Guns of Brixton

Guns of Brixton

by Paul D. Brazill

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Overview

When London gangster Mad Tony Cook gives aging thugs Big Jim and Kenny Rogan the simple task of collecting a briefcase from northern courier Half- Pint Harry he doesn’t suspect that the courier will end up dead in his lock-up or that Kenny and Big Jim will then dress up in drag to rob a jeweler's shop and lose the coveted briefcase.  A fast-moving, wild and hilarious search for the missing briefcase quickly ensues, with fatal consequences.  Guns Of Brixton is a foul-mouthed and violently comic crime caper that is choc-full of gaudy characters and dialogue sharp enough to shave with.

Product Details

BN ID: 2940046271942
Publisher: Caffeine Nights Publishing
Publication date: 12/04/2014
Sold by: Draft2Digital
Format: NOOK Book
File size: 2 MB

About the Author

Paul D. Brazill is the author of A Case Of Noir, Guns Of Brixton and Roman Dalton - Werewolf PI. He was born in Hartlepool, England and lives in Bydgoszcz, Poland. His writing has been translated into Italian and Slovene and has been published in various magazines and anthologies, including The Mammoth Books of Best British Crime 8, 10 and 11.

Read an Excerpt

ONE

Even before he’d switched on the lock-up’s strip light, Big Jim Lawson knew that he was bollock deep in the shit.
He ran his fingers through his big ginger quiff and scratched his head with the barrel of his shotgun. The light buzzed and flickered to life, like Frankenstein’s monster in one of those old black and white films his gran used to love.
When his eyes adjusted to the glare, Jim looked down at Half-Pint Harry Hebb’s brains, which he’d only recently splattered across the grubby concrete floor. The blood and gunk looked black in the piss-coloured light and reminded Big Jim of the inkblot tests that the headshrinkers used to give him when he was in borstal. A smile crawled like a slug over his flushed face. Happy days. That smile soon disappeared, however, when he noticed splatters of blood on his powder blue Teddy Boy drapes and, usually pristine, white shirt.
‘Oh, what the friggin’ fuck!’ he muttered to himself.
He looked around the lock-up. It was cluttered with crates of corned beef and stacks of faded ’70s porn mags. A dirty, spider-web cracked mirror hung above a rusted metal sink. Big Jim’s shiny black Jaguar glistened in the grimy surroundings.
He put down his sawn-off shotgun, took off his jacket, walked over to the sink and turned on one of the taps. It creaked and rattled before it eventually screamed and set free rusty brown water. He made a cup with his hands and splashed the dirty water over his sweating face. Muttering to himself, he put the jacket under the running tap and scrubbed it with a paper towel.
‘Tit wank!’ he said, as he saw that he was only making more of a mess of it. He opened the Jaguar boot and angrily threw the jacket inside.
Big Jim looked at Half-Pint Harry and sighed. He took the corpse by the ankles and slowly dragged it across the floor towards the car, leaving a streak of blood.
‘What a palaver,’ he muttered.
He stopped and looked up as the heavy wooden door creaked open.

*
• *

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’ said Richard Sanderson.
He was soaked in crimson and a sharp, knife-edged pain sliced through the back of his neck. He twisted himself upright, looking around for a horse’s head.
The bottle of red wine that he’d fallen asleep clutching like a Teddy Bear fell to the ground, spilling what remained of its contents across the fluffy white rug. He rubbed the back of his neck and stretched. He was feeling more than a little worse for wear – and kipping on the basement sofa hadn’t exactly helped his New Year’s Day hangover a great deal, either.
He picked up his red Gretsch guitar and put it back in its case, then propped it against a box of old twelve inch singles. Televisions’ ‘Marquee Moon’ – in green vinyl – was out of its sleeve and he slipped it back in and then carefully put it back into the box. Alphabetically.
He couldn’t remember playing the guitar at all. It wasn’t something he did that much, these days, but he could see blisters on his fingertips.
Moving like an arthritic Robocop, Richard trudged up the stairs from his basement office to the living room. He went to the window and peeled back the blinds. Outside, the tree-lined suburban street was deserted.
After a few minutes, Richard heard the squeak of wheels and saw Batty Betty pushing her shopping trolley full of broken dolls toward the graffiti stained Ford Granada where she lived. In the distance, a constellation of streetlamps and a galaxy of Christmas decorations trailed Chiswick High Road and faded towards Hammersmith. He walked upstairs and into the migraine bright bathroom and turned the shower on as hot as possible.

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