Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 124, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 757 & 758, September/October 2004

But maybe he inherited something else from our stevedore grandfather. Like instinct. With no more effort than catching a fly, he opens his hand and takes the rod, the sound a dull smack in the silence. Patrick looks stunned and tries to pull it clear. Malcolm pulls back, only harder. As Patrick hurls towards him, my big brother steps forward and puts out his elbow, catching him under the chin with a dull crack. Patrick flies backwards then stands still, eyes filling with what looks like unimaginable pain and surprise.

When he doesn’t move after that, and his head droops forward over his chest, I go for a look-see. Patrick is impaled on a length of mild steel sticking out of the storage rack. I turn to look at Malcolm, but he’s fainted dead away, unaware of what he’s done.

Later that night, I open the door to the Chairman’s office. The building is deserted and I’ve got Patrick’s keys to let me in. I’m wearing gloves and a floppy hat pulled over my face just in case the security cameras are loaded.

He’s sitting at his desk, pounding keys. He’s like a fat spider, counting his worth, and I know that what he wanted his men to do to me and Uncle Howard was no more than another accounting principle, a bookkeeping procedure. It’s not personal, because I don’t think revenge is a concept he knows. I turned him down, which offended him, and had to be seen to suffer the consequences. To him, it’s part of the business.

And that’s why I can’t let this go. Because when he finds out about Patrick and Hooper, and how they failed to punish one old man or one old lady, he won’t stop. It won’t be because of his men — he doesn’t see them as anything more than tools — but because of his twisted sense of pride. He’ll simply order someone else — someone Idon’t know, most likely from one of the gangs — to complete the job instead. Procedure.

I snick the door shut and leave the building. Behind me, the Chairman has hosted his last meeting. He’s sitting at his desk, and clutched in his pudgy fingers is a small twist of dark, shiny dreadlock. It’s not much, but sufficient to show signs of a struggle.

They won’t find Hooper, of course. Well, not for a while, anyway. And when they do, they’ll find Patrick, his fingerprints on the hook which killed his Yardie colleague. The scattering of white powder and money on the floor will do the rest.

As for Malcolm, he’ll forget about it in time. There was a scrap, he intervened, and we left. Who knows what happened to the bad men?

After all, thieves fall out. They’re known for it.

Hen Party by Neil Schofield

Neil Schofield currently turns his satirical eye on his native country from a little distance; for the past few years he’s lived in France, where he finds he has a better perspective on his countrymen and their habits. In this new tale we should perhaps says it is his countrywomen who come under caustic scrutiny. That and the life of the aspiring middle class. Mr. Schofield is a former finalist in the EQMM Readers Award competition.

* * *

What I’m going to do is this: I’m going to lie here for a bit on the sofa with my glass of scotch and think for a bit. That’s all I have to do for the moment. I’m thinking back to a day — almost exactly a year ago — when we were all together for the last time, Doug, Harry, Bill, and me. It was a balmy summer day, with a blue, blue sky with just a few little skeins of cloud here and there and the gentlest of summer breezes whiffling in the trees. And we were all sitting around the remains of the barbeque at Doug’s house. The wives had left, half an hour before. Suzanne, Doug’s wife, a superb, but I really mean superb blonde on the classic Hollywood pattern, had stood up and said, “All right, girls.”

And with a single movement, the other three had got up in formation. It was as though they were all radio-controlled and operating on the same frequency.

Caroline looked at me, and said, “Don’t drink too much, Tom.” I flapped a lazy hand at her.

And then they were off, the four of them, across the lawn, across the avenue to Bill’s house. And there we were, wives on one side of the road, us on the other. If I think really carefully about that afternoon, it’s Doug I remember most clearly.

Doug