Feral! - D.C. Brockwell

Feral! by D.C. Brockwell

Book excerpt

“That’s time, please. If you’d kindly finish your drinks, I’d appreciate it.” Edward “Eddie” Russell’s booming voice drowned out the music, chatter, and laughter for a couple of seconds.

Nigel Platt smiled at the inevitable groans from the regulars sitting around tables in front of the bar. Every Friday was the same: groans and complaints at kicking-out time. The regulars at his local, The White Hart, were creatures of habit, if nothing else. “Same again, please, Tara.” He handed his empty pint glass to the bubbly bar girl he’d talked to for most of the night. “Cheers.”

Hiding behind a pillar, like he did every Friday night, he had a clear view of his neighbour, Callum Bowman, the guy who’d spent the last year and a half making his life a living hell. After five beers, about to tuck into his sixth, Nigel vacated his stool and joined everyone in the main bar. He sat on a stool facing Callum’s table, the alcohol giving him courage, especially as his next-door neighbour’s friends were almost as bad as Callum himself.

“Hey, it’s Jobsworth. Where’d you come from? Haven’t seen you all night.” Callum stood and saluted him with his near-empty pint glass. Wearing a white shirt, dark blue jeans, and black shoes, Callum was dressed for a night on the town.

“He hides behind that pillar every Friday night.” Callum’s best friend laughed at him with the rest of his brain-dead mates. “Finally plucked up the courage, huh?”

“Come and join us, Jobsworth.” Callum beckoned him over.

Waving the invite away, Nigel grinned. “You’re alright. Thanks anyway.”

He turned back to the bar, watching Tara wipe the bar down. Behind him, Callum talked about him with his lackeys, who laughed at him. When Tara rolled her eyes, he rolled his eyes with her.

At twenty-five past midnight, Eddie the landlord started pestering the locals to leave, including Callum and his guests. Tara, a well-built brunette, helped her boss evacuate Callum’s mates, leaving only the mountain himself to get rid of. Nigel checked the toilets for stragglers, giving Eddie the thumbs-up. “All clear.”

“You can go now, Tara. Thanks for your help.” Eddie opened the side door for her. When she asked if he needed help kicking out Callum, he shook his head. “Nah, we’ve got it. Thanks. I’ll see you next Friday.”

Back on his stool, Nigel took a large gulp of his lager. Right on cue, Callum stood next to him at the bar. He turned his head, nodded, and smiled. “Alright?”

Nigel had never hated a person as much as he hated his next-door neighbour. This guy, this muscular white shirt standing to his right, had waged a campaign of terror against his family the likes of which no one should have to endure. Why was Callum smiling at him and saying “Alright?”

Nigel’s smile wasn’t in greeting; he knew what was coming.

He turned on his stool to look at Eddie. “You locking us in, then, mate?”

“Looks like it. You two are always the last to leave.” Eddie walked behind the bar and poured them a pint of lager each. “We’ll have to go upstairs, though. The cozzers love doing surprise visits on the weekends. They see lights on past half-twelve, they start knocking. Let me close the pub down.”

The last thing Nigel wanted to do was chat with a pissed Callum. As planned, his neighbour started talking to him about football. Nigel was a huge Pompey fan, to Callum’s Scummers (Southampton). Portsmouth lost last Saturday to the MK Dons, which pleased Southampton-born Callum no end.

Nigel laughed along with it, cringing inside, wanting nothing more than to smash the base of the empty bottle on the bar top and stick it in Callum’s ugly face. What he’d give to be a thug.

Feeling the effects of the lager, he joined Eddie and Callum behind the bar, through the glass-wash room, and upstairs to the flat above the pub. He and Eddie entertained Callum, plying him with cans of Stella into the early hours. The more his neighbour drank, the nicer he became, apologizing to Nigel for calling him Jobsworth and all the other nasty shit he’d done. Nigel almost laughed in his face when Callum held his hand out.

“About time you two buried the hatchet.” Eddie passed Callum another can.

“I am sorry, Jobs…I mean Nige.” Callum’s words slurred. “You’re alright.”

Nigel had to listen to Callum’s bullshit until he’d drained the can. Callum’s face was redder than normal.

“Where are you going, mate?” Nigel picked up the can and rattled it. “You want another one? Eddie’s got more in the fridge.”

“Nah, I think I’ve had enough.” Callum almost toppled over and he steadied himself. “I’m going home to my bitch of a wife for some nookie.” He laughed, staggered away from the sofa, almost collapsing into the TV.

Eddie glanced at Nigel. The landlord, a huge twenty-stone monster of a man, waited for his assistance in getting Callum downstairs to the pub area. “Come on, Callum, we’ll get you home, mate. I’m sorry I’ve never had you for a lock-in before. You’re alright, mate.”

Having sobered up since the pub was open, Nigel took Callum’s muscular right arm and put it around his neck. “I see who’s eaten all the pies. How much do you weigh?”

“Oi, you cheeky fucker!” Callum took his arms back, waved Nigel and Eddie off, and stood on his own two feet at the top of the stairs. “It’s okay. I got this.”

Nigel had waited for this for too long. When Callum took his first step towards the stairs, Nigel hooked his foot around Callum’s right ankle so he couldn’t put his right foot out in front of him. Instead, Callum lurched forward, falling down the steep stairs.

With a whistle, Nigel made a point of stepping on each stair on the way down. “That looked like quite the tumble.” His neighbour was either dead, or unconscious, or so he thought until he heard Callum’s groan. He saw the blood seeping through his neighbour’s jeans. His left leg was broken. Nigel could see a lump in the material, meaning bone had punctured tissue.

“You’re fucking dead! You hear me? Dead!” Callum grimaced in both pain and anger.

Eddie grabbed Nigel’s shoulder when he was on the fifth from bottom stair. “That’s just great! What the fuck are we going to do now? He was supposed to die in the fall, mate. That’s how we planned it. Get him shit-faced and throw him down the stairs, you said. Now his boys are going to come after both of us.”

Staring down at Callum’s angry face, Nigel took his mobile out of his jeans pocket. “Relax, will you, Eddie? For Christ’s sake, this was factored into.” He grinned at his neighbour, who had no idea what was coming.

“What the hell are you talking about? What was factored in? You said he’ll take a tumble, die in the fall, we’ll call the ambulance, chat to the cops, and that’s that. What the fuck are we going to do now?”

Nigel put his hand up to shush Eddie while he spoke on his phone. “Yeah, it’s me. We’re going to need your help after all. Yeah, like we spoke about. Is he dead?” He grinned down at Callum. “Not yet, but he will be in about five minutes.”

Putting his mobile on speakerphone, Nigel watched Callum’s eyes grow wide. “Someone wants a word with you, mate.”

The voice told Callum how he’d warned him to stay away from Nigel, and now he was off the leash. Nigel cherished the fear in Callum’s eyes. He switched off his phone.

“Who the fuck are you? You’re not just a traffic warden, are you?” Callum grimaced at the pain in his broken leg.

“You’re about to find out, aren’t you?” Nigel squatted beside his broken neighbour. “You and your whole feral fucking family. You’re all going to find out.”

Callum matched his stare, his eyes narrow slits of hatred. “I knew I should’ve dealt with you sooner, you piece of shit.”

With a sly smile, Nigel stood and regarded his victim. “Eddie, grab his legs, yeah? We’ll do this down in the cellar.”

He bent down, took hold of Callum’s arms, and carried the big guy to the cellar door. “Start as we mean to go on.” He rolled Callum off the top stair, and watched his neighbour fall down twenty concrete steps.

Surprised, but glad that Callum was still conscious, Nigel pulled him into the center of the dingy beer cellar. He was surrounded by kegs of lager, cider, and ale. He loved the dank, stale beer smell; it beat the farm smell he’d grown accustomed to a lifetime ago.

“Here we are. Now what?” Eddie studied Callum’s bloody face.

Towering over his physically superior neighbour, Nigel saw only a man who’d tormented him for months. “Now we do what we came here to do.” He noted the fear in Eddie’s eyes. “See ya, Callum.”

“You don’t have to do this, Nige, please.” Callum stared at him with pleading eyes. “We can go our separate ways, please.”

Nigel lifted his right foot up, and brought it down, smashing into his neighbour’s face. “It’s a bit late for all that, don’t you think?” His rubber sole broke Callum’s nose, which was now flat and covered in crimson. The second stomp broke Callum’s two central incisors. Blood covered his face. Callum groaned.

“Stop! Stop! This is your fucking plan? Kick him to death in my cellar? You’re going to get blood everywhere, for Christ’s sake.”

“What do you suggest? He’ll be here in about ten minutes, mate, and he’s expecting a dead body. Either help, or back off.”

“I know. Wait here! Don’t keep stamping on his face.”

Eddie ran upstairs, in as much as Nigel could call it running. His best friend came back down carrying a plastic Tesco carrier bag and a power cord from a laptop. “Here, this is much cleaner. We won’t have to spend hours mopping his shit up, will we?”

Taking the bag and cord, Nigel sat behind Callum, lifted his head, and wrapped the plastic bag around it. He pulled it tight, Callum’s mouth sucking in the plastic. He took the cord, wrapped it around his neighbour’s throat twice, and pulled it as hard as he could, straining with the force, remembering the day Callum and Sarah Bowman moved in next door like it was yesterday.