SPOTLIGHT: Parochial Pigs by James Jenkins


Blue Tiger

Dicky Farrell was a ruthless piece of shit. Anyone misfortunate enough to make his acquaintance would confirm this. Now, ‘shit’ is a strong word, even given its overuse, and therefore popularity, with anyone who has such a potty mouth. But a shit he most certainly was. His brief existence of but two years in the city of Bristol had been one of misery.
Whoever crossed him, stood in his way, ended up suffering; discarding souls on his way up the ladder of the city’s criminal underworld, blinking over their demise disregard-less. At the beginning he had wondered if it would even be possible to obtain these goals using his usual means, but Dicky had learnt to evolve. Evolve probably wasn’t entirely accurate. Dicky Farrell not being the man he now was. It was a world where his true persona could thrive. Because of such success that Dicky’d now found himself in, a position that only the most dedicated lowlifes could hope to be in, and in such a short period of time too. He believed it was his ruthless ability to “get shit done” as he called it, regardless of the impact it would have elsewhere. Coupled with a total lack of moral compass he’d elevated in good favour with his notoriously cruel and unpredictable Boss. Such an asset was invaluable to a man like Bobby Cavendish, a man whose own reputation was far short of a nursery teacher.

Unlike Dicky, Bobby was a charming man. Some would even call him a gentleman. A stranger in the street would say nothing bad about him, should they chance a random encounter with this deceivingly evil man. If, of course, you hadn’t crossed him. Indeed, some people may not be aware of the reputation that followed Bobby Cavendish or the stories. The stuff of urban legends. Stories, how Bobby was known to cause serious injury, perhaps death (depending on the mood that took his fancy) with the most unlikely of objects. Bobby excelled in simple weapons: pain designed hardware for drawn out agony. Many people would think a toilet brush a basic household item commonly used for cleaning excrement from the toilet bowl, an unlikely weapon. Bobby Cavendish however, had an imagination that would make the most twisted minds cringe. Even Dicky admitted that Bobby could go too far, though he cared not for the persons unfortunate to be on the receiving end of such treatment. Perhaps this was one of the reasons that Farrell (who rarely feared anyone) was very keen to impress his psychotic boss.

Back to Basics

18 Months earlier…

The sleek black Mercedes – Bobby Cavendish’s chariot – prowled up the badly pot-holed entry road. An isolated industrial brick building with metal shutters awaited Cavendish ahead. One of the roller doors opened halfway and as the Merc parked close, a man in his mid-thirties ducked out from under the opening. The well-suited individual had an air of authority about him Bobby observed whilst his hired muscle opened the car door.

“Mr Cavendish, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I offer my deepest apologies for the circumstances.” The respectful and genuine greeting pleased Bobby. It was so hard to find good manners these days. Too many of these young wannabes had in Bobby’s humble opinion, a misplaced belief that politeness was a weakness. Only a couple of weeks ago he’d had to cut the hand off a youth who had offered a fist in reply to Bobby’s outstretched hand. The lad had perhaps been unfortunate to catch Bobby Cavendish on a uniquely stressful day. ‘I don’t see what you’re crying about!’ he had said to the inconsolable teen clutching the bloody stump. ‘At least now you have an excuse for refusing to shake your elder’s hand.’ The man awaiting him now clearly had a better grasp of basic common decency. Bobby wondered if the man in front of him realised the impact his manners were having. There were other places Bobby would have liked to be on a cold autumn Sunday morning, than a deprived and desolate industrial estate on the outskirts of Bristol. The unit that he found himself at today belonged to an associate of Bobby’s, Tyson Boswell. He and Boswell had enjoyed a long-standing professional relationship. Boswell’s incredible influence throughout the traveller community had proven to be invaluable to Bobby Cavendish countless amounts of time in his own line of work. Boswell was also one of Bobby’s best customers when it came to shifting thousands of pounds worth of narcotics. It was this special relationship that afforded the level of sympathy Boswell was being allowed today. A very large amount of cocaine moving from Cavendish to Boswell had been confiscated whilst in transit by a police sting. The man who had been driving the ford transit van on behalf of Tyson Boswell had been the obvious fall guy. The police had placed the man under arrest and nobody on the outside held much hope of him being released any time soon. Boswell assured Bobby that the lad was from good stock and would keep his trap shut, but theories on another rat within Boswell’s ranks had been investigated. So, Bobby found himself today ready to administer furious vengeance to the accused. Turning over the man as well as half of the cost of the confiscated narcotics had been agreed between Bobby and Boswell. Ordinarily, Bobby would have preferred to reclaim his entire fee AND have the rat but sometimes a compromise was the best option. If Bobby Cavendish had learnt one thing about travellers (other than not calling them Pikeys),then it was to not fuck with them. Privately he conceded that it was perhaps best for both men’s professional and physical future that Boswell had sent one of his soldiers instead. Judging by first impressions, Bobby was pleased that at least the traveller had gotten that right.

He walked directly up to Boswell’s man who now offered his hand to Bobby, another mark in his good books. The two henchmen accompanying him moved between the men in practiced defence of their boss. “Play nice boys. This one’s got manners.” The two big men backed off as Bobby took the offered hand.

“Dicky Farrell,” said the man attached to the firm handshake. “Apologies from the boss he couldn’t be here today, but hopefully I can assist you with anything you need Mr Cavendish.”

Bobby liked this Farrell indeed. Strong handshake, polite and seemingly eager to please. Yes. All the boxes were being ticked!

“Good to meet you Dicky. Apologies accepted, it’s nice to see Tyson has improved his personnel recruitment. I like a man with manners. Formalities aside, what have you got for me Mr Farrell?”

“Connor Tierney. Overzealous little prick who had a misplaced vision of getting rich quick I’m afraid. We have a couple reliable sources claiming he had been selling information to the police. Coupled with the sums of cash we found in his house – we’re confident the rat has been sniffed out. He won’t admit it yet, but I didn’t want to make too much of a start without you Sir.”

Sir! Yes, yes, yes! Bobby really was growing fond of this Dicky Farrell. “That’s very considerate of you Dicky. Can I call you Dicky or would you prefer Mr Farrell? I’d be personally honoured if you called me Bobby. After all, we’re all friends here.”

“Dicky is fine with me Mr Cav… Bobby,” Dicky corrected himself from his intentional mistake as the two men shook hands again.

“Shall we get started Dicky?” Cavendish asked as Dicky politely ushered for him to follow into the building under the shutters. “Lionel, bring the tool kit. We might need it. Joe, my apron too. Things could get messy,” he ordered the two muscle men.

Bobby Cavendish looked at the unconscious naked form of a man tied to the wooden chair. Dicky hadn’t been kidding, there was barely a mark on the bound and gagged individual. Bobby scanned the interior of the building. The industrial unit had clearly been a commercial mechanics work room. There were still some odd tools laying around but nothing that inspired him. He leaned his head back searching for the right instrument, a corrugated asbestos roof loomed over their heads. A killer in its own right, but waiting a couple of decades for the man to possibly die of lung cancer was even too drawn out for Bobby. He had to admit that his usual creativity when it came to inducing pain and torture just wasn’t there today. That’s when he came up with another idea.

“Dicky, how would you feel about taking the reins for me on this one?”

“Bobby I’m honoured. Although I must admit I’m not sure if I will be able to live up to your own legendary reputation.” Dicky, like anyone who had spent so much as an hour in Bristol’s underworld had heard of the stories that cemented Bobby Cavendish’s reputation.

“Nonsense! Dicky, I have full faith in you. What have you got?”

Dicky looked around quickly searching for something to impress the hardened gangster, his eyes settled on a crowbar that had been disregarded by the previous occupier of the garage. Hardly original he mused slightly worried that the great Mr Cavendish wouldn’t approve. Bobby followed his gaze.

“Yes Dicky! That will do. Sometimes the oldies are the best. That’s what I always say isn’t it boys?” Bobby laughed looking at the two henchmen.

“Yes boss,” the two men replied together.

“Back to basics Mr Farrell. I like it very much.” Bobby did like it very much, very much indeed. This Dicky character was growing on him more by the minute. How the hell an uneducated tosser like Boswell, ended up with such a fine stead as this was a wonder to Cavendish.

“Shall I try to wake up the lazy irk Bobby Sir?”

“Oh yes Dicky that would be most pleasing. Maybe a shattered kneecap would rouse him from his slumber.” Bobby rubbed his hands in glee.

If Dicky had any reservations about administering severe violence on the man in the chair, then he hid it well as he swung the metal bar at full arc into the unconscious victim’s left knee cap. A resounding crack and pop exploded from the startled body as the man came screaming back into consciousness. Bobby couldn’t help but smile. Had Dicky used the blunt side of the crowbar intentionally he wondered? That’s what he would have done, blunt force trauma to get the blood flowing. The pointed edge would be saved for a later blow now the man was fully awake.

“Are you with us Connor?” Dicky calmly asked the man screaming through the gag. There was no coherent reply from the dribbling mess, Bobby watched with pensive excitement. Dicky sensed that his next move would be crucial in Bobby’s assessment of him, so he swung the crowbar again this time using the pointed claw like end to shatter and imbed itself into Connor’s right kneecap. The blood curdling crunch of bone and cartilage entwined with the man’s screams of agony filled the garage interior as full as it did Bobby Cavendish’s beating heart. Oh yes! I really do like this Dicky! Bobby was feeling an overwhelming sense of pride over the lad. It’s exactly the way he would have done it when he had been a younger, less creative, enforcer. That was okay, Dicky could learn, Bobby would be only too happy to be his teacher. His thoughts were interrupted as the man with shattered legs passed out from the pain. This wasn’t a problem to Bobby. He had seen enough. The lad had probably done it and Boswell had given his word that this was the rat. Good enough for me, Bobby shrugged to himself.


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