Savage Night (2 page)

"Come with me," Fraser had said an hour or so later, grabbing Effie's arm. "I want to show you something."

He steered her towards the back door of Worm and Simone's house, weaving through the throng along the way, careful not to spill his beer. Along the lobby. Into the kitchen.

"You a friend of Simone's?" he asked Effie.

"Nope."

"You know Worm?"

"Nope," she said. "I wasn't invited. How about you?"

"Friends of my Uncle Phil. I'd introduce you but he'd embarrass me."

"He's here?"

"The fat, ginger guy sinking beers like there's no tomorrow."

"Maybe there isn't," she said, shrugging. "I can see the family resemblance."

"Thanks." He grinned.

"My pleasure."

"What
do
you do?" Fraser asked as they jostled past a stoned couple all tangled up in each other in the doorway. "I mean, when you're not gate-crashing parties."

"I told you."

"That's right. So you did." She killed people. Fraser laughed. Laughed till his eyelids were heavy with tears. It wasn't that funny, but he'd started and couldn't stop.

Effie moved off.

He followed, wiping his eyes. "Oops," he said as he tripped.

She caught him. Lightning reflexes. A killer's reflexes.

He laughed again but managed to control himself before it turned into another fit of giggles. Didn't want to get hysterical. Anyway, if it came to a square go, he could take her easy.

"What's so funny?" she asked.

"I love your … style." He smiled. Her eyes widened and she smiled too. He chinked his beer bottle against hers. "I like you, Effie."

"I like you too. What did you want to show me?"

He wrapped his arm round her waist and dragged her to the end of the garden. There was a shed at the back. An ordinary shed. A common shed. A common or garden shed. Ha! "Whoo." His legs nearly gave out there. Stumble bumble. Maybe the drink was having an effect after all. About bloody time.

"Here." He stopped. The shed was padlocked. He rattled the lock.

He handed his beer to her, raised a forefinger. Then dipped his hand into his pocket and rummaged around. Found his keys. Ran his fingers through them, found the little brass one.

Effie said, "I won't ask why you have a key for Worm's shed."

Fraser nodded, put his fingers to his lips, licked them. They tasted of beer. Put the key in the slot. Or tried to. Wasn't as easy as it looked. It was dark and the slot was tiny and he was pissed as a fart.

Effie placed the beer on the ground, took the key from him. Opened the padlock. And then pressed her palm against the door.

"After you," Fraser said.

"After you," Effie said.

And she wouldn't budge. So he didn't budge either.

"You're a bumshite, Fraser," she said. "What do you want me to see?"

"Just step inside."

"I don't think so."

"Okay," he said. "If you're scared of the dark, I'll go first." He stepped inside the shed, switched on the light. Nice touch, the outside electricity. He'd been impressed when Simone had shown him. "That better?"

Effie moved into the doorway, keeping the door open.

Fraser said, "Well?" cause her face was a blank.

"What am I looking at?"

These hippy-killer-types, you had to spell everything out. "These," he said, pointing at the rows of swords hanging on the walls. All sorts. He was no expert, and neither was Simone, but there were a couple of dozen types on display, from the medieval to the modern. Some decorative, some kept razor-sharp by Worm. Simone said it gave him something to do when he couldn't sleep at night.

Fraser reached up, took one off the wall. "This," he said, unsheathing it, "is Japanese." He held it, two-handed, between himself and Effie. Nice weight. Beautiful curved blade. "Run your finger over that, you'll cut it off." Made his stomach flutter just thinking of the damage this baby could do.

Effie looked but didn't react.

"Well?"

"Looks very nice," she said. "Does Worm fence or something?"

"Nope. He just collects them. A real waste."

What he didn't tell her was that he'd mentioned to Uncle Phil that he was thinking of stealing them, selling them on eBay, imagining that Phil would be up for making a quick buck, but Phil had clipped him round the ear and told him not to be a fuckwit.

"We better go, then," Fraser said, slotting the sword back in its sheath, carefully hanging it on the wall. He noticed a gap a couple of rows along. Either Worm had a sword in the house, or Uncle Phil had pulled a fast one without telling Fraser. He'd keep an eye on the new eBay listings. "Sure you don't want one?" he asked Effie. "We could smuggle one out. Killer like you is always going to need another weapon, right?"

"A killer like me," Effie said, "likes to use something that can't be traced. You want to steal me something, a length of clothesline would be just fine."

***

FRASER STARED AT the headless body in the tub. Hard as he tried, he couldn't drag his gaze away from it.

A human without a head. Triggered some kind of primeval fear of your brain being separated from the rest of your body. Or was it that having no head made you appear to be more dead than you would otherwise?

He was having a hard time seeing that thing as Uncle Phil. Come to think of it, he was having a hard time seeing. His eyelids didn't want to stay open.

"Why do you—?" Fraser said, before the rest of his sentence was choked off.

Felt at first like his collar was buttoned too tight. But he was wearing a t-shirt, so it couldn't be that. Then a sudden jerk and a shout from Effie and something crushing his windpipe. It was like the time when he was a kid, messing around with his pal, Ian. Playing at strangling each other. Seeing how far they could go.

His hands flew to his neck, feeling for the thing that was digging into his throat.

Effie said, "Relax," and grunted in a very unlady-like manner.

What the fuck was she doing? Trying to get this thing off him?

Oh, he knew.

He had always known.

Oh, fuck, no he hadn't. He just wanted to be right, even now. It was fine to be right after the event, but he hadn't known, otherwise he wouldn't have let the bitch within spitting distance.

She was strangling him. And it wasn't going to be like Ian. No chance she'd let go, finally, say, "Nearly killed you. Na na na-na na."

Fraser swiped behind his back with his hand. Smacked something. But there was no power in it. Like he was moving underwater. Resulted only in the cord—or whatever it was—tightening round his neck.

A clothesline. She'd told him that's what she'd use.

His head felt like somebody'd blocked up his nose and mouth and was pumping air through a hole in the top of his skull.

He wheezed.

Eyes back to the tub. To the body. Fraser didn't want to admit it to himself, but there was every chance he'd be joining Uncle Phil soon.

Fraser's cheeks puffed out. Behind his eyes, blood pounded and surged and bubbled against the inside of his skin. He tried again to dig his fingers into the clothesline, but it had sunk in too deep. And he was too weak to prise Effie's fingers loose.

Why was she doing this?

He tried to breathe. Sucked in nothing. Couldn't even make a noise.

A figure appeared in the kitchen doorway, wearing only a pair of disposable yellow gloves, clutching a carrier bag in one hand, a lit cigarette and a hacksaw in the other. Smudges of red tangled the hairs on his bare thighs, spattered his clear plastic booties.

This was the fucker who'd killed Uncle Phil and Fraser couldn't do anything about it.

Tears spilled down Fraser's cheeks. He wasn't going to see Dad again. Off on some trip, hadn't seen him in ages. Never see his arsehole little brother again either. Never see his granny again.

Ringing in his ears. Metallic taste in his mouth. He licked his lip, spat. His nose was bleeding.

Had to be Worm who was behind this. The bastard must have found out that Fraser had been sleeping with Simone. She was a great shag but she wasn't worth dying for. Still, Fraser hoped she was okay, that Worm wasn't planning some kind of fucked-up revenge for her too. Was somebody strangling her this very minute? Was Worm doing it himself? Would he cut her head off too?

But why would Worm want Uncle Phil dead?

Fraser's vision blackened at the edges. In the middle, spots and bars of colours hovered and drifted: livid purple and burnt orange and tangerine and scorched brown and lime green.

His eyes closed and he knew they'd never open again.

Prelude To A Savage Night

The Savages

ST ANDREW'S BUS station. Pretty small for a city the size of Edinburgh. A dozen or so lanes, or stances as they were called. Appropriate, really, since a stance was what you adopted when you were about to fight, and Tommy Savage was in a fighting mood.

It wasn't going to be a physical battle, though. No fists, or knives. Tommy didn't approve of that. No, this was a battle of minds. Just so long as Phil kept his eyes peeled and didn't get drunk and fall asleep or something equally stupid, then Tommy's plan should work.

Tommy closed the locker door, pocketed the key. He was going to follow the instructions to the letter.

He turned towards the exit. After a couple of steps, he imagined the consequences of losing the key, and dug it out of his pocket and clasped it in his hand. Held it tight as he strode past the seat where Phil was perched, pretending to read a magazine. Or maybe he was actually reading it. Riveted by the cartoons, no doubt. At least he was awake. And sober, although he was swigging from a can of lager.

Tommy ought to swipe it from him to make sure he
stayed
awake, but he walked past, spotting three more cans on the seat as he did so. Phil kept his colourful head buried in his paper. Tommy was glad those genes had bypassed
him
, although it'd look a lot better if Phil got it cut properly, or put a comb through it occasionally.

Anyway, everything was as it should be. No eye contact, no sign that they knew each other. If anybody was watching, they'd believe Tommy was alone.

Nothing for it. He'd had to place his trust in Phil. Tommy was hard on him sometimes, but only because he'd turned into a slob. But if you couldn't trust your own brother, that said a lot about the kind of person you were.

Tommy's instructions were to grab a taxi and head for an address in the west of the city.

Onwards and upwards, then. Up the escalator and out of the station.

The outside air hit him hard. It had grown chilly in the last hour. Felt like icy hands clasping his cheeks. He pulled his coat tighter around him. He ought to do up the zip but he didn't like wearing a zipped-up coat. It was like wearing a bag over your left shoulder. Plain wrong. But try explaining that to somebody (and he had), and you got nothing but strange looks. He kept his coat open, stuffed his hands in the pockets cause that's how he liked it.

Could feel his stomach rumbling through the lining. He hadn't been able to eat all day. Any stress and his stomach was always the first thing to go.

In Amsterdam, last month, for a few days, business trip—got a nice sale, too—Tommy'd been unable to eat a thing for twenty-four hours. Made him wonder how he hadn't succumbed to stomach ulcers over the years. Although, maybe he had. Maybe it was the ulcers that were burning in his stomach right now.

He'd had a financially comfortable existence for a long time. Prospered in a dangerous business for a few years without getting hurt and then got out of it as soon as he'd made enough to invest. He'd been lucky. Dad always said you couldn't go wrong if you bought property. Not that Dad had ever owned so much as a single brick himself, but that's where Tommy'd ploughed all his cash. And made a packet.