Long Island Iced Tea

I wrote a short story earlier for my AS-level English Language Coursework. Just decided to post it on here for you guys to look at and see if there's anything wrong with it, etc. Cheers.

Long Island Iced Tea

Art let the wire slacken in his grasp, letting the body slump heavily to the floor. Winding it lazily around one hand, he surveyed the basement he had chosen for the latest job. Nice and shadowy, a few damp stains, some handy barrels in the corner – perfect for his line of work. Not that it made it easy; not by any stretch of the imagination. But when you worked for the Don, nothing was a cake walk, not even buying the groceries.

He straightened up, shaking the untidy mess of brown hair out of his eyes, checking the door for the hundredth time. No opportunity for second chances in this game. Everyone in this neighborhood carried a pistol in their sock drawer, so chances were if you were caught, you were dead. Italians were shifty bastards, always springing you when you least expected it, when your back was turned. But this was an Italian neighborhood, and for an Irishman like Art, the worst possible location for a job. Guaranteed that if anyone discovered the body in the next few days, they’d all remember how they saw a strange Irishman stalking ‘bout town. That was why he picked his spots carefully – no one would find out until he was long gone.

Gripping the steadily cooling corpse firmly under the armpits, Arthur D. Finnegan hauled the late Giuseppe up and onto his tool bench, the hammers and wrenches clattering all too noisily beneath the prone figure. Art could sense the rigor mortis setting in and needed the hulking butcher stuffed into one of these barrels before anyone wondered where he’d gotten to. Rolling him along the table with short, animalistic grunts, Art slowly but surely edged him towards the barrels. As he’d prepared, two were empty – one for the body, and another for any parts of the body which didn’t remain attached to their owner. Giuseppe was a big guy, and Art knew with a sense of slight disappointment he’d need the hatchet he’d hidden behind the corn flour. He sighed in a matter-of-fact sort of way. He was a murderer, but he wasn’t a butcher. Besides, he thought with a slight smile, this guy was a butcher. Turn and turn alike, eh?

Heaving the huge axe out from behind the sack, Art took Giuseppe’s ankles and stretched out his pale, flabby legs. Like a cut-budget surgeon he began hacking away at the back of his knees, severing the weak joint and cutting cleanly through to the workbench. Each thud against the wood caused him to cringe and go deadly silent, but no worry – the faint noise of the tavern above still emanated rosily down; the regulars oblivious to the atrocities happening just a few feet below them.

With the legs nicely stumped, Art took the man’s head off in one clean blow, causing it to roll dangerously towards the edge of the table. Satisfied, he maneuvered the grisly corpse into the barrel and kicked down sharply, squashing the bloody ends in with an emotionless ferocity. The lid fitted on nicely. Noticing the all-too-obvious red stains oozing down from the rim, he covered the barrel with a grey woolen blanket, praying that none of the barman’s family were cold that night.

Art quickly chucked the two legs into the second barrel, pausing only briefly to stare deep into the lifeless eyes of what had once been Giuseppe the butcher. The pupils were unfocused and eerie, and the usual glint of malice and cunning had dimmed. Smiling sadly, he placed his finger and thumb above the man’s eyelids, pulling them gently downwards, to open no more. Bending down, the head clutched under one arm, he dragged a finger through the dirty floor, drawing a simple cross on the man’s forehead. “Ashes to ashes,” he whispered, “dust to dust.” Then, tossing it in to the second barrel, he slammed down the lid and raced up the stairs, taking them two at a time. At the top he pushed the door open gingerly, checking for anyone watching, then strode purposefully into and across the room, the customers oblivious to his presence. He was halfway across. No one had said anything. Three quarters of the way across, the door was in sight. He reached out for the door—

“Art’ur Feenigan!” cried a female voice, stopping him in his tracks. His eyes flickered closed, his hand still poised above the doorknob. He could sense the woman was only about a metre away, behind him. He couldn’t pretend he hadn’t heard her. He turned around with a sinking feeling.

“Miss Catarina Villuci, well if t’isn’t a pleasure t’ see you around,” he said with a wan smile, bowing slightly forwards. “I trust y’r well?”

The Italian woman was sitting on a stool by the door, with another man and woman. They were now all looking at him, the woman questioningly raising an eyebrow to her husband, expecting to be introduced to this newcomer. Art reeled with another sense of dread. Catarina knew his real name. He couldn’t give a false one now without her knowing something was up. He panicked. The silence stretched on too long. Catarina shifted uncomfortably and glanced around. “Uh…Art’ur?” she asked quizzically, looking him up and down.

Arthur saw the barmaid wrench open the cellar door and begin clomping wearily down, in search of another barrel of cheap imported ale for the thirsty regulars. Art closed his eyes for one very long moment, then said, “Miss Catarina, I would dearly love t’ stay an’ chat with you and y’r fine friends, but y’see, I have t’…”

A muffled scream from below. A couple of heads turned in the direction of the door. Shoes clomping back up the stairs, much faster than they went down. Busted.
Without saying another word, Arthur turned and reached for the door, opening it with a sharp jerk, heaving the heavy timber out of its ill-fitting frame. He took a few steps out of the door a little too fast. Behind him, he heard the screech of the barmaid and felt the accusatory finger penetrating into his back. “Arrestilo! Arresti quella bestia irlandese!”

No time for stealth now. Art leapt the last few feet out of the door, miraculously dodging the two beer mugs that came hurtling his way. Knowing he had only seconds before the entire neighbourhood was up in arms, he took the steps down to the sidewalk three at a time, sprinting for the nearest quay. If he could reach the water, either in a boat or swimming, he didn’t care, then he was safe enough. The Don knew plenty of the fisherman out here, be they Italian, Irish or Polish, and they would help out one of the Don’s men lest they incur his wrath. People who incurred the Don’s wrath generally didn’t have a singular grave.

Art bolted over the rough cobbles, his cheap, sturdy boots gripping the slimy stones well. It had rained recently, by the looks of things, and as he darted a glance overhead he could see the angry clouds bearing down on him again, ready to pelt the hapless New Yorkers with more miserable weather. To Art, it was a godsend. Nothing put off a mob more than heavy rain. Funny, really, as they would happily take on the police when they opposed them. A little rain? No, far too big a challenge for one hundred furious peasants…

Boom! A gunshot rocked the street, and a few feet ahead Art saw a small chunk of brickwork break away with a puff of dust. Boom! Boom! Two more! These guys meant business. What had Giuseppe done to deserve such a treatment for the Don, Art didn’t know, nor ever knew with any of his ‘clients’. But this guy seemed to have some serious muscle, and they were putting up one hell of a fight. He reached down as he ducked into an alley and felt the bulge of his own pistol strapped to his leg. He didn’t want to use it, but everything was already seriously ****ed up. Nothing else could go wrong tonight; nothing.

Another shot whistled by and ricocheted off of a dustbin, smashing into the nearby wall. Art stumbled clumsily the other way and clanged into a fire ladder, rocking the flimsy iron with his weight. Staying only a moment to catch his breath, he swung himself around the ladder and gripped the rungs firmly with both hands, beginning the agonizing climb up with his already exhausted muscles. He urged himself onwards and upwards, however, knowing that below lay death, and a nasty one at that.

After a few more rungs, he reached the first platform, hauling himself despairingly onto the black bars, panting and heaving like a dog. With an inhuman effort he dragged himself up and lurched up the stairwell, steadily gaining height and distance from his aggressors. Suddenly he was on the roof, and Long Island stretched away towards the horizon, stopping abruptly where the city met the ocean. He heard a gunshot from below, but it was a wild shot, more out of frustration at losing their prey than anything. Quickly regaining his breath, Art took a few steps back, then launched himself over the side of the building, landing comfortably on the next one along. He carried the momentum forwards and leapt over to the next one too, his feet connecting with the rooftops clumsily. He dived over to another, and another, he was almost at the end of the street, he leapt—

****! Art only noticed the skylight as it loomed below him, his legs ploughing straight through it, shattering the glass and shredding his trousers. He gasped in agony as his torso followed through, only stopping when his entire body smashed into the floor of the attic below. He lay there unmoving, gashes and wounds etched all over his body. A huge splinter of glass was wedged into his left arm, and blood oozed everywhere. He couldn’t move. He was immobile. He was going to bleed to death. Well, at least he hadn’t failed the Don. No one could question a dead man. And no one would suspect the Don, if they found a dead Irishman. Still, it was his life… he’d quite looked forward to holding onto it a little while longer…

With a sensation that rocked him to his stomach, Art heard the doors at the bottom of the building slam open, and the cries of hundreds of voices echo up from the depths. The mob had seen him fall, or heard the shattering of glass. Their voices grew nearer and nearer, all hoarse, ferocious and baying for blood. Art closed his eyes, and murmured the Lord’s prayer. Only one who could save me now, he thought.

He looked back up towards the skylight. No guardian angel came down to shield him. No ray of light ascended him into heaven. He was broken, bruised, bleeding and alone, and he would be torn limb from limb. Not before interrogation, though. Even peasants would want to know why it had happened.

Slowly at first, creakingly, jarringly, his right hand lifted from where it had lain on his side. It was shredded to pieces, his little finger barely hanging onto the hand. With excruciating sluggishness it inched its way down his leg to where the bulge of the pistol lay, the pants around it already cut open by the glass. The hand reached in and closed an unbearable grip around the handle. Then, with the same slow purposefulness, it withdrew, dragging the shiny black .44 back up his side. He could hear the mob even closer. They were a floor below. His speed didn’t increase. It couldn’t. This was already far more than he could realistically manage.

With his final grunting strength, Art levered his torso off the floor, leaning it on the pillar nearby. His pistol arm, lying comatose on the boards, raised shaking into the air. Art grit his teeth. No. He couldn’t stop now. The wavering hand crept upwards, the barrel trembling and shuddering a centimeter from his temple. The sounds of the mob reached the same level. They bore down on the door like bulls. Smash. The first peasant hit the door. Smash. Smash. Smash. The rest followed. The wormy woodwork buckled. Art closed his eyes firmly.

As the door gave way and the peasants stormed into the attic, Arthur D. Finnegan pressed down hard on the trigger. Most people would say he didn’t feel a thing, with all his wounds. Perhaps he didn’t.

Awful.