Cheating Karma

Chapter One

October, 2008.

The drink was to blame. He tried to drive deeper into her, gyrating his hips with aggression but his cock was as dead and cold as a Lincolnshire sausage. He conjured his most erotic fantasies but the bad memories remained; the faces, the voices, the humiliation. After all these years he could not forget. He had tried to take his revenge. He had slit their throats, every last one, but each had died with a grin on their face.

Do me from behind, said Clare.

What?

Do me from behind. It’ll stiffen you up, she said, her face marginally less dark than the night. That killed it for Natan Brush and his dick slipped from her like raw liver from a polythene bag. He left the bed and pulled on his hastily discarded underpants. He crossed the room and snapped on the light. He couldn’t look as he picked up her dress and threw it in her direction.

Go, he said

BRUSH PATTED THE KNIFE in his jacket pocket. It had been a gift from his grandfather when he was just five years old. He’d sliced open Grampy’s throat forty years ago with the very same blade.

He strummed the fingers of his left hand across his scalp, feeling the resistance of the grey stubble as it flicked tiny droplets of sweat into the night. I don’t know what you did, fat boy, and I don’t want to know, he said to the dark. He’d been paid two grand for this job. The client was a woman, tasty and posh-talking - the mark’s wife.

He trod the dark alley, his left forefinger tracing the sweaty brickwork. He was in no hurry, it was a blind alley and the mark was trapped. The leather soles of his brogues scraped the broken slab pavement as he turned a corner. A stray headlight stole through the alley, illuminating the scene. He stopped and faced the mark whose eyes stared with a wild terror.

The prey backed against the dirty red and black bricks. Brush was able to make out ‘Adolf loves Myra’ scratched into the wall. Cobwebs jerked on the breeze. Above, the moon blinked behind a cataract of cloud. Below, someone was about to die.

Brush took the knife from his pocket, passing it from his right hand to the left. He moved forward. The prey tried to press deeper into the wall before turning to scale the brickwork. Once, twice, he tried to reach the top, his panting, urgent breath scouring the near silence while he tore his fingernails bloody. Breathless, he gave up and turned to face Brush, his tailored suit smeared with dust, his tie licking over his left shoulder. He leaned back against the wall, arms straight at his side, and fingers red-tipped and ragged. He raised his head and spoke to Brush. You don’t have to do this.

Brush could no longer see the mark’s eyes but could feel their burn. He’d heard it all before, Sorry, soldier, but I do. I have a duty.

I can pay, too.

It was an empty hope, Brush knew, and the mark knew it too. He shrugged, I’m sure you can, you’re a man of means, I can tell. But let’s not make a big deal out of this.

"A big deal? You’re here to kill me. I happen to think that’s a very big deal!" The mark clenched his fists and took a step forward. Good, thought Brush. It was always easier this way, when they put up a fight. They got angry then he would retaliate, maybe he'd even have to defend himself. That way the knife slides in a lot easier and he would sleep better that night. This mark was fat, obese even, but the dying fought hard. Brush always went for a main artery. Once severed, the life-force would run from the quarry as quickly as the blood, and the adrenalin would evaporate with the body heat. Brush stepped forward to meet his prey.

The mark continued, I’ve got a Mercedes—

Not my style. I’m more of a Robin Reliant bloke. Don’t do flash.

No, no. I mean I could sell it. I could get forty grand. And I’ve got another twenty grand saved. If you could just wait—

I told you, I'm not interested. Hey, think about my reputation. Now, come on, the talking’s done and I’ve a client to satisfy. He’d be happier when the bloke stopped pleading and started fighting. That was when the mark's voice changed.

Be a nice boy. If you’re nice you’ll get a reward. What would you like? The mark gave a syrupy smile and his voice seemed to thicken with lust. What about that knife of mine you liked? Come on, no one needs to know. Sit on Grampy’s lap...

Brush had been so calm and sure of himself but now this creep was pretending to be his dead Grampy, Who... who’ve you been talking to?

Oh, come on, lad. Why don’t you tug those tiny shorts down and let me see what a big boy you really are?

Brush watched through a haze of confusion as he moved closer with his blade. Stop it! Stop talking like that!

He felt the blow to his head but couldn’t see his attacker. He watched as Grampy became the mark once more, cowering against the wall. He fell to the ground, unable to defend himself. There were footsteps walking around his inert form which came to a standstill before his eyes. He recognised the shoes but couldn’t think from where.

Are you glad I came? Clare told me that you didn’t – couldn’t – come, that is. Perhaps you like boys, huh?

Brush couldn’t answer. His head was swimming but he could still grasp what was happening. It was Clare’s bouncer boyfriend, Oz, from the club; a big balding Scottish oaf whose shoe size was bigger than his IQ. He must have followed him.

There was a sudden kick to his balls and Brush grunted with pain, louder than the blow merited in the hope that the beating would stop. He squinted through blood which seeped into his eyes and for some reason worried about his contact lenses. He saw another kick coming but this time did well enough to grip the boot. His assailant tugged desperately at his Doc Marten but without success. Let the fuck go! Oz yelled and began a barrage of blows to Brush’s head. You’re making things worse for yourself. Are you really ready to die?

But Brush had sensed a turnover. He ignored the fists and, still gripping the boot, began to rise. Oz was hopping backward on his free foot and as Brush rose from the ground he flipped Oz back as if he were tossing the caber.

The mark, a bystander till now, cried out. "Oh, no, oh no you don’t, bad boy. I’m going to spank your backside. I’m going to tug off your little shorts and spank your bottom s-o-o-o-o very hard."

But Brush didn’t see or hear the mark. He saw only Grampy as he looked for the knife which had skittered off into the night. Over there, he saw it, the streetlight’s weak beam glancing off its chrome. He made a dive but the mark was already charging. Another kick in the head and Brush’s brain felt like it was stuffed with cotton wool. He knew this was it. His fight had gone. He couldn’t move but he could hear the sounds of something being kicked and beaten. Soft thumps, weak groans, exhausted grunts. He didn’t even realise he was the recipient of such savage, death-dealing blows.

Chapter Two

May, 1978 .

Natan Brush wasn’t sure what was happening when his Nan and Grampy came to pick him up from school. Nan’s eyes were red-rimmed, as if she’d made them that way to match her beetroot coloured headscarf. Grampy was quiet, nothing new there. He took the tobacco pipe from his mouth, wiped the spit from the mouthpiece on his worn woollen cardigan, and then placed it in his jacket pocket. He then took out a packet of Woodbine cigarettes, shook one free, lit it then glanced about with disinterest as the smoke drifted into the grey sky to conjoin with the raw wool clouds.

Listen, Natan, little chick, said Nan. Something bad has happened. She paused, shut her eyes and took a deep breath. But don’t worry. You’ve got us, Grampy and me. You’ll always have us.

But I want Mummy. Mummy picks me up from school, said Natan, his rag doll, Silent Sam, ever-present in the crook of his bent arm.

Natan love, Mummy won’t be able to pick you up from school anymore.

But I made this for her. Natan held up the picture he’d painted – blue, yellow and green on grey blotting paper. It was their house in Lee Road. Daddy was sat on his old Puch motorbike with his helmet on. Mummy and Natan were stood before the front door, holding hands, with yellow melon-slice smiles.

Nan turned away then, her hand clasped to her mouth as she staggered over to their mustard coloured Austin Allegro, sobs hacking at her throat.

Grampy stepped in. He blew the ash from the tip of his Woodbine and looked down at Natan. Your mother’s dead, son. And your dad, well... he coughed, hawked something up, and spat onto the pavement before wiping spit-shiny lips on his sleeve. Sorry to have to tell you this but, well, he’s dead too. Means you’re going to have to come and live with your Nan and me.

Natan now sat in the back of the Allegro with Nan while Grampy drove. The car smelled of stale bottom burps and tobacco, and the vinyl seats were sticky with nicotine. He didn’t know why they were saying such horrible things about his parents but Mummy would tell him why when he got home. Nan put her arm round him. She tried to speak but he looked out of the side window and counted telegraph poles. He liked counting. He could count to nineteen and when he reached nineteen he would start again. He’d counted nineteen three times by the time he reached Nan’s, a draughty old semi-detached house in the country with a pigsty in the garden and a spinney to one side. He liked to play Robin Hood in the spinney, but not today. The Austin rolled down the slight incline of the cinder drive, coming to a sudden stop with the crank of the handbrake.

Why aren’t we at my house? I want to see Mummy. He turned to Nan who didn’t answer. She was looking out of the window and biting on a crooked forefinger. Are you counting telly gaff poles too, Nanny?

That was the day Natan moved in with Nan and Gramps. For months he’d asked where his mummy and daddy were with less and less regularity, until he finally stopped asking at all.

ONE DAY GRAMPY’S CAR wouldn’t start. He had the bonnet up while Debbie Harry sang, Oh, Dar – nee, do-be-do over the car radio. Grampy’s Brylcreemed hair clung to his brow in greasy strands as he peered over the top of his tortoise shell glasses. They’d been meant to be going shopping – Nan, Gramps and Natan. There was something called a ‘Hypermarket’ just opened up in Kenilworth, a town some five miles down the road and Nan had Green Shield stamps she wanted to spend.

Natan was sitting on the front step with Silent Sam, making tracks in the soil between the marigolds and roses with a toy fire engine when Nan stepped over him and called to Gramps. Can it be fixed, Shug?

Natan had no idea what a ‘shug’ was or why Nan and Gramps used the word only when talking to each another. Yeah, it can be fixed, Shug, but not with what I’ve got in the garage. I’ll need to go to the breakers’ yard. He wiped his hands with a rag then dropped the bonnet. Natan abandoned his fire engine and walked over to his grandparents, dragging Sam by the hand.

Oh, such a shame; I had my eye on a new kettle, one what switches itself off automatic like, said Nan, pulling a hanky from her sleeve to dab at a dewdrop wobbling at the tip of her nose.

Don’t worry, Shug. You can take the bus, leave the lad with me. We can go to the breakers’ together. He can go on the back of the moped. What do you think, Natan? Fancy a trip on the back of Grampy’s putt-putt? He grinned down at Natan. No smile radiated from Grampy’s eyes. Natan felt a chill he couldn’t explain and couldn’t find the will to smile back.

Well, little chick, said Nan. What do you say?

Can I come with you, Nanny? Natan asked, not daring to meet Grampy’s eyes.

Of course you can, if that’s what you want. Can’t he, Shug? Nan asked Grampy.

No. No he can’t. It’s time the kid started to be a man, started to do ‘men’ things. Now, you get off, Shug; I’ll take care of the kid.

Shug, please, don’t—

Don’t what? Better hurry. You’ll miss the bus else.

And Natan watched Nan walk away from him with her shopping trolley. Her beetroot coloured headscarf tugged by a gentle autumn breeze as she headed towards the bus stop.

Grampy pulled a half-smoked roll-up from behind his left ear. He lit it with an England’s Glory match then took Natan’s hand, the aroma of sulphur hanging in the air. Come with me, chap.

Are we going to do men things now, Grampy?

Yes, that’s right, mate. Men things, that’s what we’re going to do – things only me and you will know about.

But Grampy was wrong, because Silent Sam knew too.

SILENT SAM HAD ONLY ever been silent to others, but he was Natan’s confidante. ‘Sam’ had been Daddy’s name too, and they’d shared the same blond hair.

Grampy hurts me and it scares me. Why does he hurt me like that? Natan lay in bed, the curtains were drawn but the weak rays of the streetlight still managed to seep through, giving each shape in the bedroom an eerie semblance of life. His pile of clothes on the bedside chair had become a zombie, waiting to be reanimated, his bare toes poking out beneath the duvet were an invitation to be pinched by invisible skeletal fingers and the scratching of nest-building sparrows in the roof space were hungry vampires looking to gorge on the saccharin-sweet blood of little boys.

He was kind before Daddy left. Natan wiped his nose on the bed sheet while his tears were left to dry in the dark. He hurts me, Sam. I want to scream when he does that to me but he holds my mouth.

He will sleep, whispered Silent Sam. The voice came from the doll but with the voice of Daddy. And when he sleeps, that’s when you do it, Natan.

Natan drifted into sleep himself, but he would remember Silent Sam’s advice.

NATAN SAT WITH SILENT Sam as