliges. “What’s with the rush sir? This whole thing sounds like a recipe for, ah, something to go wrong. I think we should take a more patient approach,” says a young lady Garda seated near the front. She’s all heavy make-up and fat arse. Homely thinks Jimmy, homely as a mangy sow.

Jimmy ignores the stupid question, and the condescending bitch. He addresses the room. “Tomorrow the army comes in, you may have heard. With them they will bring curfews, they will bring well meaning young men in spick and span uniforms on every street corner. They will keep the streets empty and law in order. Tomorrow,” Kelly stressing the word to the point of breaking, “the killer looks around and says ‘Well f*ck, time to hit the road. Too much heat here, too many eyes, no more fun to be had.’ He goes to Belfast, he goes to Galway, he goes to London, to Barcelona, to wherever the f*ck he wants, and he starts again. And it might not be bums no-one gives a f*ck about anymore. It might be teenage girls, or some mother’s son, it might be your brother or your mother.”

Jimmy turns to face the board behind him where big blown up glossies of five dead men, all with their throats slashed, loom above and around him. “You see this here,” he says, waving a hand at the wall of pictures, “this past week was his coming out party.” Jimmy says, knowing the truth of it, seeing it right in front of him. “These five dead bodies were the result of years of pent up frustration and aggression coming out in one big ugly spurt. This is when he’s at his worst though, when he’s making mistakes and f*cking up and learning from it. This is our best and only chance to catch him. Tomorrow he’s gone, he’s in the wind, he’s not our problem. And you make think that’s fine then get up and go home because I don’t f*cking want you here.

“The rest of, if you don’t catch him tonight then next week or the week after you’ll flick on the news. You’ll hear about some girl going missing in Carlow, you’ll hear about a young man getting his throat slit in Berlin, and you’ll think that maybe that’s our man. And you’ll think the same f*cking thing about every man, woman or child who gets their head half cut off for the rest of your f*cking life.”

.............................................

Jimmy Kelly sits slouched on a busted stool in the rear of The Line Inn, supping on a Guinness and eyeing up the locals. He has The Racing Post spread out on the table in front of him and occasionally draws a circle round a name or thoughtfully turns a page. Every time the front door creaks open he takes a careful look at those who enter. Nothing has struck him as odd just yet. Tired old men sitting at the bar with their backs bent, tough young locals in a circle laughing and drinking hard, the odd bug-eyed druggy sniffing around the barman for a free drink. Earlier a group of bewildered looking tourists had busted through the door then quickly left.

Jimmy takes another pull on his drink and decides it’s almost time to move on. It’s getting near the half twelve and Kelly wants to be out on the streets when the pubs turn out. A big fat f*ck rolls through the door and barrels into the circle of youngsters. They push him towards the bar, wrinkling their noses at the smell and laughing at him as he falls amongst the barstools. He is dressed in worn-out clothes and reeks of piss and drink. Jimmy thinks the old boozer is probably looking for a carry-out before the pubs shut up shop. He eyes the man’s unsteady progress towards the bar and in him he sees a victim, a likely target. How many more of these victims does The Coombe hold, one for every pub and half a hundred more at home with a plastic bag full of cans. So many victims and only one night to find the man hunting them. Someone will spot the f*ck Jimmy thinks, someone will get lucky and bring the bastard in.

He spots a familiar face then, and nods at a fellow traveller walking in the door, a colleague on the self-same quest. God help us. Jimmy downs the rest of his Guinness, the bitter dregs and the creamy head, and makes his way for the side door. He drags a battered box of cigarettes from his pocket as he walks, and sparks one up once he exits the doorway. The rain has come at last and Jimmy huddles back under the recess. The week gone past had promised it, warm and sunny turned to hot and muggy and that meant heavy rain was on its way. He takes a deep drag, smoke filling lungs that had felt empty without it. He watches the rain bounce in the filth of the back alley. The nicotine sets synapses firing in his mind and through tiredness and jumbled thoughts a pure recollection hits him like a dig to the stomach. The young man, the fellow traveller, tall, blond and not a f*cking Guard at all.

Jimmy fires the butt into the heavy falling rain, sparks dying in the rain, and spins back in through the door. The photographer standing at the bar turns and spots him and turns running out the front entrance. Jimmy gives chase, bustling through the wall of young boozers and out the still swinging door. The big photographer is sprinting down the alley opposite and Jimmy is flat out after him. Rain pounds down in the still warm night and the ground in the alley is loose underfoot. The killer turns a corner and Jimmy is running and wild and slipping and still close on his heels. He turns the corner and sliver flashes in his eyes and he ducks his head into it. The blade slashes across his scalp and blood and rain blinds him. Then his head is jerked back, more hair coming loose in that sick c*nt’s fist. The blade slashes deep into his neck, and blood pours out. Blood and laughter.

pickarooney

Most of this was very good, very compelling and well-written. There's a bit of a Se7en feel mixed with Taxi Driver. A couple of remarks and questions:

The switch from first to third person is a bit jarring.

I thought the misdirection where the photographer claimed to know the killer rather than be him was a bit kludgy and obvious.

'Corpulent' just means 'fat', really. You need a word that better describes the obese nature of the victim such as 'gargantuan', 'elephantine' or simply 'morbidly obese' (although morbidly is a bit redundant for a corpse I guess).

'Fresh body' in the first paragraph of the second section is confusing, perhaps deliberately so? After a couple of re-reads I understood it to mean a new officer rather than a recently deceased corpse but it would be better if it didn't require re-reading.

The tenses jump about a bit, particularly in the beginning. You slip into past tense with 'had to take' and 'was accounted for'. 'Had dragged' should probably be 'has dragged' in keeping with this.

The remark about the German tourist threw me and I only made the connection with the 'Aryan' comment later on. Maybe make the Geman angle clearer earlier on?

When Bill and Jimmy start speaking it would be good if we knew what rank each had from the outset.

You use 'packed' twice in succession at the start of section three.

What kind of gardai are permitted to 'pack heat'? Genuine question - is it a special branch thing or is there a vice squad in the gardai? Would they use the term 'heat'?

More are nodding their heads now, and less are picking their noses.

Should be 'fewer' (being really pedantic here)

I'm not sure exactly if guard and garda need capital letters but keep it consistent.

Jimmy's misogyny seems a bit unwarranted and instantly makes him less likeable, IMO.
I don't think the bit with the lady garda adds anything.

make think

may think

ballyrhy86

pickarooney wrote: »

The switch from first to third person is a bit jarring.

Would it be better if I did a bit of scene setting introducing the third person perspective? Meanwhile at the garda station DSergeant Jimmy Kelly is... (except not so cliched!).

pickarooney wrote: »

I thought the misdirection where the photographer claimed to know the killer rather than be him was a bit kludgy and obvious.

Definitely. I'll have to work on that whole section. To be honest I wrote that first part with no idea where the story was going. I had to retrofit that section when I came up with the rest of the story and it still doesn't quite work.

pickarooney wrote: »

'Corpulent' just means 'fat', really. You need a word that better describes the obese nature of the victim such as 'gargantuan', 'elephantine' or simply 'morbidly obese' (although morbidly is a bit redundant for a corpse I guess).

I thought it was quite descriptive! I'll think about replacing it though...

pickarooney wrote: »

'Fresh body' in the first paragraph of the second section is confusing, perhaps deliberately so? After a couple of re-reads I understood it to mean a new officer rather than a recently deceased corpse but it would be better if it didn't require re-reading.

I may change that then so. It's not meant to be unclear or a pun or anything.

pickarooney wrote: »

The tenses jump about a bit, particularly in the beginning. You slip into past tense with 'had to take' and 'was accounted for'. 'Had dragged' should probably be 'has dragged' in keeping with this.

Yeah I wrote it in the past tense then changed it to the present tense. I'll tidy that up.

pickarooney wrote: »

The remark about the German tourist threw me and I only made the connection with the 'Aryan' comment later on. Maybe make the Geman angle clearer earlier on?

The German thing is the photographer's fantasy image of himself. I'm not sure if it works or comes across too well? I might lose that altogether or else, as you say, make it clearer earlier on.

pickarooney wrote: »

When Bill and Jimmy start speaking it would be good if we knew what rank each had from the outset.

I'll change that.

pickarooney wrote: »

You use 'packed' twice in succession at the start of section three.

I'll change that.

pickarooney wrote: »

What kind of gardai are permitted to 'pack heat'? Genuine question - is it a special branch thing or is there a vice squad in the gardai? Would they use the term 'heat'?

I honestly don't know. I meant to imply that the assembled aren't necessarily allowed to carry a weapon and that Jimmy was suggesting something not strictly legal (hence the chuckle after the comment). I probably should look into that and clarify the whole situation one way or the other (and lose the Americanism!).

pickarooney wrote: »

Jimmy's misogyny seems a bit unwarranted and instantly makes him less likeable, IMO.
I don't think the bit with the lady garda adds anything.

I think you're right. Really all I wanted to suggest here was that Jimmy does not know all of those assembled by name. This is to set up the fact that he when recognises the photographer in the pub, he thinks it's fellow guard (then when he goes for a cigarette he realises that it's the photographer from earlier on).

echo beach

pickarooney wrote: »

Jimmy's misogyny seems a bit unwarranted and instantly makes him less likeable, IMO.
I don't think the bit with the lady garda adds anything.

I thought it was setting them up for the inevitable romantic encounter between characters of the opposite sex who start off hating each other.:)
If that isn't going to happen then there isn't much point in mentioning her at all.

Overall I enjoyed it although it does need a bit of tidying up.