As a thank you for being a member of my book club, I have a exclusive short story for you.
This can be read on the bus to work or in your lunch hour, basically you can read it anywhere.
Beta Reader feedback on Retribution has been very positive with quite a few people asking me to turn this into a novella or a full blown novel; something you’ll be pleased to know I’m considering.
Retribution: A compelling Detective Tom Blake short story
Ex-boxer Albert Townsend led a pretty solitary existence. He'd been alone ever since his wife died of a heart attack in 1991. Some thieving teenager barged her over onto the concrete walkway outside their council flat on the Heath Hayes estate and robbed her purse containing her pension money. The authorities never caught the heartless kid who, if he was still breathing, would now be in his mid-forties.
One Friday afternoon, whilst sat on the toilet in the working men's club on the estate, Albert overheard two scrotes discussing their past criminality.
‘Never forget this old bitch I did with a pillow. Her veiny legs flapping about on the duvet made me wanna puke. I mean, how stupid can you get? Stuffing three grand in a shoe box under the bed: couldn't believe my luck. Emptied a pile of old army photos onto the carpet and there it was staring at me like frigging treasure. Her old man would be turning in his grave, stupid old bag deserved it,’ the first man boasted callously.
‘Doddering old bluebloods: money’s no good to ’em, they never go out! I bet you had some fun with that wedge?’
‘Too right, lasted about two weeks. Spunked the lot on gear, women and a few days in Blackpool with some of the lads from down the social – top gig that was. We didn’t sleep for three days! Couldn’t even afford tickets back home, had to jump the train,’ he laughed.
‘Pisser. My first was an old bag as well. I was a kid. ’91, I think it was.’
‘Shit, you started early?’
‘Got to, an’t ya? Wunna catch me working in some shit factory like a robot. Bowled her over on one of the walkways on Wade Court and took her purse. Put the old bag out of her misery, she could hardly walk anyway,’ the other man said rubbing the back of his leg.
‘That still hurting?’
‘Killing me, friggin’ dog.’
Tears welled in Albert’s eyes. Anger rising like a demon, he gritted his teeth, struggling to comprehend what he had just heard. The man spoke of his beloved Hilda as if she was an irrelevant piece of rubbish; it broke his heart to hear.
The seventy-nine-year-old knew he’d be no match for this vile pair: his arthritic knee slowed him down these days. But there was nothing wrong with his fists and he still packed a decent punch, he thought, waiting until the gents’ door shut before flushing. He washed his hands and the tears from his face, then shuffled back into the bar. The pair were prancing around the pool table like they owned the place.
Shaken to the core, he sat back down at the table in the corner, took a nerve-calming gulp of his brown ale and observed these men. This generation of criminals had no respect. There was no honour among thieves anymore, not like back in the sixties when he worked the doors for notorious club owners, the Wilder brothers.
Back in his day, people treated their elders with respect and even criminals never robbed off the working class, only banks, wage vans and bookies; they could bloody afford to lose money. Now it was all drugs, knives and stamping on people's heads. Scum like that needed putting down with a lethal injection.
If only he was thirty years younger, he’d have given them a beating they’d never forget, no messing. He finished his pint and was about to get another when he saw them slip their coats on and make their way to the exit. He waited until they were outside before following them. Eyeballing them at a safe distance, he noticed one had a swastika tattooed behind his ear; the one who was limping a little.
****
Detective Inspector Tom Blake and Detective Sergeant Jon Murphy sat on the sofa at Flat 38 Wade Court on the Heath Hayes estate, sipping tea from Spode fine china cups. Mrs Wakefield’s flat had been broken into twenty-four hours ago, and normally this would have been a job for a couple of plods, but because she'd actually confronted the intruders and they’d tried to assault her before fleeing with nasty dog bites, Blake thought it was wise to follow up. Her trusty Staffordshire Bull Terrier had taken a chunk out of one of the scrotes’ legs and she’d had the presence of mind to leave the blood on the hallway carpet.
Forensics had identified it as belonging to Kane Dwyer: a nasty piece of work who’d been inside several times since he was a teenager. His speciality was burgling vulnerable pensioners, mainly widows, but thankfully on this occasion the pariah had got his comeuppance. Over the years, they’d arrested him a few times so Blake was keen to get him banged up before he ruined any more lives. Unfortunately, Dwyer’s council house on the neighbouring estate appeared to have been empty for days and, so far, there had been no sightings of him on the Heath Hayes. People tended to clam up when the police came calling.
‘This is the second time since my Wilf passed away. I'm not bloody scared of them. We lived through Hitler’s reign of terror. My mother used to tell me stories about the war, although I was only two years old when it finished in ’45,’ she said lifting the tea cozy and pouring another cup for herself from the teapot.
‘We know who one of the men is: Kane Dwyer. There's a warrant out for his arrest, so it’s only a matter of time before he's caught. But, as yet, we have no leads on the other man. I'm sure Dwyer will squeal when we get hold of him, he usually does,’ Blake said, glancing at DS Murphy.
‘If they come near the flat again, I’ll run the pair through with Wilf’s old bayonet. He did National Service in Malaya during the rubber plantation crisis in 1956, you know.’
‘Please tell me you haven't got an army-issue bayonet on the premises, Mrs Wakefield?’
‘I’m on my own, gotta protect myself. I don’t mean to be rude, Inspector, but it’s taken you lot a while to follow up after that nice lady PC and forensics man came and took all those samples. Thank god for my Bessy,’ she glanced at the portly brown dog sat by the gas fire staring intently at them.
DS Murphy couldn't help but smirk. ‘We understand you must have been very frightened, but you shouldn't try and tackle burglars, especially with a big knife. Those things are like swords. Don't worry, you’re not in any trouble, but I'm sorry to say we’ll be taking it off you before we leave. Isn't that right, Inspector Blake?’
‘’Fraid so, Mrs Wakefield. We can't have people taking the law into their own hands. Sadly, it's a very different world we live in these days; we’re governed by a set of laws that don't always seem fair, but that’s just the way it is.’
She eased out of the chair and padded over to a door behind the sofa. Opening it, she leaned inside the airing cupboard and pulled out a wooden broom handle with a menacing twenty-inch bayonet carpet-taped tightly on the end like a mediaeval spear.
Blake's eyebrows rose as he looked at Murphy in disbelief at the highly polished weapon.
‘Wilf said he only used it once, on a terrorist who tried to get inside the billet while they were all sleeping.’
‘You mean that thing actually killed somebody?’
‘No! He just stuck him in the arm, like pricking a sausage. That’s what he said.’
‘Ah, I see.’
‘Did any of your neighbours see these men leaving your property?’ Blake asked.
‘I've spoken to Sheila next door, but she was down the bingo when it happened. And the man who lives the other side, I don't really know him. He works shifts; nights, I think.’
‘Do you know anyone else on this landing?’ Blake asked her.
‘One or two have died and younger people have moved in. The odd one smiles at you, but they don't really speak. Oh, almost forgot, there's old Albert on the landing below. He might have seen something: doesn't sleep too well, his knee gives him jip.’
‘What number is Albert’s, Mrs Wakefield?’
‘Eighty-two.’
‘OK, you've been very helpful, and I have to say extremely brave. But promise us you’ll call the police immediately if you see either of these intruders again, and under no circumstances try to confront them?’ Blake said, standing.
‘I'll do my best.’
‘Would you like us to check all your windows and doors are secure before we leave?’
‘Already done it. I've nailed the kitchen window down.’
‘Not too sure that's a good idea. What if there's a fire?’ Blake asked her.
‘I can get through the front door.’
Will these violent burglars continue to terrorise more vulnerable pensioners or will they finally brought to justice?
Hope you enjoyed the short story?
I'll be in touch soon with information about my books, after that, you'll start receiving updates about my writing life and other interesting reader discussions two to three times a month.
Have a great weekend Best wishes
Jonathan
www.jfburgess.co.uk
info@jfburgess.co.uk
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ 'Intense and well-written narrative, with great characters! This book will stay with you for a long time, don't miss it! SMcK Goodreads
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
'What an amazing storytelling talent J.F. Burgess has! A Place of Reckoning is an utterly gripping psychological thriller: a real page-turner.' Audrey Gibson, Goodreads
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
'DI Blake and Lucy Stryker make a fantastic team to solve this dark mysterious case. It’s a crime thriller full of suspense which will grip you until the end… hugely enjoyable!' Shiva Patel, Goodreads
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
'J. F. Burgess certainly knows how to keep his readers hooked right until the end!' Goodreads
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
"An engrossing detective thriller, with a shocking twist that will leave readers breathless." Former Detective and crime author, John Pye.
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
‘A real page-turner from start to finish and the ending is brilliant not the usual run of the mill at all. Amazon
|
