Between a Rock and a Hard Place

Jason Duck

I look up into the ugly features of a big fucker as I lay on the floor of my hallway.

Big Fucker has one meaty fist gripping my three-day old t-shirt as I try to recover from the punch that struck me like some fucking sledgehammer.

      ‘You’ve got until Friday to pay what you owe Mr Powell or I’ll be back to take a piece out of you,’ Big Fucker snarls.

      ‘But that’s only two days from now,’ I manage to say through bloody teeth, ‘How can I come up with three grand in that time?’

       ‘That’s your fucking problem.’

With that Big Fucker walks out of my shitty little council flat on the tenth floor, slamming the busted door behind him.

I’m in deep shit. I’m nearly thirty, unemployed and have a gambling problem. I’ve always loved to gamble even as a kid.  Started with sweets and toys then graduating to weekly giros and IOU’s. I love the thrill of sitting in the betting shop on the estate, choosing a team, horse, greyhound or sportsman to win. The anticipation of whether they’ll win or lose. The thrill of the event and the win, there was no feeling like it.  However I lose more then I win so it’s become a bit of a problem. I’m now in debt to Powell, a local gangster, but the problem is I haven’t got a pot to piss in let alone three fucking grand.

***

That night I find myself sitting in a shabby office above a strip club on Victoria Street, facing Big Dan.  He sits behind a desk, bald head shiny as a billiard ball, rolls of flesh pouring over his stiff shirt collar as he surveys me with eyes as small as piss holes in the snow.   He’s a rival gangster to Powell, not as powerful mind but close enough.

Big Dan finishes assessing me, I feel like a pilchard being appraised by a shark.  He smiles at me widely but there’s no warmth to it.

      ‘So you need three grand before Friday you say?’

      I nod, looking at the stained floor rather than his cold face. I wonder what the stains are then snuff out the thought. I hear muffled rock music from the club downstairs. Bored strippers dancing around poles as shabby patrons put pound coins in pint glasses to see a glimpse of young gash.

      ‘It’s your lucky day,’ Big Dan says, ‘a job’s become available that you can do for me.’

      ‘What kind of job?’ I ask nervously finding the courage to look at him.

      ‘The kind that earns you three grand,’ he says.

***

I’m led into a back room by Big Dan, one of his enforcers as wide as a barn door and just as thick behind me. I look upon a young female sitting in a chair, long blonde hair in disarray, a bruise on one side of her face. I guess she’s in her early twenties.  She’s been crying, mascara running down her heart shaped face in black rivulets.  She’s dressed in black leather jacket and jeans. I can’t help but notice how the blue denim hugs her long legs.

      ‘This is the job,’ Big Dan grins.