Savage Night (27 page)

"I'm running a fever."

"So you might die," Smith said. "I'll dig a grave for you in the garden. Dance on it afterwards."

"That's your plan? Let my cut go septic and watch me die?"

"Stop fucking bleating about a scratch."

"Is it?" Tommy said. "Is that the plan?"

"No, Savage. But the way you keep harping on, it would be a real bonus."

Tommy swallowed the rest of his water. "You want more money?"

"Don't piss me off."

Course not. Tommy knew that now. This wasn't about money. For either of them. He shivered again. "So what are you going to do?"

"You'll find out," Smith said. "Won't be long now." He pointed to the screen. "Keep watching."

***

IT BEGAN IN the evening, a couple of days later.

Smith had brought his chair into the bedroom, but he couldn't sit still. Kept getting up, pacing around, swinging the
katana—
usually in Tommy's direction—and putting the sword away again. Then he'd sit down for five minutes, watch the screen, and fiddle with his gun.

And he kept checking his watch.

And back to the sword again.

Tommy couldn't see the screen very well, seated where he was, upright against the headboard. But if he sat farther forward, that would bring him closer to Smith's periodic lunges and swipes. Still, Tommy inched forward, peering at the screen all the while, keeping Smith in his vision, making sure he wasn't getting too close. He edged forward, until he was at the end of the bed, Smith just a couple of feet away.

Tommy crossed his arms over his blanket.

On screen, Fraser was eating his dinner on the settee, watching TV. All Tommy could see were his feet.

At first Tommy had refused to look at the screen. He didn't want to know what Fraser got up to in the privacy of his own home. But he'd found the temptation impossible to resist. And by now he'd grown used to watching his son. Truth was, Tommy now felt compelled to watch. He felt that Fraser would want him to watch. He'd appreciate the fact that his old man was looking out for him.

Or maybe Tommy was thinking like that to make himself feel better. His emotions were all shot to fuck. He wasn't sure what he felt any longer. It was hard to do the right thing when you'd no idea what that was.

The only thing he did have much of a clue about was that Smith was planning something unpleasant, and the only thing that mattered was stopping him.

Tommy said to Smith, "Whatever you've got in mind, I'm begging you not to do it."

Smith stood still,
katana
aloft. "Did Greg Milne beg for his life?"

"I don't know. Believe me. I didn't kill him."

Smith sighed. "But you arranged it."

Tommy lowered his voice. "I arranged nothing. Doesn't matter how many times you say I did."

"You admitted it. Back in the woods."

"I'd have admitted anything. For what it's worth, that bastard fucked everybody over."

"You thought he was a bastard?"

"Yes. And not just me. There was a lot of pressure to make an example of him and I refused. I fucking refused. Whoever was responsible for his death had nothing to do with me. Or if they did, they acted in direct contradiction to my orders."

"So you're saying maybe they did have something to do with you?"

Tommy shook his head. "You're not listening."

"I think it's you who isn't listening."

"I had nothing to do with it."

"It doesn't matter." Smith stepped towards the bed. Tommy leaned away as Smith bent towards him. Smith said, "Because what you're about to witness, what you're about to experience, is not for what you did to Milne. It's for what you did to Grant."

That was different.

"Please," Tommy said. He'd promised himself he wouldn't beg, yet here he was pleading with Smith yet again. It was all he had left. "Don't."

"What fucks me off most," Smith said, "isn't your lies about Milne."

"It's the tr—"

"Shut up. What fucks me off is the way you won't take responsibility for my son's death."

Tommy swallowed. Licked his lips. "It was an accid … I won't say it again."

"No, don't. Maybe it was an accident. But kidnapping him and torturing him, that was your fucking fault."

"I didn't mean any harm."

"I don't give a fuck what you meant. Only what you did. It was your fault."

"I …" Tommy said. "I don't know."

"Your brother's fault, then? You saying he's solely to blame?"

"It was nobody's fault."

Smith raised the
katana
. "Another word, I fucking dare you."

Tommy held up his palms. "Okay, I'm guilty. It was my fault. Is that what you want to hear?"

A moment passed. Then Smith lowered the sword. "It's not about what I want to hear. It's about you accepting your role in Grant's death. Can you do that?"

"I didn't …" Tommy choked. "I …" He looked at Smith, stared him in the eye and whispered, "Yes."

"I didn't catch that."

"Yes," Tommy said.

"Grant died because of you?"

Tommy nodded.

"Say it."

"Grant died because of me."

"Wasn't so hard now, was it?"

"I'm sorry."

Smith pointed the sword at him. "You think an apology makes everything okay?"

"I didn't say that."

"Because it doesn't."

"No," Tommy said. "I didn't think it would."

Smith sat down, smiling.

Maybe because he knew he'd won.

Tommy had gone over and over that night in his head. Imagined different outcomes. Sometimes Grant survived. Sometimes he didn't try to bolt, just told them what they wanted to know. But the scenario Tommy kept returning to was the one where he arrived at the abandoned flat and immediately instructed Phil to let the boy go.

That's what he should have done.

What had happened to Grant
was
Tommy's fault. Looked at through a father's eyes, Smith was right. No way would he ever accept the blame himself and Tommy could understand that.

"Your boy's up to no good again," Smith said.

On the monitor, Fraser was kneeling on the floor, a line of coke laid out on a magazine. He chopped up the coke with a razorblade, inhaled it with a sweeping motion and leaned back.

After a while, he rose, tossed the magazine away and checked his wallet for cash, then vanished from the picture in the direction of the hallway.

"You have about half an hour," Smith said.

Tommy felt a pair of thumbs digging into his temples. He asked, "Till what?"

Smith picked up his chair and left the room.

Savage Night

1 AM

A White Van

IN THE VAN, approaching a set of traffic lights, Martin said, "There's no other way of making sure he'll keep his mouth shut."

Effie said, "He's listening."

"So?"

"This is ludicrous." Effie almost stalled the engine. The clutch took a bit of getting used to but she wasn't going to let Martin drive. Just cause all vehicles were designed for men of average height, didn't mean a petite woman couldn't cope. A Transit might have been a slightly tougher prospect, but they'd bought a second-hand Escort, cheap and disposable, even if it was a bit crammed in the back. So no excuses. If she could strangle a bloke a head taller than her, she could drive a bloody van. She pulled on the handbrake, waited for the lights to change.

She could feel Martin's eyes on her.

He said, "We should have … you know … back at the house."

She shook her head, kept her voice low. "Well, we couldn't."

"I know. Fuck, though. Can't be that hard."

"Go ahead," she said. "Try it."

"What, right now?"

"Yeah. Climb into the back and do it."

"I'm too big."

"You could squeeze through."

"Why don't you?"

"I don't want to."

He stayed silent. He was working something out. Effie gave him peace to do so and after a while, he said, "Why
can't
we do it, babe? Is it cause it's … unethical?"

"Big word."

"Big situation."

She chose not to respond.

He punched her lightly on the knee. "Well?" he said.

She shrugged. "Something like that. I dunno. He's a kid. Course it's unethical."

"Grant was a kid too."

She said, a vivid image of her brother's face in front of her, "I've no intention of killing anybody I don't want to. And I don't want to kill the kid."

"Fine." He paused. "Probably means we're all going to jail, Effie."

"Cut the crap, Martin."

"It's not—"

"Just shut up."

It was one in the morning. She'd just killed someone. Cut up his body. And this kid was a whisker away from having to die. Most likely because of her father. Not Martin. He wasn't to blame.

"Sorry," she said. "I'm tired."

"Want me to drive?"

"I'll be fine." She revved the engine. "Why are these twatting lights taking so long to change?"

She would have jumped them if she didn't have a couple of bodies in the back along with a kidnapped eleven-year-old, tied up and gagged. Hardly ideal circumstances in which to be taking risks just to get home to bed quicker. Anyway, bed was a way off yet. There was still a lot to do. Her head was fuzzy. She could have used a cup of coffee. Intended having one before they left Fraser's, but they'd had to leave in a hurry on account of her dad messing them around. He really was a dickhead sometimes.

"You want to try Dad again?"

"Sure," Martin said. "Doubt we'll get a response this time either, though."

There. At last. The lights changed. "Just try." Effie put her foot down. Kept just within the speed limit. "Please. We have to know what we're walking into."

Of course, there was no reply.

Martin put the phone away and Effie drove, awkwardly, Martin leaning against her. She didn't mind though. She liked the smell of him, fresh from the bath. She couldn't stay mad at him for long, especially after she'd realised it wasn't him she was mad at.

They headed out of town, west, along Dalry where straggles of drunk teenage girls stumbled along the pavements, through Gorgie, which was already much quieter. By the time they reached Saughton, the nighttime traffic had reduced to the occasional car, taxi, a coach. The new builds at Broomhouse passed on the right, and roundabout followed roundabout, causing Martin to sit up so Effie could change gear without banging his head off her arm or stalling. He yawned, dozed off again. They drove through Sighthill, then Calder.

They'd hit the Kilmarnock road and were out of the city when Jordan's phone rang. Muffled, but definitely a kid's song, fast and tuneful and chirpy. Effie felt the vibrations against her leg. Had three phones in there. Lucky she was wearing combats, so there was plenty of room.

She grabbed it, but it rang out before she could answer. She glanced at the keypad trying to figure out how to tell who'd called and was about to wake Martin and let him work it out when the phone rang again. This time it jolted him awake. He looked at her. She read the name on the display.