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his arms around like an impaled insect. After a
while Tiny started to wheeze as his throat began to constrict in reaction to
the venom. As Harry delayed the coming gastronomic pleasure and watched his
prey squirming before him, the junkie took the opportunity to slip past the
blood-curdling scene and out through the front door. Harry let him go. Then,
hungry once more, he hurled his second course off his barb and resumed his feast.
    Harry
found, much to his interest, that if he took his time, he was able to eat
almost twice his own body weight. At about the time he was done, and all that
was left of Frank and Tiny was a pile of bloody clothes, a couple of skeletons,
a gun, a switchblade and two mobile phones – and about the time that the local
junkie was being locked up in a holding cell after bursting into the police
station, ranting about man-eating fish-monsters – Frank’s mobile rang. Harry
picked it up carefully and inspected the flashing display. ‘Boss’ it said.
Harry accepted the call.
    “You
done yet?” asked the surprisingly squeaky voice at the other end. Harry grunted
something akin to an affirmation. “You got the stuff?” Harry grunted again.
“Well why the fuck didn’t you call me?” the squeaky voice at the other end rose
a tone or two in apparent annoyance. Harry risked a third grunt. “Look, just
get your asses down to the parking lot behind Sainsbury’s. And I mean now !”
    Harry
grinned to himself and headed back to the canal. If he swam, he’d make it to
Sainsbury’s in five minutes. Maybe later he’d take the canals to the river,
then head downriver for a mile or so. There was a prison for violent offenders
downriver. Harry hated murderers and rapists. Besides, he figured he might be
hungry again before daybreak.



BUY
A GOAT FOR CHRISTMAS
    As soon as Pierre saw the tank, he fell madly in love with it. It was large and
chunky, its rotting green paint barely covering the blood-coloured flecks of
rust beneath. Pierre ran his hand over the gun barrel, wincing as he caught his
finger on a sliver of flaking paint. He sucked his bleeding finger and ran his
other hand over the side of the tank, his eyes glowing like those of a
schoolboy who’s just realised that toads pop when you blow them up with a
straw.
    Not
many people remembered the time before the war, but Pierre did. He remembered
when a travelling cinema had come to the nearest town. He’d borrowed a donkey
from one of his neighbours and ridden to see it. The film showing was The
Exorcist . The other locals had walked out in protest, some of the women had
fainted, and a little boy got possessed and had to be taken to the local priest
after the screening. But Pierre was in seventh heaven: thrilled, terrified,
moved – one emotion after another and all at once. He rode out to town every
day for the three days before the cinema was closed down and the projectionist
thrown out of town for blasphemy and attempting to corrupt the God-fearing
locals. It was during the third and last screening that Pierre realised his
life’s ambition: to be able to say ‘your mother sucks cocks in hell’ in every
language on earth. From that day on, until war broke out, he worked towards
fulfilling his ambition and tried out the language skills he was acquiring on
any tourist who passed through this godforsaken part of the world. Pierre often
sported a black eye.
    Then
war broke out. Pierre’s village avoided most of the violence, but hunger,
poverty and disease took their toll. Now life was slowly returning to normal –
the village school had re-opened, the villagers had started to rebuild their
livelihoods, but they were still heavily dependent on outside help and would be
for many months to come.
    Mr Wyndham-Smythe of Kensington had broken his vow never to suffer going on the
tube again, and was sitting, handkerchief held firmly over his nose and mouth,
among the coughing commuters and excited tourists, when he noticed the Giftaid
poster