by Mark Newman
George trying to focus through the blur, can feel himself slipping in to the darkness. Just shapes, that’s all he can see. He’s on the floor, staring up to the ceiling, particles of dust and plaster floating aimlessly above. There’s a high-pitched ringing in his eardrum from the shot, but he can still make out the muffled scraping of floorboard.
The gunman’s searching, trying to locate the Glock, the Xenon beam redundant and smashed. He knows it’s there somewhere. He needs to act fast, Thompson’s lurking somewhere in the darkest recess.
George, his head spinning, don’t black out. Screwdriver in hand, his only defence. Using his elbows and forearms to push himself up.
Fuck it, the gunman’s given up searching for the Glock. Time to go old school. ‘Things are gonna get messy for you now, Patterson.’
George squints in to the gloom; he can make out the outline of the figure standing over him. He swipes the air with the screwdriver.
The gunman swats it away like a dead fly, ‘that the best you got old man?’
George lifts his head, his eyes scrunched. ‘Messed your face up real good though didn’t I.’
He smiles, ‘Yeah, that you did.’ He stands over George, and delivers a succession of punches to his face, turning it crimson. ‘You like that? Wait till you see what else I got.’
George cries out, the breath dying in his mouth. His nerve endings alive with pain as the gunman jabs the screwdriver deep into his side.
‘Where’s Thompson?’
George squirms, gritting his teeth trying to block the pain, and failing. He tries bringing his arm up to protect himself, the gunman pins it to the floor, and, pushes the flathead deeper in to the wound.
‘Come on, Patterson, don’t go holding out on me now.’
Out of the nowhere, he feels the cold steel of a handgun barrel jammed up against his temple.
‘I’m right here, pal. Now drop it, and move away real slow.’
Chapter 23
The gunman relents, leaving the flathead screwdriver embedded in George’s side, he stands and turns to face Malkie, greeted by the Walther 9mm a fraction of an inch from his face.
‘So you’re Malkie Thompson, you’re supposed to have taken a walk amongst the dead by now.’
‘Aye, well I’m hard to kill, as you’re finding out.’ Keeping his weapon trained on the would-be assassin, he glances down, ‘You ok down there, George?’
George, writhing on the floor, manages to retract the screwdriver from his side. ‘More than this bastard will be.’
Malkie orders the gunman to turn around, and pushes the Walther 9mm in to the centre of the back of his skull. ‘What you waiting for, help him up.’
The gunman reaches down with his left hand, and pulls George to his feet.
George stands, holding his side, the blood oozing between his fingers. ‘I’ve got plans for you boy.’
Malkie chuckles to himself, ‘Come on now, George, play nice eh.’
Without warning, George snaps his leg forward, whacking the gunman in the groin, he falls to the floor, his hands drop to his crotch area as if to fend off another attack.
Malkie crouches down and leans in close. ‘That’s nothing – you best pace yourself, we’re just getting warmed up here.’
George steps back and pulls the tattered cotton material away from the wound, it’s not as bad as he feared, half an inch more could be a whole different story. Still hurts like fuck, he removes his shirt, reaches for the first aid box, and pulls out the remainder of lint, gauze and padding. He takes a deep breath, and squeezes the tube of antiseptic gel into the wound. Gritting his teeth against the white-hot burning sensation as the gel seeps into raw tissue. ‘Jesus, what I wouldn’t do for a drink right now.’
Malkie, doing his best to stand upright, shuffles towards George, and inspects the wound, bending down to retrieve the flathead. ‘Stop complaining, it’s nothing more than a wee scratch.’
George looms over the gunman’s battered carcass. ‘About time this prick got some payback.’
‘Easy, George, our friend here’s got some questions that need answering first, then maybe I’ll let you play.’
The gunman, curled in a foetal position, squirming on the floor, knows it’s the end. ‘Pair of you, go fuck yourselves.’
Malkie turns to George, ‘still got a lot of fight in him – this one.’
‘Yeah, a real hard man.’ Without warning, George lifts his leg waist height, and delivers a rib-cracking stomp to the chest cavity. The gunman cries out, clawing at the floorboards, trying to find a safe haven. George is in the zone, ‘…the fuck you going?’ He repeats the motion.
Malkie shoves him off-balance with his left arm, almost toppling him over.
‘What the fuck?’
‘He’s gotta talk, can’t do that if you bust him up, George.’ Malkie comes level with his prey. ‘You and me, we’re gonna have a conversation.’ He turns to George, and levels his tone; ‘Go do what you can with that wound before you pass out on me.’
George knows better than to argue, he removes himself to the comfort of the armchair, and continues the DIY patch up job with the first aid kit. ‘You reckon he’s alone?’
‘Don’t look as though the cavalry’s in any rush to come and get him. One man band eh? With just me and George to keep you company, lucky boy.’
The gunman pulls himself up on to hands and knees, and lifts his head, ‘there’ll be others, you can count on it.’
Malkie considers the response. ‘Others, George, hear that. Never realised I was in such demand.’ He returns his gaze to his would-be assassin, ‘That what they told you – your employers?’
Still looking for a way out, the gunman’s eyes dart left and right.
Malkie paces, the screwdriver in his left hand, cutting the air like a maestro with a baton. ‘That’s not how I see it, reckon it’s time our friend here got acquainted.’ He passes the flathead back to George.
‘Pleasure’s all mine.’ George moves in, grabbing the gunman by his hair.
Panic sets in, he’s out of time. ‘I got names. OK…Names.’
‘Hear that, George, he’s got names. Ain’t that what they all say?’
‘I reckon it is, Malkie.’
‘See, boy, you should’ve done your homework. I’ve been around a long time, longer than you’ve been breathing. Think you’re the first? Let me tell you, many have tried, and I’m the one still standing. I know, I get it; you wanted to play at being the big man. Wanted the bragging rights, even though you couldn’t talk about it, but you wanted the satisfaction of knowing when you looked at yourself in the mirror that it was you who ended Malkie Thompson’s reign. Didn’t go so well for you that last part, eh?’
‘You got no idea how deep this goes, Thompson, you’re deluded. I got names, but you’ll kill me anyway…’
‘Aye, you got that part right, but here’s what I’ll do, you give me those names, and I’ll see to it that you die quick. Fuck me about, and you’ll be begging me to end it, crying out for your mother. Promising everything and anything if I just make it stop.’
The gunman’s eyes are fixed; he’s located his weapon. The Glock 9mm just inches to his left, partially covered with debris. He moves his arm out slowly, if he can just reach it.
George’s size ten crushes his hand. ‘You won’t be needing that.’ He retrieves the weapon, and inspects it up close. ‘Fancy piece of kit.’ He tucks it in the back of his waistband.
Malkie keeps the Walther 9mm trained on the gunman’s chest, George steps in behind, grabbing his neck in a choke hold, dragging him backwards, leaving his legs and feet flailing against splintered floorboards.
Malkie presses the tip of the flathead screwdriver against the gunman’s right temple, and drives it in through the soft tissue, fresh blood emulsions the shaft. He’s careful to keep his actions deliberate and slow. The gunman grits his teeth as he struggles against George’s forearm grip, his screams piercing the cold darkness.
Mimi’s tattered ruined body is etched to Malkie’s cerebral cortex, and he’s lost in the moment, pushing harder on the flathead.
‘Easy there, Malkie, we want some answers right? You push any harder you’ll cause a hematoma.’
He relents, and releases the pressure on the handle, stepping back into the gloom, the adrenaline surge causing his hands to shake. He drops the screwdriver to the floor.
The gunman’s eyes resemble loose marbles trying to find a home.
George slaps the gunman hard across the face with the palm of his left hand. ‘Names, give me the fucking names.’
There’s no response.
‘Is he dead?’
George inspects the damage up close, lifts his eyelids, and checks the temple area. ‘By the look of him he ain’t got long.’
Malkie grabs the gunman by the chin, searching his face for answers. ‘Play it mute, eh. Figure you can still make it out of this.’ He turns and faces George. ‘We’re done here, he’s got nothing. Finish him.’
THE END
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