The Writers' Circle

January 15th 1996
The huge wooden gates clanged shut behind him with a resounding crash, as he took a deep symbolic breath of freedom.  It was still dark. The crisp, early morning ground frost, as yet untouched by the late winter sun, glistened and twinkled on the cobblestones. The cold, biting breeze, blowing unhindered over the flat fenland landscape, pushed and tugged at his thin cotton shirt, as if seeking to chill him body and soul.  He stamped his cold feet on the hard cobblestone, lighting a cigarette.  Tossing the match in the air, he watched uneasily, as the unmarked police car drew near. They had come to arrest him.  He felt like doing a runner, but he knew he would not get far. Anyway, he was not bothered; at least with the old bill, he knew he would be in safe hands. Over the last three years, he had made enemies inside, and knew his life would not be worth a brass farthing, if they ever got hold of him.  
Frank Mason was thirty-four years old. He was a big man in stature, a violent bullyboy thug, and minor league villain. He knew no other existence. He feared leading a normal life, having to work honestly for a living, and denigrated anyone suggesting he could have done better.   Inside, he had been a face, enjoying a life- style of relative comfort, strong-arming and pushing drugs for Carlo Ponzi, the prison baron.  The job had given him a status unlike any a convicted thug should have been able to enjoy. But, it had not been enough. His greed had got the better of him. Ripping Ponzi off was the biggest mistake of his life.  Now, there was a contract out on him, and he had been given no choice but to become a police grass  
He peered inside the dark interior feeling apprehensive. The exhilaration he felt at being a free man was short lived, as he recognised ex Detective Sergeant Roy Stubbs.  He was a mean bastard, villains feared him; he had never played by the rulebook.  There were even rumours that since leaving the force, he now worked for some of the big faces in the underworld. Either way, he was not a man to cross.
Roy Stubbs smirked.  'Get in, Frankie.'
'What the fuck!' The look on his face was one of surprise tinged with fear; he knew he was in deep trouble. The coldness of the morning air suddenly forgotten, as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, debating what to do. 
Stubbs pointed the pistol at him. Snub-nosed, black and ugly.
Sweating now across his forehead and upper lip, tiny droplets of sweat forming in his armpits and crotch prickled him.  His eyes flitted between Stubbs and the other two heavies sitting in the front; he knew he had no choice.  Reluctantly, he slid his heavy bulk onto the back seat. First without expression, and then with his face seeming to crumble, as he ran his tongue over dry lips, swallowing hard. 'Whats all this about, Mr Stubbs?'
Stubb's battered features spread like melting butter, replacing the hardness on his face, as he 
laughed softly, the pistol still in his hand. 'Where're going for a little ride, Frankie, you've got some explaining to do.'
The car suddenly lurched forward speeding up the drive. Beside him Frank Mason looked 
suddenly much older and more tired looking, his eyes, having deepened in the last few seconds, had lost their twinkle. As the car sped along the empty dual carriageway, his emotions ran high, doing the full circle of fear, hate and finally self-preservation, as he tried to think.   Stubbs could be working for any of a dozen enemies he had made over his lifetime. His eyes flicked to the rear view mirror, he did not recognise the two men sat in the front. His experience told him that he was not up against top-drawer professionals. If this were a contract killing, they would have done it and driven off. It was not like the old gangster days, a walk in the woods and a beating, before being blown to oblivion. The modern day shooters liked to do it where it would have the biggest impact, and what better place than outside one of her Majesty's prisons. He felt easier, with some of his bravado returning.	
'What's matter, Frankie, cat got your tongue?' Stubbs said looking for confrontation.
He squinted at him, rubbing the glassy patch of scar tissue on his cheek, remembering the beating Stubbs had given him some years previous. He hankered for the taste of revenge, but knew this was not the time nor place.
'You think you're so clever, Mr Stubbs, but one of these days, I'll make you kiss my dick, while I blow your fucking brains out.'
Stubbs smirked, his vast brow, which mounted straight above his eyes puckered, so that a deep line passed up vertically from his nose. 'Is that right, Frankie, and how are you going to do that eh!  From what I hear, your cards have already been marked.' 
He fidgeted uncomfortably. The comment had hit a raw nerve, and had brought back the realisation that a contract was out on his life.   The look of pure enjoyment on Stubbs face, sent waves of resentment surging through his veins. He clenched his fists into huge balls, his knuckles white with rage, as he suppressed his anger.
Stubbs sniggered; glad he'd raised his hackles. 'It looks like you're not long for this world, then, Frankie. Never mind eh, like a good shit, you won't be missed.'  
He closed his eyes, gritting his teeth, ignoring the baiting, his mind on more serious matters.  It was true his life was dangling on a string, waiting for any two-bit tosser, to put a bullet in his brain.  He sat quietly feeling sorry for himself, his fate sealed, the punishment far outweighing his crime. It was unjust, but that was the way it had always been.
His eyes suddenly flicked open, feeling the car come to a rolling stop.  Anticipation tightened in his stomach like a knot, as the interior light suddenly flicked on, as Stubbs and his two accomplices got out of the car. 
He peered out of the window anxiously, it was still dark. The car had left the main road and had pulled up on a dirt track.  Suddenly the passenger door was yanked open, the cold morning air rushing into the warm interior, turned his sweaty dampness to an icy chill.
'Time for a walk, Frankie.'
He stared up at him chewing the inside of his lip nervously, his palms sweaty. This was not supposed to be happening.
'What!  I ain't going no fucking where with you.' He glanced around uneasily, as if looking for someone to help him.
 Stubbs screwed his face up, and clenched his teeth in a temper. He was a big man in his late forties, with a face like a battered old boxing glove. His grey unruly bushy eyebrows, now almost meeting just above his nose gave him a look of impending ferocity.  He rammed the snub nosed pistol hard in the middle of Frankie's forehead, pushing him backward.   'It would give me an enormous hard- on to blow your fucking brains out you pile of shite. Now get out!'  
Frankie shook his head. Beads of perspiration trickling down his back. His heart seemed to bounce against his ribs with a single wild lunge, as he sensed Stubbs trigger finger tense. He squeezed his eyes shut; a warm creeping sensation filled his crotch.  'No! No please, please don't,' he begged gulping in a deep lung full of air, as he heard the metallic click of the hammer. 
'Bang!' Stubbs bellowed, his voice echoing in the still morning air.  His short burst of laughter had a bitter, humourless ring to it, as he blew at imaginary smoke from the end of the barrel. 
Frankie screamed in terror, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.  'Jesus, Christ, you stupid, bastard, what the fuck ya doing?'  The look of vindictiveness in Roy Stubbs eyes showed so nakedly, that he knew instantly, that this was not a game. 
Stubbs eyes twinkled, a sinister smile not far away, as he raised the gun high above his head. 'This is for, Carlo Ponzi.' 
He saw the blow coming, but could do nothing.   As the pistol butt smashed into his face, his head exploded in mass of flashing lights.   He gagged at the saltiness of fresh blood, as it poured down his throat.  He looked up pleadingly, his empty eye socket slowly filling, turning it into a dark gutted hole.  In his semi consciousness, Ponzi's name spun around his brain like a ping-pong ball in a barrel.
    Had he heard right?
'Get out of the fucking car.' Stubbs snarled. 'Do it now and it'll be over quick. Piss me about, and I'll take my time over it.' 
 	Stubbs two accomplices dragged him whimpering from the back seat. 
His legs weighed heavy with leaden fear, collapsed beneath him, and he began to cry. 'Please, why are you doing this?'  
 Stubbs shook his head, tutting disapprovingly, as he stared at the man grovelling at his feet. His stern expression softened, and then hardened again.   'Doing, Frankie. I would have thought it was obvious. I'm gonna kill you, and make a fair wedge for me trouble.'
His bloodied, swollen face, took on a look of cognisance, as he rolled his one good eye in agonised memory.  He shook his head disbelievingly.  His voice breaking with emotion, tears streaming down his face.  'No.No.  Please, don't kill me, Roy. I'll pay everything back to Carlo, I promise.' He wiped aimlessly at the flow of blood and mucous dribbling down his face.  
 Stubbs nodded vigorously, his eyes ablaze with excitement, at the fear he was instilling. 'Too late Frankie boy, you know what happens to tosser's who grass. Anyway, you were never much of a villain.' He hawked the back of his throat and spat in his face. 'And you're even less of a man.'
He knew he was going to die, and he started to tremble, what little courage he had left suddenly deserted him. 'I don't want to die, please don't,' he begged, his hands together as if in prayer. If he was expecting any compassion, it was not forthcoming. 
Stubbs smiled. 'Take care of yourself, Frankie.'
'No!' he screamed. 'Please, no! No! Oh God, have mercy, don't let this happen to me.' 
The last thing Frankie saw was the startling bright moonlight, breaking through the dark ominous morning clouds that threatened rain. 
His body convulsed every limb stiffened, and his back arched rigidly. His head flew backward, his one good eye wide open and staring, his mouth gaping. His strangled scream swamped by the squawking of the disturbed early morning wildlife soaring high into the air.  His body was still flapping and twitching, like a maimed pigeon, as the car reversed up the dirt track, and drove off at high speed.