Jack Buccolski, 35, short and stocky, part Polish, part Italian, wholly English, robustly healthy and fit.
Suspicious of everyone, and energetic to the point of disdain for all who can’t keep up with him. Of low intelligence, but very cunning and conniving.
Pretty much a loner, even though he has a wide network of family most of whom he loathes. On nodding terms with the local Polish community but has a poorer grasp of the language than he thinks, so is laughed at behind his back. He has a violent streak and so most people keep him at a distance. Devoted to his mum, but ambivalent towards his dad, who he has had violent run-ins with.
Born into a rough neighbourhood in Northern England. Parents married without their parent’s consent or approval and so did not get any financial support. His mum supported him, but his dad resented the child for taking the attention of his wife away, and also because the kid was a burden on his lazy nature.
Schooldays were fraught with danger because of the Polish community kids, who picked up their parent’s attitude towards the Buccolskis, so he learned to fight early and do harm quickly. Brushes with the law as a teenager, for violent acts, brought him into contact with criminal elements at a young age. Affected by his dad’s nature, he saw life as a petty thief as being easier than one of honest toil.
Always on the look-out for a quick buck, an easy fuck and a violent ruck.
‘Look at the dick, playing with his frickin’ phone in the street. Bloke’s gonna get knocked down by a bus!’ Jack scowled when he saw that the bloke was walking straight towards him, oblivious to everything. ‘Who does he think he is – King of the Frickin’ Pavement?’ Jack carried on walking, stiffened his shoulder and barged into him.
Just a touch of shoulder against upper arm. A glancing blow, but enough to make the bloke look up. ‘Enough to save his life if a bus was coming,’ Jack reasoned, not thinking how unlikely it was that a bus would be driving along the pavement.
“Really?” Jack heard this faintly over the deep bass pumping into his ears, but it had a certain menace to it. A certain deep resonance that he recognised from his many violent dealings. A shiver of anticipation rippled through him. He just knew that the other bloke had stopped and turned back. He could feel it in the hair on his back.
Jack cracked his neck, moving his head from side to side, the way he had seen professional boxers do. It always sent a message: don’t mess with me, darlin’ – I know what I’m doing. Some listened, some didn’t – it was all the same to him.
“Twat!” This time, it was fainter and Jack barely heard it. Maybe he even imagined it. But now, the word offered no threat. For all his lack of book-learning, Jack knew his opponents. A native cunning told him that this word was the only punch that the bloke would try to land. A token gesture to restore a bit of pride.
Jack walked on, little knowing that his opponent had a sharper weapon at his disposal and that he would wield it to devastating effect before the week was out. Really – the pen is mightier than the shoulder – twat!
(read more about Jack in Nightmare)