Spiggot

by Craig Saunders

For my wife All my life, has been A struggle, mired in strife And still, I’ve never been to Fife Erm…

‘Fucking idiot. What’s Fife got to do with it? Could have used ‘Rife’ or ‘Knife’. Maybe even Stife…besides, aren’t you gay?’

‘Just because of my profession, doesn’t mean I’m gay. And you’ve got to have a dedication. You know, for your agent, or the kids, or your wife. Usually in that order. You’re the one who wanted a bloody poem.

Anyway, what, may I ask, is a Stife?’

‘You know, that bloke out of that band, RPM or BPM, or something…’

‘You mean REM?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘Yeah, perhaps we should leave that out. Bit, you know, irrelevant.’

‘I’m just trying to let people know what I know, you know?’

‘Well, write what you know. That’s what they say. Maybe not everything you know. Consider it a sort of disclaimer.’

‘Oh. I suppose that’s sound advice. My go.’

‘I’m not sure you can have two dedications. They probably have to save on paper or something.’

‘It’s my book. If I want a fucking dedication, I’ll have one.’

‘Ooookay.’

Dedication

For the fallen!

‘For the fallen? What’s that? People who’ve tripped up?’

‘No, for those that fell along the way, died honourably in battle, sort of thing.’

‘Why didn’t you just say “for the dead”, or something?’

‘I thought I’d go Viking. Like a toast. If they had toasts, and not, you know, axe throwing at maidens with braids.’

‘Well, it’s your dedication. You can put what you like, I’m sure.’

‘Good. I’m glad I’ve got your approval.’

‘No need to be sarcastic.’

‘Whatever. Anyway, can I start now?’

‘Can’t I do this bit? I’m good at this bit.’

‘Well, OK, I guess. Just don’t fuck it up.’

‘Alright, take it easy.’

‘You fuck it up, I fuck you up. I’m warning you…’

‘Trust me. Now, relax. Breathe, breathe…like the doctor told you.’

Part One

A Short History of Spiggot Or Spiggot’s History

Prologue

A bullet’s home is in a body. That’s what it’s born for. The bullet currently in Spiggot’s ribcage already had his feet under the table, a warm Horlicks to hand and his pipe on the go.

‘Aw, shit,’ Spiggot coughed, sneaking a peek from his hiding place at Sammy ‘The Bastard’ Maloney. The Irishman stood on the front step of his semi-detached shithole whipping his revolver left to right, looking for another target.

A curtain flicked across the road. The gun bucked in Maloney’s hand.

Spiggot slid down the wall. He left no blood. The bullet hadn’t made it to the back door. As he crumpled against the aging brickwork the bullet seemed to wriggle, nestling itself further into his lungs.

‘Come and get it, copper! I’ve got seven more where that came from!’

Copper? thought Spiggot. Nobody called him copper anymore. It would almost be sweet if he wasn’t in agony and stood no chance of wrestling the gun from the crackpot Irishman who either couldn’t count or didn’t know a revolver only held five or six shells to start with and, by even an idiot’s calculations, less once you’d fired it.

Shattering glass and a bang vied for Spiggot’s attention, but he was on the verge of passing out and couldn’t figure out the relative velocity of the sounds. They seemed to arrive at his ears at the same time. His eyes felt heavy. He tried to reach a cigarette in his jacket pocket but his arms were leaden, like the bullet was some parasite, turning him into one of its kind. Waves were roaring in his ears, just like the time he’d been to Cromer, walking on the beach. Rain was lancing through his summer jumper…waves were crashing…

No. Not waves. A car.

His eyelids fluttered open. The battle cry of a tuned-up scud coming down the street drowned out Sammy’s deranged ranting. The car flew by him and he managed a smile. His vision might be blurred, but the hunched form of the driver earnestly concentrating every fibre of her being on controlling the powerful vehicle was unmistakeable.

He counted to three…shortly before he could complete his countdown came the chunky sound of the car mounting the curb, then, a second passed, and a more meaty thud echoed around the suburban street. Music to his ears. The finale; a tortured scream of pain and shrieking metal torn on brick.

The big Irishman’s gun fired one last time before it fell silent. Spiggot’s eyes slipped closed, his slowing heart in time with the cooling tick of the scud’s ruined engine.

When he opened his eyes again, Trout was leaning over him. She spoke urgently into her mobile, pressing one hand against his leaking chest. He could barely feel it. He hoped she wouldn’t crush his cigarettes. ‘Trout,’ he said. His voice sounded too soft to his ears. He could barely hear himself over the waves that were crashing in his head. ‘Told you.’

‘Told me what?’ she asked, concern etched in every line of her face.

‘…do… ah… someone an injury… phoo… driving like that.’

She smiled and brushed his hair from his eyes gently.

‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I’m fully comp-’

‘No, no! That’s not how it starts! For fuck’s sake! That didn’t even happen.’

‘I’m trying to make it exciting! The formula. I told you about the formula. We need a bit of heroism. A fiery start, a bit of action…’

‘Balls. Just get out of the way and go and do the hoovering like you’re paid to. I knew you’d cock it up.’

‘If we start where you want, no bugger will read it!’

‘At least I’d be telling the story. Telling it how it happened. There wasn’t any gunfire. It wasn’t like a movie. It’s not bloody ‘Die Hard’. He’s just an ordinary guy. Maybe a dick, but certainly not Danny De-fucking-Vito. Now go on, leave me alone. You can do the interludes, like we said in the first place.’

‘Erm, you sure you mean Danny DeVito?’

‘Who fucking cares?’

‘I’ll just wait ‘til the interlude, then, shall I?’

‘Yes. Shoo. People’ll be getting bored already, if I let you ramble on all day. Bring me my tea at six. I’ll be a while.’

Part One

A Short History of Spiggot Or Spiggot’s History

Prologue

‘…and so he says, “Oi! That’s my fucking cat!”’

The room burst into laughter. A few sputtering smoker’s coughs joined the fray.

Spiggot had a knack for playing the crowd, even though the joke was puerile. Francesca Trout gave a small prayer of thanks to the gods of PC that she’d missed the beginning. She let the door fall shut behind her, screwing her eyes up to see through the smog and smiling with no small satisfaction as the laughter drained and gurgled back into throats and all the way down to the bellies where ithad come from. Then the looks came. The sullen ‘bloody woman, spoiling our fun, what do you think we’ve got wives for…anyway, shouldn’t you be at home making pie?’ looks.

She was inured to their looks. Trout put her hands on her hips and squinted meaningfully at her partner through the dim haze. ‘

Spiggot. I’m rolling in five whether you’re with me or not,’ she said, and turned without waiting for his reply. The smoke swirled as she pulled the door open. She let it swing shut on the springs.

Francesca didn’t need to hear the court commiserate with its jester. She knew from her short experience the sort of thing they would be saying. Same shit, different day.

She trumbled down the hall to the elevator, muttering quietly to herself.

A trumble, for those who don’t know, is a kind of ambling waddle, perfected by ladies cursed with knock knees and rotund behinds. Francesca Trout’s behind was shapely, but there is an addendum to the trumbling rule: it can also be achieved by a lady who is in the throes of self doubt. It is a lady’s equivalent of the male shuffle, perfected by everyone with a penis in adolescence when mildly embarrassed or put upon. Trumbling, she reached the lift and pressed the call button. She heard sniggers from the smoking room down the hall, counted under her breath to ten (in Chinese, English numbers had long since become boring). The sniggers were momentarily louder. The elevator tinged and she stepped in, holding the door open for her partner as he shuffled along the corridor.

Her nails, perfectly manicured, tapped out a rhythm on the control panel.

Spiggot got in beside her, tugging at something, probably earwax, in his weird left ear that looked like half a Spock. He said nothing as she allowed the doors to close. Francesca pressed the button for the basement.

She watched Spiggot out of the corner of her eye. Not many people can manage this with any degree of accuracy while looking straight ahead, but Francesca had been gifted with extraordinary sight. She could watch two things at once, thanks to a lazy left eye which drifted off, most commonly, to the left. Spiggot, she thought with customary ire. He was perfectly suited to this new world. Old school was back in fashion.

His lips were pursed as he pulled at his chin, a habit he hadn’t broken since he’d shaved his beard off when grey began peeking through. She knew he’d been proud of it, like a younger man would be of his first pubic eruptions. She thought it had made him look like a slightly dodgy ventriloquist who visited children’s parties and made all the adults careful and uneasy in some indefinable way.

Beards don’t hold the same importance for a woman as they do a man. He’d tried to explain it to her once. All she heard was ‘blah, blah, blah, I like to entertain at children’s parties’.

Spiggot stood staring at the door, seemingly ignoring her. She knew he wasn’t though.

Spiggot, who last night had made a clumsy pass at her over Indian and two glasses of wine. Spiggot, who thought his shit smelled of Chardonnay. Spiggot, with his grinning and dirty jokes and dirty soul, telling cigarette stories to his fawning audience in the smoking room. No doubt he had told them what a good lay she was, even though she wouldn’t sleep with him if he had ten inches of inflatable flesh between his legs and chocolate lips. In short, Spiggot.

It was like being annoyed with a puppy for taking a dump on your finest afghan rug.

She took a deep clarifying breath. Then she counted to ten, just as her therapist had told her in her weekly appointments…uno, dos, ting.

The door opened and Spiggot pushed past her to get out.

She scowled darkly as the overhead lighting tinkled to life.

‘What do you reckon, Trout?’ he said cheerfully. ‘Your turn to drive again?’

‘Of course I’m bloody driving. You drive like a girl in a tutu with antlers for feet.’

‘What’s got into your pants today?’

‘Nothing, thankfully,’ she said shortly, sliding into the unmarked car and slamming the key card into the ignition. She placed her thumb over the ignition pad. The car roared into life and she gunned the accelerator.

Spiggot ducked in beside her and hastily buckled his seat belt.

Tires squealed. The car fired toward the ramp. Spiggot, as always, clutched his knees hard enough to turn his knuckles white.

‘Do you have to do that every time?’ he said with relief after they had shot out into traffic without a fatal incident but with plenty of cars furiously honking behind her.

‘Every time,’ she nodded.

She couldn’t keep the satisfaction out of her voice. Being a woman in a man’s world had its little advantages. You had to pull back points where you could.

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