Od Lune pijan / Drunk On The Moon


Paul D. Brazill





Od Lune pijan je prva od zgodb iz serije o Romanu Daltonu, detektivu volkodlaku Paula D. Brazilla.

Drunk On The Moon is the first in the series of stories about Roman Dalton, Werewolf PI by Paul D. Brazill.





Avtorska pravica / Copyright © Paul D. Brazill.

Prevedel / Translated by Renato Bratkovič

English version edited by Miscandlon & Lewthwaite Writing Services

Izdal / Published by Artizan, d.o.o.

www.artizan.si





CIP - Kataložni zapis o publikaciji

Univerzitetna knjižnica Maribor





821.111-3





BRAZILL, Paul D.

Od Lune pijan [Elektronski vir] = Drunk On The Moon / Paul D. Brazill ; prevod v slovenščino Renato Bratkovič. - Slovenska Bistrica : Artizan, 2014





Prevod dela: Drunk on the moon





ISBN 978-961-93394-7-3





COBISS.SI-ID 79485953





Od Lune pijan





Večini se je to že kdaj zgodilo. Mogoče po rojstnodnevni zabavi ali prepiru z ženo.

Zbudiš se s kljuvajočo otožnostjo in z bolečino krivde. Spomini na prejšnjo noč ti teptajo misli z umazanimi podplati. Od slabosti se ti kisa. Usta imaš kot dno ptičje kletke, Keith Moon pa ti v glavi igra bobnarski solo. Odlupiš veke in rezine svetlobe predirajo skozi žaluzije. Tvoja spalnica je videti, kot bi jo preuredili slepi pijančki.

S težavo se postaviš na noge in se spotakneš bruhat v migrenasto svetlo kopalnico. Potiš se, treseš se in mravljinci ti akupunktirajo telo. Obleka je raztrgana in krvava. In potem valovi temnih spominov pljusknejo nazaj kot cunami.

Saj pravim, večini ljudi se to zgodi vsake toliko. Ampak pri meni se dogaja vsak mesec. Trikrat na mesec, če sem natančen.

In sinoči se je spet zgodilo.





* * *





Nočni oljni madež se je topil v granitno siv dan in temni, maligni oblaki so se razlezali čez jutranje nebo, ko je karamboliran taksi z zatemnjenimi šipami prikašljal pred moj blok.

Prerinil sem se do njega mimo pretirano elegantno oblečene Rusinje, ki je hitela k njemu. Borila se je s črnim dežnikom, ki je frfotal in plahutal kot ogromen črn netopir v poskusu bega iz njenega prijema. Kljub njenemu protestu sem zgrabil kljuko in odprl vrata.

Zvalil sem se na zadnji sedež, ko je Duffy, voznik, izpihal nos v robček z Božičkom in ga vrgel skozi okno. Duffyjev obraz je bil od mozoljev razbrazdan, da je bil videti kot prežvečeno kandirano jabolko, njegov pajkast koder na čelu pa je bil pobarvan črno kot tuš. Ne bi rekel, da je bil ravno prijeten na pogled.

„Usrano jutro, ne, Roman?” je rekel Duffy.

„So bila že boljša,” sem rekel, naslonjen na vrata.

Duffy je potegnil z vžigalico po znaku „Prepovedano kaditi” in si prižgal kubansko cigaro. Stlačil jo je v usta in brundal na otožno melodijo Mela Tormea.

„Žametna Megla,” je rekel Duffy in privzdignil košate obrvi.

Jaz nisem rekel nič.

„Njegov vzdevek je bil včasih Žametna Megla.”

Ignoriral sem ga in strmel skozi okno, ko je štartal in prevozil rdečo.

V tem času dneva so bile ulice nasmetene z izmečki družbe. Čistilci. Golazen. Mesto jih je bilo zadnje čase polno.

„Obdobje somraka,” je rekel Duffy, njegov obraz je bil prepoten, čeprav je bil taksi hladen kot grob.

„Tako smo včasih rekli temu času dneva, obdobje somraka. Saj veš, kot v pesmi?”

Potem je znova utihnil, slišalo se je le šklepetanje njegovih zob in klopotanje čeljusti.

Taksi je vijugal ob obali mimo kafičev, cenenih okrepčevalnic, seks šopov in kioskov s kebabi, dokler ni prijecljal do pike pred Duffyjevim barom. Dež je padal v plahtah in bledeče ulične svetilke so se bleščale in odsevale v vetrobranskem steklu taksija. Duffy je izstopil, potegnil za kovinsko roleto in odprl bar.

Ko je stopil skozi vrata, je prižgal luči in džuboks je oživel. Howling Wolf je zarenčal I Ain’t Superstitous, ko sem se namestil v svoj običajni barski stol in opazoval dvojnega Temnega Valentina, ki ga je Duffyjeva roka v trenutku postavila predme. Zdelo se je, da se ledene kocke bleščijo, žarijo in sijejo v medli svetlobi. Obdobje somraka, zares.

Za trenutek sem pogled uprl ven. Moker pločnik je odseval utripajoč neonski napis Duffyjevega bara. Žarometi so prerezali močno deževje. Preklasto strašilo je švignilo mimo okna in prihrumelo skozi vrata.

Visoki detektiv z dolgimi temnimi lasmi Ivan Walker je priletel noter kot jata vran in privlekel dež in zlate liste s sabo. Nosil je razcapan dežni plašč, ki je plapolal v vetru.

Zasedel je stol zraven mene in položil svojo značko in kolt anakondo na šank. Duffy mu je nalil kot smrt črn espresso.

„Spet je obdobje somraka, Roman,” je zahropel Walker z glasom kot razbito steklo.

„Sem slišal,” sem rekel.

Howlin’ Wolf je končal in zamenjala ga je Dusty Springfield.

„Bela črnka,” je rekel Duffy in dvignil pogled s svojega National Geographica. „Tak je bil njen vzdevek. Čeprav ni bilo mišljeno rasistično.”

Bil je rudnik informacij, brez heca.

Sprejel sem Walkerjev videz. Njegov – skoraj angelski – obraz je bil mrežast od brazgotin. Ob strani na vratu je imel opeklino v obliki petkotnika. Roke so se mi tresle in posrkal sem svoj viski z navdušenjem bivšega kaznjenca v bordelu.

„Dlaka psa, ki te je ugriznil?” je rekel Walker, ko sem si nalil še enega.

Bila je zdelana stara fraza, a ne tako zdelan kot jaz. Ampak to ti naredita dve noči na preži.

„Faca si, Walker,” sem rekel. „Hecen kot gobavost.”

„Težka dva dneva, kaj?” je rekel Walker.

Zmignil sem z rameni.

„Pasje življenje, ne?” je rekel.

Nisem se zmenil zanj, zaprl sem oči in pustil pijači, da me odplakne.

„Sta slišala za umore sinoči?” je vprašal Walker, pretegnil dolge roke in zazehal.

„Ne bi mogel reči, da sem,” je rekel Duffy.

„Resno?” je rekel Walker. „Povsod je bilo v novicah.”

„Ne spremljam novic,” je rekel Duffy. „Depresija.”

„Ampak ta je dobra. Par fantov Ton Tona Philippeja je nekdo razrezal na koščke pred klubom Roza Muca. Povsod kri in drobovje.”

Z Duffyjem sva ga ignorirala, a sem Walkerja dovolj dobro poznal, da sem vedel, da ni prišel sem na klepet.

„In?” sem rekel s še vedno zaprtimi očmi.

„Oh, za svet to ni neka izguba. Ne razumita me narobe, tipi so bili izmečki. Za tega haitijskega norca delajo, za božjo voljo. Mislim, hvala bogu, da smo se jih znebili, in aplavz tistemu, ki je to storil. Ja, ampak bo treba pobrskati in ugotoviti, kdo to je naredil. Nič oprijemljivega nimamo; čeprav se mi zdi, kot bi jih razparalo krdelo psov. Morda celo isti, ki so prejšnji mesec odstranili Cepina Micka McKinleya.”

„Ah.”

„Ampak ...”

Slišal sem ga brskati po žepu.

„Mogoče smo dobili sled. To smo našli v ostankih ene od prežvečenih rok, ki so jo odtrgali in vrgli čez prehod.”

Slišal sem kovinsko praskanje po šanku in vedel sem, kaj je bilo.

Odprl sem oči.

Poleg mojega viskija je bila krvava značka. Moja detektivska značka.

„Bodiva previdna tam zunaj, policist Dalton,” je rekel Walker, ko je nagnil kavo, me potrepljal po hrbtu in se odpravil iz bara.

„Jajca,” je rekel Duffy in srknil Temnega Valentina naravnost iz steklenice. „Ton Ton Philippe!” Zmajal je z glavo. „Zdaj se igraš pa z velikimi dečki, Roman.”

Ko je Bela črnka zapela Zaprem oči in štejem do deset, sem naredil točno to. Edino štel sem do sto.





* * *





Briljantni neon mesta je metal goste sence, ki so skušale zamaskirati njegove umazane skrivnosti, ampak smrad je vseeno pronical skozi uličice, jarke in rešetke. Seveda je vonj nekatere obvladoval, jih dušil. Ampak mene ni. Samo globoko sem zajel sapo in ga posesal. Globoko sem ga inhaliral.

Dvajset let sem delal kot policaj v mestu: ropi, nemorala, umori. Ampak vse se je spremenilo, ko sem se znašel sredi nečesa, kar je zvenelo kot tipični pijanski pretep, in končal v nečem, kar je bilo daleč, daleč od tipičnega.

Bilo je precej čez polnoč in polna luna je grabila nebo. Sedel sem v avtu pred Playhousem pod Banksovim hribom in napol spal. Prežal sem za Cepinom Mickom McKinleyem, kokainskim odvisnežem s podganjim obrazom, ki mi je povedal, da ima kup informacij o Ton Tonu Philippeju, haitijskem gangsterju, čigar nadzor nad mestom se je širil kot rak.

Naenkrat se je bolestna mešanica krikov in tuljenja prilepila na veter in priplavala do mojega avta.

Izstopil sem iz avta in se počasi sprehodil v hrib, sapa pred mano se je zdela kot prikazen. Mesečina je curljala na vlažen tlak kot živo srebro; prikradla se je med razpokami in se plazila v jarke.

Ko sem se približal Duffyjevemu baru, me je treslo, potegnil sem se v svoj dolg črn plašč in previdno odprl velika hrastova vrata.

Preveril sem pištolo in vstopil v bar.

Prostor se je dušil v rdečem žametu in usnju. Lestenci so viseli s stropa z ogledali, betonska tla pa so bila nastlana z napol požrtimi trupli. In okoli njih so se gostila čudna bitja – pol ljudje, pol volkovi.

Nagonsko sem izstrelil niz nabojev, a kreature niso niti trznile. Samo plazile so se proti meni, renčale in bevskale.

Potem sem opazil, da je Duffy na hrastovem šanku zažgal cunjo in jo stlačil v steklenico alkohola. Zagnal jo je v džuboks poleg kreatur in eksplodirala je kot vulkan.

Nekaj naslednjih trenutkov je bilo bliskanje ognjemeta in eksplozij. Ko se je dim polegel, so bila volčja bitja pred mano. In potem so napadla.





* * *





Zbudil sem se v antiseptični smrdljivi bolnici, Walker je ob meni jedel grozdje in igral sudoku. Povedal mi je, da je po eksploziji eden od Duffyjevih lestencev treščil na moje napadalce, ki se jim je nekako uspelo izkopati in odplaziti stran.

Naslednje jutro je Walker s svojimi fanti v prehodu našel napol gola trupla treh bajkerjev. „Dolgolasih, bradatih čudakov,” je rekel. „Niso bili iz mesta.”

Jaz? No, rekli so, da sem imel srečo, da sem še živ. „Uničen” je bila beseda, ki so jo uporabili. Dobil sem dolg bolniški dopust, da bi prišel k sebi.

In tako sem se oprijel svoje bolniške kot večina deloholičnih policistov, zapravljal dneve in noči z gledanjem resničnostnih oddaj, nažiranjem s hitro hrano in ubijanjem s poceni viskijem.

Se pravi, do konca meseca, ko je polna luna napolnila jesensko noč kot ogromen srebrn dolar. In potem? No, takrat sem preprosto postal od Lune pijan.





* * *





Dnevi so se razlivali v tedne, ti pa so krvaveli v mesece, dokler se ni priplazila zima in zadušila jesenske, z viskijem pobarvane dneve s temo. Noč za nočjo me je Duffyjev neonski znak vlekel nazaj kot popkovina. Ali pa zanka.

Bilo je nekega zgodnjega nedeljskega večera, do naslednje polne lune je manjkal en teden in Duffy je bil natlačen z delomrzneži in razcapanci v različnih stadijih alkoholiziranosti. Novi džuboks je igral staro pesem Johnnyja Laytona, sklanjal sem se nad kozarci in buljil v strašljivo spiralo dima, ki jo je odnašalo s pepelnika proti veliki srebrni zvezdi, ki je vse leto visela nad šankom.

Sunek vetra je odprl vrata in Duffy se je umaknil v senco. Zunaj je ostra rezina lune davila nebo, črno kot oglje. Visoka ženska s črnimi lasmi kot krokarjeva krila je zdrsnila čez cesto, gluha za promet. Duffy si je obliznil ustnice in njegove oči so zasijale in zažarele z vsakim avtom, ki jo je za las zgrešil.

Skoraj kot po namigu so noč v trenutku napolnili poki eksplozij ognjemetov in Daria je skoraj prilebdela v bar, množica se ji je umikala. Obstala je pred mano kot dolg požirek vode pred žejnim človekom in srh me je zarezal kot bodalo. Oči so ji smaragdno zeleno sijale in se zatemnile, ko se je nasmehnila z zarezo šminke čez polne ustnice.

„Detektiv Dalton,” je rekla z glasom, temnim in gostim kot dim francoske cigarete.

„Bivši detektiv Dalton,” sem izdavil. „Zdaj sem upokojen. Popoln pripadnik samozaposlene družbe.”

Besede so se spotikale ena čez drugo, ko so mi padale iz ust. Predal sem ji vizitko. Imel sem jih na stotine. Odkar me je Duffy prepričal, da sem postal zasebni detektiv, sem imel skupno že enega naročnika.

„Bi kaj spila?” sem vprašal.

„Noč je mlada, detektiv Dalton,” je rekla, medtem ko je stopila skozi obok v obliki pikovega asa na mali, svetlo-temni oder. „Četudi ti nisi!”

Zahihitala se je, ko sta se iz sence prikazala masivna gologlava moška z očmi kot luknji od krogel in ji pomagala sleči dežni plašč. Na oder sta postavila bobne, dvojni bas in stari RKO radijski mikrofon, ona pa je zasanjano kadila črno cigareto.

Obrnil sem se nazaj k Duffyju, ki je tiščal obraz v zdelano kopijo National Geographica.

„Kako je bilo sinoči?” sem vprašal.

„Zabava v fensi preoblekah? Ni bila čista polomija,” je odgovoril Duffy, ne da bi odvrnil pogled od revije. „Problem je bil v tem, da so prišli vsi oblečeni kot mize in stoli.”

Šibko sem se mu nasmehnil in si skušal izmisliti duhovit odgovor, potem sem se vdal in si prižgal novo cigareto.

„Še en DV?” je vprašal Duffy.

Istočasno sem zmigal z rameni in pokimal. Pravi dosežek glede na moje stanje. Nalil mi je še eno pijačo in iztaknil kabel džuboksa. Obrnil sem se proti odru, ko je Dariin smeh napolnil prostor. Sledila je tišina. Potem je začela peti.

Znoj mi je polzel za vratom kot žuželka, ko so palice prihitele čez bobne in so basistovi prsti zlezli po vratu. Streslo me je, ko je Daria zašepetala čustveno pesem, kot bi bila njena umirajoča sapa, in podžgala žerjavico sanj.

Na hitro sem zvrnil pijačo, naročil naslednjo in zdrvel v pozabo kot voda v odtok pomivalnega korita.





* * *





Zimska luna je visela, debela, a še ne čisto polna, ko sem odtrgal Dolgemu Tomu Shortu glavo z ramen in jo zalučal čez zasnežena tla. Krvavi madeži so bili v surovi mesečini videti črni. Jata vran se je razpršila in zarezala skozi belino, ko je predenje bližajočega mercedesa preraslo v rjovenje in se zlilo z mojim tuljenjem.

Avto je s cviljenjem ustavil v bližnji uličici pred nekdanjo cerkvijo, ki so jo spremenili v nočni klub Roza Muca. Voznik je izstopil in pomeril s koltom anakondo. V dolgem črnem plašču in s klobukom s širokimi krajci je bil videti kot senca, ko je sekal zapuščeno parkirišče. Renčal sem, ko se mi je približeval, in se kot ponavadi boril, da bi nadzoroval svoj volčji jaz.

„Sedi, kuža,” je rekel inšpektor Ivan Walker, ko si je ogledoval šest ali sedem trupel, razporejenih po parkirišču.

„Nocoj si bil pa priden, Dalton,” je rekel z glasom kot brusni papir. „Ton Ton Philippe bo moral najeti novo ekipo, če boš še naprej uničeval njegove dečke. Ali pa tebe spremeniti v truplo.”

S cevjo pištole se je popraskal po petkotni brazgotini na vratu.

Začelo je snežiti kot konfeti. Walker je zgrabil Dolgega Toma za gležnje in odvlekel njegovo groteskno masivno truplo v mračno in umazano uličico, da je za sabo puščal kačasto sled krvi. Vdihnil sem vonj po smrti in srce mi je utripalo kot boben. Moje hrepenenje po mesu in krvi je naraščalo.

Walker je potegnil Dolgega Toma k avtu v svetlobi, ki je prihajala skozi okno z barvnim steklom, in odprl prtljažnik. Zvrnil je truplo noter in zaloputnil s pokrovom.

Skoraj sem že čutil okus po toplem mesu. Rdeči madeži so se mi pred očmi razprostirali kot Rorschachov test. Žeje po krvi ni bilo več moč brzdati. Pognal sem se proti Walkerju in globoko zarjovel, ko se je spustil na kolena, nameril in me ustrelil naravnost v srce.

Treščil sem v zadek avta in se zložil na tla. Walker je vstal, se zravnal nad mano in kadil cigaro, obročki dima so se mu vili nad glavo kot svetniški sij ali trnjeva krona. Za njim sem na vogalu uličice videl obliko visoke, temnolase ženske. Oči so se ji smaragdno zeleno svetile, nakar so se zatemnile.

In potem me je objelo morje spanca.





* * *





Mračne sanje so mi pljuskale na obalo spanja, dokler se nisem utapljajoč v znoju zbudil. Oči so se mi privajale na svetlobo. Digitalna ura ob postelji je rekla, da je že poldne. Bil sem nag na postelji, črne rjuhe so bile razparane, jaz pa posut z urezninami in modricami.

Nad srcem sem imel tri luknjice. Walker je bil izvrsten strelec in puščice, napolnjene s kančkom srebra, so bile dovolj, da sem obležal do deset, niso me pa ubile.

Stuširal sem se in oblekel črne kavbojke in črn puli. Bilo je mrzlo in sedel sem za mizo zraven raskavega radiatorja, srkal močno črno kavo in grizel kos zažganega toasta. Prižgal sem bakelitni radio in prisluhnil pesmi Georgea Jonesa, medtem ko sem skušal brati Imaš in nimaš. Brez veze. Moja zbranost se je sesula. Navlekel sem si Doc Martens čevlje, pograbil plašč in se odpravil k Duffyju.





* * *





Stvar je v tem, da mi je dol viselo, ali mi je lagala ali govorila po resnici, glede na to, da sem tudi sam večino tega, kar sem ji povedal, izkopal v mračnem zaledju nekje na obrobju iskrenosti.

Bilo je kot lov, in ni se zdelo pomembno, kdo je lovec in kdo je plen.

„Torej boš to naredil?” je vprašala Daria in srknila iz kozarca absinta. Nagnila se je bliže k meni, da bi slišala moj odgovor. Žabarji so šopali kovance v džuboks in vrteli pank iz sedemdesetih, a nisem bil v stanju, da bi jim rekel, naj zamenjajo muziko. Žabarji niso bili razumevajoči tipi.

Če je Ton Ton Philippe v Mestu imel tekmeca, potem je bil to grof Otto Rhino. Žabarji so bili Rhinova dozdevno nepremagljiva prva bojna vrsta. Vsi so bili skoraj dva metra visoki, z rokami kot drevesna debla in vojaško oblečeni.

„No?” je vprašala Daria.

Njen vonj je bil strup, ki se mu nisem mogel upreti. Zmignil sem z rameni, čeprav sem predobro vedel, da bi zaplesal na vsako melodijo, ki bi jo zapela.

V kotu sobe se je razbilo steklo. Nisem se menil za to.

„O, ja,” sem rekel. „Enostavno se bom prikazal v Roza Muci in zgrabil tvojo malo sestro. Prepričan sem, da Ton Ton Philippe ne bo imel nič proti. Mislim, haitijski vudu svečeniki so znani po tem, da so bolj na izi. Še posebej tisti, ki vodijo večino podzemlja v Mestu.”

Zarežala se je.

„In ne pozabi na njegovo vojsko zombijevskih pomočnikov,” je rekla, oči pa so se ji živordeče zabliskale.

„Aja, ne smem jih pozabiti.”

„Torej? Si za?”

„Mogoče. Ampak te bo stalo.”

„O, saj lahko plačam, inšpektor. To obvladam.”

„Potem sem in,” sem rekel. „Kot Errol Flynn.”

Daria se je naslonila nazaj na svojem barskem stolčku in se nasmehnila. „Še eno rundo,” je rekla Duffyju.

Duffy je pobral steklenico absinta in jo postavil med naju na šank. Naenkrat se mi je barski stolček zatresel. Dva ali trije Žabarji so slemali in peli – no, kričali – o tem, da so Ful, ful zadeti. In res so bili. V trenutku, ko nama je Duffy nalival pijačo, se je ena od teh pošasti prevrnila name, da se je zelena tekočina razlila po šanku.

Obrnil sem se k njemu in ga srepo poglegal.

„Kreten!” sem brez pomišljanja zavpil.

„Kaj si mi rekel?” je vprašal orjak.

Še preden bi lahko odgovoril, me je z orjaško šapo že grabil za grlo in me z lahkoto dvignil s stola.

Nič nisem mogel. Videl sem Duffyjeve prste, kako so lezli proti puški, skriti pod šankom, a se je, preden se ji je približal, džuboks ustavil in nastala je tišina. Potem pa šibka melodija. Nežna, a postopoma glasnejša. Daria je pela in trepljala orjaka po roki. Oči so ji zeleno sijale.

„Ne, Duke,” je rekla.

Naenkrat je začel hlipati in spustil me je na stol. Daria ga je pobožala po licu.

„Bodi priden, Duke,” je rekla.

„Da, gospodična Daria,” je smrknil Duke. „Oprostite.”

In sprehodil se je nazaj k ostalim Žabarjem, ki so sedeli okoli mize z glavami, naslonjenimi v dlaneh. Džuboks je oživel. Miles Davis je zaigral toplo melodijo. In nihče se ni pritoževal.





* * *





V Roza Muci se je ponavadi trlo vseh sort ljudi, ki so žalitev celo za izraz golazen. Politiki, višji policijski uradniki, pravniki, igralci. Didžej Fritz Neumann je bil turoben, bled možakar, ki je bil videti, kot da bi bil že deset let mrtev, pa mu tega ni nihče povedal. Vsako noč je vrtel kaj z nabijajočim, oglušujočim basom.

Na plesišču se je gnetlo vročih, potnih teles. Na odru so pomankljivo oblečene mlade ženske podrsavale kot špageti na alkoholikovem krožniku.

Ob popoldnevih pa je bil lokal napol prazen. Preprosta raja je razpršena po prostoru pila in dremala. Počutil sem se skoraj kot doma.

Sedel sem za šankom in buljil v svojo uro. Kot pri tolikih stvareh bo tudi nocoj skrivnost uspeha v tajmingu.

„Boš kaj spil?” je vprašal tetovirani polizanec za šankom.

„Temnega Valentina,” sem rekel.

Spačil se je.

„To ni noben pajzl,” je rekel.

„Potem pa viski,” sem rekel.

Pobral sem pijačo in se odpravil v temačen kot. Proti Ton Tonu Philippeju.

Philippe, drobiž z rdečo irokezo in zaplato čez oko, je sedel na zlatem prestolu zraven odra in se režal. Okoli rok sta se mu ovijali kači in besno sikali. V njegovem naročju je bila najstnica, zvita kot perzijska mačka.

„Detektiv Dalton,” je rekel in pokimal.

Nisem ga popravil. Mogoče pa bo od tega, da misli, da sem še vedno policaj, kakšna korist.

„Kaj lahko naredim za vas?”

„Njo,” sem rekel in pokimal proti zvijajoči blondinki. „Prišel sem jo odpeljat domov.”

„Ah, bojim se, da je ta mali, sveži piščanček rezerviran za posebnega gosta. In, kar si Lao zaželi, tudi dobi. Lahko kupite kakršen koli eksotičen užitek, ta je pa žal rezerviran.”

Pojma nisem imel, kaj naj bi bil Lao, sem pa navajen dobiti, kar hočem. Za trenutek sva si gledala v oči, potem pa sem izvlekel pištolo.

„Ne kupujem,” sem rekel. „Jemljem.” In povlekel sem jo k sebi.

Philippejev smeh je odmeval po prostoru. In potem so se prikazali. Trije. Orjaki. Raztrgano in razcapano meso. Steklene oči. Zombiji? Morda? Videti je bilo, da govorice držijo. A preden sem lahko razglabljal naprej, so stopili predme in padel sem v temno brezno.





* * *





Pisarna Ton Tona Philippeja je bila topla. Zadušljivo topla. Klaustrofobična. Bil sem privezan na kovinski stol kot v jantar ujeta žuželka. V kotu sobe je kričal papagaj.

„Kaj bomo s tabo?” je vprašal Philippe. „Mislim, da bi mi zatrtje varuha reda lahko povzročilo več težav, kot jih potrebujem, ampak ...”

Komaj da sem ga slišal. In sploh nisem bil pod pritiskom. Čutil sem, kako mi srbečica leze skozi meso. Ne bo dolgo trajalo. Zunaj je mlečna luna polnila nebo iz črnila. Spremenil sem se.

Razmazan škrlat. Tuljenje in kričanje.

Zombiji so bili kmalu razkosani, Ton Ton Philippe pa je izginil kot dim. Punca je bila kot punčka iz cunj, ko sem jo pobral in razbil okno v grenak, mrzel nočni zrak.





* * *





„Hvala, detektiv,” je rekla Daria. „Opravil si prekleto dobro delo.”

Sedela sva za razmajano mizo izpraznjenega Duffyjevega lokala. Imela je bjondo na kolenih in sploh nista bili videti preveč kot sestri. In tudi poljubljali se nista kot sestri.

Mislim, da sta me zapeljali. Z enosmerno vozovnico na pobeglem vlaku. Meso me je ščemelo. Kosti so me bolele. Dol mi je viselo.

Daria je stala, Žabarji pa ob njej.

„Nazaj domov k Očku, srček,” je rekla opotekajoči bjondi z nasmeškom na obrazu. Odpravili so se ven in se vkrcali v temno zeleno podaljšano limuzino z grbom na strani. Grbom grofa Otta Rhina.

Pogledal sem kuverto keša, ki mi jo je dala Daria. Napolnjeno z več zelenimi listi, kot jih najdeš na zeljni gredi. Prislužil sem si kar nekaj denarja. In status sovražnika Ton Tona Philippeja. Konec koncev kar v redu nočni dosežek.

„Temnega Valentina?” je vprašal Duffy in raztrgal podstavek za pivo.

„Neee, poljub la fée verte potrebujem, Zeleno Vilo. Absint mi daj,” sem rekel, ko sem stopal proti šanku. „Sem slišal, da je od njega srce bolj ljubeče.”





Drunk On The Moon





It’s happened to most people at one time or another. Maybe after a birthday party or a fight with your wife. You wake up throbbing with gloom and aching with guilt. Memories of the previous night trample all over your thoughts with dirty feet. Nausea curdles away inside you. Your mouth’s like the bottom of a birdcage and Keith Moon is playing a drum solo in your head. You peel back your eyelids and shards of sunlight slice through the blinds. Your bedroom looks as if it’s been redecorated by blind winos.

You stagger to your feet and stumble into the migraine-bright bathroom to puke. You’re sweating, shaking, and pins and needles acupuncture your body. Your clothes are torn and covered in blood. And then the waves of dark memories come flooding back like a tsunami.

Like I say, it happens to most people every now and again. But to me it happens with regularity, every month. Three times a month, to be precise.

And it happened again last night.





* * *





The oil slick of night was melting into a granite grey day and dark, malignant clouds were spreading themselves across the morning sky as a battered yellow taxi with blacked-out windows spluttered to a halt in front of my apartment block. I pushed past an over-dressed Russian woman, who rushed towards it. She struggled to control a big, black umbrella, which fluttered and flapped like a big black bat trying to escape from her grip. Ignoring her protests, I grabbed the handle and opened the door.

I shuffled into the back seat of the cab as Duffy, the driver, blew his nose on a Santa Claus napkin and threw it out of the window. Duffy’s face was so acne-scarred it looked like a chewed up toffee apple and his spidery quiff was dyed black as ink. Not what you’d call a sight for sore eyes, then.

“Shitty, morning, eh, Roman?” said Duffy.

“I’ve had better,” I said, slumping against the car door.

Duffy struck a match on the “No Smoking” sign and lit up a Cuban cigar. He stuffed it in his mouth and hummed along to Mel Torme’s Gloomy Sunday.

“The Velvet Fog,” said Duffy, raising his bushy eyebrows.

I said nothing.

“Torme. His nickname used to be ‘The Velvet Fog’.”

I ignored him and stared out of the window as he started up the car and ran a red light.

At this time of day the streets were littered with the dregs of society. Bottom feeders. Lowlifes. The City was full of them these days.

“Twilight time,” said Duffy; his face was sweating, despite the fact that the cab was as cold as the grave.

“That’s what we used to call this time of day, ‘twilight time’. You know, like the song?”

And then he was silent again, apart from his teeth grinding and the clicking sound that his jaw made.

The taxi snaked its way along the seafront, past pubs, greasy spoons, sex shops and kebab shops, before stuttering to a full stop outside Duffy’s Bar. The rain fell down in sheets and the fading street lights shimmered, reflected in the taxi’s windscreen. Duffy got out, pulled up the metal shutters and opened up the bar.

As Duffy shuffled through the door, he switched on the lights and the Wurlitzer jukebox burst to life. Howling Wolf snarled out “I Ain’t Superstitious,” as I nestled on my usual bar stool, calmly contemplating the two fingers of Dark Valentine that Duffy had immediately placed in front of me. The ice cubes seemed to shimmer, glimmer and glow in the wan light. ‘Twilight time’, indeed.

I briefly turned my gaze outside. The wet pavement reflected Duffy’s Bar’s flickering neon sign. Headlights cut through the heavy rain. A gangling scarecrow rushed past the window and burst through the door.

Tall, and with long black hair, Detective Ivan Walker flew in out of the storm like a murder of crows, bringing rain and a waft of golden leaves behind him. He wore a tattered long black raincoat which flapped in the breeze.

He took the stool next to me and put his badge and his Colt Anaconda on the bar. Duffy poured him a death black espresso.

“‘Twilight time’ again, Roman,” rasped Walker, in a voice like broken glass.

“So, I heard,” I said.

Howlin’ Wolf ended and was replaced by Dusty Springfield.

“The White Negress,” said Duffy, looking up from his National Geographic. “That was her nickname. It wasn’t racist, though.”

He was a mine of information, he really was.

I took in Walker’s appearance. His face – almost angelic – was latticed with scars. On the side of his neck was a burn mark shaped like a pentangle. My hands were shaking and I slurped my whisky with all the enthusiasm of an ex-con in a bordello.

“Hair of the dog that bit you?” said Walker, as I poured myself another drink.

It was a tired old line, but not as tired as I felt. But then, two nights on the prowl will do that to you.

“You’re a funny man, Walker,” I said. “As funny as leprosy.”

“Tough couple of days, then?”

I shrugged.

“It’s a dog’s life, eh?”

I ignored him, closed my eyes and let the booze wash over me.

“Did you boys hear about the murders last night?” Walker said, stretching his long arms and yawning.

“Can’t say I did,” said Duffy.

“Really?” said Walker. “It’s been all over the news.”

“Don’t follow the news,” said Duffy. “Depressing.”

“Oh, this is a good one, though. A couple of Ton Ton Philippe’s boys were sliced up and ripped to pieces outside The Pink Pussy Club. Blood and guts all over the place.”

Duffy and I ignored him but I knew Walker well enough to know that he wasn’t just here to chat.

“And?” I said, eyes still closed.

“Oh, no great loss to the world. Don’t get me wrong, these boys were scum. They work for that Haitian lunatic, for Christ’s sake. I mean, good riddance to them and a round of applause to whoever did it. Yeah, but we’ve still got to go through the motions and try to track down who did do it. Not that we have much to go on, although it looked to me like they were ripped apart by a pack of dogs. Maybe the even same ones that took out Ice-Pick Mick McKinley last month.”

“Ah.”

“However …”

I heard him rummage his pocket.

“We did get one possible lead. We found this in the remains of one of the chewed up hands that had been severed and hurled across the alley.”

I heard the metal scrape across the top of the bar and I knew what it was.

I opened my eyes.

Next to my whisky was a blood splattered badge. My detective’s badge.

“Let’s be careful out there, Officer Dalton”, said Walker, as he knocked back the coffee, patted me on the back and headed out of the bar.

“Bollocks,” said Duffy, drinking Dark Valentine straight from the bottle. “Ton Ton Philippe!” He shook his head. “You’re playing against the big boys now, Roman.”

As the White Negress sang I Close My Eyes and Count to Ten, I did the very same thing. Only I made it up to one hundred.





* * *





The City’s brilliant neon cast dense shadows that tried to mask its sordid secrets, but a stench still permeated the alleyways and the gutters and the bars. Of course the stink overpowered some people, smothered them. But not me. I just took a deep breath and sucked it in. Inhaled it deeply.

I’d worked as a cop in The City for twenty years; robbery, vice, homicide. But that all changed when I stumbled into what sounded like a typical drunken bar brawl and I ended up in the thick of something far, far from typical.

It was way past midnight and a full moon grasped the sky. I sat half-asleep in my car outside The Playhouse at the bottom of Banks’ Hill. I was on a stake-out looking out for Ice-Pick Mick McKinley, a rat-faced coke fiend who had told me that he had a wad of information on Ton Ton Philippe, the Haitian gangster whose control of The City was spreading like a cancer.

Suddenly, a sickly stew of screams and howls clung to the wind and drifted down to my car.

I got out of the car and slowly walked up the hill, my breath appearing in front of me like a spectre. The moonlight oozed across The City’s dank cobblestones like quicksilver; creeping between the cracks, crawling into the gutters.

As I got closer to Duffy’s Bar, I shivered, pulled my long black overcoat close to me, and carefully pushed open the large oak door.

Checking my pistol, I stepped into the bar.

The room was suffocating in red velvet and leather. Chandeliers hung from a mirrored ceiling and half-eaten corpses littered the concrete floor. And around them, feasting, were some sort of creatures – half-man, half-wolf.

Instinctively I fired off a round of bullets, but the creatures didn’t flinch. They just crawled towards me, snarling and growling.

Then I noticed Duffy on top of the oak bar, lighting a rag that he’d stuffed into a bottle of booze. He threw it at a Wurlitzer jukebox near the creatures and it exploded like a volcano.

The next few moments were a flash of fireworks and explosions. As the smoke subsided, the wolf creatures were in front of me. And then they pounced.





* * *





I awoke in an antiseptic stinking hospital, with Walker beside me eating grapes and playing Sudoku. He told me that after the explosion one of Duffy’s silver chandeliers had crashed down on my attackers, who had somehow struggled from under it and crawled away.

The corpses of three half-naked bikers were found in an alleyway by Walker and his boys the next morning. “Long-haired bearded weirdoes,” he said. “From out of town.”

Me? Well, they said I was lucky to be alive. “Ravaged” was the word they used. I was given long term sick leave to recover.

And so I embraced my sick leave as well as most chronic workaholic cops and filled my days and nights watching reality television, eating junk food and getting wasted on cheap whisky.

Until the end of the month, that is, when a full moon filled the autumn night like a big silver dollar. And then? Well, then, I just got drunk on the moon.





* * *





Days after the attack bled into weeks, which haemorrhaged into months, until the winter crept up and smothered the whisky coloured autumn days with darkness. Night after night, Duffy’s flickering neon sign dragged me back like an umbilical cord. Or maybe a noose.

It was early one Sunday evening, the next full moon was a week away, and Duffy’s Bar was stuffed with ne’er-do-wells and ragamuffins in various states of inebriation. Duffy’s new Wurlitzer jukebox played an old Johnny Layton song and I was in my pots, watching a spectral spiral of smoke drift up from the ashtray towards the big silver star that hung above the bar all year round.

A gust of wind blew the door open and Duffy retreated to the shadows. Outside, a sharp sliver of moon garrotted the coal black sky. A tall woman, her long hair as black as a raven’s wings, drifted across the road, oblivious to the mob of traffic. Duffy licked his lips and his eyes glittered and glowed with each car’s near miss.

Almost as if on cue, the night was suddenly filled with the crackle of exploding fireworks and Daria almost floated into the bar, the throng parting for her. She stood before me looking like a long drink of water crying out to a thirsty man and a stiletto chill sliced through me. Her eyes glowed bright emerald green and then faded to black as she smiled, a slash of red lipstick across her full lips.

“Detective Dalton,” she said, in a voice as dark and thick as the smoke from a French cigarette.

“That’s ex-Detective Dalton,” I slurred. “I’m retired, now. A full-fledged member of the self-employed community.”

The words tripped over themselves as they tumbled out of my mouth. I handed Daria a business card. I had hundreds of them. Since Duffy convinced me to become a private eye I’d had the grand total of one client.

“Can I get you a drink?” I said.

“The night is young, Detective Dalton,” she said, as she walked through the ace of spades archway and stepped up onto a small chiaroscuro-lit stage. “Even if you are not!”

She chuckled as two massive, bald men with bullet-hole eyes appeared out of the shadows and helped her with her long black raincoat. They moved a drum kit, a double bass and an old RKO Radio microphone onto the stage as Daria languorously smoked a black cigarette.

I turned back toward Duffy, his head in a worn copy of National Geographic.

“How was last night?” I asked.

“The fancy dress party? It wasn’t exactly a flop,” said Duffy, without looking up from his magazine. “It was just that everyone came as a table and chairs.”

I smiled weakly, tried to think of a witty reply, gave up and lit another cigarette.

“Another DV?” said Duffy

I shrugged and nodded at the same time. No mean feat, the state I was in. He poured me another drink and pulled the plug on the jukebox. I turned towards the stage as Daria’s laugh filled the room again. There was silence. And then she started to sing.

The sweat trickled down the back of my neck like an insect, as the drumsticks scuttled across the drums and the bass player’s fingers snaked down the fret board. I shivered as Daria whispered a torch song as if it was her dying breath, and sparked the embers of a dream.

I quickly downed my drink, ordered another one and headed toward oblivion like dishwater down a plughole.





* * *





The winter moon hung fat and gibbous as I tore Long Tom Short’s head from his shoulders and hurled it across the snow-smothered ground. The splashes of blood looked black in the stark moonlight. A murder of crows scattered and sliced through the whiteness, as the purr of an approaching Mercedes grew to a roar and melded with my howls.

The black car screeched to a stop in a nearby alleyway, outside the former church that had been converted into The Pink Pussy nightclub. The driver got out, pointing a Colt Anaconda. Dressed in a long black overcoat and wearing a wide-brimmed hat, he looked like a shadow as he cut through the deserted car park. I growled as he approached, struggling, as always, to control my wolf-self.

“Down, Rover,” said Ivan Walker as he looked around at the six or seven dead bodies spread around the car park.

“You have been a busy boy tonight, Dalton,” he rasped, his voice like sandpaper. “Ton Ton Philippe will have to recruit a new crew if you keep wasting his boys like this. Either that or he’ll corpse you.”

He scratched the pentangle-shaped scar on his neck with the barrel of his gun.

Snow began to fall like confetti. Walker took Long Tom by the ankles and hauled the gargoyle’s massive corpse towards the dark and dingy alley, leaving a snaking trail of blood behind him. I sniffed the smell of death and my heart beat like a drum. My craving for flesh and blood increasing.

Walker pulled Long Tom Short up to the car, illuminated by the light from a stained glass window, and opened the boot. He hauled the cadaver inside and slammed the lid shut.

I could almost taste the warm flesh. The red splashes were spreading like a Rorschach test before my eyes. The bloodlust was no longer possible to control. I leapt toward Walker and gave a cavernous roar as he dropped to his knees, pointed the gun and fired it straight into my heart.

I slammed into the back of the car and crumpled to the ground. Walker rose to his feet and stood over me, smoking a cigar, the smoke rings floating above his head like a halo or a crown of thorns. Behind him I saw the shape of a tall, dark-haired woman in the corner of the alleyway. Her eyes glowed emerald green and then faded to black.

And then the sea of sleep enfolded me.





* * *





Dark dreams lapped at the shore of my sleep until I awoke, drowning in sweat. My eyes adjusted to the light. The digital clock beside my bed said that it was midday. I was naked on my bed, the black sheets ripped to shreds, and I was dashed with cuts and bruises.

Above my heart were three small punctures. Walker was a crack shot and the darts, filled with traces of silver, were just enough to knock me out for the count without actually killing me.

I showered and dressed in black jeans and a black roll-neck sweater. It was cold and I sat at the Formica table near the rasping radiator, sipping strong black coffee and nibbling on a piece of burnt toast. I clicked on my Bakelite radio and listened to a George Jones song while I tried to read To Have and Have Not. It was no good. Once again, my concentration was shot to pieces. I pulled on my Doc Marten boots, picked up my overcoat and headed off to Duffy’s.





* * *





The thing is, I didn’t particularly care whether she was lying to me or telling me the truth, since most of what I’d told her had been dug up from some murky hinterland somewhere on the outskirts of honesty. It was like a hunt and it didn’t seem to matter who was the hunter and who was the game.

“So, will you do it?” said Daria, sipping her glass of absinthe. She leaned close to me so she could hear my reply. The Frog Boys were slamming coins into the jukebox, playing non-stop ’70s British punk rock far too loud, but I was in no condition to tell them to change their tune. The Frog Boys weren’t the understanding type.

If Ton Ton Philippe had one rival in The City, then Count Otto Rhino was that man. The Frog Boys were Rhino’s seemingly invincible front line troops. All of them were well over six foot tall, with arms like tree trunks, and dressed in military fatigues.

“Well?” said Daria.

Her perfume was a poison that I couldn’t resist. I shrugged, knowing full well that I would dance to any tune she sang.

A glass shattered in the corner of the room. I ignored it.

“Oh, yeah,” I said, “I’ll just turn up at The Pink Pussy and grab your kid sister out of there. I’m sure Ton Ton Philippe won’t mind. I mean, Haitian voodoo priests are renowned for their easy going manner. Especially the ones that run most of The City’s underworld.”

She grinned.

“And don’t forget his army of zombie henchmen,” she said, her eyes flashing crimson.

“Oh, yeah. Mustn’t forget them.”

“So? You’re in?”

“Maybe. It’ll cost you, though.”

“Oh, I can pay, Detective. I’m good for it.”

“Then I’m in,” I said. “Like Errol Flynn.”

Daria leaned back on her bar stool and smiled. “Another round of drinks,” she said to Duffy.

Duffy picked up a bottle of absinthe and placed it between us on the bar. Suddenly, the bar stool shook. Two or three of The Frog Boys were slam-dancing and singing – well, screaming – about being Cranked Up Really High. And they surely were. Just as Duffy poured our drinks, one of the behemoths splayed into me, spilling the violent green liquid across the bar.

I turned to him and glared.

“Asshole!” I yelled, without thinking.

“What did you call me?” said the giant.

Before I could answer he had me by the throat with one gigantic paw and was wrenching me off the bar stool with ease.

I was helpless. I could see Duffy’s fingers creeping towards the shotgun that was hidden under the bar, but before he could get near it, the jukebox stopped and there was silence. Then, the wisp of a melody. It was soft but it slowly grew louder. Daria was singing and patting the giant on his arm, her eyes glowing green.

“No, Duke,” she said.

Suddenly, he started to sob and dropped me back in my seat. Daria stroked his cheek.

“Go play nice, Duke,” she said.

“Yes, Miss Daria,” said the sniffling Duke. “Sorry.”

And he walked back to the rest of The Frog Boys who all sat around the table, heads in hands. The jukebox clicked back to life. Miles Davis played a warm melody. And no one complained.





* * *





The Pink Pussy was usually crammed full of the sort of people that give pond life a bad name. Politicians, senior police officers, lawyers, actors. The DJ, Fritz Neuman, was a gaunt, pallid man who looked as if he’d been dead for a decade and no one had bothered to tell him. Each night he played something with a pounding, deafening bass.

The dance floor would be cramped with hot and sweaty bodies. On the stage, partially clad young women slid around like spaghetti on an alcoholic’s plate.

But in the afternoons the place was half-empty. The flotsam and jetsam of life were scattered around the place, drinking, sleeping. I almost felt at home.

I sat at the bar and glanced at my watch. Like with so many things, the secret of tonight's success would be timing.

“Drink?” said the tattooed greaser behind the bar.

“Dark Valentine,” I said.

He grimaced.

“This isn’t no flop house,” he said.

“Bourbon, then,” I said.

I picked up my drink and headed toward a darkened corner. Toward Ton Ton Philippe.

Small, with a red Mohawk and an eyepatch, Philippe sat on a golden throne near the stage, a smirk crawling across his face. Snakes twisted around his arms, hissing violently. A teenage girl was curled up in his lap like a Persian cat.

“Detective Dalton,” he said, nodding.

I didn’t correct him. Maybe Ton Ton thinking I was still a cop would have its uses.

“What can I do for you?”

“Her,” I said, nodding toward the squirming little blonde. “I’m here to take her home.”

“Ah, I’m afraid this little, fresh piece of chicken is reserved for a special customer. And what the Lao want, the Lao get. You can purchase any number of exotic delights, but this one is reserved.”

I had no idea what the Lao was, but I was used to getting my way. There was a beat as we locked eyes and then I whipped out my gun.

“I’m not buying,” I said, “I’m taking.” And I pulled her towards me.

Philippe’s laugh echoed around the place. And then they appeared. Three of them. Behemoths. Torn and ragged flesh. Glassy eyes. Zombies? Maybe? It certainly seemed as if the rumours were true. But before I could contemplate this any further, they stepped toward me and I fell into a well of blackness.





* * *





Ton Ton Philippe’s office was warm. Stiflingly so. Claustrophobic. I was strapped to a metal chair, like an insect trapped in amber. A parrot screeched in the corner of the room.

“Now, what do we do with you?” said Philippe. “I think that eradicating an officer of the law may give me more problems than I need, but ...”

I was barely listening to him. Not stressed at all. I could feel the itch crawling across my flesh. It wouldn’t be long now. Outside the window, a milky moon filled the inky sky. I changed.

It was a blur of crimson. Of howls and screams.

The zombies were soon ripped to shreds, but Ton Ton Philippe was gone in a wisp of smoke. The girl was like a rag doll as I picked her up and smashed through the window into the bitter cold night air.





* * *





“Thanks, Detective,” said Daria. “You did a damned good job.”

We sat at a rickety table in a deserted Duffy’s. She had the blonde on her knee and I saw that they didn’t look a lot like sisters. Or kiss like sisters, either. I’d been taken for a ride. A one-way ticket on a runaway train. My flesh prickled. My bones ached. I didn’t even care.

Daria stood, a couple of The Frog Boys beside her.

“Back home to Daddy, sweetie,” she said to the blonde, who stumbled to her feet, a smirk on her face. They headed outside and got into a dark green stretch limo with a crest on the side. The crest of Count Otto Rhino.

I looked down at the cash filled envelope that Daria had given me. Stuffed with more green leaves than you’d find in a cabbage patch. I’d made some money. And an enemy of Ton Ton Philippe. Not a bad night’s work, all in all.

“DV?” said Duffy, tearing up a beer mat.

“Naw, today I need a kiss from la fée verte, the green fairy. Give me a shot of absinthe,” I said, as I walked toward the bar. “I’ve heard it makes the heart grow fonder.”





Bio





Paul se je rodil v Angliji, trenutno pa je na begu na Poljskem. Počel je kar nekaj stvari, ki bi jih pričakovali, naprimer delal v trgovini z rabljenimi ploščami, igral bas v par postpankovskih bendih. Več kot deset let uči angleščino kot tuji jezik in zdi se, da se je nekako izmazal.

Je avtor del A Case Of Noir, Guns Of Brixton in nekaterih drugih okusnih prigrizkov, ki jih najdete na spletu in v različnih revijah in antologijah, vključno z Mammoth Book Of Best British Crime 8, 10 and 11 – ob boku z Leejem Childom, Ianom Rankinom in Neilom Gaimanom.

Njegovo pisanje je prevedeno v italijanščino, poljščino in slovenščino.

Uredil je tudi antologiji Exiles: An Outsider Anthology in True Brit Grit, redno pa piše za Pulp Metal Magazine in ima stalno kolumno Brit Grit Alley na Out Of The Gutter Online. Je član Mednarodne zveze piscev trilerjev.





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Paul was born in England and is now on the lam in Poland. He’s done a few things you’d totally expect him to, like worked in a second-hand record shop, played bass in a couple of post-punk bands. He’s been EFL teaching for over ten years and still seems to be getting away with it.

He's the author of A Case Of Noir, Guns Of Brixton and a few other tasty snacks that you can find on the web and in various magazines and anthologies, including The Mammoth Book Of Best British Crime 8, 10 and 11 – alongside the likes of Lee Child, Ian Rankin and Neil Gaiman.

His writing has been translated into Italian, Polish and Slovene.

He also edited the anthologies Exiles: An Outsider Anthology & True Brit Grit and regularly contributes to Pulp Metal Magazine and has a regular column – Brit Grit Alley - at Out Of The Gutter Online. He’s a member of International Thriller Writers Inc.