The McDead

Kebabed

Spiro the Snitch was having a bad morning. The VAT crew had been on the phone and promised a visit soon. Plus the health inspectors he’d managed to twice defer. But, he knew he couldn’t do that indefinitely. He’d have to get Brant to do it for him.

Aloud he said, ‘Mallakas’-or seeing as he was born and reared in Shepherd’s Bush, he could have simply said, ‘Wankers’.

He had a few words of Greek but rationed them carefully. He was attempting to clean the spit for the kebab meat. Standing vertical, usually it was shrouded in meat and he carved accordingly. Now, it was bare and red hot. It gleamed with heat and hygiene. About to turn if off when there was a loud knock. A voice said, ‘Police.’

‘Now what?’ he fumed as he went to get it.

Tommy Logan and two of his men.

Spiro said, ‘You’re not police.’

‘We lied.’

With a dismal record in the Eurovision, the Greeks were familiar with the winners. Spiro stared at Tommy, asked, ‘Are you…?’

‘Trouble? Yes I am, let’s take it inside.’

They bundled Spiro back into the taverna.

Tommy said, ‘Spring cleaning or should that be spit cleaning?’

Spiro said, ‘I’ll turn it off and perhaps I can get you gentlemen a drink.’

‘No, leave it on, gives the room a cosy atmosphere.’

Tommy stared at Spiro, said, ‘Let’s do this quick and easy. You’ve been telling tales to the Old Bill, haven’t you? No lies or I’ll make you lick the spit.’

Spiro was close to emptying his bowels, and yet his mind registered how awful a dye job Tommy had.

He put out his hands in the universal plea of surrender, said, ‘On my mother’s grave, I didn’t.’

Tommy grabbed Spiro’s hands, said, ‘Hold him.’

The men did, then dragged Spiro over to the spit. Tommy said, ‘You’re a hands-on kind of guy, I can tell.’ And slapped Spiro’s hands to the hot metal.

His screams were ferocious and Tommy screamed right along with him. Then he let go and Spiro fell to the floor, whimpering.

Tommy said, ‘Next it’s your tongue, then yer dick. We’ll kebab till the early hours. Or would you prefer to talk?

He talked. Tommy listened, then said, ‘Spiro … it is Spiro, am I right?’

Nod.

‘Do you know me?’

Shake.

‘So why are you making trouble? What should I do now? Do you feel up to a solid beating?’

‘No … please…

‘OK.’

Spiro was too terrified to hope. Then Tommy said, ‘You’ve cost me an arm and a leg so let’s break one of each … you choose.’

It got a bit messy and they had to break both arms and his left leg.

Tommy said, ‘You’ve a fine pair of lungs on yah.’

As they were leaving, Tommy asked one of his men, ‘You eat that Greek food?’

‘Me … naw, I like Chinese.’

Tommy shook his head, said, ‘Irish stew is hard to top … Give the polliss a call, say their Greek takeaway is ready.’