Slammer

by Allan Guthrie

  'Don't argue, Daddy, ple—!'

  He turns, sees the bullet rip through his daughter's chest. Then the explosion.

  She stands for a second, tumbler of milk in her hands, then sinks to the floor.

  The screaming stops.

  It's over, just like that.

  'Jesus,' Glass said. 'I almost feel like I was there.'

  Watt gazes down at the gun in his hand. Can't make the connection between it and his daughter. What appears to have happened can't have happened. He can't have pulled the trigger. And even if he has, the safety should be on. It should be. His ears ring from the sound of the shot, from the sound of his wife's screaming, making the needles in his eardrums vibrate.

  Maybe if he doesn't move, this will all go away. Maybe if he stays still, never moves again. Never blinks, never takes a breath. Maybe.

  Yes, if time stops. He can make it stop. He will make it stop.

  'What the fuck have you done?' his wife yells at him.

  He shakes his head. He doesn't know. He isn't sure. He can't put it into words.

  But she can.

  'You killed her,' she says. 'You killed my baby.'

  'No.'

  'You murdering bastard. You killed our daughter. YOU KILLED HER.'

  'I can't have,' he says. 'No. It's a mistake.'

  'She's dead.'

  'How?'

  'You bought a fucking gun,' she says, crouched over her daughter, picking her up, cradling her.

  He looks at the gun again. It's huge.

  'You're going to pay for this.' Her eyes are mad. 'I'll make sure of it.'

  Tears pump out of her eyes, roll down her face. 'I fucking hate you. I've never hated anyone like I hate you right now.' She strokes her daughter's face. 'If you don't get out of my sight, I can't be responsible for what I'll do to you.' She kisses her daughter's shiny smooth brow. 'My baby,' she says.

  'She can't be gone,' Watt says.

  His wife lowers their child to the ground, jumps to her feet. 'Get out of here, you piece of shit,' she says. 'Get the fuck out. Or God help me …'

  'I want to hold her.'

  'Get out!' she screeches. 'I'll fucking kill you.' She charges at him, fists flying. She hits him on the chin. Snatches at the gun.

  He jerks his hand out of the way.

  Her expression freezes, and she wilts, a small red hole in her forehead.

  What seems like seconds later, Watt hears the explosion and the needles in his ears sing so loudly he feels he's drowning in the sound.

  'I'm struggling to believe that,' Glass said, after a while. 'One accidental shot, maybe. But two's a stretch.'

  'Well, that's my best guess,' Mafia said. 'I've no way of knowing if it's true.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'By the time I got upstairs, Watt was huddled in a corner. Couldn't get a word out of him.'

  'So he told you this later?'

  'Not exactly. We didn't have a lot of time for talking.'

  'Then how do you know it happened like that?'

  'It's the way I pieced it together.'

  'Jesus. You're just guessing?'

  Mafia paused. 'The minute I stepped through the bedroom door, there was only one scenario that made any sense.'

  'You're just guessing,' Glass repeated, not a question this time.

  'The fact Watt couldn't tell me what happened makes no difference. It went down like I said.'

  Glass didn't argue. Mafia'd carried this with him for a long time and if that's how he coped with what happened, there wasn't much Glass could say that'd make a difference. But it didn't sound right to Glass. 'So what did you do?'

  Couldn't get any sense out of Watt, and Mafia knew it looked bad. It looked worse than bad. And Watt couldn't go to prison, no way he could do the time. His head was in enough of a mess already. They'd probably send him to Carstairs or somewhere, lock him up with the psychos. Since Watt was his little brother, Mafia decided to do what he could to protect him.

  The only way to keep Watt out of jail was to frame someone else. Even then, the police might spot the cover up. Unless the scapegoat confessed.

  Mafia eased the gun out of his brother's fingers. He aimed at the wall and pulled the trigger a couple of times. That got his prints on the gun, and gunpowder residue on his skin and clothes. He dabbed the cuff of his shirt gently in the blood oozing from his sister-in-law's head. He couldn't make out much more than a general red smear, but it would have to do. He couldn't bring himself to do the same to his niece.

  He'd done enough, though. He was confident no one would doubt he was the one who'd pulled the trigger.

  He dragged Watt out of the house, managed to stumble to the car, told him to drive. Watt wouldn't, just sat there staring, not saying a word. Mafia dragged him back out and told him to go, just walk away, go find Caesar. He hated himself for throwing his brother into Caesar's arms, but he couldn't think of anyone else who'd lie for him.

  Watt wasn't speaking, but Mafia had to hope he was listening. On no account, he said, was Watt to tell Caesar the truth about what had happened. Caesar didn't need to know. Tell Caesar that Mafia was to blame. Mafia'd paid his sister-in-law a bad-intentioned bedroom visit. Things got out of hand. Provoked an accident.

  Still no response from Watt. Mafia couldn't even see his brother's eyes to tell if there was anything going on in there. He had to trust that Watt was hearing him. That he understood. That he had absorbed the lie.

  Watt needed Caesar to give him an alibi. Did Watt understand?

  But Mafia was pretty sure by now that he was just talking to himself, clearing matters in his head. Watt wasn't taking in a word.

  Mafia went back in the house, felt his way over to the phone and called the police. Then he called Caesar. Told him the story he'd just made up for Watt.

  Caesar said, 'You do this to Watt and then you call me? What kind of a cunt are you?'

  'Watt's here too. He needs an alibi.'

  'For what you've done to his wife and child?'

  'He's in a bad way. Won't talk. Wandering around outside. I need you to look after him while I'm in prison.'

  'You won't get that far,' Caesar told him and hung up.

  Maybe the police would arrive before Caesar.

  Mafia went outside to see how Watt was coping, but he'd gone.

  'I always knew you were innocent,' Glass said, trying to absorb what Mafia had told him. 'Did it play out like you planned?'

  'Pretty much. The police arrived. Accepted my confession. I was at the scene, had blood on me, even had the murder weapon. No reason for them to doubt me.'

  There was a silence in the room that lasted too long.

  'What happened to Watt?' Glass asked, eventually.

  'Caesar found him a few streets away, sitting on a wall.' Mafia cleared his throat. 'Took him under his wing. Became his new family. That's how they got so close.'

  'I can see why Caesar would hate you. But how come you hated him?'

  'I dunno. He was the only person I could turn to. Even though I knew Caesar's idea of looking after Watt was to involve him in drug dealing and porn. I hated him for forcing me to make that choice.'

  'But you used to work with Caesar. Weren't you involved in those things too?'

  'Now and then,' Mafia said. 'But I always wanted better for Watt. Caesar didn't. Caesar got him hooked on cheap thrills. Destroyed his ambitions. Turned him into the kind of crazed junkie who'd endanger his family by waving a loaded gun around. And once the damage was done, Caesar tried to turn him against me.'

  'Can you blame him? Caesar thought you'd murdered Watt's family.'

  Mafia paused. 'I don't think he did,' he said.

  'Watt told him the truth?'

  'I imagine Caesar worked it out for himself. I'm not the kind of guy who'd force myself on a woman. Caesar knew that. And I might be as blind as a bat but I wouldn't shoot someone. Not by accident, anyway. Caesar knew that, too. But he liked to pretend he didn't. Fitted with the way he wanted me to be.'<
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  'But why didn't Watt say anything? He knew what you sacrificed for him.'

  'Well, that's just it.' Mafia paused. 'I'm not sure about that. I don't think Watt remembers anything about that night. He needed help. Psychiatric help. Maybe the kind he'd have got if he went to prison, I don't know. Maybe he should have done. Maybe I was wrong. On the outside, he couldn't get any help without admitting what he'd done. And without help, he couldn't handle what had happened.'

  'Not many people could.'

  'So he believed the story I told him. Blanked out the real events. Made up an alternative version from the lines I fed him. The story Caesar repeated and reinforced. The story the courts believed. It all made my version of events real. We've hardly spoken since that night. I never knew what was going on in his head. I suspected. But I never knew for sure until tonight.'

  Glass took a moment to make sure he'd understood. 'He genuinely believes you killed his wife and kid?'

  'Yeah, I think he does.'

  'That's too fucked up.' Glass blinked back tears.

  'It's fucked up that I should be here, tied to a chair, while he's …'

  'You did your best.'

  'I can't help thinking that all of this could have been avoided.'

  'Yeah, maybe. If we'd all been born different people.'

  'I can't protect him any more. I can't.'

  'You're right.'

  'He needs to stand on his own two feet. Face the consequences of his actions.'

  'Yes.'

  'It's time for me to let go.'

  'Please.'

  'There's only one way I can do that.'

  Glass wondered what he meant. But soon Glass heard choking, spluttering, wheezing. And he knew exactly what Mafia meant.

  He called Mafia's name. Loudly at first. Then more quietly. Over and over. Until the choking stopped and he was left whispering his friend's name.

  The silence that followed clamped Glass's head in its cold hands. Pressed its chilled lips to his brow. Breathed icy air onto his cheek. 'Don't let me die for nothing,' it said in Mafia's voice. 'There's still hope.'

  There was hope. In fact, Mafia's story had given Glass the hope he needed. If Watt believed Mafia had killed his family, then Watt wouldn't think of himself as a killer. So maybe when faced with the reality of the situation, he'd find he couldn't do it.

  Threatening to pull the trigger was easy. Doing it was a lot harder.

  Glass had to believe that. If he didn't, he didn't think he could live with the agony in his head. Mafia was dead, so it wasn't him who said, 'Lorna's at her mother's.' He didn't believe it. The pain in Glass's head wasn't just from the pressure from the rope round his neck. 'She's not at home.' Yes, she is. It was something else. Felt as if his brain was made of glass and it was all broken up in there now. 'She's not alone in the house with my babygirl.' Stop lying. Like he needed something to fix it. He wanted to knit the pieces together again. Stop the silence from reaching inside him, invading the gaps in his mind. It was him, Glass, speaking aloud. 'The police will be there. A policewoman.' No, she'll be alone. Just her and Caitlin. His chest moved up and down too quickly. 'Watt won't hurt them.' Yes, he will. And there was a crashing in his ears.

  He could only just make out Riddell saying, 'Good try. Getting closer all the time. It won't hurt for much longer.'

  *

  Glass's stomach jolted when he heard the front door close. Footsteps stamped down the corridor and in a cocaine heartbeat, the door opened and a torchlight snapped on.

  Glass narrowed his eyes to slits, peered through them, trying to tell by sight alone what had happened. Glass imagined he'd be able to read the truth in the fucker's eyes. But when Watt looked at him, Glass couldn't hold his gaze long enough to find out. He realised that he didn't want to know. He didn't want to know if Lorna'd come back home. It was okay, not knowing. As long as he didn't know, he'd be fine.

  Watt was sucking at his lip, like it was bleeding. He spat it out with a pop. He moved nearer. Pointed the torch at his face. 'Look at me.'

  Glass had been wrong. He couldn't tell a thing from Watt's expression. The way the beam hit his face, he could be dazed or angry, happy or terrified. His eyes revealed nothing, not even Glass's tiny reflection.

  'I called the police,' Watt said, his voice flat. He touched Glass's cheek, then pulled his hand away again. 'It wasn't me.'

  'What wasn't?' Glass stared at him. 'What wasn't you?'

  'I thought the place was empty.'

  Glass said, quickly, 'Yes, Lorna was at her mother's.'

  'No,' Watt said. 'She was at home. I found her.'

  Oh, Christ. 'What did you do to her?'

  'Nothing.'

  'Let me go. Let me out of here.'

  'It wasn't me.'

  'Stop saying that.'

  'Someone else …'

  'No. Don't.'

  'Someone else got there first.'

  'What the fuck are you saying?'

  'Don't blame yourself.'

  Glass shouted, 'They're alive.' His voice quietened, a tremble in it when he said, 'You didn't touch them. They're alive. In bed. Asleep.'

  He closed his eyes and heard Watt say, 'Sound asleep.'

  'Both of them?'

  'Both of them.'

  Watt was lying.

  Glass shivered. He breathed in hard. 'Kill me if you want,' he said. 'But just tell me the truth. What did you just do?'

  'I swear I'm not lying to you. I didn't lay a finger on them.' He nodded. 'But they're dead.' He paused. 'They're both dead.'

  'No,' Glass yelled, flinging himself forward, the rope tightening round his neck. 'No,' he screamed again, but his voice had gone and it came out as a croak. He pushed harder, trying to get at Watt, his temples buzzing, not caring he was strangling himself.

  Watt took a step back.

  Glass jerked against the rope, hard, squeezed out another pitiful yell. The rope wrapped tight around his windpipe. His face filled with blood, felt like his eyes were going to pop. He sucked in, but there was nothing.

  Watt darted behind him, scrabbled about underneath the chair.

  Glass knew what he was doing and wondered why. He hoped the fucker failed, even if it meant Glass died in the process.

  Fuck him.

  Glass was ready for this.

  His ears roared.

  And then he felt the knot round his neck give a little. A trickle of air slid down his throat.

  A breath. Then another.

  Then he heard Watt shift behind him, and before long the rope slackened till there was scarcely any pressure.

  Glass gulped in air.

  Watt walked round in front of him, knife in hand. He lifted the noose over Glass's head, threw the rope away.

  Glass took another deep breath. 'You should have let me go.'

  'I am.' Watt hacked at the ropes tying Glass's left arm to the chair.

  'What are you doing?'

  'What does it look like?'

  Saving him from strangling himself so Watt could have some more fun was one thing. But this? Glass couldn't think through it. Couldn't find an answer. The last piece of rope split and his arm broke free. He clenched and unclenched his fist, pumping the blood back into his hand.

  'Here,' Watt said, and offered Glass the gun.

  Like before. At home. In the bedroom. So that was his game. More of the psychological torture. As if telling him Lorna and Caitlin were dead wasn't enough.

  'You think I'll fall for that again?' Glass said.

  'Fall for what?'

  'You want to laugh at me, you want to make fun of me, go ahead. But I'm not playing.'

  'You think it's empty?' Watt drew the gun, moved to the side, aimed in Mafia's direction and fired a bullet at him.

  Did he know Mafia was already dead? Or was he really that callous?

  'No trick,' Watt said, once again offering Glass the gun. 'Go on,' he said. 'You need to take it. You have to trust me. Believe what I'm telling you.'

  Slowly, Gl
ass reached out, expecting Watt to pull the gun away. But he didn't. He let go and Glass took hold of the gun.

  'I didn't kill them,' Watt said. 'Shoot me if I'm lying.'

  Could be that that was the last bullet Watt had just fired. But it could also be that he was completely crazy.

  Glass pointed the gun at Watt. 'You sure you don't want to torture me a bit longer?'

  'I don't need to.'

  *

  Glass freed his other arm, then made clumsy work of untying his legs. He got to his feet, stamped some life into them.

  He swallowed half a dozen painkillers.

  Watt lay still, slumped on the floor. Glass had struck him a fierce blow with the butt of the gun, but he could wake up at any moment.

  Glass tucked the gun in the back of his waistband, bent over Watt, dug in his pockets, found his car keys and a cassette tape.

  Only two things on Glass's mind. Get out of here. Get home.

  *

  He found Watt's car no trouble at all. He was shaking too badly to drive, but there was no choice. He climbed inside, shivered in the seat.

  The engine started. The radio came on. Late night jazz. A lonely piano played a series of aching chords over a tired bass, while a drumbeat fluttered and spat.

  He drove off. Slowly. Thinking of Mafia. Felt like he was abandoning him. Knew there was no logic to the thought. Mafia was gone. Strangled and shot. All Glass was abandoning was a body.

  The piano punched out a sequence of crazy chords, the bass plucking a rapid melody that stood alone, fighting the piano. Underneath, the drums brushed and tapped, tapped and brushed. Then all three instruments broke off to play a fast sequence of syncopated notes, ending with a crash in the lower registers backed by a cymbal roll and a rapid heartbeat stamped out on the bass drum.

  Glass heard everything and it was too much. He switched off the radio.

  The headlights bore holes in the darkness. Tall buildings rose in front of him, came closer. He veered away and turned onto the main road.

  In the distance, taillights retreated. He followed them, heading for home.

  The silence was worse than the radio.

  He turned it back on. The music was dissonant and grating, pulled at his insides, unravelling him, whisking his brain.