ubique
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Some of you may be interested in this.
http://www.askaboutwriting.net/441cebook13412.htm
http://www.askaboutwriting.net/441cebook13412.htm
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Literary a disaster pending - the rebirth
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swooperman
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Looks good, Ubique, cheers for that 
swooperman
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Any thoughts welcome This did actually happen, i was there 
Tom Molloy negotiated the white transit van around the tight country lane, cursing as he did so. Grunting with the effort of steering the vehicle, he involuntarily ducked as a low branch thudded into the sloping roof, causing echoes to ricochet around the cab.
“Jesus wept, Killa, are you sure this is the way? Looks like nothings been down here since the Romans!” He spat, glancing across at Ady in the passenger seat, sitting with his feet propped on the dashboard whilst eating an apple.
“Map says its right, mate, and I’m pretty sure I’ve been here before” Ady Killarney replied. “Been a couple of years though” he added, biting a chunk out of the fruit.
Ady was thinking back and was struggling to remember the grass growing in the middle of the road the last time he’d been down here. He had to admit that it didn’t look promising.
They were on their third day away from home, trawling their way around the west country, trying to collect the normal assortment of poll tax, business rates and magistrates fines. So far they had removed a caravan from a driveway in Bristol and had it put on the back of a low loader, only to receive a snotty phone call from the company auctioneer saying it was worth a fraction of what they thought, questioning their judgement and their parentage.
It was June, the weather was warm, and apart from the occasional bout of violence and tears, all was well with the world. The two of them made a good team, both doing the job and in the bar, and they had enjoyed a few pints in Chard the night before, and Weston-Super-Mare the night before that.
Molloy was a native of Portlaw, just north of Waterford, but had moved to England as a child. Like Killarney, he turned on the accent and the blarney like a hose depending on the situation, and he played the persecuted Irishman role very well when needed. He had recently discovered that his wife was having an affair, catching her and her lover in the act in Molloy’s own bed. His response had been brutal, but charges were dropped when the lover had refused to press them after leaving hospital. Molloy kicked his wife out of the house and now lived there with his two grown up children, both in their late teens and early twenties.
Molloy and Killarney were both essentially loners, both happy to work on their own unless they were paired together. They trusted one another through their upbringings, and although the company felt they occasionally went too far on occasions, the fact that other bailiffs weren’t particularly keen working with either of them made the decision a no brainer. Molloy was seen as a loose cannon since the separation. He went through a spell drinking too much before between him and Killarney, he began to control it. He still drank, he couldn’t live without alcohol he had come to realise, but he felt that he now knew his limit. He knew that he wasn’t a young man anymore, three years the senior of the two, and that too much alcohol put him in the mood for fighting. He had been a brawler in his younger days, and his knuckles still carried the scars, but he knew there was a time and a place these days.
Their colleagues treated both with almost reverential awe, as though they were frontier cowboys or the SAS, sent in where no one else would go. They were the guys sent on the calls that other bailiffs had already been chased down the road with baseball bats. They were always bought drinks as soon as they walked into the pub after work, and they were always treated with respect, but still no one wanted to work with them. Where Killarney had always been called ‘Semtex’, Molloy acquired the nickname ‘Mercury’….two short fuses together.
Killarney was in a good mood, having won lunch for the second day running. They played a word association game that involved one of them, in this case Molloy, giving the other a certain word that he had to somehow involve in the visit. Molloy had smiled when he had suggested the word ‘spatula’, and set the limit at one hundred points. Killarney could accrue points by using the word himself which was worth ten points, by getting the debtor to use it was twenty points, and thirty points was available if a policeman used it after being called to prevent a breach of the piece. Molloy had been confident of levelling the loss from the previous day when the word used was ‘stampede’, and was interested to see quite how his friend was going to attempt the game.
There had been no threat to Molloy’s wallet early on in the call. They had met the woman of the house who had said that her husband was at work, and they had waited in the lounge whilst she had telephoned him. Her demeanour had changed as they waited for his return, and they had both noticed it with apprehension. After ten minutes of scanning the room for a photograph of the man, being in a house with a wife whilst her man was on his way was always a nervous time, Killarney found, the door had been thrown open on its hinges. A six foot four inches tall, bull of a man had stormed in, glancing at both of them and storming over to his wife.
“You stupid fucking cow” he shouted, “didn’t I give you the money to pay it? Didn’t I?” He had ended his tirade with a slap across his wife’s face, knocking her to the ground where she simply sat, crying. His attention then turned to Molloy, who had taken a step forward to try and prevent the hit but had been surprised by the man’s sheer speed.
“You…get the fuck out of here. Now!” He spat menacingly, eyes narrowing as Molloy didn’t move a muscle, just looking at him with a slight smile turning up the corners of his mouth.
The man then proceeded to actually try and pick Molloy up, to which the bailiff responded by widening his eyes over his assailants shoulder at Killarney, as if to say ‘can you believe this guy?’
The two men then proceeded to have a grappling match that involved the husband trying to rugby scrum Molloy towards the door. Molloy responded with as little movement as possible whilst trying not to get his suit ripped. This went on for a couple of long minutes, before Killarney cleared his throat:
“Behold, gentlemen, enough of this nonsense” he proclaimed in a fake, slightly upper crust accent that would have sounded comical at any other time. Molloy and the husband paused in their struggle to look across at him. “This” he said, holding up his brick like NEC mobile phone, “is my spatula, and I shall use my spatula to summon assistance.”
Shit, thought Molloy, twenty points.
“A spatula?” grunted the husband in his cider soaked west country dialect, arms falling to his side. “That’s a fucking phone, you idiot, not a spatula” He looked at Molloy, as if bizarrely seeking agreement from the man he was just fighting. Molloy simply sighed, mouthed the words ‘fucking sixty’ at Ady, shook his head and tried to smooth the grab marks from his suit jacket.
“This spatula is magic” said Killarney in a joyful tone, looking not unlike a grizzled Kenneth Williams whilst pointing at the phone in his other hand. “It has a direct line to the local constabulary, as it doesn’t want to become a broken spatula.”
The husbands shoulders slowly slumped, and Killarney and Molloy looked at each other knowingly, and then expectantly at the defeated looking man in front of them.
“Please” he said quietly, “not the police, I’ve got a record….I’m on parole” He looked suddenly like a young boy, realising he was in too deep. Killarney looked again at Molloy, a slightly anxious look on his face. He raised the phone again, gesturing at it with his other hand, his finger on the send button.
“Please” implored the husband, his hands fanning down in an imploring gesture of calm. “Please” he repeated, “put the spatula down, I’ll get the money, I’ll ring my brother.”
Molloy watched Killarney’s face break into a grin, and a knowing wink in the direction of his colleague. Killarney crossed to the woman and helped her up off the floor.
“Okay, now we’re talking” he said, in a distinctly more Irish accent than before. “Put the kettle on then, love” he said to the woman, then turned to her husband once again. “Its just over six hundred and eighty pounds in total. Can you get it?” The man nodded, resigned to his humiliation, his defeat. “Good” added the bailiff, “because it goes up thirty quid every half hour we’re here.”
The man looked at him and shook his head slightly. Ady raised his eyebrows questioningly:
“Want to borrow the phone?” he asked, a smile on his face.
Forty-five minutes later Molloy was checking fifty pound notes handed to him by a scowling car dealer of a brother, whilst Ady finished his coffee, which he had watched closely as it was made.
As they had left the house, Molloy had shook his head:
“How the fuck did you get lunch out of me there?” he said.
“Aah, that’ll be the blarney” replied Killarney
This did actually happen, i was there Tom Molloy negotiated the white transit van around the tight country lane, cursing as he did so. Grunting with the effort of steering the vehicle, he involuntarily ducked as a low branch thudded into the sloping roof, causing echoes to ricochet around the cab.
“Jesus wept, Killa, are you sure this is the way? Looks like nothings been down here since the Romans!” He spat, glancing across at Ady in the passenger seat, sitting with his feet propped on the dashboard whilst eating an apple.
“Map says its right, mate, and I’m pretty sure I’ve been here before” Ady Killarney replied. “Been a couple of years though” he added, biting a chunk out of the fruit.
Ady was thinking back and was struggling to remember the grass growing in the middle of the road the last time he’d been down here. He had to admit that it didn’t look promising.
They were on their third day away from home, trawling their way around the west country, trying to collect the normal assortment of poll tax, business rates and magistrates fines. So far they had removed a caravan from a driveway in Bristol and had it put on the back of a low loader, only to receive a snotty phone call from the company auctioneer saying it was worth a fraction of what they thought, questioning their judgement and their parentage.
It was June, the weather was warm, and apart from the occasional bout of violence and tears, all was well with the world. The two of them made a good team, both doing the job and in the bar, and they had enjoyed a few pints in Chard the night before, and Weston-Super-Mare the night before that.
Molloy was a native of Portlaw, just north of Waterford, but had moved to England as a child. Like Killarney, he turned on the accent and the blarney like a hose depending on the situation, and he played the persecuted Irishman role very well when needed. He had recently discovered that his wife was having an affair, catching her and her lover in the act in Molloy’s own bed. His response had been brutal, but charges were dropped when the lover had refused to press them after leaving hospital. Molloy kicked his wife out of the house and now lived there with his two grown up children, both in their late teens and early twenties.
Molloy and Killarney were both essentially loners, both happy to work on their own unless they were paired together. They trusted one another through their upbringings, and although the company felt they occasionally went too far on occasions, the fact that other bailiffs weren’t particularly keen working with either of them made the decision a no brainer. Molloy was seen as a loose cannon since the separation. He went through a spell drinking too much before between him and Killarney, he began to control it. He still drank, he couldn’t live without alcohol he had come to realise, but he felt that he now knew his limit. He knew that he wasn’t a young man anymore, three years the senior of the two, and that too much alcohol put him in the mood for fighting. He had been a brawler in his younger days, and his knuckles still carried the scars, but he knew there was a time and a place these days.
Their colleagues treated both with almost reverential awe, as though they were frontier cowboys or the SAS, sent in where no one else would go. They were the guys sent on the calls that other bailiffs had already been chased down the road with baseball bats. They were always bought drinks as soon as they walked into the pub after work, and they were always treated with respect, but still no one wanted to work with them. Where Killarney had always been called ‘Semtex’, Molloy acquired the nickname ‘Mercury’….two short fuses together.
Killarney was in a good mood, having won lunch for the second day running. They played a word association game that involved one of them, in this case Molloy, giving the other a certain word that he had to somehow involve in the visit. Molloy had smiled when he had suggested the word ‘spatula’, and set the limit at one hundred points. Killarney could accrue points by using the word himself which was worth ten points, by getting the debtor to use it was twenty points, and thirty points was available if a policeman used it after being called to prevent a breach of the piece. Molloy had been confident of levelling the loss from the previous day when the word used was ‘stampede’, and was interested to see quite how his friend was going to attempt the game.
There had been no threat to Molloy’s wallet early on in the call. They had met the woman of the house who had said that her husband was at work, and they had waited in the lounge whilst she had telephoned him. Her demeanour had changed as they waited for his return, and they had both noticed it with apprehension. After ten minutes of scanning the room for a photograph of the man, being in a house with a wife whilst her man was on his way was always a nervous time, Killarney found, the door had been thrown open on its hinges. A six foot four inches tall, bull of a man had stormed in, glancing at both of them and storming over to his wife.
“You stupid fucking cow” he shouted, “didn’t I give you the money to pay it? Didn’t I?” He had ended his tirade with a slap across his wife’s face, knocking her to the ground where she simply sat, crying. His attention then turned to Molloy, who had taken a step forward to try and prevent the hit but had been surprised by the man’s sheer speed.
“You…get the fuck out of here. Now!” He spat menacingly, eyes narrowing as Molloy didn’t move a muscle, just looking at him with a slight smile turning up the corners of his mouth.
The man then proceeded to actually try and pick Molloy up, to which the bailiff responded by widening his eyes over his assailants shoulder at Killarney, as if to say ‘can you believe this guy?’
The two men then proceeded to have a grappling match that involved the husband trying to rugby scrum Molloy towards the door. Molloy responded with as little movement as possible whilst trying not to get his suit ripped. This went on for a couple of long minutes, before Killarney cleared his throat:
“Behold, gentlemen, enough of this nonsense” he proclaimed in a fake, slightly upper crust accent that would have sounded comical at any other time. Molloy and the husband paused in their struggle to look across at him. “This” he said, holding up his brick like NEC mobile phone, “is my spatula, and I shall use my spatula to summon assistance.”
Shit, thought Molloy, twenty points.
“A spatula?” grunted the husband in his cider soaked west country dialect, arms falling to his side. “That’s a fucking phone, you idiot, not a spatula” He looked at Molloy, as if bizarrely seeking agreement from the man he was just fighting. Molloy simply sighed, mouthed the words ‘fucking sixty’ at Ady, shook his head and tried to smooth the grab marks from his suit jacket.
“This spatula is magic” said Killarney in a joyful tone, looking not unlike a grizzled Kenneth Williams whilst pointing at the phone in his other hand. “It has a direct line to the local constabulary, as it doesn’t want to become a broken spatula.”
The husbands shoulders slowly slumped, and Killarney and Molloy looked at each other knowingly, and then expectantly at the defeated looking man in front of them.
“Please” he said quietly, “not the police, I’ve got a record….I’m on parole” He looked suddenly like a young boy, realising he was in too deep. Killarney looked again at Molloy, a slightly anxious look on his face. He raised the phone again, gesturing at it with his other hand, his finger on the send button.
“Please” implored the husband, his hands fanning down in an imploring gesture of calm. “Please” he repeated, “put the spatula down, I’ll get the money, I’ll ring my brother.”
Molloy watched Killarney’s face break into a grin, and a knowing wink in the direction of his colleague. Killarney crossed to the woman and helped her up off the floor.
“Okay, now we’re talking” he said, in a distinctly more Irish accent than before. “Put the kettle on then, love” he said to the woman, then turned to her husband once again. “Its just over six hundred and eighty pounds in total. Can you get it?” The man nodded, resigned to his humiliation, his defeat. “Good” added the bailiff, “because it goes up thirty quid every half hour we’re here.”
The man looked at him and shook his head slightly. Ady raised his eyebrows questioningly:
“Want to borrow the phone?” he asked, a smile on his face.
Forty-five minutes later Molloy was checking fifty pound notes handed to him by a scowling car dealer of a brother, whilst Ady finished his coffee, which he had watched closely as it was made.
As they had left the house, Molloy had shook his head:
“How the fuck did you get lunch out of me there?” he said.
“Aah, that’ll be the blarney” replied Killarney
C
Colbro
Guest
Very good - I enjoyed it. Nice touch with the "spatula"
swooperman
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I have a question, TC, or anyone. Can you write an action scene, or any scene, with changing points of view? Or is that a no no?
H
hotspur
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I think you can def write a non-action scene from diff. points of view.
The most famous action scene that Ive read in a book is Bonds escape from Blodfelds mountain lair in OHMSS...and,I beleive that that whole scene was from Bonds point of view,despite it being several pages long.
So I guess youd need a very good reason for changing pov but then you no doubt knew that.
I am really curious to know what your reason is for changing pov in an action scene but its ok if you keep that to yourself
The most famous action scene that Ive read in a book is Bonds escape from Blodfelds mountain lair in OHMSS...and,I beleive that that whole scene was from Bonds point of view,despite it being several pages long.
So I guess youd need a very good reason for changing pov but then you no doubt knew that.
I am really curious to know what your reason is for changing pov in an action scene but its ok if you keep that to yourself
ThunderCelt
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I agree with hotspur - I think you need a very good reason to change viewpoints. However, some writers do it continually - Wilbur Smith (I think) comes to mind - so what do I know?
swooperman
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Well, simply cos I've written it that way tbh 
& I'm not sure whether it works or not. I'll put it up, thats probably easiest, all opinions welcome but bear in mind this is unedited so dont get too hissy apart from the POV. Well, you can if you want I guess, all helps:
The drive back to the house was a blur, and before he knew it Tom was pulling back up on the drive. He got out of the car, carrying the bag over his shoulder, not sure whether to rush into the house or not. He settled for trying to show an outward sense of calm as he walked through the door and into the living room. He saw the gunman leaning nonchalantly on the armchair, one leg along the armrest, smiling at Molloy’s reappearance.
Tom looked at his son, now sitting, leaning his back against the wall. He didn’t look totally alert, by any means, but at least he was conscious. He managed a weak smile at Becca, who falteringly returned it. He could see that she had been crying, but he considered that as expected under the circumstances. He looked at her troubled face, knowing that somehow she looked different. Her eyes seemed troubled, as though the spark had disappeared from them. The aqua blue was the same, but they didn’t seem depthless any more, as though the bottom had been pulled across them. She looked away, back to her brother, holding a damp cloth to his head. Molloy frowned, unable to determine why he felt the way he did, but Benito cleared his throat to attract his attention.
The gunman was frowning slightly at the bag, switching his gaze from the money back to Molloy.
“I thought it would be bigger” he said after a while in a low voice, causing Tom to listen hard to hear him, something which worried him even more.
“It would be, if it was all there” replied Molloy, watching Benito’s eyes widen, his nostrils flaring slightly. “There were two of us, we split it half each.”
The gunman nodded. That made sense, even if it confused the situation immensely. He thought about how he was going to solve this problem. It was obvious he needed the rest of the money, for himself or ‘Big D’ that was a no brainer. The problem was that he had felt that if it was only these three people involved then he could possibly have walked away and let them live. He had even considered giving them some of the money back to stay quiet whilst he disappeared. That was before he had raped the man’s daughter though, he realised, which would come out eventually. The age old problem coming back to haunt him, he thought, subconsciously shaking his head and sighing.
It was unlikely he could just walk away from here now, he realised, which clouded everything.
“You realise, of course, that half is no good? I need it all” he said quietly, like a gentle hiss on the wind. Molloy nodded slightly. “Can you get hold of it?” Benito added, a merciless look on his face.
“I’ve tried” Tom said quietly. “His mobiles off and he’s not at home, so I left a message. Its just a matter of time. Once I explain it he’ll come through, I’m certain.” There was pain in his words. Ady was a good friend but this was begging, and it would hurt Molloy. He wasn’t certain he’d ever be able to look Killarney in the face again, but for the sake of his children, he knew he had to. He felt confident that his friend would understand, but friendships were strange things, and this was one hundred and sixty grand!
Molloy looked back at Becca, at the un-natural movements she was making, almost machine like in their motion. Something inside him wouldn’t let it go, and he knew something was wrong. Benito’s words brought him back to the conversation:
“So he works with you, yes? And he’s not at home?”
“Yeah” he replied absent mindedly. What was it that was bothering him, he wondered, watching his daughter dab the cloth on Jason’s head. “He’s a doorman, same as I used to be, at The Institute with Dennis, may well be working tonight….”
His words tailed off as the realisation came to him. He realised what was bothering him. Becca’s trainers were lying on the floor, strewn haphazardly behind her, whereas he was certain that she had only just walked into the house before him. How sure was he that she had them on her feet when he left for the money? He looked at Benito and the gunman straightened in the chair, seeing the changed look in Tom’s eyes. Tom looked back at his daughter, looking down at her midriff, seeing the belt hanging loose, undone, knowing that his fashion conscious daughter would never have left it that way.
“Becca?” he said softly, causing her to look up at him. He saw the fear in her eyes and his heart almost broke in two. What had this monster done to her? He thought to himself. Not only had he put his children in danger, he’d left them at the mercy of something terrible.
Molloy tried to swallow as the rage built inside him. He tried to contain himself as he saw his daughter look at him pleadingly, mouthing the words ‘Dad, no!’ He knew that there was no hope of him containing this anger, bubbling like a stream engorged by a torrential storm. He breathed hard through his mouth in a vain attempt at trying to control himself, knowing it was useless.
Benito watched Molloy’s movements with concern, knowing something had just changed in the room. He was confident the man didn’t have a gun as there was no tell-tale bulge in his clothing, so unless he reached behind him to his belt he wasn’t overly concerned.
“I guess we’ll have to pay him a visit then.” The gunman said, but Molloy didn’t hear him. There was a sound like rushing water in his ears, blocking out virtually everything. He looked at his son wincing at the pain of the cloth his daughter was holding to his head. Not dabbing any more, just holding, as she watched her father battle with his demons, battle with the realisation that he was somehow to blame for all of this. That something he had done had triggered it off, a defining moment in all of their lives.
Benito started to swing his resting leg down off the arm of the chair as Molloy suddenly moved forward with startling speed. The gunman’s eyes widened as he saw Toms hand emerge from his pocket with the long screwdriver held in a stabbing grip. Benito was far from naïve, but thinking he held all of the aces he had assumed that the hand was going for a mobile phone to ring the other man again. Overconfident? Certainly, but far from naïve.
Off balance from dropping his leg as Molloy hit him with the onrushing force of a freight train, Benito went backwards with Tom on top of him. Crucially he didn’t let go of the gun as they both toppled over the chair, upending it as they were entwined in a tightening knot of arms and legs. Becca screamed as both men hit the floor, but neither heard her in their battle for survival, both knowing instinctively that it was to the death.
Molloy’s right arm came down from its raised height with terrifying speed, the screwdriver aimed at the chest. Benito twisted at the last second, feeling the steel puncture the flesh in his upper left arm and driving inwards until it glanced off bone. He half grunted, half screamed as the nauseating pain washed across him, some instinct telling him that to succumb to the pain for just a second was to entice death, a grasp that it would be hard to loosen. The twist took the screwdriver from Molloy’s hand, but he grabbed for it as it tantalisingly moved across his vision in slow motion, tearing the flesh some more before yanking it free.
Benito tried to pivot, instinct keeping him from rolling on his injured left arm. As Molloy raised himself onto his knees for another attack, the gunman slammed both feet into his chest, sending him sprawling backwards into the sofa, almost knocking it over. As Benito tried to catch his breath something hit him on the side of his face and again on the left shoulder. He instinctively moved to his right, glancing back to see the girl swinging what looked like a broom back over her shoulder to strike again. In a moment of clarity that seemed to be moving inexorably slowly, he could see the handle was too long for where her grip was, reducing the power. He raised his injured arm and took the blow high on the forearm. It was a weakened effort but it still shook him. Clenching his teeth he grabbed the broom and twisted it from her grasp, thrusting it backwards into her stomach and sending her tumbling towards the wall with a shriek, ending with a groan as she struck brick.
Her father was on him again and Benito had the strange sensation that he was drowning, and that he needed a lifejacket to even up the odds. Instinct told him the girl was down for a few seconds and that he could concentrate on Molloy. A punch flew into his jaw, rattling his teeth in their sockets, and in a strange section of his mind that seemingly just watched the action from afar, he had a certain level of respect for the man. Tom’s attack though, was unco-ordinated in its fury, the control gone. He wasn’t picking his punches, he was swinging with all his might, trying to get at this animal that was threatening, damaging his family.
Benito felt hands around his throat, trying to choke the life out of him. He saw movement from his left and saw with shocked realisation that somehow the son was now on his feet, picking up the broom his sister had dropped and moving towards him. Jesus, he thought, do this lot never stop. For some reason the words in his head were said in an Irish accent, and that in another time he’d have found that funny, but not tonight. Certainly not tonight.
He slammed out a foot into Molloy’s midriff once again, knocking him backwards slightly but he hung on. The pressure around his throat slackened but then increased once again. In a calm rational second that he wasn’t sure he was capable of he wondered how long he had before he blacked out. The broom came down, though not powerfully, and bounced off his injured shoulder, and he would have screamed if he had the breath available to do so. He had no choice, he realised, stepping through a previously closed door in his brain. He half raised his right arm and squeezed the trigger once, twice. There was hardly any noise, just a grunt, but after what seemed like a lifetime the pressure around his throat relaxed, although the broom bounced off the side of his face, annoying him immensely.
He saw Molloy fall backwards into a sitting position, the colour red in his mind as he turned back towards the son. Jason Molloy was standing, staring dumbfounded at his father, the broom hanging loosely in his arms. Benito slowly stood and the son turned towards him, a tragic figure with tears and shock in his eyes, before Benito punched him with his gun hand, sending him sprawling to the floor. He looked at the girl and saw that she was struggling to sit upright but was no immediate danger, and switched his attention to Tom Molloy.
Molloy half sat, half lay sprawled on the floor, his head and upper back resting on the sofa. His hands were clutched over his midriff, covered in blood, and his breaths came in wet, ragged gasps. Benito immediately knew the man was dying, and he knew that the whole scenario had now changed. There was no walking away any more, no clean break or getaway. If anybody had even heard any of the fight and become suspicious then the wheels would already be in motion for it to all be over. He looked at the three of them one by one, knowing they were beaten. He wondered if either of the two younger ones had children themselves, and whether he was about to totally remove a family from the face of the earth. He was past caring really, and he took a deep breath before walking over to the side of the dying man and kneeling down.
“You were out of your depth, man, but I’ll give you credit for trying” he whispered, watching Molloy raise his eyes to his.
“Please….” He gasped, “please, let them go.”
Benito looked at him for a long time, watching the light start to dim in his eyes, before he stood up and looked at the gun in his hand.
“Sorry” he said, watching Molloy’s eyes follow his movement as he turned away, walking over to Jason and without hesitation shooting him in the forehead.
Molloy gasped as he saw his sons body spasm and then lay still. He made a low moan as he tried to stand but there was simply no way. The cards had been dealt, turned over, and he had no hand to play with, his bluffing all done. He sank back into the carpet and sofa, drenched in blood, despair engulfing him. Benito turned to look at him, seeing there was no plea in his eyes now, just resigned hatred.
Molloy watched the gunman with the hanging left arm walk over to Becca, who sat dazed against the wall. He watched him bend down and lift her chin with his finger, kissing her on the lips, there being no opposition. He turned and smiled at Molloy, who opened his mouth and a desperate ‘no’ croaked out. The sound was one of desperation, of grief, of the loss of a loved one, his own blood, his daughter about to die, his son that already had. Benito turned back to Becca, raised the gun and shot her between the eyes, her head moved slightly backwards and her eyes closed as he still held her chin. The perfect black hole in her forehead with the slow trickle of blood emerging from it seemingly an aberration on her features. She looked beautiful and serene even in death, and Benito gently laid her head back on the wall.
He stood up and walked over to Molloy, whose features were wracked with loss.
“Finish me” he begged, the words coming out in a rasping drawl. Benito looked at him, wondering at the logic of it all. Considering he had condemned the man to a slow, agonising death and executed his family in front of him, the suggestion of putting him out of his misery didn’t make sense. Before he knew what he was doing, however, he’d raised the gun and shot Molloy between the eyes. The mans head snapped back and the eyes looked upwards blindly, and it was over.
Benito sat down heavily against the wall, exhausted suddenly, needing rest. He examined his upper left arm. Deciding it was just a puncture wound and that he’d lost a bit of blood, but he’d live. He looked around the room, trashed, and he wondered if anyone would report the noise of the fight, thinking he might be lucky as it was a detached house. He tilted his head back and looked at the ceiling. There were traces of his blood here, and that could be a problem, even though the place looked like a casualty station. If the police were alerted then he was in trouble anyway, and it would end here as he wouldn’t be taken alive in that situation. He knew he needed rest and then to dress his wound, his jaw aching as well as his arm.
He would rest here, he decided. It was dangerous, that was true enough, and if the police came he would shoot it out and die here. If someone else came? Well, he’d killed three already so more wouldn’t really matter. He would rest here until tomorrow, regain his strength. At least with it being Thursday night there was only one more day of normality before the weekend, meaning there was more chance of the dead not being missed. Then he would try and recover the rest of the money from the other man. A doorman, Molloy had said, at ‘The Institute’. That sounded like the place to start, he thought, as he drifted into darkness.
& I'm not sure whether it works or not. I'll put it up, thats probably easiest, all opinions welcome but bear in mind this is unedited so dont get too hissy apart from the POV. Well, you can if you want I guess, all helps:The drive back to the house was a blur, and before he knew it Tom was pulling back up on the drive. He got out of the car, carrying the bag over his shoulder, not sure whether to rush into the house or not. He settled for trying to show an outward sense of calm as he walked through the door and into the living room. He saw the gunman leaning nonchalantly on the armchair, one leg along the armrest, smiling at Molloy’s reappearance.
Tom looked at his son, now sitting, leaning his back against the wall. He didn’t look totally alert, by any means, but at least he was conscious. He managed a weak smile at Becca, who falteringly returned it. He could see that she had been crying, but he considered that as expected under the circumstances. He looked at her troubled face, knowing that somehow she looked different. Her eyes seemed troubled, as though the spark had disappeared from them. The aqua blue was the same, but they didn’t seem depthless any more, as though the bottom had been pulled across them. She looked away, back to her brother, holding a damp cloth to his head. Molloy frowned, unable to determine why he felt the way he did, but Benito cleared his throat to attract his attention.
The gunman was frowning slightly at the bag, switching his gaze from the money back to Molloy.
“I thought it would be bigger” he said after a while in a low voice, causing Tom to listen hard to hear him, something which worried him even more.
“It would be, if it was all there” replied Molloy, watching Benito’s eyes widen, his nostrils flaring slightly. “There were two of us, we split it half each.”
The gunman nodded. That made sense, even if it confused the situation immensely. He thought about how he was going to solve this problem. It was obvious he needed the rest of the money, for himself or ‘Big D’ that was a no brainer. The problem was that he had felt that if it was only these three people involved then he could possibly have walked away and let them live. He had even considered giving them some of the money back to stay quiet whilst he disappeared. That was before he had raped the man’s daughter though, he realised, which would come out eventually. The age old problem coming back to haunt him, he thought, subconsciously shaking his head and sighing.
It was unlikely he could just walk away from here now, he realised, which clouded everything.
“You realise, of course, that half is no good? I need it all” he said quietly, like a gentle hiss on the wind. Molloy nodded slightly. “Can you get hold of it?” Benito added, a merciless look on his face.
“I’ve tried” Tom said quietly. “His mobiles off and he’s not at home, so I left a message. Its just a matter of time. Once I explain it he’ll come through, I’m certain.” There was pain in his words. Ady was a good friend but this was begging, and it would hurt Molloy. He wasn’t certain he’d ever be able to look Killarney in the face again, but for the sake of his children, he knew he had to. He felt confident that his friend would understand, but friendships were strange things, and this was one hundred and sixty grand!
Molloy looked back at Becca, at the un-natural movements she was making, almost machine like in their motion. Something inside him wouldn’t let it go, and he knew something was wrong. Benito’s words brought him back to the conversation:
“So he works with you, yes? And he’s not at home?”
“Yeah” he replied absent mindedly. What was it that was bothering him, he wondered, watching his daughter dab the cloth on Jason’s head. “He’s a doorman, same as I used to be, at The Institute with Dennis, may well be working tonight….”
His words tailed off as the realisation came to him. He realised what was bothering him. Becca’s trainers were lying on the floor, strewn haphazardly behind her, whereas he was certain that she had only just walked into the house before him. How sure was he that she had them on her feet when he left for the money? He looked at Benito and the gunman straightened in the chair, seeing the changed look in Tom’s eyes. Tom looked back at his daughter, looking down at her midriff, seeing the belt hanging loose, undone, knowing that his fashion conscious daughter would never have left it that way.
“Becca?” he said softly, causing her to look up at him. He saw the fear in her eyes and his heart almost broke in two. What had this monster done to her? He thought to himself. Not only had he put his children in danger, he’d left them at the mercy of something terrible.
Molloy tried to swallow as the rage built inside him. He tried to contain himself as he saw his daughter look at him pleadingly, mouthing the words ‘Dad, no!’ He knew that there was no hope of him containing this anger, bubbling like a stream engorged by a torrential storm. He breathed hard through his mouth in a vain attempt at trying to control himself, knowing it was useless.
Benito watched Molloy’s movements with concern, knowing something had just changed in the room. He was confident the man didn’t have a gun as there was no tell-tale bulge in his clothing, so unless he reached behind him to his belt he wasn’t overly concerned.
“I guess we’ll have to pay him a visit then.” The gunman said, but Molloy didn’t hear him. There was a sound like rushing water in his ears, blocking out virtually everything. He looked at his son wincing at the pain of the cloth his daughter was holding to his head. Not dabbing any more, just holding, as she watched her father battle with his demons, battle with the realisation that he was somehow to blame for all of this. That something he had done had triggered it off, a defining moment in all of their lives.
Benito started to swing his resting leg down off the arm of the chair as Molloy suddenly moved forward with startling speed. The gunman’s eyes widened as he saw Toms hand emerge from his pocket with the long screwdriver held in a stabbing grip. Benito was far from naïve, but thinking he held all of the aces he had assumed that the hand was going for a mobile phone to ring the other man again. Overconfident? Certainly, but far from naïve.
Off balance from dropping his leg as Molloy hit him with the onrushing force of a freight train, Benito went backwards with Tom on top of him. Crucially he didn’t let go of the gun as they both toppled over the chair, upending it as they were entwined in a tightening knot of arms and legs. Becca screamed as both men hit the floor, but neither heard her in their battle for survival, both knowing instinctively that it was to the death.
Molloy’s right arm came down from its raised height with terrifying speed, the screwdriver aimed at the chest. Benito twisted at the last second, feeling the steel puncture the flesh in his upper left arm and driving inwards until it glanced off bone. He half grunted, half screamed as the nauseating pain washed across him, some instinct telling him that to succumb to the pain for just a second was to entice death, a grasp that it would be hard to loosen. The twist took the screwdriver from Molloy’s hand, but he grabbed for it as it tantalisingly moved across his vision in slow motion, tearing the flesh some more before yanking it free.
Benito tried to pivot, instinct keeping him from rolling on his injured left arm. As Molloy raised himself onto his knees for another attack, the gunman slammed both feet into his chest, sending him sprawling backwards into the sofa, almost knocking it over. As Benito tried to catch his breath something hit him on the side of his face and again on the left shoulder. He instinctively moved to his right, glancing back to see the girl swinging what looked like a broom back over her shoulder to strike again. In a moment of clarity that seemed to be moving inexorably slowly, he could see the handle was too long for where her grip was, reducing the power. He raised his injured arm and took the blow high on the forearm. It was a weakened effort but it still shook him. Clenching his teeth he grabbed the broom and twisted it from her grasp, thrusting it backwards into her stomach and sending her tumbling towards the wall with a shriek, ending with a groan as she struck brick.
Her father was on him again and Benito had the strange sensation that he was drowning, and that he needed a lifejacket to even up the odds. Instinct told him the girl was down for a few seconds and that he could concentrate on Molloy. A punch flew into his jaw, rattling his teeth in their sockets, and in a strange section of his mind that seemingly just watched the action from afar, he had a certain level of respect for the man. Tom’s attack though, was unco-ordinated in its fury, the control gone. He wasn’t picking his punches, he was swinging with all his might, trying to get at this animal that was threatening, damaging his family.
Benito felt hands around his throat, trying to choke the life out of him. He saw movement from his left and saw with shocked realisation that somehow the son was now on his feet, picking up the broom his sister had dropped and moving towards him. Jesus, he thought, do this lot never stop. For some reason the words in his head were said in an Irish accent, and that in another time he’d have found that funny, but not tonight. Certainly not tonight.
He slammed out a foot into Molloy’s midriff once again, knocking him backwards slightly but he hung on. The pressure around his throat slackened but then increased once again. In a calm rational second that he wasn’t sure he was capable of he wondered how long he had before he blacked out. The broom came down, though not powerfully, and bounced off his injured shoulder, and he would have screamed if he had the breath available to do so. He had no choice, he realised, stepping through a previously closed door in his brain. He half raised his right arm and squeezed the trigger once, twice. There was hardly any noise, just a grunt, but after what seemed like a lifetime the pressure around his throat relaxed, although the broom bounced off the side of his face, annoying him immensely.
He saw Molloy fall backwards into a sitting position, the colour red in his mind as he turned back towards the son. Jason Molloy was standing, staring dumbfounded at his father, the broom hanging loosely in his arms. Benito slowly stood and the son turned towards him, a tragic figure with tears and shock in his eyes, before Benito punched him with his gun hand, sending him sprawling to the floor. He looked at the girl and saw that she was struggling to sit upright but was no immediate danger, and switched his attention to Tom Molloy.
Molloy half sat, half lay sprawled on the floor, his head and upper back resting on the sofa. His hands were clutched over his midriff, covered in blood, and his breaths came in wet, ragged gasps. Benito immediately knew the man was dying, and he knew that the whole scenario had now changed. There was no walking away any more, no clean break or getaway. If anybody had even heard any of the fight and become suspicious then the wheels would already be in motion for it to all be over. He looked at the three of them one by one, knowing they were beaten. He wondered if either of the two younger ones had children themselves, and whether he was about to totally remove a family from the face of the earth. He was past caring really, and he took a deep breath before walking over to the side of the dying man and kneeling down.
“You were out of your depth, man, but I’ll give you credit for trying” he whispered, watching Molloy raise his eyes to his.
“Please….” He gasped, “please, let them go.”
Benito looked at him for a long time, watching the light start to dim in his eyes, before he stood up and looked at the gun in his hand.
“Sorry” he said, watching Molloy’s eyes follow his movement as he turned away, walking over to Jason and without hesitation shooting him in the forehead.
Molloy gasped as he saw his sons body spasm and then lay still. He made a low moan as he tried to stand but there was simply no way. The cards had been dealt, turned over, and he had no hand to play with, his bluffing all done. He sank back into the carpet and sofa, drenched in blood, despair engulfing him. Benito turned to look at him, seeing there was no plea in his eyes now, just resigned hatred.
Molloy watched the gunman with the hanging left arm walk over to Becca, who sat dazed against the wall. He watched him bend down and lift her chin with his finger, kissing her on the lips, there being no opposition. He turned and smiled at Molloy, who opened his mouth and a desperate ‘no’ croaked out. The sound was one of desperation, of grief, of the loss of a loved one, his own blood, his daughter about to die, his son that already had. Benito turned back to Becca, raised the gun and shot her between the eyes, her head moved slightly backwards and her eyes closed as he still held her chin. The perfect black hole in her forehead with the slow trickle of blood emerging from it seemingly an aberration on her features. She looked beautiful and serene even in death, and Benito gently laid her head back on the wall.
He stood up and walked over to Molloy, whose features were wracked with loss.
“Finish me” he begged, the words coming out in a rasping drawl. Benito looked at him, wondering at the logic of it all. Considering he had condemned the man to a slow, agonising death and executed his family in front of him, the suggestion of putting him out of his misery didn’t make sense. Before he knew what he was doing, however, he’d raised the gun and shot Molloy between the eyes. The mans head snapped back and the eyes looked upwards blindly, and it was over.
Benito sat down heavily against the wall, exhausted suddenly, needing rest. He examined his upper left arm. Deciding it was just a puncture wound and that he’d lost a bit of blood, but he’d live. He looked around the room, trashed, and he wondered if anyone would report the noise of the fight, thinking he might be lucky as it was a detached house. He tilted his head back and looked at the ceiling. There were traces of his blood here, and that could be a problem, even though the place looked like a casualty station. If the police were alerted then he was in trouble anyway, and it would end here as he wouldn’t be taken alive in that situation. He knew he needed rest and then to dress his wound, his jaw aching as well as his arm.
He would rest here, he decided. It was dangerous, that was true enough, and if the police came he would shoot it out and die here. If someone else came? Well, he’d killed three already so more wouldn’t really matter. He would rest here until tomorrow, regain his strength. At least with it being Thursday night there was only one more day of normality before the weekend, meaning there was more chance of the dead not being missed. Then he would try and recover the rest of the money from the other man. A doorman, Molloy had said, at ‘The Institute’. That sounded like the place to start, he thought, as he drifted into darkness.
swooperman
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Hmmm, doesnt change as much as I thought 
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suirthing
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Swoops, Portlaw is only up the road from me, I played Junior hurling and marked a lad called Declan Molloy, they called him 'baker' couldn't hurl for shit but a tough bastard, he went to England about 15 years ago and was tunneling at Charing Cross last time I heard of him, had a sister called Natasha, fat ugly bitch, the tide would not take her out, I wonder is that the same Molloy you are on about? God rest him.
swooperman
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Conicidence mate. Molloy is based on someone, as are most of my characters, but obviously the names are changed.
Stevie Benito is obviously based on Seen
Stevie Benito is obviously based on Seen
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Steve_uk
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Does anybody recall a series called "The Sweeney" shown on British television in the 1970s? This type of writing reminds me of it.
swooperman
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remember the Sweeney, but certainly not based on it. Is that good, I'm not sure 
swooperman
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Fuck off, you're only grumpy cos you just got up
swooperman
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anyway, that would make Steve-uk & Hotspur non-fans but that may well only count as one
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hotspur
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me a non-fan?where do you get that from(unless it was a post a long time ago about it not being as succinct as Martina Cole-which it couldnt be as shes a bestseller?)
having said that,I have a confession of sorts:as I read lots of books,if I find myself reading a long book with lots of fight/action scenes I simply edit out the whole fight scene.
simply cos i probably aint gonna learn much about the hero or,indeed,the human condition from a fight scene.
All that matters in a fight/action scene is who wins...
so I just jump to the end and carry on.
Thus I havnt passed judgement on your book-if I had a copy Id read it...but Id edit any passages I felt it necessary to do so,innit.
(A few weeks ago,in a bookshop,a Geordie approached me and asked me to buy his book.I asked him the subject matter and,on being told it was from the viewpoint of a dog who is adopted by a family,that its about the effect of war on families and about being gay in Newcastle in the 70s,I said those sujects dont really appeal
but agreed to buy his book if he bought mine.Have tried to read it-its much more concise than Swoops and there dont appear to be any action scenes,but to no avail..but,anyway,the point is,I do TRY)
having said that,I have a confession of sorts:as I read lots of books,if I find myself reading a long book with lots of fight/action scenes I simply edit out the whole fight scene.
simply cos i probably aint gonna learn much about the hero or,indeed,the human condition from a fight scene.
All that matters in a fight/action scene is who wins...
so I just jump to the end and carry on.
Thus I havnt passed judgement on your book-if I had a copy Id read it...but Id edit any passages I felt it necessary to do so,innit.
(A few weeks ago,in a bookshop,a Geordie approached me and asked me to buy his book.I asked him the subject matter and,on being told it was from the viewpoint of a dog who is adopted by a family,that its about the effect of war on families and about being gay in Newcastle in the 70s,I said those sujects dont really appeal
but agreed to buy his book if he bought mine.Have tried to read it-its much more concise than Swoops and there dont appear to be any action scenes,but to no avail..but,anyway,the point is,I do TRY)
swooperman
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Lets get this clear, who was gay? The dog? And although its on the threshold of my memory, who were the Geordie nation at war with in the 70's ?
H
hotspur
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Heh,youre asking the wrong person re the war,lol.
It was the 14 year old boy in the family who was gay...although of course the dog may also have been gay but its sexuality was probably not relevant seeing as dogs dont know theyre living in backwards Newcastle nor the era
I assume it was likely that the grandfather suffered at the hands of the Japs and this obviously affected his whole life-least thats what I wouldve done.
DAMMIT,I have to finish it now
It was the 14 year old boy in the family who was gay...although of course the dog may also have been gay but its sexuality was probably not relevant seeing as dogs dont know theyre living in backwards Newcastle nor the era
I assume it was likely that the grandfather suffered at the hands of the Japs and this obviously affected his whole life-least thats what I wouldve done.
DAMMIT,I have to finish it now