DOCTOR SHOCK AND THE UNIVERSITY OF STUMP
by
Patrick Regan
Coming soon to an Amazon near you. In the meantime, here’s the first chapter as a teaser.
THE CROWN OF THORNS
I’m sitting in the Crown of Thorns watching the door, snug in the corner like rug bug of old. The place is full of the usual types - list available on request. No I’m sure they’ve all got interesting stories to tell, make you weep, like fat guy there in Boogieman T-shirt throwing the dart, bet he could fill a revolving stand in Wayway’s with just the stuff he’s done since he had his tea. But let’s leave him his privacy, concentrate instead on the old man across the room and the girl behind the bar. Those are the only two in here right now that interest me. The door hasn’t opened.
He’s flat cap and muffler, left his whippet outside, bottle-bottom glasses, uncombed moustache, bristles flecked with crisp bits and bitter, and hairy ears; a nice touch. She should be big and blonde and brassy to complete the picture but she isn’t. Small and dark and young, the boss’s daughter. Just heard her tell the old man her dad’s gone a Council meeting, be back soon. He’s a bit deaf, she had to shout.
This I don’t like, the waiting in full view. If I had the old man’s muffler it would be wrapped high to hide my face, his hat pulled low, just my nose poking through. Who dat man, he man with big nose, draw it painter Bob, we seek that nose, search high and low through all Stump, catch it fore it runs away. But the old man needs them more than me so I just sit and wait nursing a pint of Titan, foul stuff. They brew it locally, hence the name, Captain of the Titan came from Stump, little known fact that’s not so surprising. I could have selected something else of course from Councillor Jones’ vast range of beers, wines and spirits, a tequila maybe, a frozen daiquiri even, but that would mark me in the girl’s mind for all eternity and I want to be a forgotten man by ten o’clock. That’s the trouble with this job, I let the client choose the venue. I don’t like pubs. Give me a deserted street at night, or a municipal park, or a nice stretch of canal, but pubs, tricky. Too many people in an enclosed space, but not enough to call a crowd you could lose yourself in. Still the man says jump and me the noddy dog says, how high? That’s the way it is. All part the service. Uriah Heep me now.
The door opens and in walks a jippy. Right on time. The dartplayers consider changing their target. The coven in the corner starts hissing and making poo faces. The jippy takes a look round, sees me and heads for the toilet. The old man jumps up, chucks a bag of crisps at him and yells, “Ger ite yer dirty bastud.” The jippy gets the message and runs back out the door. Beertalk accompanies his flight, the darters anxious to be counted with the old man as part of the cheerful band of brothers who saw off the common enemy. They buy him a drink and discuss possible solutions to the jippy problem.
The door opens again. This time it’s Councillor Jones, I know him from all the pointy-finger photographs he’s had in the Evening Signal. He goes over to the bar and talks to his daughter, then shakes hands with the old man. The king’s back in his castle thanking the faithful retainer for repelling the barbarian hordes camped outside his gates. He looks round and sees me. I give him a sign. He comes over.
“You Shock?”
“Easily,” but I mutter that and just nod my head to get the formalities over.
“You’re a hard man to get hold of.”
“You found me.”
He starts to sit down, I stand up.
“Not here,” I say. “I’ll see you in the toilet.” He gets up again. “We don’t want a procession. Give it a couple of minutes then join me.”
The toilet stinks as toilets do, but it’s empty so I’m cheerful. I check the three stalls, spend the two minutes in one feeding the pan with toilet rolls and flushing it so the water reaches the top. I’m reading graffiti when Councillor Jones comes in, ‘Blabby Elvis Rule O.K.’, as if we need to be told.
“Right, well, the thing is, I want somebody...” He’s trying to get right to the point. “What do you call it? What’s the current term? Whacked, hit, liquidated, terminated with extreme whatsit?”
“Try killed.”
“Right.”
I point out the writing on the wall. “Use them.”
He shakes his head. “No, too messy. Don’t want any comebacks, man in my position. You understand?”
“I understand. So who is it?”
“Joe Green, he’s a Councillor, like me.” He gulps, nervously, his jowls wobble, he wipes sweaty hands on his trousers. He’s named the name, begun to negotiate the contract, after months of thinking, planning, trying to find the safest option, finally tracking me down and in this toilet now amid the sweet smell of humanity and cheap disinfectant I see the relief on his face as he passes me the buck. “You know him?”
“Sure. Planning Department,” I say. Everybody knows Councillor Green, pillar of the community.
“He’s not a nice man.”
“Who is?”
“I mean I’ve thought of other ways to get at him, not just...this way. But he’s powerful. Knows too much, about everything in Stump.”
I agree.
“So, will you do it?”
I name a price.
“After it’s done, I’ll pay you then.”
I shake my head.
“How do I know you’ll do it?”
I don’t have time for this. “Trust me.”
“Half now, the rest after.”
“That’s acceptable.”
“Will you take a cheque?”
I almost laugh. “No.”
“But I don’t have that much on me.”
I know for a fact he’s got a safe upstairs jam-packed with royal portraits of which the cessman has no inkling but when I embarked on this career I made myself a set of rules and decided to abide by them. I am the good doctor, my only concern is the well-being of my patients. In Councillor Jones’ case, if I break my rules and insist on the correct payment then he will be put on guard and I will be unable to administer the prescribed treatment. If however I abandon all negotiations and let him off completely then he will lose faith in my abilities and will treat me with contempt. I walk a fine line here. “Take it out the till.”
“May not be enough.”
“Whatever, it’ll do, I’ll collect the balance later.”
“Right, I’ll go and get it then.”
While he’s gone I flush the toilet some more so it wets the floor. I hear the door open, think it’s him for a moment, then decide on caution, lock myself in the stall and listen. Sounds of zip, relief and Titan returning to whence it came. Whoever it was goes out. Councillor Jones is taking his time, probably working out how much he can stash away in the back of the till and still keep me merry. I flush it once more for luck, wipe the handle then go to the machine on the wall, bang the button with my elbow and dry my hands. Etched in the drier, words of silver, ‘Happy chaps hang in Hel’. A conventional sentiment, poorly expressed.
Jones comes in now all sweaty-puffed.
“That bloody jippy just came back, sorted him out though, give him a mouthful, wunner show his face rind ere agen.” He slips into the guttural. The exercise of power, upholding the common cause of his tribe, yet another delicate moment.
“What’s all this water?”
“Where’s my money?”
“Bloody floor’s soakin’.”
“Money.”
There are members of my profession who will spend hours discussing the relative merits of the products of Mr. Smith and Mr. Wesson, Mr. Beretta, Mr. Uzi, give me a good dictionary any day, we need only learn the words of power. He pulls his eyes away from the floor to meet mine, reaches in his trouser pocket and hands me a fistful of notes.
“Quiet night,” he says. “That’s all there is.”
I take the money and now I have his attention, “Any particular method?”
“What do you mean?”
“Sometimes the client specifies how he wishes the victim to meet his end. Part of the service.”
“Haven’t thought about it. Just want him dead, that’s all.”
“Fair enough.”
“Just remember...” He issues the usual threats, tells me how much power he thinks he wields, lets me know what will happen should I be caught and let slip his name to Bob, informs me that blackmail is an ugly word, a phrase which has all the potency of ‘I remember this when it was all fields’, but he seems pleased with it, warns me that after he’s paid the balance of my account he never wants to see me again, and here was I hoping this shared experience would make us mates. He ends with the chestnut “...I’ve got friends in the Blabby Elvis.”
That one always makes me want to laugh but I’ve trained myself to resist the impulse and I listen politely throughout. What does catch me off guard is at the end of his speech he grabs my hand and shakes it. The politician’s way I guess but unnerving all the same. I see all my options suddenly curtailed.
“It’s coming from over there.”
“What?” he asks.
“The water.” I point to the stall. “Toilet must’ve backed up.”
“Shit.”
I forgive the language as it seems apposite and lead him over to take a look. When he sees the toilet bowl full of water he swears again, so I deem his last words not worth recording. It’s easy enough to trip him up and send him head first into the bowl and since no one is looking I could take credit for getting his head to smash on the cistern as he falls rendering him unconscious, but that was an accident, I intended to use the rocksock in my pocket. So I hold his head under the water for the required time, feel his neck for the sign of death, remove his wallet then return to my seat and half-full pint of Titan. Now comes the hard part, I’ve got to drink the rest of it. I force it down then go to the jukebox and check out the titles. I’m looking for something appropriate, one eye on the door to the gents, if someone feels the call now I’m done and out of here, all plans through the winder. I choose one of Bobby Darin’s greatest hits then sit down and tap my foot till the jippy comes running back in. He neatly side-steps the dartmen, ignores the banshee screams and heads straight for the toilet. I get up and leave the Crown of Thorns, Bobby belting it out behind me.
Back home I wash, change my clothes, have something to eat then put my feet up and start reading Arthur Barratt’s Pottinger, a tale of the Four Towns, Stump before Stump, real heritage stuff. Gripping it is not and my mind wanders to the implications of handshakes. Idly I poke the fire, arranging the coals around Councillor Jones’ wallet, of which not much remains now. The notes I took from it and the money he gave me lie together on the table awaiting the return of Algy. There’s a knock at the door. It’s the old man from the Crown of Thorns.
“Everything all right?”
“No problem,” he says pulling up a chair to the fire and lighting a cigarette. He picks the hair out of his ears and tosses it onto the ashes of the wallet.
“Ginger get out?”
“Yeah,” taking off the cap and the muffler. “He didn’t have much time though. They all wanted to rush right in and get him but I told them we should work out a plan of attack, first.”
“Jump on the jippy and kick him senseless.”
“That was roughly it but I threw in a few reminiscences about D-Day to drag the time.”
“I bet they liked that.”
“I was the hero of the hour, commanded respect, they had to listen.” He pulls off his glasses then his moustache.
“Any awkward questions?”
“No. The window was open, the good Councillor was dead, his wallet was gone and so was the jippy.” Algy took off his wig and scratched around in his ginger hair. “I left before Elvis got there, under cover of the wailing women. Bedlam. The barmaid got pretty upset.”
“Daughters do that.”
“What’s that?” He was eyeing the money on the table.
“Bonus. Split it with Ginger when you see him.”
Thursday morning, early, the sky so clear both the sun and the moon are shining, I stroll along the canal out of Stump and into the country. I see him up ahead, sitting in the usual place, fishing. This is a good spot, a straight stretch , plenty of warning should someone happen along, low hedges either side the canal so you can check the fields beyond, we’ve met here many times. Never in the summer though, too many boats, too many people, joggers and kids from the estates that snake out of Stump in every direction, but in the autumn or winter, or spring, like now, it’s perfect. He looks up as I approach, smiles. I stand next to him, watch while he fixes a maggot to his hook.
“Tell me,” he says as the thing squirms, “who did he want you to kill?”
“You.”
He laughs. “I knew it. The cakey bugger.” He casts his line. Presume the maggot’s drowning now, great life. “You did a good job, but then again you always do.” He hands me an envelope. I don’t open it, not the done thing, just put it in my pocket. Then he sees the brick.
“What’s that for?”
“This,” I say, smashing it against the side of his head. Carried that brick half a mile, never one around when you need it. I toss it into the canal then push Councillor Green in after. Wait awhile just to make sure then I go home. Splish splash.
(“Doctor Shock and the University of Stump” was first published by the Inverted Tree Press in 1996. Copyright: Patrick Regan 1996.)
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