The man grips the gun more tightly.
‘Okay, stay calm,’ Drover says, and stands still again. He looks back across the table and realises that there is something wrong. Apart from being held at gunpoint, with his own gun, in a house in the middle of nowhere, there is a thing out of place. Something doesn’t look right. The old man must have picked up the look on Drover’s face, because he now looks quizzical too.
‘What is it?’ he asks. Drover is looking at the table and what’s on it. The cold sausages he took from the fridge and put there when they were scoffing their faces.
‘What is that?’ he says, forgetting that the gun is pointing at him for a second. He takes a step towards the plate and looks more closely. They are like something that spews out of sheep when the travellers hang them up and slit them open. ‘What the…?’
He looks up and sees the old man steady the gun again. Drover has managed to get a step closer, but the table is still between them.
‘Who sent you?’ William asks.
‘What?’
‘Who sent you? I wasn’t expecting anyone but family today.’
‘No-one sent us. What is this stuff?’
‘Who’s paying?’
‘Eh?’ Drover lifts his eyes from the bloody mess on the plate and stares down the barrel of the gun again.
‘Someone sent you. Who was it?’
‘No-one.’
‘Larry Gray’s lot? Was it? I told them no more. They still owe me.’
‘Larry Gray? Look mate, I don’t know no-one called Larry. Pete you finished?’
‘Nearly, Drover,’ he hears the meek voice answer from behind him.
‘How can you piss for so long when you’ve not drunk for days?’ He looks at the old man and smiles, but the lightness of the comment is not shared.
Drover has started to move again, around the table to his right. It looks like the old guy is confused now and his mind isn’t completely on Drover, so he is taking his chance while he can. The gun is still following him.
‘If not Larry, then who? The Buckland brothers?’ The man sounds interested now, rather than threatening.
‘What, from the camp? The Bucklands?’
‘They sent you, have they?’
‘No, mate. Look, I said, we was hungry and on our way to…’
‘Why are you here, then?’
Drover hears Pete zipping up his trousers at the sink and inches a little further around the table. His hands are now by his sides. Surprisingly, the old man is letting Drover move. He is staying where he is but turning to face Drover, so a gap is opening up between them. It’s still a distance, but now there is no table in the way.
‘We’ll just go.’
‘How much are they paying?’
‘No-one is paying anything, mate. And the Bucklands didn’t send me.’
‘No money, no service.’
‘What?’
This is getting me nowhere, Drover thinks.
‘Can we go, please, Drover?’ He hears Pete behind him and he sounds scared.
‘In a minute, Pete.’
‘Yeah, go,’ the old man says. ‘Just leave. Tell them. No money no service.’
‘We’re going, then,’ Drover says, but takes a step towards the gun. If only he could see if the safety is on or off. ‘I just need to get me…’ He points down to the ground, to the right of the old man as if he had left something there.
It works. William looks down.
And Drover leaps for the gun.
Pete screams out, his worst fears founded. He knew that Drover would do something stupid. He always does something stupid. Drover is always on the edge of doing something fast, violent, something off the handle, and here he is now doing it. He always tries to be the hero and that always gets him into trouble. And now his hero with the big warrior shield has really gone and done it. He watches in horror as:
The old man is looking down at the floor when he realises that Drover is heading towards him. His head comes back up slowly and his eyes move around to face the person now flying at him.
Pete sees his finger tighten around the trigger and sees him move to his right, to point the gun towards Drover.
Pete sees Drover move with a speed only a superhero could achieve and throw himself at the big man. Then, as he travels, he reaches out and the world slows right down and everything he sees is happening like an underwater ballet. As he throws himself to the left, Drover’s right hand grabs the end of the gun. He twists it and tries to wrench it from the man’s hand.
But instead it points directly towards Pete.
Who stands there, rooted to the spot, unable to move for fear that Drover is going to get hurt.
Pete sees the finger squeeze on the trigger, sees a flash from the barrel as a stream of pellets heads towards him, but he doesn’t close his eyes.
Because there is no flash and there are no pellets. Imagination. The safety catch must still be on. Drover falls to the ground, onto his side, behind the table, and he has the gun. The man has been unbalanced and is staggering against the door frame.
Pete hears Drover hit the floor and the sound of the gun clattering across the kitchen tiles. He sees it scoot out from behind the table and sees Drover scrambling for it. He claws at it and nearly reaches it but the big man crashes down on him.
He is going to hurt Drover.
Pete moves. He doesn’t know what he is going to do, but he is going to do something. He looks for a weapon but only sees flashbacks from films: break a chair over him, find a knife, throw something. He picks up the bag, frozen meat, heavy, and runs to where Drover is now being crushed.
Pete swings the bag and brings it down on the man’s head.
It hits him with a heavy thump, jarring Pete’s arm, but it makes no difference.
Drover’s fingers are stretching for the gun. The old man is lying flat over him and his hand is reaching out as well. Pete knows he should stamp on the hand but it’s too close to Drover’s. He might hurt him by mistake.
The gun.
He drops the bag and drops to his knees. As he reaches for the barrels his eyes come level with the man’s eyes and his imagination kicks in again.
It is not a man’s face he sees. The grey, tired skin is no longer there. What’s there is some kind of dark red, slimy covering that ripples back around his eyes showing what should be the whites as sickly yellow and with something thick dripping from them like oily tears. His nose has gone; it’s just two holes with nothing but blackness inside. And his lips are not there. His mouth is full of rows of steely, pointed teeth, dripping with gooey saliva. A rancid, thick breath snorts powerfully from the opening and sends Pete staggering back.
He blinks. The face is once again the old man’s, but now Pete feels like crying. One look into that imagined face and he feels low and sad. No, worse than that. It’s like every bad thing that he ever did in his life comes rushing back to him and fills him up with guilt. All the wrong things he has done rush in to taunt him, to hound him. Things he did when he was too young to know different, things he did by accident. Being Drover’s friend, standing up for him, wanting what he wants, trusting him. The wrong things, the bad things, they all crowd him and batter down on him until he shouts, ‘No! It’s not wrong.’ Tears pour from his eyes. ‘It is not a sin!’ He sobs.
And then he realises that everything has changed.
He feels the tears in his eyes and his heart in his mouth, but he is not shouting anymore and he doesn’t feel bad. It’s all okay now because standing stock still in front of him is Drover. He has the gun in his hands and it is pointed at the big man. Pete has no idea how it got there. He doesn’t know how much time has passed, or what’s happened in that time, but somehow Drover is back in charge.
‘Pete,�
�� Drover says, panting. His face is taut and stern, his eyes are boring into the man who is now wheezing. No bloody face, no sharp teeth, just a weak old gentleman. ‘Pete, get the bag. Put in more money and food and wait by the back door. Fill your water bottle.’
‘What you gunna do, Drover?’
‘Drover, is it?’ the old man says, and it sounds like he is mocking. He coughs up some phlegm and spits. Drover takes no notice. ‘Strange name that.’
‘Get the stuff, Pete.’
‘Don’t hurt him, Drover.’
‘Reckon that’s a gypsy name,’ the old man says. ‘Is it? You are sent from the Bucklands, aren’t you? Want rid of you, did they?’
‘Shut up,’ Drover says. ‘I told you, I ain’t from the Bucklands. They’re scum. Now shut up and sit down.’
But the old man doesn’t sit down. He starts to walk backwards towards the door.
‘Where you going?’ Drover checks the gun, tightens his grip. He slides the safety catch to off.
The old man backs into the hall.
‘Stay still.’
But he keeps on going and Drover has only two options; to shoot him, or to follow him.
‘Drover, let’s go,’ Pete says. He’s got the bag. He has put it by the back door. He has done as he is told, and now what? He sees Drover going into the hallway and follows.
He stands looking down the hall. The old man is blocking out the frail light that is struggling through the glass in the front door. He is taking steps backwards, one at a time, and Drover is telling him to stand still. But the man isn’t standing still. He is doing something else. His hand is going into his pocket and he’s taking out a mobile phone. At the same time he is confidently backing through an open door and into another room, knowing, or gambling, that Drover won’t shoot him.
Pete realises what he is going to do. He’s going to back into the room, slam the door shut in Drover’s face, phone the police and that’s going to be that.
That will make Drover do something bad. He’ll shoot the old guy or something and if he does that he’ll be put away, and this time it will be for good. They all wanted him to go down, everyone in the towns they’ve stayed in. No-one likes him. They all want rid of him ‘cos he lived with the travellers. They all want him to go and never come back. They all want him to suffer in prison even though he’s never done anything wrong. They only need one more excuse.
He can’t let that happen. Pete knows he has to do something.
Drover knows exactly what the man is doing and he’s actually quite happy to let it play out like this. He wants to get into a room with a door that he can shut in Drover’s face and call the police. The kitchen door opened inwards so he couldn’t slam it as he backed out. That’s why he’s backing to the front room. Fine by Drover. He won’t have to fire the gun. As soon as the door is shut he’ll run, grab the bag and Pete, and they’ll be off into the woods. The worse that will happen is he’ll get reported for stealing some cash or breaking a window. No-one is going to be bothered. There is so much cash stuffed away there’s got to be something illegal going on. Hell, this man knows the Buckland family, there’s your first clue. Drover doubts that he will even report the break in. He doesn’t want the police here snooping around. No, this bloke understands the rules and knows the game. Drover is happy to play it.
They are at the door now, in their silent face off, their slow, stealthy pacing with Drover following the man back towards his other room. There’s that long window, there’s the nasty furniture. A couple more paces and he’ll be inside the room.
Drover holds back, giving the guy enough space to kick the door shut on him, enough room so that it will close and Drover can run. Neither of them will lose face and no one will get hurt.
Drover sees him take out his phone. Fair enough. A pretence. He sees his foot reach out ready to kick the door shut. But Drover has to keep up the charade and so has to keep his finger on the trigger. He doesn’t want this hulk charging back at him. His shoulder hurts from that fall just now.
The old man has his foot on the door. He’s actually smiling. He knows what’s going to happen and he’s happy to let the boys go. He just needs to play out the endgame.
Drover gets ready to protest. Perhaps he’ll bang on the door a couple of times, pretend he wants to get in and finish the guy off, shout a lot. He certainly won’t fire the gun. He’s not got that many cartridges to waste. Okay, old man, he thinks. Let’s get this over with. He expects the door to be kicked shut in his face.
But instead he hears the word ‘no’ shouted, feels a thump on his back, hears the crack of the gunshot in his ear and the recoil jabs at him.
Drover has no idea why but the pain in his shoulder is suddenly worse. Worse still is the look of shock on the old man’s face. But even worse is the knowledge that his finger pulled back on the trigger.
And then Drover’s head bangs against the doorframe and he drops the gun. He falls into the sitting room, a great weight on his back. The breath is knocked from him and Pete’s head crashes in to his. It all happens at once and so fast that he has no idea what has actually happened until a moment later.
Pete rolls off him. He is lying on the ground next to him and Drover is looking across the floor at the man’s legs. He is staggering backwards. He knocks into the sofa and stumbles and Drover looks up.
‘Not again,’ Drover says, without realising he has said it aloud.
The man’s chest is wide open, his shirt torn to pieces. There is blood on him. It’s running down towards his trousers. His face is white, still frozen in surprise, and he is clutching at where part of his chest used to be. Right over his heart.
In this skin-freezing moment Drover sees the old man’s mobile phone fall to the floor and he worries that it will break. In that moment he realises how low he has sunk; that he should feel this for a phone and yet no concern for the man he just shot. The phone slides under a chair by the sofa, unbroken.
Inside Drover something gives a little and he shakes himself to his senses. He starts breathing again and sees the huge statue of the man fall in a crumpled mass to the floor.
Dead.
Drover slowly stands up and looks at Pete. He is whiter than the dead guy. His mouth is open.
They both stand there in the growing dimness of the late afternoon looking down at the heap of a man on the floor. There is an age of silence during which Drover can only hear the thump of his own heart. He can feel something rushing though his veins but it isn’t blood. It’s fear. Fear that this is the last straw, this is it, this is life inside, this is the end. There is no way out from this. This is not going to go away.
But it was not his fault. He wasn’t going to kill the guy. But ‘wasn’t going to’ is no defence in court. He knows this. He looks at Pete.
Pete is gawping at the body on the floor, then he covers his face with his hands and it sounds like he is starting to cry. Drover sees his body shaking.
‘Fuck,’ he says.
Pete uncovers his face and shouts, ‘I thought you were going to shoot him. I tried to stop you, Drover.’ Then he looks at the body again and turns away. ‘Honest,’ he says, more quietly. ‘I didn’t want to see you in trouble. What would happen then?’
‘Shuck it, Pete!’
‘You shouldn’t have shot him.’
‘Let me think.’
‘No, you didn’t. I did it. I killed him, didn’t I?’
‘Shut up, Pete.’
‘I made it happen. But I did it by accident. Didn’t I do it by accident?’
‘Pete, shut up! Let me think.’ Pete has gone to pick up the gun and all Drover can think of are fingerprints. ‘Leave it there.’ Pete obeys.
Drover’s mind is racing. At least he is far away from anyone. No-one heard that shot. No-one knows he is here.
&nbs
p; ‘What we gunna do, Drover?’
He’s seen no-one in the last three days in the wood and no-one has seen him.
‘Drover, what we gunna do?’
No-one can put him together with this. Who could place him at this scene? Why would anyone have a reason to think of him, here?
‘We should call the police,’ Pete says quietly. ‘Shouldn’t we?’
‘No. Wait, wait, wait.’ Drover feels sick at how rationally he is thinking. But there is no point in panicking. There is no reason to.
No-one knows. There is no connection.
‘Drover?’
‘Shut the fuck up, you idiot!’
‘Okay.’
As Pete waits obediently and Drover plans, the light in the room dims further and the sun sinks quickly behind the trees. A dark shadow creeps across the carpet, covering the body like a shroud. It works its way up Drover’s legs as he slowly plots things through.
Ideas. Logic. Step by step.
His planning is interrupted by his friend. ‘Why can’t we call the police?’
‘No, Pete, no cops. You heard him, didn’t you? He knows some bad people. He’s got all this cash here. He does some, what did he call it, service? He does some service for the likes of the Bucklands. You work with them and no-one is surprised if you end up dead. They’d expect to find him like this one day. And no-one knows we was here.’
‘No, we have to do something. He might have a family.’
‘So?’
‘They’ll want to know what’s happened.’
‘That I shot him, you mean? You want that?’
‘No. It was an accident. I’ll say I did it. I don’t know. Yes. I did it. I knocked you, you weren’t going to shoot him, say that. Say it was me.’
‘I’m not gunna do that. It was my finger on the trigger. And it’s me out here with you, and I’m the older one, I’m responsible for you. This was my idea. I mean, who’s gunna take your word over mine in this? They’ll think I’m using you.’
Lonely House Page 7