by Tommy Dakar
him with long words and quasi legal jargon. So he would remain silent. Anyway, Spotty had warned him – don’t listen to the slimy toad, he’s too smooth talking for you, Bro, no offence, but the snake can also charm. Best not bother with any crap or he’ll talk you out of it. Don’t listen to him, Bro, close your ears, ignore him, he’s a fucking lawyer after all, so it’s all bullshit anyway. Elegant not eloquent. Got that?
The pause, the silence, gave Harvey a little hope. If Bro was going to shoot him he would have done so by now, surely? So he was bluffing. He wouldn’t have the balls to just kill him in cold blood, yet he clearly wanted something. Well he would find out what it was that had driven him to this lunacy. The cinema clients would be turning up within the hour and he needed to get the cars ready in good time. He would have to sort out this incident with Ambrose as quickly as he could.
‘Mr. Ork.’
He used his most authoritative voice. Very often the master’s voice is sufficient in such cases. The man needed to know who was boss. There was an uneasy second or two while Ambrose shifted his position a little and re-aimed. Perhaps a slightly more reconciliatory tone was required.
‘Ambrose. I, I ...’
What was he supposed to say? I didn’t expect to see you? So you got out of jail? So you have come to kill me? It was absurd. What was he to do, talk him out of it like a police negotiator? Like a fucking psychologist or something? Harvey was beginning to get annoyed. He puffed himself up. He would take the indignant stance. This man has forced his way into my home, stolen my gun, and now has the gall to threaten me in my own grounds. Outrageous. He would deal with this dimwit once and for all, get him put away in a mental institution, lock the door and throw away the key. What a complete idiot.
‘Now listen to me. That is a very valuable gun.’
The only sound was the vaguely distant twittering and trilling of suburban wildlife. Both men held their ground.
‘Do you realise that breaking and entering is a very serious crime?’
Bro’s silence was unnerving, but he charged on.
‘How did you get in? And, and what on earth are you doing with that gun? If you shoot that thing it’ll wake up the whole town. The police will be here in a shot.’
He hadn’t meant the pun, and the fact that he had not realised that until he had spoken made him feel even less sure of himself. And Bro still standing there, feet well apart, the barrels aimed at his chest. He hadn’t so much as flinched at anything Harvey had said.
‘Look, if it's about...’
Then Ambrose interrupted him. It was time for his speech. It wasn’t much, but it was his and he had to say it. He was shouting, he knew, but couldn’t help it, and ended up rushing through his lines like an amateur actor at a rehearsal.
‘You killed Sydney. You put the cable in the pool and made him go for a swim. You killed him and I got the blame.’
Harvey relaxed at the familiar sound of his ex employee’s dumb tone. So that’s what he wanted, to get it off his chest, to complain like a child about the harsh treatment life had dealt him. Poor little thing. It was pathetic. But how best to handle this? How to get the dickhead to lower that damned gun even for an instant? Should he accept the accusation, give Ambrose the satisfaction of being told, for once in his stupid life, that he was right? What did he want, to see him on his knees, or would a simple ‘sorry’ be enough? It was hot out there on the forecourt, and time was ticking on relentlessly. Harvey decided to take the bull by the horns.
‘I am not in the habit of killing children. You had a fair trial. Who has put this nonsense into your head, for heaven's sake? And now, I suppose, you are going to kill me. Really Ambrose, do you think for one minute that you can get away with...?’
The shotgun blast hurled him back against the four wheel drive, splattering it with blood. Harvey died instantly, his chest destroyed by the shot. Spotty had warned Bro not to listen to that sweet talk. And who had said anything about getting away with it?
The body lay slumped against the car, his sunglasses still incredibly on top of his head. There was blood and bits of cloth everywhere. Bud and his gang would not be wanting the vehicle now.
Harvey had been right again, the sound of that shotgun blast was enough to raise the dead. Bro had been warned about how to shoot such a gun. First Brendan had shown him how to hold one, how to stand, how to take aim. Then Spotty had explained about the kick back and the breathing techniques involved. But he had not expected such a deafening noise. The police would probably not take more than a few minutes to arrive, so he had to move fast.
He would now put into action his own part of the plan. It was something he had not discussed with anyone, something he could confess to no-one. It was the result of hours of contemplation, of soul-searching, all on his own without the aid of Spotty or Pet or anybody else. He had thought about it until he was one hundred percent sure. Now he was convinced - it was a better plan.
Looking down on Harvey’s crumpled corpse he felt no remorse. He had wondered about that, how he would react to taking someone’s life, if it would be as clinical and detached as it sounded when he went over the plan in his head or with Spotty in his cell. Often things are not like they sound on paper, and maybe, once it was too late and Harvey lay dead on the ground, he would suddenly repent, break into tears or cries of anguish, fall to his knees and beg forgiveness. It was possible; he had seen it happen in films. But no. He imagined how Harvey would have felt if things had worked out the other way round, if it had been Ambrose doubled up against the car in a pool of blood. He would have said ‘you lose, moron’, or something along those lines. Then he would have called the police so that the mess could be cleaned up as quickly as possible. It would have been a triumph, one idiot less. Well Ambrose felt the same.
He clicked open the gun and reloaded. It was a better plan. Better for Spotty, as this way nobody would bother to look any further, no over-energetic detective would try to trace Bro’s movements over the last few days. No raid on the Bandstand bar, no cordoning off Myra’s house. Nobody incriminated. There would be no need. It would be tidy and conclusive. For Pet, too. How could he leave her in such a pickle? Imagine it, her brother on the run, a murderer in the family. She would want to help, to hide him, to feed him. She would want to commit perjury to save his skin, would do anything to keep her younger brother out of danger and preferably out of jail. No, he couldn’t ask that of her, it was too much. She had a new life now in Wollbury, with that Doug. He would pray for her.
He had thought of Andrea as well. The poor woman had no idea that her second husband had been killed, was slumped at his feet right now. Hadn’t she suffered enough? What a life! Swathed in luxury yet hounded by tragedy. First happy-go-lucky Sydney driving straight into that tree, then... her son. Her only son. So young, so sweet. He didn’t know if she really thought that he had been to blame for that or not. He hoped not, he liked to believe not. She certainly had never said anything bitter to him as far as he could recall. Now Ambrose had taken away the only thing she had left. One loud blast and she was alone. He could not add to that pain. She did not deserve to go through the rest of her life wondering who had killed Harvey, if it had truly been Ambrose or if it had been some other intruder, or if the killer was still on the loose, prowling the grounds at night, stalking her. She would have nightmares and continually think that she was next. It would make it impossible for her to start again and that would be unfair, because Ambrose had never wanted to harm Andrea. She’d been hurt enough as it was.
So to the final phase. He checked his weapon once more. It snapped open and closed firmly as before. He would now take his own life. He would aim the barrels at his face, propping the gun under his chin so that the blast would rip his head off. He needed somewhere to lodge the butt. The car would be the best idea. With one foot he nudged the base of the shotgun towards the tyre of the rear wheel. Once it was snugly in place he would be able to go through with the last part of his plan. He had to make sure it was well ja
mmed, or the retort, yes, that was the word Spotty had used, retort. Or the retort could mean that he would miss his target. That could not happen. He must not survive, especially not terribly disfigured. What a horror. A mutilated murderer that needs constant medical attention. A double monster. The butt tended to slide a little on the gravel, he was not happy. .
He pulled open the back door and tried to find a slot somewhere between the seat and the floor, but the surfaces were too smooth, too curved in design, and the gun slid about dangerously. He needed something that would not move. Like Harvey.
He jammed the gun into Harvey’s waist. Luckily Harvey’s face was turned away and covered in blood, or perhaps Ambrose would have had a few qualms about using his body for support. It worked. Now all he had to do was pull the trigger and this drama would be over. He felt a sigh of relief at that. He was tired now, exhausted after all his anxiety. He had hardly slept the night before, continuously worrying over every detail. The incognito bus journey out to Langley, breaking into Haute House, going for the gun. Not to mention all those memories. He had feared that something would go horribly wrong, it usually did. Maybe he’d catch the wrong bus, or get off at the wrong stop and