Grin

Grin

By

Stuart Keane

Copyright © Stuart Keane 2015

Cover art copyright © Mark Kelly 2015

Published: October 31st, 2015

Publisher: Stuart Keane

The right of Stuart Keane to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved.

This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement or the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

‘Grin’ is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

For more information about the author, please visit
www.stuartkeane.com

For more information about the artist, please visit
www.zgrimv.com

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(With Jack Rollins, Kyle M. Scott and Angel Gelique)

Editor

Undead Legacy

I want to thank Peggy Howes, Kindra Sowder, Doug Rinaldi and Lewis Gilson. Often on Facebook, I will invite readers to feature in my work, and these amazing people helped me out massively. When creating a story, some things can unexpectedly pop up – in this case, a particularly nasty scene with plenty of people – and having a handful of original names certainly comes in handy when this is the case. The end of this book took me by surprise, so thank you for being on hand.

A special, appreciative thank you to Nicky Barrett and Richard D. Ramsey. As you are about to find out, the 'grin' of the title is a horrific wound to receive. To ensure total accuracy, Nicky and Richard – who both work in the medical field – provided me with crucial information on the treatment of such wounds, with rehabilitation times and specific procedures explained to me in depth. It was a huge, rewarding, learning experience. A massive thank you to you guys. Without your expertise, this book would have taken a lot longer to nail down.

As usual, thank you to Stephen King, Richard Laymon, James Herbert, Shaun Hutson, and Clive Barker for putting me on the right path to horror fiction. Without them, I doubt I would be doing this.

Finally, I wish to thank my readers, many of whom I talk to, chat with and communicate with online. You're the reason I write, so never forget that. Feel free to get in touch on Facebook, Twitter or my website
www.stuartkeane.com
.

Enjoy!

For my beautiful sisters, Joanne and Kirsty.

Two of the strongest women I know. For any author, that's true inspiration.

PART ONE

Consequences

"Yep."

"Positive?"

"Yep."

"You'd better be sure. If you fuck this up, there'll be hell to pay."

"For fuck sake, Ross, I got it, okay?" Dennis snatched the briefcase from his boss and inhaled, breathing in the chilled, evening air. "Why don’t you trust me?"

"Because you're a fucking liability, that's why. Do we need to go over your past?" Ross Rhodes tensed up, preparing for a confrontation. Dennis noticed and backed down, sagging in the shoulders, bowing to the alpha male. He cracked a fake smile.

"No, no need."

"Good, because I fucking own you.
Own you!
Got that? I say jump, you say pretty please and how fucking high with a cherry on top, got it?"

Dennis nodded. A prickly rage was building inside of him, burning through his veins. Again, the fake smile stretched across his face. "Got it. Loud and clear."

Rhodes walked around to the passenger door of the idling Audi beside him. Dennis backed up a step, smiled, and held a hand up in gesture. "Don’t worry, Ross. I got this."

Rhodes said nothing, grunted, and ducked into the vehicle. The door closed with a soft clunk and the car pulled away quietly. Within seconds, it disappeared from the alley onto the street.

Dennis breathed out and rested on a small brick wall behind him. He placed the briefcase on the crumbling concrete beneath his feet and realised he was sweating. Removing a handkerchief from his pocket, he wiped the perspiration from his brow.

A door opened behind him, squeaking on the silent night air, and a man dressed in grimy white clothes appeared. The new arrival took a few steps into the alley and sparked up a cigarette. His attention wandered for a moment, taking in the scenery, before settling on Dennis. His eyes narrowed and he exhaled a plume of smoke. "You okay, pal?"

Dennis stopped rubbing his brow, glanced around and smiled, more in relief than anything else. "Sure, I'm fine."

"Long day?"

"You could say that," Dennis said, chuckling to himself.

"Want a smoke?" The man held out the packet to him.

"No, I quit. Not sure why…but I did."

"Good on ya, bro. I couldn’t give these bad boys up; I'd be a raving mess if I did."

Dennis casually observed the man. He noticed the messy whites and black and white striped trousers. A tight, food stained apron was wrapped around his waist. His fingers were thick and knotted and as the chef stepped into the glare of the streetlight, several scars – emphasised by darker flecks of skin – were obvious. 

The pieces fell into place and Dennis grinned. "You a chef, huh?"

The newcomer nodded. "Seven years, straight out of cookery school. I tell you, man, I wouldn’t have done it if I knew it was going to be this stressful. Not worth a fuckin' jot."

Dennis straightened up and stretched his neck; a loud crack resonated down the empty alleyway. He groaned. The chef blew out another stream of smoke and watched him. "You should get that checked."

Dennis collected the suitcase and ambled over. "I know. Any hints? For stress relief, I mean. I hear you guys have the worst job in the world. Stress wise and all that."

"Not really, no. Well, you could start smoking again?"

Dennis chuckled. "Sure, why not. One won't kill me."

The chef held out the pack of Marlboros. Dennis pinched the exposed filter from the end of the pack and slid it out, placing it between his dry lips. The chef pocketed the smokes and lifted a Zippo lighter. He flicked the lid and ignited the device in one swift swipe, a sound that echoed around them. The small flame danced in the evening chill as it lit the cigarette between Dennis' lips. He sucked in a lungful, held for a few seconds, and breathed out. The smoke caressed his throat and escaped through his mouth and nostrils with a long, deep sigh. His eyes closed. "My God, I forgot how good that shit is."

The chef nodded. "Two hundred covers a day. Smoking is essential, man."

Dennis moved over and sat on the wall beside the chef, who was leaning on an open dumpster. The essence of old rubbish and decaying food hung in the air. A silence settled over them as Dennis checked his watch. "It's half past ten. I assume your shift is finished?"

"Yep, cleaning down time. Well, in due course."

"Waiting for the last customers to leave?"

"You got it. Every night, I tell the line cooks to leave the line for half an hour. Clean down the rest of the kitchen, but leave the line. All you need is a strung-out waitress bringing a plate in and tripping or slamming it down. Food everywhere. Cleaning the line twice is a waste of labour. Therefore, I wait. Makes perfect sense. The other line cooks label the foods and tidy. I come out for a well-earned smoke." The chef toked once again, finishing the cigarette. "Anyway, how did you know?"

"I used to be a waiter. You learn the trade and routines pretty quickly."

"You work in London?"

"No, up North." Dennis pointed to the sky with his cigarette.

"Anywhere big?"

"Not really. Couple of seafood places, the odd TGI Friday's, nothing as fancy as…" Dennis glanced up at the back of the restaurant, looking for a hint to the establishment's name. He saw bare, crumbling red bricks and steam billowing from a crooked funnel embedded beneath a dark window. "Where am I?"

The chef laughed. "Mamma Sue's. Italian."

"You don’t look Italian?"

"Shhh, don’t tell anyone." The chef smiled and stubbed out his cigarette on the wall. "I'm trained Italian, not born it. I still make the best pasta in Soho, though."

"I'll take that as a recommendation."

"And a secret. If Joe Magniello at Pirlo's found out, he'd have me killed." He smiled and slapped his thighs. "Just jokin', Joe knows I love him."

"I've been to Pirlo's…decent place. Great lasagna."

"You haven’t eaten here yet."

"Maybe I have," Dennis nodded.  

An awkward silence settled on them. The chef pushed away from the dumpster and stood up straight. "I'll book you a table if you want?"

"Nah, it's okay. I don’t know when I'll be in town next." Dennis met his eyes, not flinching.

The chef smiled uneasily and tensed. He looked up and down the alleyway and started towards the back door. "Nice meeting you."

"Likewise. Thanks for the smoke." Dennis held his half-finished cigarette in the air. He watched the chef go, observing him.

The chef trotted up the steps, took one final look back, and disappeared through the white door. It closed on its latch with a thud and bounced back, still open. Ease of exit for removal of furniture and rubbish. Dennis recalled the many late nights as a kitchen porter. Remembered bringing out wet bags of waste and refuse, spilling bin juice all over his new Nikes. The stench of fat and fish that ruined many of his clothes.

We all started somewhere
.

Dennis dropped the cigarette onto the floor and stamped it out. His smile disappeared as he glanced up and down the alleyway, imitating the chef from moments before. He saw several fissures of steam and heard little noise coming from the streets of London beyond.

Dennis was alone.

He pulled two slim leather gloves from his pocket and slid them on.

Dennis eased his hand behind him, beneath his suit jacket and removed a silenced Beretta. The material of the coat made a slight swishing noise on his gloves. He twisted the muzzle – firmly attached. He tucked it under his arm and did the same with a second, identical Beretta. Both ready, both loaded with sixteen 9mm parabellum rounds. After a quick check, each firearm had a bullet in the chamber.

Dennis clicked the safety off on both firearms. He slid one into his belt and breathed out.

"Please God; keep me safe in this time of need."

Dennis walked towards the doorway.

His brain processed vital information within seconds. The chef had mentioned cleaning down took half an hour, which meant the line cooks would be either cleaning right now, or already finished, thus vacating the kitchen. Unless there was another alley or room to smoke in, the chef would have shared his smoke with several colleagues.

Most kitchens only had one back door.

Dennis knew a kitchen of this size required seven line cooks, maybe eight including a prep chef, nine for dessert too, unless they doubled up the tasks. Worst case, nine people, ten including the head chef. The wait staff would be in the dining room, turning over tables, cleaning cutlery, taking tips. Customers would be few, probably inebriated; maybe one or two forcefully removed.

He reached the top step and listened, his ear against the wooden surface. After a second, he stepped to the side as the door swung outwards. A pot washer, indicated by his white t-shirt and lack of chef whites, stumbled before Dennis, tripping over the outstretched, unexpected leg before him.

Dennis shot the newcomer in the back of the head.

A solid
whup
disappeared in the heavy silence of the alleyway. The pot washer's face exploded outwards, splattering the floor and steps below him with dark blood. Several fragments of bone tinkered on the concrete. Before the victim could go any further, Dennis kicked him sideways into the open dumpster. The dead body toppled onto some rubbish bags with a solid whoosh. Rubbish flew up into the air as the body came to a rest, souring the air even more. Dennis leaned over, shot him in the head again, and closed the dumpster lid.

Nine remaining.

Maybe.

Dennis pulled the door, gun ahead of him, and entered Mamma Sue's.

The kitchen, vast and metallic, stood before him. Every work surface was silver, sparkling, and spotless. Dennis stood in a shadowy alcove, tucked into a dark recess, away from the food preparation areas. Quickly scanning the room, he noticed no movement. No one was present. The normal bustle of the kitchen; shouting, clinking of plates and food hissing, were all absent. A dull murmur of customer conversation emanated from a doorway opposite him. Shadows danced behind a misted, circular glass window.

The chef from before walked in front of Dennis, not noticing the intruder, his attention elsewhere. He stopped at a counter and starting placing some knives on a magnetized strip on the wall. Methodical metal thuds occurred as the blades found their home.

Dennis waited.

The chef took a minute to finish the task. He lifted a red cutting board from the surface below him, spun it in the air, and slid in into a groove beneath the surface. He then leaned on the counter, stretching his muscles. A huge sigh escaped from deep down, the noise of a weary worker.

Still no other kitchen staff.

They were alone.

Dennis took this as his cue.

He smirked and silently stepped forward. Emerging from the shadows like a silent demon of death, he raised the Beretta. "You know smoking kills, right?"

The chef paused for a second, and then spun around. Recognition in his eyes betrayed him, made him hesitate. Before he could utter a word, Dennis fired four silent rounds into his chest and one into his face, which imploded in a mist of blood and obliterated skull. Blood sprayed from his bullet holes, spattering the metal surfaces and floor. The chef gasped and groaned, falling and spinning backwards. Soggy squelching filled the silence as red fluid pumped from the man's dying body. His face collided hard with a metal surface, sending various utensils to the floor in a cacophony of clattering.

Dennis backed away into the shadows and left the kitchen.

He leapt down the steps, turned left and exited the alleyway. As he went, he dropped the magazines from his guns into his palms, pocketed them and slid the empty weapons back into his waistband. He collected the briefcase as he walked away.

He was on the street before the first terrified screams pierced the chilly, night air.

A moment later, he climbed into his waiting BMW and drove away.