Savage Night (18 page)

He completed another rotation. Started another. And when he put pressure on his arm, the foreign object pressed in even harder. His eyes were wet again. And he was biting his teeth together so hard his jaw hurt. His head was spinning now with all the rolling around.

One more. Just one rotation at a time. He could do it.

A half turn. And his chest struck something solid. Something in his way. Something that moved.

"Going somewhere?" Smith said.

Smith's hand was on Tommy's throat, knuckles pressing into his chest. Then he lifted Tommy to his feet. The skinny bastard was strong.

Tommy waited for the blow, sure that Smith's rage had won out. Tommy winced. Closed his eyes. Peeked through narrowed slits.

But Smith was just standing there. Tongue flicking in and out of the mouthhole of his ski mask.

Tommy swayed, ankles tied together so tightly it was hard to stay upright. He took a half hop backwards.

Smith grabbed him. And said, quietly, "What did I ever do to you?"

Tommy said the only thing he could think of: "Nothing."

But Smith wasn't listening. He said, "That was my daughter. Told me she had bad news." Smith laughed. Then he shouted so loudly Tommy thought he saw the trees cringe: "You believe that? Huh? Bad news?"

"I'm sorry," Tommy said. "How bad?"

***

PARK WALKED INTO the waiting room, knew he'd come to the right place. He'd followed the coloured lines on the squeaky clean floor as he'd been told at reception, but he wasn't always sure whether they were going forwards or backwards. Anyway, he'd got here to find a couple of cops talking to Effie, her hair all mussed up.

"How bad is he?" Park had asked her on the phone.

"They won't say. Just get to the hospital, Dad. He needs you. We all need you."

"Be along as soon as I can. I'm a bit out of town right now."

"What happened, Dad?"

"I'll explain everything when I see you."

"Explain now."

"Effie—"

"Dad, I have to know who did this to my little brother. Tell me."

So he did.

"The Savages were torturing him?"

"Looks that way."

"We have to find them."

"I've already got Tommy."

"Wish you could make a mess of him. Leave him for me. I'll do it. Can you get his brother too?"

"We'll work something out. I'll see you soon."

And there she was, blowing her nose. Martin, pristine and cravatted as ever, with his arm round her. Liz sitting on her own, nobody paying her any attention.

Effie caught Park's eye, shrugged Martin's arm off her shoulder, ran over to her dad. She flung her arms round his neck, said, "It's not looking good." Leaned into him. Her tears dripped onto his skin, hot, then cold.

Park didn't trust himself to speak. He held her.

Martin looked over at him, a wistful expression on his face.

The cops were doing the same.

After a while, Effie pulled her head back, dabbed at her eyes.

Park said, "Can I see him?"

She shook her head. "He's in theatre."

In theatre. Being operated on. Under the
nnnnngah
knife.

On account of the Savages.

"When will we know?" Park asked.

"As soon as they've finished," Effie said.

Which could be any time. Nothing like sitting around a hospital waiting room wondering whether your son was going to die.

One of the cops was strolling over. Talking to the cops was one way to pass the time. But there were others. Maybe Park should sneak back to the car. He'd parked a reasonable distance from the hospital, walked the rest of the way. Even though he'd knocked Savage out again, and gagged the bastard, he might wake up and be able to move enough to make a noise. Kick the boot lid or something. If he was going to do that, it was better he did it on a quiet stretch of road rather than where people were going to and fro at all hours.

But Park couldn't leave right now. He needed an alibi before the police spoke to him. He knew how they worked. Knew that in their twisted minds he was a suspect. Do a five-spot and, in their eyes, you were automatically the sort of sick fuck who'd kill his own son.

He whispered to Effie, "Did you tell them I was at home with you this evening?"

"Of course."

She was a good girl. Didn't even have to be primed. "What was on TV?"

"We watched a movie."

"Which one?"

"The one Grant brought round.
God's Little Acre.
"

That was one he could remember. "And afterwards?"

"You went home."

"To Old Mrs Yardie's?"

"That's where you live."

"But the police don't know that."

"Which is why they couldn't get in touch with you."

Park nodded. "And why was Mum at yours?"

"I'm her daughter. Why not?"

"Good point," he said. He eased Effie to the side. "Go talk to her. See how she's taking it."

"She's no idea what's going on, Dad. You know that."

"Do it for me. Your mother needs someone to comfort her."

The cop smiled as Effie passed him. He moved towards Park, close enough for his breath mints to mask the antiseptic hospital smell for a second. "Mr Park? A few moments of your time?"

And a few moments was all it took. Even a cop could tell Park was hurting.

When the doctor arrived to speak to them, Park knew what he was going to say.

***

A CONSULTING ROOM. Desk, chairs, a bench for the patient to lie down on, a plastic curtain.

Bright light.

Everything shimmering.

Trippy.

Death was like this.

Park wondered if Grant had died like McCracken. Did death look the same?

McCracken.

"Sit down, please," the doctor said, poker-faced.

It was probably a cop who'd told McCracken's old man.

There were only three available chairs. Liz, Effie and Martin sat. Park stayed on his feet, behind Liz, hands on her shoulders. The doctor offered Park his seat. Park shook his head. He needed to hold onto something.

Imagined himself walking out of the building. Going to the car. Getting Carlos's gun out of the glove compartment. Opening the boot. Shooting Tommy Savage.

But that was letting him off too lightly.

Park had needed to get McCracken alone. And that required patience. No point trying to do it at the Home. Too obvious. So Park found out where he lived easily enough. It was in the phone book. Park kept an eye on McCracken's house for a couple of days when he was on day shifts, and on both occasions noted he took an evening jog round Lochend Park. Third day Park went for a jog too. Piece of cake. Didn't matter that McCracken spotted him.

Park's kneecaps were jigging up and down. Couldn't stop them.

He didn't want to hear this.

McCracken had slowed down as Park headed towards him.

Park too. Came to a stop right in front of each other.

"What are you doing here?" McCracken asked, sweat dripping off his nose.

Park felt Carlos's gun digging into his thigh through his jogging bottoms. Gun in one pocket. Clothesline in the other. "Can't a man go for a jog?"

"Haven't seen you here before," McCracken said.

"Don't normally hang around slummy areas like this."

"So why today?"

"Business. Locally."

"Oh. Right."

Park knew McCracken wanted to say something cheeky but was holding back. Almost a shame to kill him, him being so well behaved and all.

"I'm very sorry to have to say this," the doctor said.

"You cold?" McCracken looked at Park's gloved hands.

"Bit chilly, aye." Park clapped his hands together. Managed to stop himself from shivering. Didn't want to overdo it.

"Better get going, then," McCracken said.

Didn't ask about Liz. Not a word.

"You're not going anywhere," Park said. "Get on your knees."

Effie said, "Oh, Jesus, no."

Martin started to cry.

Liz farted, high-pitched and slow as a sigh.

Fucker didn't do as he was told.

"On your knees," Park said.

McCracken stared at him, shook his head.

And turned away.

Park pulled the gun out of his pocket, changed his grip, ran after McCracken and thumped him hard in the back of the neck with the butt of the weapon.
That
dropped him to his knees. Park hit him again. Twice.

He swayed.

Park took the carrier bag out of his pocket. Stuck it over McCracken's head.

No, they hadn't mentioned that in the papers. That was the kind of detail they liked to keep to themselves.

Whipped out the clothesline. Coiled it round McCracken's neck.

Wrapped it tight.

Sole of the foot between his shoulder blades.

Steady.

Pulled the fucker's head towards him, pushed his torso away.

"Cabbage, eh?" Park said. "You want to know who the fucking vegetable is?"

The doctor said,

Yeah, maybe he shouldn't have left the clothesline behind, but it didn't matter.
"Grant's …"

He'd nicked the clothesline from a supermarket. Same supermarket he'd got the carrier bag.

"… heart "

He'd worn gloves. No way they could connect him to McCracken.

"… stopped."

***

"STOPPED ON THE operating table," Smith said, voice level, low, not whiny at all. Tommy didn't know how he'd ever thought Smith's voice sounded whiny.

Tommy's balls squeezed so tight he felt the ache in his belly. He shook his head, hair wet from where one of these lunatics had poured some fizzy juice over him to wake him up. Christ, he really hadn't needed another whack on the skull.

Smith continued, "My son is dead."

Grant was Smith's son.

Of course Tommy had suspected that all along. He just hadn't allowed himself to believe it. Because therein lay madness, or heart failure. And yet, despite being petrified, he felt a tiny surge of excitement that he'd at least be able to identify Smith now.

Once Tommy discovered who Grant was, and that'd be pretty much public knowledge, he'd be able to track down his father. But he also realised that the information was going to be futile cause he wasn't going to get a chance to use it. Smith wasn't going to let him go.

"My brother," the girl said, sounding older than her tiny stature suggested. If Grant was her brother then she had to be the Effie who Smith had spoken to on the phone. Unlike Smith, she wasn't wearing any kind of mask. Neither was the other bloke, who didn't say anything. But it was dark and Tommy couldn't make out their faces very well.