I Love My Smith and Wesson by David Bowker

don’t know what I’ll do…”
    Everyone went quiet, apart from Frank, who started to blub. Little Malc poured brandy into a dirty glass and passed it to him.
    â€œI don’t drink and drive,” said Frank.
    â€œFucking drink it!” snarled Little Malc. Then he poured a glass for himself.
    â€œSo what do we do now?” asked Fats.
    â€œAnswers on a postcard to Strangeways Prison, No-hope-of-parole, Losershire,” said Little Malc, with some bitterness. “What a fucking night! Someone trashes the fucking DJ’s car and it’s me he threatens to sue. Then I end up with a body to hide.”
    â€œYou could ask Chef for help,” said Fats.
    â€œNo fucking way,” said Little Malc. “It was probably him that paid for the fucking hit!”
    There was another long silence.
    Rawhead cleared his throat. “If you’ll forgive me, I’ve got a suggestion,” he said quietly.
    *   *   *
    Rawhead drove into rural Staffordshire and found a quiet leafy road. He opened the boot and attended to the stinking mutilated corpse. When he was satisfied that the dead man carried no ID, he dumped the body in a drainage ditch and drove away.
    Normally, Rawhead took pains about concealing bodies, sometimes driving about with them in the boot of his car for days. But he guessed, rightly, that no one would be able to identify Pest’s remains. The Staffordshire police would make a halfhearted appeal on Crimewatch and give up. Pest had no dental records. He had no dentist. Apart from his many creditors, no one would care that he was missing. People had wanted Pest to go missing for years.
    *   *   *
    Rawhead spent the rest of the day cleaning up the car and himself. He took out the carpet from the boot and dumped it at the local tip. Then he washed the Rolls by hand, scouring every inch of it for blood and tissue. He found quite a lot. When he’d finished, he phoned Little Malc on his mobile.
    Little Malc asked Rawhead round to his house in West Didsbury, a nice three-story house on a desirable road. His neighbors were actors and TV personalities.
    Rawhead rang the bell and Little Malc’s wife opened the door. She looked stupid and pretty. She had kind eyes and a layer of brown mud on her face that Rawhead supposed was makeup. Two little girls ran into the hall to see who it was. They looked like their mother, only less used.
    Little Malc was in the vast fitted kitchen. He’d just got up. He was wearing his dressing gown and nothing else. He had his father’s tits and his mother’s hips. A huge pan of bacon, eggs, and mushrooms was cooking on the stove. Little Malc asked his wife for a little privacy and shut the kitchen door.
    When they were alone, he asked Rawhead what he’d done with the body. Rawhead told him he didn’t need to know.
    Little Malc nodded and narrowed his eyes. “Yeah? Something tells me you’ve done this kind of thing before.” Rawhead smiled politely. Little Malc dished the food out onto two plates. “You eating with me? You might as well. There’s enough for two.”
    Rawhead was hungry. He sat down at the table with Little Malc and ate. Little Malc finished first and got up to brew a pot of tea. As he waited for the kettle to boil, he stood by the window, serious and watchful, the veins showing in his pale ankles. “Maybe you could tell me what your real name is.”
    â€œThe name isn’t important,” said Rawhead.
    â€œSo why are you here? You’re not from Manchester; you’ve got a London accent. And you’re certainly not a fucking doorknob. Are you?”
    Rawhead continued to eat. When he’d finished, he looked at Little Malc and smiled. “It doesn’t matter who I am. I think I could help you. You admit you need help?”
    Little Malc blew air out of his mouth like a child playing puffer trains. “You shouldn’t have