Dark Times in the City (36 page)

Not going to happen
.

The sensible thing to do was kill the fat barman and do a fade.

‘
We keep him alive until we’re sure we don’t need him
,’ Lar had said.

Karl rang Robbie’s number again and a voice at the other end said, ‘Yeah?’

‘Robbie?’

‘Yeah, who is this?’

‘I want to speak to Robbie.’

‘He can’t speak right now – who is this?’

Karl cut the call off.

Cop
.

Shit
.

If Robbie had been pulled, chances were that Lar too had been arrested.

Karl rang his wife.

‘Anyone looking for me?’

‘Two fellas.’

Definitely the police
.

‘They still there?’

‘They just asked if you’d been home last night, then they went away.’

‘Are they watching the house?’

‘Where were you last night?’

‘Are they watching the house?’

‘No, I don’t think so. Why didn’t—’

‘Pack a bag for me. Just a shirt and jeans, socks and stuff. Pull out—’

‘Karl, what—’

‘
Fuck sake
– pull out the left-hand side drawer of the dressing table – can you remember that? The left-hand side drawer – reach underneath. There’s an envelope taped to the bottom of the drawer. Put it in the bag with the clothes. Don’t open it.’

‘Karl—’

‘Bring the bag to the corner shop. Buy something – leave the bag with the guy behind the counter, tell him – tell him you have to go out and I’m coming to collect my clothes, I’ve a job to do down the country, tell him that.’

‘Karl—’

‘Do it now. I don’t have time for messing around.’ He ended the call.

Karl turned and looked at the fat barman.

Best thing to do, no question, was plug him now. If he had to do a runner, no way was he leaving this bastard alive.

What if Lar surfaces and we need this bag of shit?

Lar’s got lawyers ready for a thing like this. They’d be all over the cops, looking for a loophole. Lar might walk. He might yet turn up, with a plan to pull this off. And that plan might need the fat barman alive.

Okay. No need to panic
.

It wouldn’t take too long to collect the bag from the corner shop.
And if he hadn’t heard from Lar by then, come back here, the fat fuck dies and Karl disappears.

He took Novak by the hair, pulled his head back and checked that the silver tape was secure. He smacked the barman’s face hard against the steel support and was satisfied to see a bubble of blood come from the fat fuck’s nose and run down the silver tape.

As Karl walked away he called back, ‘You said your prayers yet, barman?’

Callaghan tapped the buttons on his phone and held his breath while he listened to it ring at the other end. When his name came up on her screen, she mightn’t even—

‘What do you want?’ Hannah’s voice was cold.

Callaghan reckoned he was a mile, maybe a mile and a half, from the Carrigmore Park industrial estate. He didn’t know what he’d find there, if anything, and he needed to know if Hannah was all right. If he’d had time, it was the kind of call he’d have made while sitting at a table, after a couple of coffees and an hour of working himself up to it. He didn’t know if he’d ever again have an hour of time to do anything.

‘Are you okay?’

‘What do you want?’

‘I just need to know that you’re okay.’

When Hannah spoke, it was as though she was writing the words one by one on a blackboard, big and stark. ‘Do not
ever
contact me
ever
again.’ And she was gone.

Callaghan put the phone away, an icy wave flooding through his blood.

Somewhere, an earlier part of his life, a source of warmth to which he had stubbornly clung, was finally closing itself down. Among the emotions still simmering from the abortive call to
Hannah he recognised regret, and relief. The future, whatever it was, would have to be handled on its own terms.

Always assuming that the future could be measured in anything other than minutes.

To be on the safe side, just in case someone came mooching, Karl Prowse had parked his car about forty yards from the warehouse. All the way there, the nagging thought – maybe he ought to just kill the fat bar owner now, take off and not look back. He was reaching for the ignition, still in two minds, when a car came around the old tyre warehouse, just inside the entrance to the industrial estate, Danny Callaghan at the wheel. Callaghan cut the engine, coasted to a stop and came out of the car in a hurry. At Lar’s warehouse he gently tried the handle of the smaller door set into the main door. When that didn’t work he took something from his pocket and worked on the lock.

Christmas is here early
.

Karl waited until the smart bastard went inside. Then he tapped the gun tucked into his belt and strolled back down towards the warehouse.

The silver tape was off Novak’s mouth. Danny Callaghan was leaning over, the Stanley knife cutting the plastic tie and releasing Novak’s hands when Novak shouted ‘
Danny!
’ and Callaghan turned and saw Karl Prowse coming at speed, a baseball bat at the ready.

He had time to raise an arm before the bat swung. He screamed as his right wrist took the blow and he dropped the Stanley knife and fell back.

Novak was scrambling to his feet.

Karl dropped the baseball bat and there was a gun in his hand and he pointed it at Novak’s face.

‘Sit down, hands on your head.’

Novak did as he was told, his legs stiff and awkward.

Karl bent over Danny Callaghan, who was clutching his right arm.

‘What you got here, smart bastard?’ Karl held the gun inches from Callaghan’s head. He reached down, tugged at Callaghan’s left sleeve and pulled out the carving knife.

‘Not very friendly.’

Karl threw the carving knife towards the far end of the warehouse. Then he picked up the Stanley knife and did the same. He rooted in Callaghan’s pockets, found his mobile and stamped on it until it came apart.

‘How did you find this place?’

Callaghan turned to Novak. ‘You okay?’

‘Still here.’

‘I’m sorry about this. Nothing to do with you.’

Karl was shouting. ‘How did you
find
this fucking place?’

Callaghan turned back to Karl. ‘You know Lar Mackendrick’s dead?’

Karl said nothing, his gun hand erratic, pointing this way and that.

‘It was on the radio – someone shot him and burned the house down. The police found two bodies.’

Karl said, ‘That’s bollocks.’

Novak lowered his hands from his head. He held them out towards Karl. ‘Look, fella, whatever this is about, holding us here’s only going to make—’

Karl shot him.

Novak knew he was on his back, he knew he’d been shot. He didn’t know if it had happened a moment ago or an hour ago. He could
see Danny Callaghan leaning over him, saying something, but he couldn’t make it out.

No pain.

A rush, he could feel it in his blood.

This may be—

People get shot, they come back from it—

Uh—

It was as though a broadsword had suddenly cut a wide channel through his belly, tearing his flesh asunder. The pain enveloped him and he looked up at Danny Callaghan and he moaned and it took a moment before he realised he’d made no noise and Callaghan couldn’t hear him, it was all going dark.

Karl Prowse raised the gun and said, ‘Get away from him!’ and Danny Callaghan said, ‘
Fuck off!
’ and knelt beside Novak. With every movement, Callaghan’s right wrist blazed with pain.

Broken
.

Novak was pale, still. Callaghan touched his throat and Novak’s pulse was ragged.

‘Novak?’

No answer. His eyes were half open but it was hard to tell if he was conscious. His breathing was shallow. He’d been hit in the stomach and blood was soaking his grey shirt. Callaghan reached towards it, then stopped. He had no idea what to do.

He stood up.

‘There’s no need for this. He’s got nothing to do with anything. You’re going to kill me – so do it – get the hell out of here, call an ambulance, give him a chance.’

‘Why?’

‘
Come on!
’

Karl’s face was blank. ‘Any last words?’

Callaghan braced himself for the impact of the bullet, but Karl
was enjoying the anticipation. Killing Callaghan would be a rush, but once he did it the fun would be over.

Karl held the gun as if he was weighing it mentally, showing Callaghan his smile.

Callaghan said, ‘You don’t even know you’re alive.’

Karl pursed his lips, eased the smirk off his face, as though it mattered to him that he be seen to be cool.

Callaghan turned away. He walked over to the sink and ran the cold tap. He watched the water hit the base of the sink, swirl and rush to the plughole. He listened to the sound it made and tried to tune out the pain in his wrist.

He felt Karl’s gaze on him and he resisted the urge to turn and face the gun. Despite the sense of horror that enveloped him, he was fairly sure that Karl wouldn’t shoot him in the back. He was the kind who wanted to see the face of his victim as the end came.

This is how I die
.

Callaghan glanced at the drainer, scarred and dented but clean, like someone had taken trouble with it. Nothing in the sink except a mug, a bowl and a soup spoon. A knife or a fork might have made a difference, but probably not.

No point crying about it
.

It’s what it is
.

He reached down and touched the running water, let the steady, cold flow wash over his hand. He cupped his hand and carried a few drops to his lips.

As soon as he turned around Karl would shoot him and his body would become a vacant container, collapsed untidily on the floor, all life vanishing instantly, like air from a burst balloon. It was important that these moments not be lost to panic.

This is how I die
.

Callaghan was aware of the muscles in his stomach and the balance of his poised trunk, the tension in his legs, the pain in his wrist. He stretched his head back, his neck flexing to one side and
then the other. His tongue found moisture on his lips. He looked up into the mirror above the sink and he saw his own face.

He turned off the tap.

No need to waste water
.

He heard a grunt from somewhere behind and when Danny turned around he saw Novak struggling to get to his feet.

Karl Prowse is smiling.

Too fucking much!

The fat barman’s corpse has rolled over. One knee pressing into the floor, the upper body jerking into a half-upright position, the dickhead’s face white, his mouth hanging open, tongue off to one side.

Karl leans forward, smile widening, as the fat dickhead’s corpse strains to speak.

Eyes half shut, blood on his face, red stain on his belly.

A croak comes out.

‘
Beast
. . .’

You have to give the fat dickhead credit.

Every breath he can suck up, every beat he can coax out of that drained heart – dead man, and he’s still trying.

Karl looks at Callaghan, standing by the sink, gives him a big smile, then points his pistol at the dickhead’s corpse, squeezes the trigger and is immediately rewarded with the flat
tuhhhh
of a bullet hitting flesh and a splotch of red on the dickhead’s chest. From a half-sitting position Novak instantly falls straight back, the body hitting the ground with the finality of a door slamming shut.

Karl considers his work for a moment, then aims again at the corpse.

*

The first bullet hit Callaghan in the hip as he lurched towards Karl. The second smacked a hole in the roof as Karl went down on his back, Callaghan’s weight knocking him over, Callaghan’s left hand desperately reaching for the gunman’s right forearm, up near the wrist of the hand that held the gun.

Callaghan’s useless right hand trailed off to one side, throbbing with pain. He strained to hold Karl’s arm rigid, pushing it down and outwards, limiting the gunman’s freedom of movement. He felt the jolt as the gun fired a third time, heard the sound of the bullet smacking into metal.

Callaghan grunted as Karl’s free hand punched his side, once, twice.

Locked together by their combined grip, Callaghan’s hand and Karl’s were like a single twisted limb, the muscles and ligaments knotted together, straining for control.

Then—

Fuck, no
.

Callaghan could feel the balance shift.