Spatchcock, a noir fiction by Nanou Blair Gould

Spatchcock. Dead, obviously. The steel bins still ring from the spray of skull shrapnel.

I slide my phone between the railings, take a photo with the location of the dead man below and send it to the Agency. Simple as parking a Lime Bike.

Farooq’s at the bottom of the fire escape where I left him.

‘That’s that then?’ he asks, pushing himself off the wall.

‘That’s that.’

‘Excellent, I’m starving.’

I push him round the corner. We’re almost at the end of the street when we hear someone scream.

‘Bit of a delayed reaction,’ Farooq says. ‘Where is everyone?’

‘Pub?’ I say, ‘it’s two o’clock on a Friday.’

‘Wish we were at the pub. Have you been paid yet?’

‘No.”

Me neither. Falafel wrap it is.’

I separate filters and pennies from my pocket and Farooq steers me to the hole-in- the-wall Falafel Shack just off Petticoat Lane. Unhelpfully – this close to the scene of the crime – the guys greet us loudly by name.

‘No onion?’

‘Yeah, no onion, thanks.’

‘Give him onions,’ Farooq says, ‘it’s Friday, I’ll kiss him. He’s got cash.’

With wraps packed as fat as my thigh, we push through the dozy market punters and walk along Whitechapel Road. I’m too absorbed in my wrap to notice the puddles of fish guts until my socks are wet. I need to remember to breathe between mouthfuls, to chew, to suck garlic yogurt from the creases in the paper with moderate dignity.

Biryani House is a biryani takeaway with a red panelled shop front and gold painted lettering. Odette saw the first-floor flat TO LET sign from the bus and declared it ours. Never mind the two giant plain trees obstructing all sunlight or the view onto Mile End road, you can access the little terrace over the shop front via the kitchen window and that, in her opinion, is devastatingly whimsical. We were fresh out of drama school, the rent was expensive because everything was expensive, we were romantics. We were juggling three or four jobs each, tying ourselves over until we landed our big break. One more side hustle and we could do it.

We just had to think unorthodox.

Odette’s crouched outside the front door in black gym gear, rifling through her tote bag, one arm stuck out to keep the plastic tupperware upright. A bead of tamarind sauce is leaking into her armpit. I rattle my keys.

‘I thought you had the day off,’ Farooq says.

‘It was last minute.’ Odette stands and slings her bag back over her shoulder. ‘How did the audition go?’

‘Great, apparently, but they’re looking for someone browner. I had a cry and a ciggy and watched Jack push a man out of a seventh-floor window.’

She looks at my soggy trainers.

‘That’s market bin juice,’ I say.

They head upstairs and I take off my trainers and socks in the hall. Odette’s already on the phone, reeling off her post-work takeaway order.

‘She tripled the order,’ Farooq says quietly when I close the door.

‘Are you sure? She’s hungry.’

‘Twelve paneer samosas,’ He nods to the box of Merlot on the counter.

‘I thought we finished that last night?’ I say.

‘We did. She’s obviously been paid.’ ‘So be nice to her.’

Spicy grease hangs heavy about the terrace. I smoke three cigarettes to ease the adrenaline crash.

Farooq sets the box and tumblers on the table and takes a deckchair.

‘She can have the armchair,’ he says. ‘Because I’m nice.’

Odette accepts a glass of her own wine without comment. She spreads the aluminium feast over the little table and tells us to help ourselves, which we do, immediately, with the indecent, intimate savagery the three of us can share alone on our terrace. Her hair is wet and the smell of Deep Heat cuts the balmy air.

Appetite sated, Farooq falls asleep in the deckchair. I feel a lot calmer. Odette has ripped the shrivelled wine bag from the box and cradles it to her chest. It looks like an organ.

A few years ago, Odette and I tailed five American golfers to a castle in the Highlands. We signed into the private club as wealthy newlyweds on their honeymoon – the South African accent a wholly unnecessary and incriminating addition to our alibi. We accepted complimentary prosecco, ate little sandwiches, hired golf clubs; took a stroll across the course.

An hour into their round of golf, the five men pulled over in their golf buggy to watch Odette take a swing.

‘Clumsy, but kinda cute,’ one man chuckled, hopping out of the buggy.

‘Like this?’ She asked. Odette swung the club so hard into the side of his head an eyeball popped out. She drew out her shotgun and shot two more – bang, bang – in the face. I shot the last man in the throat and he fell to his knees in horrible, messy agony and Odette said, ‘no, no, Jack, don’t be cruel,’ and she shot him through the brain.

It had been one of my first jobs and the head rush made me sick. Odette bundled me into the car with a blanket and drove us to the village. She bought our bodyweight in hot pasties and pies from a butcher and we ate them on the bonnet of the rental, cramming our mouths, unable to speak until we slumped, drunk on salt, fat and carbs and I watched Odette in a blissful stupor, her sticky fingers limp her lap, gravy smeared in her hair because she kept looping it behind her ears as she ate.

‘Feed the highs or you’ll crash with despair,’ she’d said. But over time the highs are harder to satisfy.

Now Odette drains the bag from the spout. She stands up, steps over the little table and takes my face in her hands. Her eyes are black. She tips back my head, squeezing my lips apart and expresses the wine from her mouth. I drag her to the floor.

‘My acting agent dropped me,’ she whispers afterwards. Every nook and cranny of me burns with Deep Heat.

‘Shit, Odette. Are you going to look for another one?’

‘Maybe.’

She shivers and I cover her in my T-shirt. ‘You can’t give up,’ I say.

‘I’m not giving up.’

‘Because this side hustle’s insane. Keep the real goal in mind. We’re actors, not killers.”

Her pupils have shrunk. I can see a ring of grey.  

‘It pays well,’ she says. ‘I work regularly and I eat well. I’m good at it.’

‘And you go to bed satisfied?’

Odette reaches for a cold onion bhaji.

I say, ‘I’ve got a recall tomorrow for a cat food commercial.’

‘I’ve got a cash in hand job in Surrey Quays. Fifteen-grand two ways if you want it.’ I roll onto my back.