Savage Night (16 page)

"Another," Worm said. "Get the hang of it."

He tried again.

"Bigger swipe," Worm said.

He took a bigger swipe. Didn't feel at all like he was in control of the bloody thing. Slight misjudgement and he was in danger of slicing a chunk out of his thigh with the follow through.

"And a thrust."

Tommy sighed. Took a breath. And thrust his arm forward.

"You have to say 'heeyuh' when you thrust," Worm said.

"Bugger that."

"Go on," Worm said. "It's rude not to."

Phil was smiling, trying to hide his expression behind his upended beer bottle.

Tommy said, "I don't really care."

"I'll take my sword back then."

"You can't. We've paid you for it."

"Not yet, you haven't."

Tommy dipped his hand into the bag of money at his feet, took out a hundred quid and chucked it on the sofa. "Have now."

"Money's no good."

Tommy stared at him for a minute. "You think it's counterfeit?"

"I didn't say that," Worm said. "Phil wouldn't do that to me."

"Then what?"

"The money's no good cause you haven't said 'heeyuh'."

"I'm not going to say … that."

"Then give me my sword back."

"I don't want your fucking sword," Tommy said.

He sheathed it, threw it on the sofa. Picked up his bag and let himself out. He ran to the car and got inside, trembling all over.

After a bit, he lowered the window, clutched the bag hard to his chest. The breeze cooled his face.

He thought about driving away, leaving Phil. But Smith would be there tomorrow. And the next day. And Grant—Tommy moaned. They'd killed him. Jesus frigging Christ.

Tommy wanted to bite something. Anything. As long as it was hard enough to break his teeth on. There was a burning pain in his stomach and he wanted more of it. He deserved more of it.

A couple of minutes later, Phil appeared. He crouched down outside the car, face in Tommy's face, beer breath in Tommy's nose, and pushed the handle of the
katana
through the window. "Take it."

"I don't want it."

"Worm was just having a laugh." Phil paused. "He likes you, you know."

Tommy took hold of the handle and said, "Hee-fucking-yuh."

***

THE GROUND SMELLED damp, the grass fresh from the earlier rainfall. Splashes of moonlight trickled through the clouds onto the path ahead.

Tommy needed to pee. Felt like someone was scraping the inside of his bladder with a razorblade. Told himself it was just a side-effect of the adrenaline. Likewise the dizziness and the swishing of the sea in his ears and the ball of fire in his gut.

He had to ignore his body and saunter along towards Warriston Cemetery, nonchalant, like Phil. Never mind that he was carrying a bag containing fifty grand. Or that Smith was hiding out there in the dark. Tommy had a Japanese
katana
. He was a hard bastard. Nothing to worry about. Maybe he should unsheath the sword. If the moonlight caught it just right, it would look mighty impressive and Smith would surely think twice about trying anything.

Or they'd bump into Smith on the path as he was leaving, and Tommy'd get a fright and drop the sword. Thanks to Worm, they were late, and Smith wasn't going to hang around forever.

"You know where we're going?" Tommy whispered.

Phil whispered back: "Straight ahead. Can't miss it."

Tommy fought against the instinct to turn and run.

Eventually they came out into a clearing but Tommy only finally knew they were there when he banged into something solid and his heart trampolined off his stomach. He jumped back a foot expecting to see Smith's moonlit ski mask in front of him. Turned out he'd collided with what was one of the few gravestones still upright. As he looked around, he saw that somebody'd been having a lot of fun knocking them over. He could make out half a dozen dotting the ground close by.

Apart from the toppled gravestones, it was too dark to make out much else.

"Sword," Phil whispered.

Tommy looked at him.

"Get it out." He moved off.

"I was just going to," Tommy said to his back. He unsheathed the
katana
. Tried to be quiet, but couldn't avoid the faint sound of scraping steel. Phil turned. Tommy pulled an apologetic face that Phil probably couldn't see.

Phil shook his head, the prick. It wasn't that loud.

Tommy couldn't carry everything, so he laid the sheath on the ground and trailed his brother along another path which arced round the lefthand side of the cemetery, sword in one hand, money in the other. Phil advanced slowly but steadily, both hands wrapped round the handle of his claymore, looking straight ahead. Tommy wished they hadn't had to leave the torch in the car. Phil reckoned a torch would have made them too conspicuous and he was right, but Tommy felt conspicuous anyway.

Something crunched underfoot. If drawing the sword had been a whisper, this was a full-blooded yell. Tommy stopped in his tracks, held his breath. Phil turned again, glared at him. Tommy didn't need that look to tell him what he'd just done. If Smith was around, he now knew they were here, torch or not. That stupid bloody noise meant they'd lost any advantage they might once have had.

He'd stalk them now. Maybe he was already lying prone on the grass over there, masquerading as a collapsed headstone, wearing night vision goggles, sniper rifle ready to fire.

Tommy readjusted his grip on the sword.

Phil started to move again. They edged along the path, Tommy on his tiptoes. He didn't stand on anything else noisy and they didn't encounter a soul. At the end of the path, Phil crouched down. Laid his sword on the ground, flicked on his lighter. The path swung into a hidey-hole. Couldn't tell whether it was man-made or just a naturally cave-shaped thicket.

Phil said, "Give me your sword. Mine's too big."

Tommy handed it over and Phil headed inside.

Tommy peered in after him. "Anybody there?"

"It's safe," Phil said. "Come on in."

Inside, Tommy stumbled. Hard to steady himself with his bag of money clutched to his chest. He kicked something solid and it skittered away. Felt like there was ice underfoot.

Phil took a bottle out of his pocket, screwed the top off. "From Worm," he said. "One for the road. Want a sip?"

Tommy shook his head.

Phil took a long swallow, sword tucked under his arm, then bent down, lowered the flame of his lighter so they could see what they were stepping on. Cigarette butts, beer bottles, condoms. Lots of condoms. A rubber carpet of them. No wonder walking was so tricky.

"Minging," Phil whispered. He straightened up and ambled round in a circle, poking things with the
katana
.

"What you doing?" Tommy asked him.

"Looking."

"Yeah, obviously. For what?"

"Wondering if there might have been an arrangement to leave the money tucked away somewhere in here."

They'd not managed to pinpoint the exact spot for the handover before Grant had tried to escape, but Tommy could only assume that Phil was shitfaced if he believed this was it. "Looks like it gets pretty busy in here," Tommy said.

"Not busy now." Phil carried on looking around as he swigged his beer. Crouched down again, scanned the debris on the ground.

Smith wasn't here. He'd gone home, fed up waiting for Grant. Maybe he thought Grant had stolen the money. Yeah, he'd be after Grant now. Definitely no point hanging around any longer. Tommy took a step to the side, barging into Phil.

Phil lost his balance, put his hand out to stop himself, dropped his beer. "Fuck," he said. "My hand's stuck in this fucking muck."

"Shouldn't have left your gloves in the car," Tommy said.

"You can be a real twat sometimes." Phil straightened up. "Could have hurt myself on your fucking sword, too." He elbowed Tommy out of the way and walked back outside, trying to shake the crap off his hand.

Making a noise now. Tommy could hear him.
Thump, thump
. Stamping his feet, the bloody child. Don't suppose it mattered now that they'd raised their voices. This whole thing was a waste of time. They weren't going to find out who Smith was, weren't going to get an opportunity to scare him into leaving Tommy alone. It was a stupid idea. If Tommy hadn't been in a daze from what had happened earlier, he'd never have agreed to come here in the first place.

He followed Phil outside, intent on dragging him home.

"Phil, we should go
—
" The blow blindsided him. First he knew, his head exploded with pain. Centre of the blast was just forward of the crown, and it radiated out to every millimetre of his cranium. Somehow, even in the darkness, his vision deteriorated. His eyes watered and he felt sick. There was something very wrong with him.

The bag of money dropped to the ground and he sank to his knees. It felt like his skull had shattered. He moved his head to the side and could feel the pieces of bone breaking loose inside. He hoped he was wrong about that.

Fireworks went off in his stomach. Vomit spurted out of his mouth in a couple of neat sprays.

He heard a movement behind him, and turned, head pounding with the effort, just in time to see Phil's claymore rushing towards him.

***

PARK WAS TWITCHING mad. Got like that sometimes so that his cheek muscles would start doing a kind of merry dance. Just happened, and then went away once he'd calmed down.

He'd waited for Grant at the cemetery, hoping no one thought he was hanging around for a quick bumming. Prime spot for a bit of buggery-pokery. But the place had been deserted. Too cold, no doubt, for that kind of thing. Although he'd had a very pleasant experience once with Liz in the snow. Anyway, he'd waited, hands in his pockets to keep warm, and Grant didn't show. After a while, Park began to get bad feelings about the whole thing. Something had happened, or Grant would have arrived with the money by now.

Grant had called him just after leaving the bus station. Said he was on his way to the car. He had the money. Said he'd drive around for a bit, make sure he wasn't being tailed, then head for the cemetery. Park thought he was being overcautious but told him it was an excellent idea. And that was the last he'd heard from his son.

Park had called him half an hour later. No reply. Park left a brief message. Then tried again, fifteen minutes after that. Left another message. Called once after that and still Grant wasn't picking up.

He wasn't going to call again. If Grant wasn't answering his phone, no amount of repeat calls would change that. The boy'd get in touch when he could. And Park would wait as long as necessary. He had a lot of patience. Prison had taught him that.

Yeah, either Grant would call or he'd turn up with the money.

But that wasn't what had happened.

Park laid the fuck-off sword on the ground, checked to see if the Savage brothers were breathing. He wouldn't have cared if it wasn't for the fact that he needed them alive so he could find out what had happened to Grant. Well, to be precise, he needed
one
of them alive.

He opened the bag that Tommy Savage had dropped. The sight of the cash inside was enough to make the twitch in his cheek go away. So the Savages had come here to deliver the money. But then Park realised that if they had the money, they must have Grant too. And his cheek started twitching all over again.

Problem now was he didn't want to hang around. Might need to perform a spot of interrogation, and it was better to do that where the sound wasn't going to carry.

He had a choice to make. Phil Savage was a fat bastard, who probably wouldn't even fit in the boot. Tommy was much lighter and far more likely to talk. There was the money and the swords to carry too. He didn't want to leave any evidence. And he wasn't prepared to make two trips.