Damien Exton – Fiction

This story is my entry to the Ironage Media prompt contest for Dec 2023. The above photo and concept of “the consequence” are the prompts. The below Ironage image will take you to their site. And a very good the site is too. Check it out!

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“Okay quizzers, the last question of the evening; question twenty. And it’s a nice easy one to finish on…

“In the 1972 gangster epic – and the greatest film of all time, by the way – The Godfather, what are the names of the three Corleone blood-brothers? I repeat, in the 1972 film The Godfather, what are the names of the three Corleone blood-brothers? A point for each correct answer. Right, that’s your lot folks. And remember, no googling, and no phone-a-friend. And I’ll know if you’re cheatin’ – I’ve got eyes up me arse. Answers in half an hour!” Jim, the landlord of the Rose & Crown announced, then dropped the microphone onto the bar, creating a piercing feedback over the pub’s sound system. He rushed for the toilets, desperately needing to relieve his overheld bladder.

“Just look at him though, on his own… Never talks, never laughs, wins every bastard week! And only one drink all night… I mean, really, who does that? Gets on my tits, he does. Don’t even get me started on that thing on his head. Seriously, have you ever seen anything like it?” Josh said, with disdain plain to hear in his voice before taking a gulp of his fifth pint of lager. He was looking over at a man they knew only as Salinger. Whether that was his forename or surname, the three of them couldn’t be sure. The man in question had never expanded on it, even when being called upon to collect his winnings each week. 

“Leave him alone, man. He’s not bothering anyone,” Dave said to his teammate Josh. He could never call Josh a friend. He’d never be friends with a loud-mouthed bully. They had unfortunately lumped themselves together – a three-man team trying to conquer the legendary Rose & Crown pub quiz. With Dave and Josh, Glen was the third member of You Booze You Lose, the name they’d come up with when they met – all three merry on Wednesday night half-priced drinks. They’d lost miserably together on the general knowledge quiz every week since.

Where Josh was a bully, Glen was devoid of any personal traits that Dave could ascertain – except for excessive burping after a skinfull. Glen only seemed to turn up for the cheap drink and the weekly habit of being there; much like Dave himself. But Dave did really want to win the quiz one week too, he would freely admit.

“Well he bothers me. The absolute arrogance of him. Sitting there like he owns the place. One, drink, dickhead! And the most ridiculous wig the world has ever seen! I mean, honestly, have you ever seen anything like it? ‘Cos I sure as hell haven’t. Who the fuck wears wigs these days!?” Josh was unable to take his eyes off Salinger. The beer making him louder and more passionate in his anger. Glen, on cue, let out a throaty burp and sent a cloud of warm, beer-heavy air across the table towards them.

A nearby table of girls heard both the burp and Josh’s overly-loud rant, which in turn alerted them to the man in the wig. The girls talked and snickered between themselves, ridiculing the hairpiece that Salinger wore. Their enjoyment obviously spurring Josh on and making him bolder in his hectoring.

“Oi, mate! Yes, you! Guess you’re gonna win again then, eh? Using your phone are ya? Googling the answers? Fucking snide!” Josh spat over at Salinger, finger-pointing him out. People on surrounding tables now became invested in the scene. A few ‘boos’ cut through the noise of the busy pub, though if these were directed at the accused cheat, or the mouthy, half-drunk idiot Josh, Dave couldn’t say. Josh saw it as encouragement, and decided to take his personal harassment one step further. He drunkenly stumbled over to the lone man’s table.

“I said… OI! Ignorant! You – Billy no mates… Is that your thing? Go to pubs, use your phone just to win the quiz? Not a bad racket, hundred quid prize every week. Decent. So? You gonna just sit there? Well I guess they do say quiet ones are the worst, eh?” Josh wobbled and had to steady himself on the back of a chair, his body language leary and his voice slurring from the alcohol. Salinger sat calmly, and took a sip of a drink that could have easily been ice water, Dave thought. Dave knew he should intervene, but felt too apprehensive. He didn’t want to add to the spectacle.

Salinger placed his drink carefully back on the beermat in front of him. He seemed unfazed by the aggressor who had now decided to bulldoze his way through the line of acceptable behaviour. Dave imagined that with a more formidable person sitting there, Josh would get a punch in the face. Salinger offered no such defence, and Josh was more than willing to proceed even further with his childish torment.

“What’s up? Nothing to say to that either? And seriously, that thing on your head… Looks like a dead cat mate!” Josh leaned in to Salinger, his face inching closer to the unreactive man with each nasty word. 

Encouraged by the continued lack of retaliation, Josh swiftly grabbed the hairpiece from the man’s head. A tearing sound came from Salinger’s scalp; two train track strips of white sticky tape were left in place on the crown of his head. Dave was surprised at how little the man winced. It sounded incredibly painful as it was ripped away.

Josh held the hairpiece in his hand, looking down at Salinger, waiting for a reaction. Still none came, and Josh put the wig to his mouth and yelled into it – “Hellooo, kitteeeeeee! Are you alive kittee? Kittee, kittee, kitteeeeee! Nope. I think this thing’s dead, my friend.” He said to Salinger, pretending, and failing, to sound concerned.

Dave knew things had gone too far, but he’d been afraid to get involved. Now he knew he simply had to. With hopes of diffusing the situation, he stood and approached the two men at the centre of the pantomime. Dave’s stomach rolled over as he watched Josh do an even more Josh-like thing – he put the wig on his own head, ready to act out in a slapstick manner. But before he was able to show off, a universal pause button was pressed on his antics. Josh became a statue in the tableau of the pub as he instantly became unable to move or to speak, instead he stood frozen – mid-pose, with the wig still sitting on his head.

*****

I am watching him now: how he is, how he really is, when nobody else is watching. Only his wife has seen this secret, monstrous side of him. Until now, that is. Now I have seen him. But he doesn’t know I’ve seen him.

It’s taken quite a while to get here. Many hours have been spent – studying them both. Making sure things are as I suspected they are, and not as they were portrayed to the outside world to be. The bruises on her face, not from female self-defence classes, as she had obviously been coerced to say. She has no defence against her abusive husband. If she fought back she would probably receive worse next time. There was always a next time. He’s danced this dance before. But that woman escaped his punitive version of terror by taking her own life. 

Now I am here. This lady will escape alive. And there will be no next time.

As he leaves for work at 6am the next day, I am in his Ford, lying prostrate on the back seat, my cheek sticking to the cold leather of the upholstery. The chill of winter lays ominous and quiet in the car. We have a lot in common, the winter and I.  

I know his arrogance will make him ignorant to my presence here. He will drive to his workplace. The last place he will ever visit. And a more perfect location there couldn’t be.

He works at a huge open pit stone quarry. He is the foreman there. He is respected by all. But they don’t know him like I know him – he’s made sure of it. The man can act, I’ll give him that. 

He pulls into the foreman’s parking space in front of the portacabin, he gets out once he has clicked off the radio and shut off the engine; as usual. But very unusually, I get out after him. I take out my silver, bespoke-made pistol with its whisper-quiet silencer attached, and I blow his brains from the rear of his head through the front of his face. I see a pretty red mist of blood that matches the scarlet of my hat and gloves spray forth into the foggy atmosphere that nestles in the quarry around us. He falls forward and I hear what is left of his face smack against the grey stony ground that is now finally being covered in a playful dusting of snow. The warm steam that snakes from the gaping head wound looks quite pleasant in the crisp December air. I imagine his wife would think the same. 

He is number fifty-four. 

*****

There she is once more, when she thinks nobody is watching, twisting the skin on the boy’s forearm, the same forearm that has only recently healed from the cigarette burns.

If there were better social services in this city it would have been picked up on. But there aren’t. And it wasn’t. But it’s not my place to comment on the welfare system. It’s my place to even things out. There are actions. There are consequences. I am the consequence. 

I know how many broken bones the boy has suffered in his nine hard years. How many abusive lovers have come and gone, adding their own brand of misery to the boy’s life. But I know that misery will end finally. My request to proceed has been granted. There are consequences to face.  

This innocent child’s life will start afresh soon. I know his grandparents will gladly take custody when his mother is dead and disposed of a few miles outside of the city, on the moors, wrapped in Brabantia bin bags, the expensive kind that are nice and thick and dependable. 

How do I know this mother has to die? Because I know she has killed a child before. Her first born died in early infancy. The incident reported as a cot death. But I’d looked into the case with the help of my family, the Deo Volente. The recommendations of the investigating pathologist overturned by scheming bureaucrats who had agendas of their own. 

Well, I had an agenda of my own too. My agenda involved waiting until this bad mother was drunk and stoned out of her mind, dragging her into the bathroom, putting the ornately etched silver barrel of my .45 to her temple, the pressure of the metal I apply there finally making her come-to just enough to realise what was happening a moment before her thoughts splattered onto the mucky white metro tiles. 

As filthy as the tiles were before, the mess I’ve added would surely be found. But I knew I didn’t have to worry. The Deo Volente takes care of these trivialities. 

She is number fifty-three. And into the bin bags she goes. 

*****

Again, this one is at his tricks. I’m watching while visiting with a resident – Jim – who I’ve genuinely grown fond of. I would never hurt Jim. I would never mock-strangle Jim. I wouldn’t slap or punch Jim for wetting or soiling himself. I wouldn’t call Jim disgusting names that the cowardly spit at those suffering from mental impairments. 

But this one does. He does it every day. And he enjoys it. I will likewise enjoy it when I mock-strangle him in his smelly apartment. I will enjoy it when I scutch him around the head as hard as I can. I will enjoy it when he wets himself as I put my pistol to his eyeball while I sit on his chest, pinning him down. I will enjoy the panic and the screaming, the asking who I am and why this is happening. I will enjoy telling him – it’s because he is a bully, a vile human being who enjoys making vulnerable people suffer. It’s about an elderly lady he had been feeding laxatives to so she would shit herself when family came to visit. It’s because he almost killed an elderly gentleman in his care who had Parkinson’s Disease. It’s because of the one he forced to eat dog food while sitting naked in a corner on the floor.

I could go on at length cataloguing the hideous things this man has done at the so-called care home he’s worked at for over ten years. The Deo Volente and I  investigated all these disgusting things. The Deo Volente will take care of that place in the way they see fit. This one though, I’ll take care of him how I see fit. 

As I thought. I did enjoy sending that bullet through his eye, making his bedding even messier. 

I’ll probably enjoy my continued visits with Jim too. There’s no need for him to suffer. Me and Jim have quite the bond going these days. 

Now that I’ve taken care of number fifty-two. 

*****

I am sitting watching the event unfurl in an easy, familiar way. My calm peace is matched by that of my surrogate family around me. The vintage brandy lays happily in my stomach like a warm kitten. I’ll get to the rest that’s in my tumbler all in good time. I don’t want to be too far gone when it comes to the speeches. We in the Deo Volente know how to kick back and have a good time. But we also enjoy the pomp and formalities too. 

I’ve already been tipped off about my award. Fifty Consequentials is nothing to be taken lightly, I know. Grace bounds over to my table and sits in the temporarily empty seat next to me. Her pink, overly fussy cocktail gown making scrunchy sounds as she deliberately shoulder nudges into me. It makes my seat rock. 

“Well well, partner! How’re you feeling then? Ready for the, main event? Wink wink.” She says, making air quotes with her fingers at the words main event. 

I’ve always loved Grace’s playfulness, in spite of myself. But I don’t let her know that. Even when her banter touches on annoying, she still makes me laugh with her relentless cheekiness. She had been the one to tip me off that I am getting some kind of mention this evening. 

“So. Going full-on rug-free tonight I see. Very wise my friend. Very wise. Makes you look noble. Like Professor X.”

“Haha. Yes Grace, thank you. The dome is free, polished, and airing nicely.” Grace is the only person who openly talks about my alopecia universalis. Nobody at the family ever jokes or ribs me about it. But likewise, they never really reference it either. Out of respect I think. Truth be told though, her openly bawdy teasing is a breath of fresh air. And we do need that in our profession. So I let her get away with it. Again. 

“Word on the street is, Morales himself is going to present to you tonight,” Grace speaks closely to me, conspiratorially. 

“Oh yes, course Grace. And how would you know that?”

“Well. I know a guy who knows a girl who works with someone who knows a bloke who overheard Morales on the phone in his office talking about it, you see.”

I watch her patiently, pretending I’m not amused at her teasing, and finally she can contain herself no longer. She really is as effervescent as a child and can never keep quiet for more than a moment. 

“Oh okay then, you got me. He came to see me! I know, I know. Impressive huh? Anyway, I got a request to have a meet with him. Obviously, I accepted.”

“Obviously,” I encourage her. 

“Obviously,” she replies, and continues. “So, he drops it on me… About how you’d had your fiftieth Big C, and how much of a big deal it is, not many in the D-V get to fifty and all that old bollocks. Anyway, he tells me that you get an award for it… dedication to the life ‘n all that. So at the next ball he wanted to commemorate your achievement. He asked what I thought of the idea and what you’d want as a gift.”

“Grace, why do you always use acronyms for everything? Big C, the D-V…” I had to ask. It borders on a mania of hers and I don’t always know what the hell she’s talking about. 

“Because it’s cool, you G-O-B,” 

“Oh dear. Go on then… G-O-B?”

“Grumpy. Old. Bastard,” she says, and chuckles like a naughty school-child, and once again, I feel charmed by her without really wanting to be. 

“Well… U-Y,” I say in reply. 

“U-Y?” She asks, looking happy, lively and intrigued. 

“Up yours,” I very much enjoy saying back while flipping her my middle finger. 

“Haha, brilliant Sal. Like it.” She’s the only person who calls me Sal instead of Salinger. And she does seem to genuinely enjoy the banter. I make a mental note to try to take part in it more often. 

“So. What did you tell Morales I’d want for my fiftieth… Big C?” I ask her, genuinely interested. I can think of nothing in particular that I want. 

“Well, that’s for me to know and you to find out. Which you will. Right about now. Look…” she says to me, gesturing towards the stage with her head. 

I watch as Morales is escorted to the wooden lectern that is on the stage. It all looks very grand indeed. I see the two serious gentleman leading the way. I know they’re his bodyguards and they would gladly take a bullet for him without question. Their massive chests could probably stop them anyway without the need of flak vests. 

“Right. Gotta go. I’m sat over with the girls. Don’t look so shocked. I can be girly too you know!” She says to me. “Good luck. And remember, try to look surprised.”

“Probably shouldn’t have told me then eh?” I say back. 

“I know. But I know you hate surprises, you grumpy old bastard.”

“I’m only fifty-six!” I say to her back, watching  as she waltzes away through the umpteen tables that are clinking, chatting and laughing away. It’s a very busy and excitable crowd this evening. And if Grace is right, some of it is for my benefit. 

*****

I’m back home. I’m thinking about the evening. It was more than I could have ever expected. If I could tell my twelve year old self that this is how life could be, that it wasn’t going to always be dominated by insecurity and abuse aimed at my appearance, I would love to. 

The gun is in my hand, a gift from The Deo Volente for my dedication to the family and my fifty Consequentials. It holds more than just the weight of the metal itself as I run my thumb over it. The object has the weight of respect that I feel has been laid upon me. My young self would be amazed that a life of constant victimisation would eventually lead me to a new loving family who could support me and show me a path toward a better life. And retribution. 

The ornate Belgian Scroll engravings in the barrel of the gun mirror my intricate life journey that has led me to where I am now: a respected and trained professional. A vessel of justice and purity. An enforcer of a code laid on those who have been selected and deemed worthy of extermination. 

I have one last brandy before bed, and I mull over the possible target for my fifty-first assignment. The family gave me a proposal. But I’m not convinced yet. I’ve followed him for a while now. I’ve seen evidence of his aggressive behaviour. I’ve heard his vile language and the unsavoury way he treats others. But so far I’ve seen nothing to convince me he’s worthy of the consequences of meeting me. 

Tomorrow is Wednesday. I know where he’ll be, just like every Wednesday. With his acquaintances at the Rose & Crown. I call them acquaintances, for this is an extremely obnoxious man, and I doubt very much that he could earn any real friends. 

He’ll be there, with them, trying to beat me in the quiz. A quiz I took part in just to win and see how he reacts to losing. But now, I secretly enjoy it. The education The Deo Volente gifted me with left little hope of anybody beating me on a pretty simple general knowledge quiz. And my passionate hoarding of film and music trivia leaves very little chance of anybody out-quizzing me on those subjects. 

Tomorrow I will once more don my comedy wig. The one I got from a joke shop. A mop to sit on my head to make me a deliberate target for mirth. The object of a bully and his petty nastiness. I’ll see how that goes. See how far he goes. Then I’ll see if he is worthy of a deep dive into his life. You have to be sure the target is worth it. It takes a lot of resources for that endeavour. 

For now though, I’ll sleep. My new revolver in the cabinet beside me, dreaming its own dreams, resting until it is put into deadly action. Maybe tomorrow will decide upon the weapon’s first, and my fifty-first target. 

It will hopefully become a little clearer tomorrow. Will this man Josh, become number fifty-one?

*****

Just as Dave started to be spooked by the oddness of Josh’s frozen mime, he zipped back into life and resumed his movement. Josh’s face instantly changed both demeanour and colour. He looked all around him as if aware for the first time where he was, and that he may puke at any moment. 

Josh didn’t look at all drunk now, and Dave heard him audibly gulp as he looked at Salinger, going even greyer in the face as he did so. Salinger himself now looked to be frozen too, but in disbelief and bewilderment. His puzzled look matched Dave’s own. 

“S-s-sorry sir. I was j-j-just joking around. Please, have this back,” Josh said with a shaky voice, as he delicately placed the hairpiece on the table in front of Salinger. He patted it lovingly as if it were indeed a kitten, just as he’d joked it was a few moments ago. 

“Forgive me, Mr Salinger. Please. Pleeeease! Don’t let me be number fifty-one! I don’t deserve that. I know, I’ve been stupid. But this’s taught me, I swear it has! I’d never, NEVER, do the things you’ve seen. I just get, jealous sometimes… at other people. Please.. Keep watching me if you have to. You’ll see… I know the consequences now, I really do!”

Josh was openly blubbing as he spoke, pleading sincerely with Salinger, oblivious to the melodrama he had created. Salinger nodded slowly, evaluating the man in front of him. It was the first time that Dave had seen him look human. Up until now he’d seemed mannequin-like whilst he sat in the pub, always alone. Now, the pretence looked to have been dropped, the curtain pulled back and the wizard revealed for all to see. The moment was brief. A shutter came down and he composed himself once more. He purposefully peeled the two strips of tape from his head. Dave could see a drip of sweat on Salinger’s lightly tanned brow. He realised the man must not permanently wear the wig that he now placed in his jacket pocket. He placed his hands on the table for a moment, appearing to do a mental inventory. He slowly rose from his seat and took another look at Josh. Salinger nodded curtly at him, cast his eyes on Dave for a second, and made his way to the exit. 

Dave let out a sigh and placed his hand reassuringly on Josh’s back as Salinger left the pub. Both he and Josh jumped as a thunderous voice announced over the pub sound system – “Right then you lovely lot. Are we all ready? Pens out, answers incoming. Keep up, we’ve a lot to get through, so here we go. Question one… What are the four March sisters in Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women called? The answer, of course, is…”

“Josh… JOSH! C’mon mate. Come and sit down. Come on…” Dave had to talk softly to Josh. He seemed now delicate as an elderly relative having a moment, struggling to recall their whereabouts and how to find their way home. 

“Come on Josh. Sit down with me and Glen.” He guided the man patiently back to their table. The atmosphere in the pub had returned to normal now the melodrama was over. The crowd were buzzing and hectic. Jim, the quiz master, rattled through his answers. You Booze You Lose took no notice of them whatsoever. But as usual they had lost all the same. 

“Josh. What happened? Seriously. That was the weirdest thing ever. Josh? What happened? I thought you’d had a stroke or something. You didn’t move at all for, what, twenty, twenty-five seconds?”

“Rrrrrhuuuuuuugghhhhh-hhuuught!” Glen bullfrog-belched in agreement. 

“I don’t… I don’t know Dave. I just, I went into… his head. His… thoughts. Or s-something. The things he’s done. What he’s going to do. I can’t believe it. Dave, there’s people out there. Things happening… Things they do. It’s unbelievable. You can’t even imagine, I swear! I know it sounds mad, but what I watched him do. As if I was there – doing it with him. Dave, he’s a killer!” Josh was obviously shaken by the events of the last few minutes. Dave had never seen the man talking so earnestly. For some reason, Dave liked him a little more for it. But he didn’t have a clue what to make of the things he was saying. 

“So, ladies and gentleman, did anybody get twenty out of twenty? No? Salinger? No Salinger here tonight then?”

*****

Salinger made his way to his car. He’d parked it a few streets away, just to be sure. But he walked more streets than he needed to. He enjoyed the refreshing drizzle as it cooled his hot and bothered head. The cheap wig had been scratchy and very uncomfortable. In the bin that thing will be going, he decided. 

It had turned into the most perplexing evening. He was good at planning for unexpected outcomes, but this one was beyond him. He had become a trained man of practicalities. He knew to see things as they were and not get swept away by emotion or prejudice. The man – his possible target – seemed to have become aware of what was at stake. 

Josh had initially gone a lot further than Salinger would have predicted. He was much bolder. More ignorant. And totally ridiculous in his behaviour. But how he had acted when he swiped and then wore the wig… Well, he looked at the facts, he considered the man’s last few words to him: don’t let me be number fifty-one, he’d said; I know the consequences now, he’d said. 

It was futile to deny it, there could be no other interpretation of those words: via some psychic, astral, or supernatural design or other, Josh had seen inside his head. Salinger wasn’t about to waste time, chasing answers to that which could probably never be answered: how it happened, why it happened. It had happened. Plain as day. 

The one thing that Salinger now had to ponder over was much more pressing – Josh was a loose end. He knew, too much. He was obligated to run this by the D-V, as Grace had so named them last night. They needed to know about this. 

Salinger knew that Josh wasn’t a deserving target for the Consequential he had been sizing him up for at the outset. But the family needed to decide if he had to be dealt with as the loose end that he had unfortunately become. It was an uneasy feeling for Salinger whose world was usually contained. Loose ends were tied away long before they ever became an issue in this way. 

Josh wasn’t to be Salinger’s fifty-first. Unless of course, The Deo Volente decided he needed to be. So, if the man were to be dealt with, it would be for entirely different reasons than even Salinger could have predicted. 

Josh may still have to face up to the consequences of his behaviour. Behaviour that had placed him in Salinger’s path, whether it was deserved or not.