A Song for the Dying

by Stuart MacBride

  Bastards like Paul Manson were all the same.

  I pulled the envelope from my pocket and took out the last syringe. Popped the cap off. Gave the plunger a wee squeeze to get rid of any air bubbles, then reached in and pinned his head to the plastic sheet with my left hand.

  ‘Nnnn! Nnnnnn! Nnnngghnnmmmnnt!’

  ‘Oh, shut up. If you don’t look dead she’s not going to buy it.’

  The needle slipped into his neck. I pressed the plunger. He screamed behind the gag. Twitched… And went limp.

  Lay there like a big, ugly parcel wrapped up in duct tape with a washing-line bow.

  No way I’d be able to get him out of the boot all trussed up like that.

  I cut through the plastic line, untied the ends from his throat and ankles.

  Much better.

  Behind me: a rattle of metal on metal.

  Over at the front gate, a man in a suit worked the chain out of the gap between the two sides, then let it fall to the ground. A big black BMW 4×4 rumbled behind him. Rain turned its headlights into two shimmering knives, reflected in the wet tarmac.

  It was time.

  38

  The guy in the suit waited until the 4×4 drove into the warehouse car park, then shut and chained the gate behind it.

  The car’s headlights swept across the chandler’s walls.

  It pulled up in front of me.

  Joseph got out of the driver’s seat. That left eye of his looked even worse than it had this morning – puffed up like a purple grapefruit. Blue and yellow bruises spread across his chin, and his bottom lip was swollen and cracked. He reached back into the car and when he straightened up again, there was a pickaxe handle in his hand. Not risking another kicking. His voice still had the gravelly edge only sixty-a-day or a kick in the throat gets you. ‘Mr Henderson, I trust we’re not going to have to revisit this morning’s … unpleasantness?’

  ‘Depends, doesn’t it?’

  The guy who’d got the gate marched over, through the rain. He was just a silhouette against the lights from the cash-and-carry next door until he reached the car: Francis. A strip of pale pink sticking plaster stretched across the bridge of his flattened nose, both eyes racoon black. A swathe of bandages covered the top of his head; that tin of beans must’ve cost him a lot of stitches.

  Good.

  Water dripped from the end of his ginger ponytail, turned the grey of his suit to funeral black. He nodded in my direction. ‘’Spector.’ The word was wet, misshapen around the edge.

  ‘Francis.’

  He produced a black umbrella from the BMW’s passenger side. Popped it, then opened the car’s back door. Held the brolly up as Mrs Kerrigan stepped down into the warehouse car park.

  She stood there, beneath the brolly, smiling at me. ‘Mr Henderson, yez are here. Good for you.’ She pointed at the stolen Jaguar. ‘Do ye have a present for me?’

  I didn’t move. ‘Where’s Shifty?’

  ‘Oh, yez are so masterful!’ She tilted her head at Francis. ‘Go get Mr Henderson’s little friend.’

  A grunt, then Francis handed her the umbrella and disappeared around the back of the 4×4. Something clunked. There was some rustling. And when Francis returned he was bent over, dragging a body by the armpits. It was partially wrapped in clear plastic sheeting, streaks of burgundy and scarlet clearly visible against the surface. Naked.

  Francis stopped, right in front of the 4×4’s bonnet, where the headlights glowed through the plastic. It was definitely Shifty. His face and body were covered in bruises and scabs, pale skin stained with his own blood. A patch of gauze was taped over the place where his right eye used to be.

  ‘He alive?’

  Francis dumped the body, then squatted down and felt at Shifty’s throat. Stayed there for a bit. Then stood and nodded. ‘Still ticking over.’ At least three teeth were missing from the grin that followed. ‘Just.’

  ‘There ye go, Mr Henderson, one hostage. Your turn.’

  Fair enough.

  The Jag’s boot popped up. I leaned my cane against the bumper, reached in and grabbed Manson’s limp body by the lapels. Hauled him up, twisted him sideways till his torso was hanging over the lip. Took a handful of collar and belt, and tipped him out of the boot and onto the tarmac. Left him lying face down in the rain.

  ‘One mob accountant.’

  She rose up on her toes, peered at Manson. ‘He dead?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Maybe he’s faking it.’

  ‘He’s a great actor if he is.’ I took hold of the duct tape holding his wrists together and stood, pulling both arms with it, raising his chest off the ground. Wrapped my other hand around his index finger and bent it back, hard. When I let go it pointed at ninety-degrees to the natural. So I did the same with the next finger. And the one after that. Finished off with his pinky. He didn’t so much as twitch, but it was going to hurt like hell when woke up in four hours. ‘Want me to do the other hand?’

  Mrs Kerrigan picked her way between the puddles, rain sparking off the umbrella. ‘Paul Manson…’ She stopped, six foot away. Licked her cherry-red lips. ‘Turn him over. I want to see his face.’

  I pulled him onto his side, then let him roll the rest of the way. He flopped back to the wet ground. Rain spattered against his face and the gag.

  ‘Well, well, well, Paul Manson.’ A laugh broke free. ‘That’s what ye get for being a boring arrogant wee caffler. Not so feckin’ gobby now, are yez?’

  I thumped my toe against his leg. ‘Got a shallow grave all ready and waiting for him.’

  ‘Ye know, it’s a shame. I thought ye’d bottle it, turn up with the fecker still kicking so I could do the honours.’ She reached into her coat and came out with a small black semiautomatic. ‘But it’s the thought that counts. Right?’

  Shite… I reached for the small of my back—

  The gun kicked in her hand, a blare of white light seared across my eyes, and Paul Manson’s head jerked up off the tarmac. Then thudded down again.

  The gun’s roar echoed off the metal warehouse.

  A dark hole sat in the middle of his forehead, the ground beneath him was spattered with glistening lumps and flecks of white. One eye open, the pupil pointing off to the left.

  Sodding hell.

  She lowered the gun. ‘Now, will ye look at that? Must’ve been nice and fresh to still be all wet inside.’

  A knot formed beneath my ribs, then spread up into my throat. Cutting off the air for a couple of deafening heartbeats. Then faded.

  So much for getting him to testify against Andy Inglis. Still, if you run with wolves you’re going to get bitten sooner or later. Really, it served the bastard right.

  Still…

  I leaned against the car, fingers wrapped around the pistol’s handgrip.

  Mrs Kerrigan took a step to the side, avoiding the puddle spreading out from what was left of Manson’s head. ‘What’s up, Mr Henderson? Yez are looking all shocked.’

  ‘Nothing. Why should I give a toss about some mob accountant scumbag?’

  She laughed, a proper full-on belly laugh, rocking backwards and forwards beneath her funeral-black umbrella. ‘Ahh…’ A sigh. A smile. Then she wiped her eyes on the back of her sleeve, gun still in hand. ‘Don’t be thick – do ye really think I’d let yez anywhere near Mr Inglis’s accountant? Feck that. You’d try to get him to squeal.’ She waved the semiautomatic at Manson. ‘Had to sit next to this gobshite at some charity boxing dinner last night. Banging on about how lovely his wife is, and how great his kid is, and how much they love each other. And would I like to see photos of their feckin’ holiday in Spain?’

  Not Andy Inglis’s accountant?

  Oh shite.

  Just an innocent bystander.

  Oh buggering shite.

  The knot was back, and it’d brought friends, curdling my lungs.

  The gun kicked in her hand again, punching a hole in M
anson’s chest, leaving another scar on my retina. Then another. And one more, the body twitching with every bullet. ‘Does it look like I want to see yer manky holiday snaps?’

  ‘You said he was a bloody mob accountant!’

  She brought the semiautomatic up to point at my chest. Pouted. ‘Did ye really think I’d stop feckin’ with ye just because ye got out of prison?’

  ‘You…’

  ‘Don’t blame me: ye’re the one who grabbed him. Ye killed him. Ye brought him here. Ye left his poor wife a widow and his precious wee boy without an old man.’ She stepped back a couple of paces. ‘And now ye can clean him up. Dig the bullets out though, eh? Don’t want anything left lying about now, do we?’

  Used me. Played me for a moron.

  And I did it.

  Didn’t matter who pulled the trigger, she was right: I gagged and tied him, injected him with a cocktail of surgery-grade anaesthetics, and dragged him out to a disused chandler’s warehouse to be shot in the head. All on me.

  Mrs Kerrigan gave one last laugh, then turned and started towards the car.

  I dragged the gun out from my back. ‘You think that’s funny?’

  She didn’t stop. ‘Oh grow up, Mr Henderson. It’s feckin’ hilarious.’

  My semiautomatic barked, digging a chunk out of the tarmac at her feet.

  She froze. ‘Seriously?’

  ‘He bored you at dinner, and that’s it?’

  ‘Mr Henderson,’ she shook her head, gun arm hanging slack at her side, ‘do ye really think I’m after being that thick? That I’m just messing here, with no insurance like a Muppet?’ She glanced over her shoulder. ‘Joseph?’

  Silence.

  ‘Joseph, I’m all for yer dramatic moment, but it’s time for show-and-tell. Give Mr Henderson one of his little girlfriend’s ears. No need to gift wrap it.’

  I pointed the gun at the back of her head. ‘He touches her: the next bullet takes your face with it.’

  She sighed. Turned. Frowned. ‘Joseph?’

  Somewhere in the distance a motorbike revved its engine, then faded away into the night, leaving nothing but the hiss of the rain behind.

  ‘Where the feckin’ hell…’ She shook her head. Closed her eyes and pressed the flat of the barrel against the skin between her eyebrows. ‘But would I listen? No: give the bastard another chance, I said. Let him prove himself. Too bloody soft, that’s my problem.’ She lowered the gun and raised her voice. ‘Francis! Get the bitch out the car and cut her feckin’ ear off.’

  Lying flat on his back, half-wrapped in clear plastic sheeting, Shifty groaned.

  Rain thrummed against Mrs Kerrigan’s umbrella.

  ‘Francis?’ A sigh. ‘For feck’s sake, turn yer back for two seconds… Fine.’ The gun came up again, pointing right in the middle of my chest. ‘Can’t get the feckin’ staff.’

  A dark shape emerged from behind the 4×4. Cleared its throat.

  Mrs Kerrigan nodded. ‘About time. Now get yer arse in gear, before I change my mind about your career prospects.’

  The figure stepped forwards, into the headlights. Tall and thin, blue jumper on over a white shirt turned see-through by the rain, hair plastered to his head. Wee Free McFee.

  ‘Francis, I’m not going to tell ye again.’

  Wee Free raised his right hand. What looked like a lump hammer glistened in his fist. ‘He’s busy.’

  Mrs Kerrigan spun around. Wee Free’s arm crashed down, battering the hammer off the side of her head. Blood glittered in the air, caught in the 4×4’s headlights like burning fireflies. She kept turning, spinning as she crumpled to the tarmac, hitting it like a bag of wet laundry.

  She lay there, groaning, right arm twitching, the gun still clasped in her hand.

  Clunk – the lump hammer hit the ground.

  Not so big now, was she?

  I stepped forwards. ‘OK, that’s—’

  ‘“Thus saith the LORD: Execute ye judgment and righteousness, and deliver the spoiled out of the hand of the oppressor.”’ He stepped on her gun-hand, grinding the heel of his shoe from side to side, until the semiautomatic clattered out onto the tarmac, then bent and picked it up. Turned it over in his hands. Ran his fingers along the barrel. Sighed. ‘You know, I never really saw the appeal. It’s impersonal. Weak. Give a three-year-old a gun and they can kill someone. How can that be right?’

  She coughed, retched, then struggled over onto her side. Blood dripped from the tip of her nose. ‘Gnnnghh…’

  I limped closer, gun up. ‘OK, nobody move.’

  Wee Free grabbed a handful of Mrs Kerrigan’s hair and dragged her to her knees. Forced her head back, so she was looking up at him. ‘Listen carefully, sweetheart, because this is your only telling.’

  She spat at him, a frothy gobbet of phlegm tainted with red. ‘I… I will … feckin’ end ye!’

  ‘Ash Henderson is looking for my daughter. While he’s doing that, he’s under my protection.’

  ‘I’ll kill ye and everyone yez’ve ever loved!’ Getting louder with every word.

  I circled her with the gun. ‘You and me have unfinished business.’

  ‘I’LL TRACK THEM DOWN AND I’LL—’

  Wee Free smashed a fist into her face.

  Her head snapped back, rolled from side to side. Then she shook it, and glared up at him, blood dribbling down her chin. ‘You better feckin’ kill me right now, cos if you don’t…’

  He smiled. ‘I know how it works. You see, you and me, we’re the same. We just fight on different sides.’ A wink. ‘What do you think, Mr Henderson?’

  ‘She has to die. Right here. Right now. And I’m going to do it.’

  Wee Free glanced over to where Shifty lay, flat on his back in the rain. ‘What happened to the fat naked guy?’

  ‘She did. Tortured him, gouged out his eye.’

  ‘And you want to kill her for it?’

  I threw my arms out. ‘Do you think? She’s a vicious, nasty, murdering piece of filth. Leave her alive and she’s not kidding: she’ll come after both of us. She needs to die.’

  Wee Free sighed. ‘That’s not very Christian of you, Mr Henderson. Leviticus 24:19, “And if a man cause a blemish in his neighbour; as he hath done, so shall it be done to him – breach for breach, eye for eye, tooth for tooth. As he hath caused a blemish in a man, so shall it be done to him again.”’

  Mrs Kerrigan’s face was candlewax-pale. ‘Matthew 5:38, “Ye have heard that it hath been said, an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth, but I say unto yez, that ye resist not evil, but whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also.”’

  I jabbed the barrel of the gun against her forehead. ‘Bible study’s over. It’s—’

  Wee Free’s fist hit me like a car crash. Yellow and black blobs burst across the inside of my eyes, followed by a deafening hiss and thump as I hit the wet tarmac. Dear Jesus…

  ‘We’re talking, Mr Henderson. Don’t interrupt.’

  Pressure on my right wrist. My fingers were peeled back, one-by-one, from the handle of the gun. Then the pressure was gone and I was left with the grinding feel of rusty metal working itself loose beneath the skin of my cheek. He didn’t need a lump hammer – his fist was hard enough on its own.

  I blinked away the spinning dots, lying on my side in the rain.

  Wee Free slipped my gun into his pocket. Then grabbed Mrs Kerrigan’s hair again. ‘I’m disappointed: quoting scripture for forgiveness? That’s beneath you.’ He gave her head a little shake. ‘See, I’ve been doing my research, I know what you’ve done. And it’s time to atone for your sins.’

  She bared her teeth. ‘I’ll see you in Hell.’

  ‘Probably.’ He glanced at Shifty. ‘But you’ll have to squint.’ Her gun barked in his hand. ‘Let us pray.’

  39

  There was a moment’s silence, then the screaming started. Mrs Kerrigan’s eyes bugged, mouth twisted around bared tee
th, sitting on the wet tarmac rocking back and forth, both hands wrapped around her right ankle. Blood dripped from the hole in her shoe.

  ‘AAAAGGGHHH!’

  ‘Told you I’d done my research.’ Wee Free tossed the gun away into the darkness. ‘“Burning for burning, wound for wound, stripe for stripe.” You had someone shoot Mr Henderson in the foot, and now you’re reaping what you’ve sown.’

  ‘CHRIST AND FECKING… AAGGHH!’

  Rain pounded against the tarmac, sparking in the 4×4’s headlights, battering me down with it.

  He bent and picked up the lump hammer again. Twitched it towards me, then the stolen Jaguar. ‘I think it’d be best if you got back to work, don’t you?’

  ‘JESUS! AAAGGHH BASTARD!’

  I grabbed my walking stick and levered myself to my feet. Stared down at the wailing figure curled up at his feet. ‘We have to kill her.’

  ‘Eye for an eye.’ Wee Free nudged Mrs Kerrigan with his boot. ‘That’s next.’

  ‘She’ll come after you, and she’ll come after me. She’ll go for our families…’ Oh God – Alice.

  I turned, hobbling as fast as I could, straight through puddles, past the Jag. Making for the passageway between the warehouse and the shipping containers.

  If she’d done what she was meant to – ran for it – we were all screwed. Soon as she crossed the hundred-yard mark, the alarm would go up and Jacobson’s firearms team would hot-foot it over here. Where all the blood and bodies were.

  Shite.

  I yanked out my phone and powered up Sabir’s app. The thing took a moment to load, then pinged, slow and steady, the screen amber. Wherever she’d got to, it was no more than sixty-six yards away.

  I stopped. Cupped my hands into a loudhailer. ‘ALICE!’ Took another couple of steps towards the containers. Towards the hole we’d made in the fence. ‘ALICE!’

  The screen went from orange to yellow, the pinging slowed.

  Further, into the darkness. ‘ALICE!’

  Green.

  A shape lay in the gap between two of the containers.

  Joseph.

  He was on his back, one arm up above his head, legs bent. The pickaxe handle lay beside him, the thick end smeared with thumb-sized blots of red, just visible in the gloom.