Robertson was back on his feet. He took two steps away from the man with the gun.
“You killed my brother.”
“He killed himself, the cunt.”
“Put the fucking gun down!” I yelled, stepping forward. Holding out my own weapon to show I meant business. I still couldn’t pull back on the trigger, hoped maybe I could fool Ayer into thinking otherwise. But he didn’t even look at me.
Liman was on his knees, his left hand pressed hard against his bloodied face. The fallen torch shone directly on him. Blood, thinned out by the rain, caked his skin. He said, in a muffled voice, “Mathew, cunt’s fucking serious and all.”
Ayer turned his attention back to me. Swinging his gun away from Robertson.
The farmer took the opportunity; turned and bolted. At least, he staggered quickly.
Ayer made to turn.
I said, “Don’t fucking think about it.”
Robertson became lost in the shadows.
Ayer and I stood with our weapons trained on each other; two cowboys in an old spaghetti western.
Liman finally managed to climb to his feet. He leant on an old gravestone for support, keeping one hand tight against his wound to stem the flow of blood. Robertson had cut him deep. The slash ran from just below his ear to maybe a quarter of an inch from his lips.
“Y’alright?” Ayer asked his friend. Eyes flicking past me, even if only for a moment. A second of concern, perhaps. Something approaching human in this monstrous bastard.
“Yeah,” said Liman. “What a fuckin’ waste of money.” Looking around at the scattered cash; now soaked and ripped by the rainfall. He shook his head, and stepped forward.
I should have shot him right then. Showed these bastards I meant business.
But he was right. All of this was a fucking waste. Robertson had brought the cash. Christ, if he’d wanted them dead, why not swap the cash for a ringer? Why bring it here?
But I knew there were many things about my client I had failed to understand. If I stopped to consider them now, I would be a dead man.
Ayer looked at me. “Looks like your friend’s fuckin’ bailed on you.”
I nodded. “Aye, sure. But he’s not my friend. Just a client. I didn’t know he was planning to cheat you. The only reason I came here was to protect his interests.”
“Likely fuckin’ story, eh?” said Ayer. His lips twisted. He showed teeth. Maybe he couldn’t see the fear in my face yet, but he was willing to wait it out. “Shoulda fuckin’ known he’d be a sneaky cunt like his brother.”
Liman was holding the shotgun now. How did I miss that? He said, “This cunt’s mine.”
Ayer nodded, stepping backwards graciously. The two of them behaving like gentlemen.
Liman took another step forward. “Shotguns are pretty fucking useless. Clip a grouse from a distance, sure. But a man… you gotta be fucking close. And, then… even money whether he dies or just gets fucked up.” He took a breath, let it out and squeezed the trigger.
Nothing happened.
The other problem with the shotgun: two triggers, two barrels, two shots. Liman had wasted his earlier during the struggle with Robertson.
I kept my own gun trained on Ayer. Watched Liman out of the corner of my eye. “Try anything and I’ll shoot your fucking friend here.” Brave talk, but I knew I was fucked. All I could do was wait and hope that someone down on Dunkeld Place had heard the shots and been savvy enough to call the police. Because I didn’t know how much longer any of us could wait this out.
Ayer was the one who broke the standoff. He’d seen me for what I was, knew I didn’t have the balls to pull the trigger.
He didn’t want to talk. Or negotiate. Didn’t really care whether I fired my weapon or not.
He smiled and let his arms drop to his sides. His own gun pointed harmlessly towards the sodden ground of the graveyard. I saw a gleam in his eyes. Pleasure. The sick bastard getting off on the idea that he was about to kill a man.
His eyes locked mine in a silent challenge.
There was one certainty: If I didn’t shoot him, he’d kill me.
I’d thought if I could hold myself together for long enough, everything would work out. Now, I knew that was so much watered-down shite.
“I see you,” he said, grinning like a wolf. This was a game to him.
I had no choice. I pulled back on the trigger.
Got nothing but resistance.
The safety still on.
Fuck.
Ayer laughed, raised his own weapon again. He’d had his fun. Had he known all along that even if I wanted to I couldn’t have shot him?
I lashed out with my left fist, caught Ayer across the jaw. He stumbled back, more from surprise than pain; the punch had no real power behind it. A reflex. Fear and desperation guiding me now.
I fumbled with the gun. Trying to flick the safety to “off”. The rain and the numbness of my fingers made it hard to feel details. I panicked, feeling the gun start to slip from my grip.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Liman moving. The shotgun was useless as a firearm, but he could still swing it like a baseball bat, aiming for my head.
I ducked, falling on my arse in the mud. I crawled backwards, finding it hard with no grip on the ground. I was on my back, watching him as he raised the shotgun high, holding it by the barrel and using the stock like an axe-head. He meant to cave my skull in.
I was still struggling to flick the switch. Finally, it clicked and I aimed the gun high. Forced my finger into the trigger guard.
All it took was the smallest movement. The gun jerked in my hand. The explosion sent reverberations up my arm, the pain culminating at my shoulder. Powder burned my face.
The bullet caught Liman in the chest. He stopped, stood still for a moment, and then jerked once before falling backwards, collapsing onto the wet ground: an abandoned doll. Except no child would want a toy that looked like that.
Maybe my earlier attack had thrown Ayer off stride, but it hadn’t put him down. He’d recovered fast and now his own gun was up and aimed at my head.
No need for words. I’d shot his mate.
No more games.
I moved fast, scrambling to my feet, ducking left, pushing past Ayer and making for the cover that lay deep in the heart of the Necropolis.
I felt the air catch fire somewhere beside my right ear. Didn’t think about it, how close the bullet was. I just ran. Making for the nearby tangle of bushes. I dived through them. Scrambled for a tomb just beyond. Found it locked with no way inside. Pausing for a moment, I realised that there was only one entrance. Hiding inside would have been suicide. I still had my wits about me, at least.
I took a breather, leaned back against the stone walls of the tomb. A few seconds to orientate myself once again. Taking the weight off my legs, I realised that I had been running normally, the limp and the pain gone. Adrenaline?
My eyes were only just beginning to adjust to the light now that I was out of the sorry cover of trees. Above, the moon shone bright and full.
I listened to the sounds of the night, tried to quiet my heartbeat which threatened to echo into the shadows and reveal my hiding place.
I couldn’t hear anything. But I knew I couldn’t stay still for long. Ayer would figure out where I was, if he hadn’t already. He moved softly for such a big man. Could easily have been one of the dead, himself.
I was on the south side of the Necropolis. Ideally, I should have made a beeline to the north, followed the direction Robertson had taken. Going south would take me out of the Necropolis, towards the new Balgay Cemetery. Lots of wide open spaces between gravestones that were no taller than knee height. Ayer would gun me down.
That way, I was a dead man.
I took a deep breath. The cold air burned my lungs. I turned towards the thick bushes and large, crumbling gravestones to the north. If I stayed in cover, I stood a chance.
And I realised, with a perverse joy, that I wanted to make it out alive.
>
I had come here intent on an odd kind of suicide, hardly caring if I lived or died and fully expecting that I would be killed by these Cockney psychopaths.
It was an odd revelation to have in a graveyard in the dead of night. Odd enough that I laughed out loud.
That was when Ayer came round the north side of the tomb. The light from his torch like a fist in the face.
Purple spots obscured my vision.
I backed away, holding up the gun, tripped over a root.
There was an explosion. Whether it was from my gun or Ayer’s, I didn’t know.
I slammed into the ground.
The mud oozed between my fingers. Stones ripped through the leather of my gloves and into the skin of my hands.
I gripped my gun tight, fought to keep a hold of it.
Something gave way in the back of my leg. In my head, I heard what I thought was the sound of a muscle tearing. The leg flopped, uselessly. A white-hot burning sensation screamed across my thigh.
I was on the curve, right where the ground started to gently move to an incline at the southern face of the hill. I rolled with it, let gravity take over. Skidded part of the way, hit the slopes that led into Balgay.
The headstones became regimented. Materials became uniform; marble, mostly. The headstones were laid out in rows, each one exact and precise. Order rather than the chaos that prevailed in the heart of the Necropolis.
I had to keep moving. Tried to stand. The white fire in the back of my leg burned fiercely, and I fell to my knees, grabbing at a headstone for support. No such luck. I slipped into the mud. Wishing it would pull me under, let me rest at last.
I rolled onto my back, rested my head against the tombstone. Beaten.
Fucked.
He ran down to me. I could have shot him, but I couldn’t find the strength to lift my gun.
Ayer smashed the heel of his boot against the back of my hand.
I screamed, but the noise was muted by the sound of the rain.
He did it again. All his weight smashing down. Bones cracked. I let go of my gun.
He kicked it away, out of reach. I saw it slip across the muddy ground.
Ayer stomped on my hand once more. The pain was less now, as though the repetition had somehow numbed me.
His foot didn’t come down a fourth time. The hand was broken, I knew. Useless.
I thought: this is it.
Prepared. Accepting. Ready.
Ayer shook his head to get the rain out of his eyes.
And I remembered, just, that moment of revelation earlier. When I realised that I wanted to live.
I kicked out with my right foot. Caught his knee. He yelled and instinctively pulled on the trigger.
I closed my eyes.
Another explosion.
Something sharp cut into my face just below the left eye.
In the aftermath of the gunshot, the world went quiet, every sound muted.
The left side of my face stung. Rain sluiced into the open wound. My eye refused to open properly.
I kicked again. Thought I caught him in the head. Reached up, pushed myself forward using the headstone as leverage. Opened my eyes. Saw him on his knees. His gun was on the ground beside him. His hands grasped at his right foot.
And I realised what had happened. Any other situation, it might have been worth a laugh, a man like Ayer shooting himself in the foot.
I threw myself at the bastard.
Feeling the numbness in my left leg. At least it was moving again.
When I slammed into him, he fought back. Made to get up and roared with pain as he put weight on his shattered foot. I fell with him, landed on top. Gripped his right hand with my left in case he tried to reach for the gun he’d dropped. I lifted my head, and looked him in the eye. He attempted what I suppose was a cocky grin, but only ended up looking desperate. His left hand reached up and clawed at my face. I pulled away. Fingers pawed at the open wound below my eye. I tilted my head, pulling back from the reach of his fingers, and then brought it forward again. Dropping fast; smashing the bridge of his nose with the hard bone of my forehead.
The impact was dull and the crack of bones breaking was the clearest noise I had heard since the gunshot. His body went limp. I rolled away, lay in the mud struggling to take a breath.
Ayer moaned.
I reached out with my left hand and grabbed his gun, took a deep breath, and then tried to climb to my feet. Off balance, with my stomach churning and my vision blurred, I managed to stand. It took a supreme effort.
The rain battered down on my head.
Sirens wailed on the other side of the hill.
But for the moment, it was just the two of us. Here in the rain. In the darkness.
And I thought, this time.
I could kill him.
It would be easy.
Chapter 39
I looked down the gun at Ayer and in that moment I knew he’d been wrong about me. I could pull back the trigger, feel the kick, watch him die. There was nothing easier.
I was aware, now, of the coppers in the graveyard. Some concerned citizen had made that call. But I had to wonder if it was too late.
My left hand, holding Ayer’s gun, started to tremble.
Ayer’s eyes regained focus. He looked at me and smiled: the message clear enough. Do it, then, if you’ve got the fucking bottle.
And he really was laughing, a lunatic corpse, blood and mud caking his skin, eyes reflecting the moon.
I slipped my finger round the trigger. Locked my eyes on his, saw him encouraging me to go ahead.
“Put the gun down.”
The wind brushed against the back of my neck. Cold but gentle.
I kept my eyes locked on Ayer’s. The challenge was still there.
I kicked him in the face. I heard a crack as my foot impacted his already broken nose. I kicked him again. In the kidneys. I kept kicking him, made sure it hurt, made sure he understood.
A voice said, “Steed, leave him alone!” The same voice that had asked me to put down the gun.
I didn’t listen.
“Leave him alone.”
I looked up; Susan stood maybe three metres away. She held out her hand, palms flat to show she meant no harm. “It’s over,” she said. “Leave him to us.”
I stepped back.
The other coppers were on me almost immediately, pinning my arms behind my back, trying to get me to calm down. Susan spoke to me, but her words were indistinct.
They cuffed me.
I raised my head to look at the headstone. Saw the damage where the stray bullet had shattered the marble. The sharp objects I’d felt tear open my face had been shrapnel.
The cops were talking, trying to make sure I understood I was being detained. I listened to them, allowed them to do their job. I was past giving a shite.
As they led me down to the vans, I turned my head and looked at the stone. I expected to feel sadness, maybe even anger. But instead I felt a kind of peace.
We passed one particular grave on the way and I said, hoarsely, “Stop.”
No one listened.
“Stop. Please.”
Susan heard me. She dismissed my escort, slipped her hand round my upper arm in case I tried to make a break for it. Copper’s instinct.
She looked at the grave and said, “Jesus, McNee,” and I wasn’t sure if her tone was piteous or exasperated.
She shone a torch on the stone:
ELAINE BARROW
BELOVED DAUGHTER,
DEAR SISTER, DEVOTED FIANCÉE
1978-2007
NOTRE NATURE EST
DANS LE MOUVEMENT;
LE REPOS ENTIER EST LA MORT.
I thought about the wind on my neck earlier.
Remembered how her lips used to feel against my skin.
My legs gave way beneath me.
Chapter 40
It was seven in the morning by the time they got me to the station and set up in interview one.
My l
eft eye was still half closed and beneath it the skin was swollen and bruised. But it was nothing serious. They’d cleaned out the wound, told me I’d just have to give it time. There was a good possibility I’d be marked for life. I’d joked with the attending doctors that a scar would give me character. Inside, however, I wasn’t even close to smiling.
They did what they could with my hand. Broken metacarpals, joints fucked in the fingers and possibly a fractured carpal. The doctor had laid it all out for me. Told me he couldn’t say for sure it would heal completely. For now it was a matter of wait and see.
Best case scenario was losing the use of my hand for several months. After that, if I was lucky, I might regain full movement. But for now it was bound up tight and God forbid I try and do anything with it until the doc instructed otherwise.
I asked him to look at my leg, told him I’d been having trouble with it recently. He carried out an examination without complaint, but said there was nothing wrong that he could see.
I thought about the psychiatrist.
The doctor told me what I needed was rest.
Not that I felt like doing much, anyway. With the painkillers they’d prescribed, I felt as though I could just float away. Although I was still dimly aware of a thumping discomfort that had no real localisation.
When they finally got me to the station, Lindsay brought a couple of coffees into interview one and somewhat grudgingly grabbed the seat across the table. Cordial, or as close as he could manage.
I took the plastic cup and nodded my thanks. He had his own personal mug decorated with a picture of a gull flying proud against a clear sky. The mug was scarred through use, the image beginning to fade.
I tasted the coffee. The liquid burned. When I swallowed, it hurt bad enough I wanted to scream.
Lindsay was straight down to business, not even bothering to ask how I felt. “These were the two men who killed Katrina Egg?”
“Aye.”
“Under orders from Gordon Egg?”
I nodded. “Try getting Ayer to admit that.”
Lindsay nodded. “When the doctors say he can talk, we’ll be having a nice wee conversation.” He looked me in the eyes, said, “You could have killed him.”
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