SEEING BLUE, an exclusive story by Paul D. Brazill!

Quite some time ago, back when THE BASTARD HAND first came out, I did a guest post over at Paul Brazill's blog, You Would Say That, Wouldn't You? and I managed to coerce him into doing an all-original story here at Psycho-Noir whenever he had the time.

Well, time is scarce for Mr. Brazill. He's a hard-work drivin' man. We waited a while for this story from Paul, but damn... I'll think you'll find it was worth the wait.

It's my pleasure to give to you an all-new, never-before seen short story from Paul Brazill...

SEEING BLUE
by
Paul D Brazill


First, it all turns red. And then it goes black for a very long time. After that, everything is a searing white. Until I see Blue.

Then everything hurts. Everything.

Blue reaches into a rusty tool box. Takes out a hammer. Snorts some Charlie from the window ledge. Pops a duck egg. And walks toward me.

Black, again.

***

Now, the room is a muddy brown. Early evening or late morning. An old transistor radio on the mantelpiece leaks out hits of the ‘80s.

I can make out Blue Dobson’s massive frame in the corner of the room. He is naked. His jigsaw of tattoos exposed. His long red hair tied back in a ponytail.

He’s doing press ups. And repeating a mantra, ‘Fuckemall, Fucke em all, Fuckemall, Fuck em all.’

And then I start to panic. I try to drag myself free from the rocking chair but I’m still strapped in. A pool of piss below me, splashed with blood. I scream but my jaw is broken and the movement hurts so much that once again it all fades to black.

***

Some people never learn from their mistakes. And I suppose I’m one of those people.

Just over a year ago, Natalie, my girlfriend, got a job as a receptionist at the Health Centre. After a few drinks she liked to unburden herself. Tell me all the sob stories she heard all day. It was the old dears she usually felt the most sorry for. Living alone. Abandoned by their family.

I usually zoned out; I never had a thing for other people’s problems. But when she mentioned that Mrs. Barker had just died, I had an idea. Later that night, I sneaked into Mrs. Barker’s house and looked for whatever loot I could find. I got a decent wad of cash and jewelry, too.
I paid more attention to Natalie after that.

But about a fortnight ago, I was almost caught by a neighbor who’d stopped crying crocodile tears and obviously had the same idea as me. I saw him rummaging under the bed, fat arse in the air. I scarpered pretty sharpish.

So, I thought I’d leave it a bit.

And then Natalie mentioned that Mrs. Dobson had snuffed it. She was the grandmother of Blue Dobson, who had once committed a string of post office robberies and killed three people while he was on the run. Blue was eventually caught and given two life sentences but the loot from the robberies was never recovered. This seemed like a window of opportunity well worth jumping through.

I wasn’t to know that Blue had escaped from prison when he’d been notified of his nan’s death. That he’d go back to her home.

***

Sunlight peeks through the lace curtains. Blue is in the corner of the room, gurgling, puking, grasping his heart with his baseball mitt of a hand. After some time, he stops moving. As the day becomes brighter, it becomes clear that he’s croaked. Brown bread. Heart attack, maybe. Overdose. Whatever.

I wriggle around enough to topple the rocking chair over. It hurts. It hurts so much that I black out again. When I come to, I struggle free from the shattered chair. Crawl over to Blue.

And the suitcase full of money. My jaw hurts as I grin. I untie my ankles. Get to my feet.

The sun has risen over the tower blocks. The day is bright. The skies are blue. And the copper on the balcony, pointing a gun at me, smiles.

The end.

© Paul D Brazill 2011

Kindle-fied Review 2: BRIT GRIT, by Paul Brazill

Paul Brazill has a beautifully understated sense of the absurd that is on full display in this remarkable collection of stories. There’s a fair amount of existential type drama, but it’s all delivered with such ease and good humor that it goes down smooth. The stories all seem related somehow, as they clearly take place in the same seedy underworld, where peripheral characters will occasionally take the spotlight in order to steer events toward whatever disaster looms. I’ve already mentioned in other posts and other places how much I admire Brazill’s skill with dialogue, and BRIT GRIT is no exception—the man writes with such flair and wit that it’s impossible to resist.

Kindle-fied

Well, I just finished downloading DIG TEN GRAVES to the ole' Kindle on Amazon. What an amazing pain in the ass that was. But now it's done, and the collection should be available in the U.S. within the next day or so, for a measly little .99 cents. Apparently, it takes a couple days more after that for it to show up in other countries.
As far as the introduction goes, well... that didn't quite work out, sorry. Time constraints. However, all the guesses were fun, and I appreciate you all playing along. And nope, it was none of the above, although some were quite good guesses.
I DID get a terrific blurb from the esteemed Mr. Paul Brazill, though:

"Heath Lowrance follows up his classic debut, THE BASTARD HAND, with a searing collection of hard-boiled, dark fiction. The blackest of noir permeates the pages of DIG TEN GRAVES and oozes into its dark alleyways, its blood stained streets and its rain soaked gutters - even the crevices on the faces of its battle scarred and booze battered protagonists." - Paul D Brazill, Drunk On The Moon, Guns Of Brixton, 13 Shots Of Noir.

Pretty nice, eh?
Again, thanks to everyone for the support and words of encouragement. I'll try not to let ya down.

Drunk on the Moon, by Paul Brazill

Roman Dalton doesn’t WANT to kill people. It’s just in his blood. See, three times a month he becomes stricken with a curse that transforms him from an ex-cop turned P.I. into a blood-thirsty werewolf. And it’s a good thing, too, considering that Dalton’s seedy underworld is infested with all manner of gangster zombies, lizard-men and other creatures of the night. It’s good to have a leg up in this crazy world…

A werewolf/private dick… if you’re like me, you’re thinking, “Damnit, why didn’t I think of that?” Well, you’re too late, man, because Paul Brazill already managed to sift through our collective unconscious and pluck this gem of an idea out. And that’s ALSO a good thing, because he manages to do something with it that most of us wouldn’t be able to. He saves it from becoming corny or annoying or trite by making Roman Dalton a genuinely interesting character, surrounded by an equally interesting supporting cast.

Drunk on the Moon, the first installment in a promised series of stories about Roman, is an oddly fragmented, episodic thing, designed to jangle your nerves a bit and upset your expectations.

Throughout, Paul Brazill gives us the flavorful language and keen observations about surroundings for which he’s become so well-regarded, and the violence, when it happens, is sudden and unexpected and over before you can blink. Again, that’s Brazill messing with your expectations about werewolf stories.

Future stories about Roman the werewolf P.I. will be written by a wide assortment of writers, all onboard to see what they can do with Brazill’s vision, so I imagine we’re going to see some amazingly varied approaches. But there’s no question that Brazill has set the bar high with Drunk on the Moon…
.99 cents on the Kindle. A ferocious bargain.