Savage Night (17 page)

So, the only question was what to do with Phil. Phil Savage had a rep as a bit of a hard man. Provided muscle for his brother's little tobacco empire for a while. Yeah, Park had done his homework.

He couldn't risk drawing
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blood, not even by moonlight, but he could strangle Phil if he wanted. Or maybe he could just snap his neck.

But did he want to risk drawing attention to himself before he'd found Grant?

Tricky one.

Bollocks, Phil Savage would keep. Hard man reputation or not, he looked as soft as shite in a wet bag. He could bring it on any time he wanted. Park would be ready.

Park slotted the swords through the handles of the bag. Hoisted Tommy Savage over his shoulder, bent his knees to pick up the money.

Just as well he'd spent so long in prison gyms. He might be a skinny bastard, but he'd got big enough to bench press 350 pounds, which came in handy at times like these.

Out of the cemetery. Along the path. Had to ditch one of the swords, the longer one he'd used to lamp Fat Phil, cause it kept tripping him up. Heaved it over a wall into somebody's garden.

And on he went. One small step after another.

Finally he arrived at the car, out of breath, thigh muscles on fire. Put Savage in the boot. Removed his shoelaces. They were nice and long and did the trick. Park bundled him up good and tight.

***

TOMMY AWOKE IN the dark, foul taste in his mouth, a vibration jarring his bones, his skull throbbing, stomach burned raw and desperate for a slash. Barely had time to register that the steady purring sound he was hearing was a car engine when a sudden movement bounced him an inch or two in the air. He landed on his hip. No time to groan, cause he was immediately jolted backwards. Something hard pressed into his back. When he tried to move away he realised his hands and feet were tied.

He could feel the ligatures cutting into his wrists and ankles.

His armpits prickled, sweat broke out on his forehead, his shins, the base of his spine. His chest felt tight and when he realised he wasn't breathing, he gulped in a lungful of air that tasted of car exhaust.

The boot was a tight fit. He was lying on his side, legs bent. He rolled forwards, away from the object digging into his back. The car went over another bump and jounced him again.

He yelled. Not so much in pain but because he couldn't bear the thought of what might happen to him. He wasn't going to think about that. Had to concentrate on the here and now. He yelled again. The sound didn't have anywhere to go. It filled his skull, deafened him, made his head ache even more. His heart was beating too hard and too fast.

Even if he managed to undo these bindings, he wouldn't be able to get out of the boot. Could hardly just lie back and kick it open. Or could he? And then what?

But if he got his hands free he could get to his phone and call for help.

"I'm in a car boot."

"Where's the car?"

"I don't know."

In any case, he realised, when he moved, that his pocket was empty. Smith had taken his phone.

Tommy lay in the dark, ignoring the stabbing pain in his bladder, trying to steady his heartbeat, breathing as evenly as he could, trying to guess when the car would hit another bump so he could roll with it. Focus on the present. Be philosophical. Laid back. Phil would be proud of him.

Christ, he hoped Phil was okay.

As a kid, Phil was the one who'd dive off the highest diving board, the one who'd stand up to the school bully, the one who tried smack. Phil was the great adventurer. He'd be fine.

But, shit, Tommy shouldn't have listened to him. They shouldn't have gone to the cemetery. Phil had got him into a right brilliant adventure now, hadn't he? Should have just paid up and gone home. Well, he was paying for it now.

Jesus, his heart was hammering. And his bladder was bursting. Wasn't as if he could ask Smith to pull over while he got out and took a leak. Smith could be planning on taking him all the way to Dundee or somewhere, for all Tommy knew. No way he could hold on for that long. Maybe he should just let go. He'd feel so much better. But the thought of the stink and the discomfort were just too much.

Maybe Smith wasn't ever going to let him out. Maybe his plan was to push the car into the Forth and watch Tommy drown.

Why did he have to go and think of that?

Despite what it meant if he wasn't allowed out of the car, it was worse to mull over what might happen once Smith stopped and got out. He'd open the boot, and then what? Lop Tommy's head off with the samurai sword?

Tommy almost wet himself.

He was shaking so much he hardly noticed that he hadn't been jolted around in the last couple of minutes. But he noticed now, and realised that the car was slowing.

His heart kicked into a new gear. Rattled in his ribcage. He could hear the echo in his ears.

The car came to a halt. The engine died. The door clicked open, slammed shut.

A few seconds later, the boot opened. Light shone in his eyes.

Then Smith's voice: "Where's Grant?"

Oh, fucking fuck fuck fuck.

"It was an accident," Tommy said.

***

PARK GRABBED TOMMY Savage by the ear. Hadn't even touched him and the wanker was screaming like a teething baby. Park got hold of the other ear and yanked him out of the boot. Well, not quite. He got stuck and squealed, and wouldn't budge no matter how hard Park was pulling, and Park didn't want to end up with a torn ear and
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bleeding wound and all that would entail, so he had to let go and lift him out, like he really was a fucking baby.

Once Savage's shoulders were over the lip, Park grabbed an ear again and yanked hard. Savage dropped to the ground. Yelled for help.

Park let him lie there for a bit. He could shout all he liked. Nice quiet spot. Not much chance of anybody being around this late. Park thought about what he'd said.
It was an accident.
That could mean any number of things. None good.

Savage's yells turned to whimpers before long. Then he just lay there, quiet, making occasional spastic eel-like wriggling movements.

Park said, "Tell me about the accident."

Savage squirmed a bit more.

"Well?"

"No."

That was honest. "No choice, Tommy. If you tell me, I'll make it quick."

"Oh, God," Savage said. "It was an accident."

"You need help to focus? I can help. Could be that a little pain will do the trick."

And then Savage started talking, words spilling out in a garble.

Eventually, Park got the gist of it: Fat Phil had collared Grant, they'd both interrogated him, and Grant had run straight into a plate-glass door when he tried to escape.

Park tried to block out the images that flashed in front of him. It was tough, but he managed. "Is he badly hurt?"

No reply.

"Huh?"

Still no reply.

Park lost control. Kicked Savage. Several times. Kicked him till the stinking bastard pissed himself. "Is he cut up bad?" Park asked.

And then Savage explained, between gasps, about the broken pane, the shard of glass. About Grant landing on it.

Park sat down before he fell over, breathed deeply. "You took him to the hospital, right?"

Savage said, voice trembling, "We did what we could."

"And what was that?"

"We called for help."

Park thought he might spew. "Jesus Christ. You left him?"

"It was a fucking accident."

Park said, "Is he alive?"

"I don't know."

"You don't fucking know?"

"Last time I saw him, yes, he was alive."

"Well, Tommy," Park said. "You better start praying that's still the case."

***

"WHAT ARE YOU going to do?" Tommy asked. He was sore and damp and his eyelashes were wet.

Smith was sitting next to him. Been there for about five minutes now. Not saying anything, not moving, not doing a thing. His reaction wasn't what Tommy would have expected. No rage, no violence other than a quick kicking.

Tommy didn't want to interrupt him. He wasn't forgetting that Smith most likely had their swords in the back of his car. Not that Smith needed a weapon, with Tommy trussed up like this. If Tommy had the freedom to move his limbs he might be able to fight back. Okay, he wouldn't. But maybe he wouldn't feel so utterly helpless.

God, Smith had killed already, just to prove a point. Wasn't as if there was a line he wasn't prepared to cross. He'd already crossed it.

This silence was terrifying. If Tommy was going to be killed, he wanted to know about it now.

He raised his head. It hurt like the kind of hangovers he used to get in his late twenties. The ones just before he accepted that he wasn't so young any more and couldn't drink like he used to. The ones that Phil got too but ignored. "I've been honest," Tommy said. "That's got to be worth something. Could've told you a pack of lies."

Smith looked at him. Looked away again.

Tommy breathed in, then out, slowly. "Who is he?" Tommy said. "Who's Grant?"

Smith stared.

"You have the money. Why does Grant matter?"

"Why," Smith said, his expression not changing, "does Grant," he said, "matter?" He got to his feet.

This was it. Tommy should have kept his mouth shut. He was all set to beg. He'd do anything. Didn't care. All he wanted was to stay alive.

Smith ran his hand over the chin of his ski mask. Then he put his hand in his pocket. Tommy expected to see it reappear with brass knuckles, a Stanley knife, a lock-back knife. Maybe something worse. A grenade, maybe.

But, no, it reappeared with a phone.

Must have been on vibrate, cause Smith answered it: "Effie," and walked around the side of the car towards the bonnet.

Tommy was lying a few feet beyond the rear bumper and couldn't see a thing. Might have been able to position himself so's he could look under the car, get a glimpse of Smith's feet, maybe, some indication of where he was. But Smith had turned off the headlights and it was dark out here.

And Tommy couldn't hear him now either. Which meant he had to be far enough away to give Tommy the chance to escape.

Could he get to his feet, though? Probably. But then what? He'd be in a similar situation to Grant. Only, unlike Grant, he wasn't tied to a chair. And there wasn't a plate-glass door around.

He could just about make out trees, left and right. Behind him, it looked clear for a few feet at least. A track. Maybe it led to a main road. If he could reach it, he'd be able to flag down a passing car by standing in front of it. Dangerous, but worth a try, surely.

But fuck standing up. If he did manage to get to his feet, he'd have to hop all the way there. Which was going to take more energy than he possessed. Plus it would take ages. Far longer than the likely duration of Smith's phone call. There was a better option. He could roll himself there.

No sooner had the idea occurred to him than he twisted round and shoved. His hip hurt from all the banging it had taken in the boot. And his side was bruised from the kicking Smith had given him. But he rolled over. And again. And again. Wasn't sure, but he thought he might be rolling at an angle towards the side of the track, into the woods or whatever was there. Might be a ditch, though.

He adjusted his course as best he could. Gave himself another push. And another. Felt like he was building up some momentum now. If only he'd been on a slope.

He wondered if Smith had finished his call and was coming back yet. What would he think when he found Tommy had gone?

And that spurred Tommy on to roll more quickly.

Something sharp dug into his arm. He tried hard not to cry out. Succeeded. But the bastard stung. Whatever it was, it had stuck there.