Dead I Well May Be (5 page)

Shouldn’t we get a doctor at least? I suggested.

Fucksake, Michael, would you shut the fuck up and come on, we’re taking care of it, Scotchy said.

I looked at Bridget but the wee girl was lost in the high drama of it all. She was clueless about anything medical. I knew that for a fact from when she tried to take a tiny wood skelf out of my finger with a hot knitting needle. I still have the fantastically large scar. Poor oul Andy could have a goddamn hemorrhage or anything, she wouldn’t know. Still, it was Scotchy’s call.

Ok, I said, and went downstairs with Fergal and Scotchy.

Scotchy began: So the plan is—

I interrupted him with a hand.

Scotchy, listen, before we go and do anything stupid, shouldn’t we talk to Darkey? I asked gently.

Aye, Scotchy, really we should talk to Darkey, Fergal said, for once erring on the side of sensible.

Scotchy was angry.

Jesus Christ, youse boys would ask Darkey if it’s ok to take a shite and ok afterwards to wipe your fucking arse. Didn’t you see Andy up there?

As a matter of fact, both Fergal and I probably
would
have asked permission to take a shite if Darkey were around. Darkey White didn’t get to be Darkey White by putting up with kids thinking they could run the show when he was off the stage. Don’t think of Darkey as Brando in
The Godfather
, think of him as Brando slumming it as Jor-el in
Superman
, all full of himself, overacting, clever, pretentious, and clearly a bit fucking bonkers. But still a heavy presence, distorting the well of gravity around him. Even when, like now, he was off the screen.

Scotchy, look, I began, I just don’t want us to get in trouble. Sunshine told me everything was off for today and—

Fucking Sunshine, are you afeared of him, too, ’fraid of your own shadow, Bruce? Now come on.

Fergal looked at me and shrugged. I sighed and followed them outside.

We piled into Scotchy’s brand-new brown Oldsmobile Something-shite, which was very uncomfortable and extremely uncool besides. The window wipers would come on every time you put on the left turn signal, but this was never a problem for Scotchy because he never used the turn signals. We drove for about ten minutes, up into some winding streets in Riverdale, into not a bad area but not a great one either. None of us said anything except for Scotchy, who was busy muttering to himself.

We were nearly there. Like I say, if it were me I wouldn’t have done anything until I’d talked to Darkey or at least Sunshine, but Scotchy wasn’t built that way. He wanted to show that he could handle things. He couldn’t but he wanted to show that he could. That was why we were the lowest members of the totem pole. That was how we ended up with the rubbish jobs and Bob’s crew ended up with the money jobs.

We stopped outside Shovel’s apartment building. This was the point for me to make a final plea for a quick wee phone call to Darkey, a minute, that’s all it would take. One of us had to be the grown-up and if it meant me, the youngest, taking on that role then so be it. I was going to do it too, but Scotchy got out of the car too fast and by the time I’d caught up to him, the moment was gone and I’d lost my nerve.

Got your pieces? Scotchy asked us. I nodded.

Ach, shite, I left it at home, Fergal said.

Dumb-ass fucker, Scotchy said, furious. See if there’s one in the glove compartment.

We all went back to the car. Fergal looked in the glove compartment, but there wasn’t anything useful there.

Hey, your lights are on, I said to Scotchy, but he made as if he didn’t hear me.

Your lights are on, I said again.

They’re on on purpose, he said angrily.

Oh yeah, what purpose is that? I persisted.

Jesus, Bruce. Look, it’s just a fucking purpose, ok? I don’t have to fill you in on every fucking detail, do I? Scotchy said, really boiling.

No, you don’t have to fill me in on every fucking detail, but you would inspire my confidence better, and Fergal’s too, no doubt, if you admitted that you made a mistake by leaving the fucking lights on
rather than trying to bullshit me with some line about having them on on fucking purpose. A good leader, Scotchy, admits his bloody mistakes.

All right, all fucking right, I fucking left them on by fucking accident, ok. Fucking, you fucking bastard, I’m not fucking Alexander the fucking Great but I would like you to do what I fucking tell you for once in your miserable fucking life.

Scotchy screamed all this at me, pretty near apoplexy.

Well, there goes the bloody element of surprise, I thought but didn’t mention.

Ok, fine, Scotchy, fine, I said.

Scotchy composed himself and looked daggers at me.

Do your deep breathing, Fergal suggested.

Shut up, Fergal, Scotchy said.

Aye, shut up, Fergal. You don’t know the burdens of command like Rommel over here, I said.

Scotchy untucked his black rayon shirt, seethed, scratched his arse, and said nothing. I grinned at Fergal.

Ok, Michael, Scotchy said, pulling me close. Let’s just get on with this, you and me first, Fergal behind us.

Fergal shook his head.

I don’t want to go if you two are fighting, he said.

Jesus, we’re not fighting, Fergal, I said.

Scotchy was rolling his eyes, but even he saw that he had to placate him.

It’s all over, Fergal, ok? he said.

Fergal was unconvinced. I put my arm around Scotchy.

Look, Fergal, we’re mates, me and Scotch, I said.

Fergal nodded.

I nodded.

W-what if he has a dog? Fergal asked me.

Fergal, I remembered, had a phobia about dogs. He probably got bitten as a kid or something.

Fergal, relax. Shovel doesn’t have a dog, I said.

He smiled, contented, and walked ahead of us into the building.

You think we can rely on Fergal? Seems a bit off, Scotchy whispered to me.

Ach, he’s ok, I whispered back.

The building door was locked, so Scotchy pressed several apartment buttons until someone buzzed us in.

Third floor, Scotchy said. He was tense. He was giving off a ton of sweat and a stink of fear. I was feeling fine. I had a .22, Scotchy had a .38, and lanky Fergal was not, despite appearances, a complete idiot. We’d be ok. Probably. We went up the stairs and stopped outside the apartment. Number 34.

Ring the bell or break it down? Fergal asked.

Scotchy was thinking.

Make a lot of noise breaking it down, I said.

Aye, you’re right there, Bruce, Scotchy said, fumbling for his pack of Tareyton. We all waited while he lit one.

Ok, you ring it, Fergal, we’ll keep out of sight, Scotchy said finally.

Fergal rang the bell.

Who is it? a woman’s voice asked.

Fergal Dorey, Fergal said.

What was that?

Friend of Shovel’s.

He’s not here. He went out, the woman said.

Fergal hesitated and looked back at us.

You’ve got one of those new microwaves for him, Scotchy whispered.

Aye, I have his microwave for him, Fergal said.

His microwave? the woman asked.

Yes.

There was a long pause and we could hear footsteps down the hall. There was a pause and footsteps coming back.

The door opened and Shovel was standing there grinning.

Fergal, you bastard, you finally brought—Shovel started to say, but Scotchy was yelling at Fergal now:

Grab the fucker, grab him.

Fergal charged through the doorway and rugby-tackled Shovel to the ground. I bundled in behind Scotchy and closed the door.

Later that evening on the ride back on the IRT, when I thought, wrongly, that the night was all over and done with, I replayed everything that happened. The whole house of horrors. Bridget cleaning the blood out of my shirt, the food stop, the car ride, and most of all the feathers over Shovel. I wasn’t a sadist, I wasn’t enjoying it. But I wanted to remember. It was a lot to take in at once and I wanted to be sure I had it all. I needed to know that I was certain of what I was doing. I wasn’t just being carried away by youth and emotion. Things were happening and I was part of them. But also occasionally I was stopping, analyzing events and saying to myself that it was all ok by me. And it
was
ok, too. Why? I don’t know. That’s another question entirely.

Mrs. Shovel, or whatever her real name was, had appeared in the hall. All four of us stood in the apartment’s corridor. It was wallpapered in flowers, narrow. It was hard to move. She had to be in her early thirties, tough-looking, suntanned, surprisingly pretty. She had a black wig on, flip-flops, a nightie. She was yelling. Scotchy smacked her across the face with his gun. She went down like a doll, thumping into a picture frame, breaking it. Shovel screamed and tried to get up. but I had the .22 in his face.

One move, big guy, and I’ll have to shoot you, I said, trying to bring an air of calm to the proceedings.

Scotchy had the opposite agenda. He bent down and started beating Shovel with the butt of his pistol. He was roaring. It wasn’t entirely coherent. Spitting the words out:

Fucker, why did you do it, why, you fucking idiot? Are you stupid? Did you think we wouldn’t know? Did you think we were such fucking pussies that we wouldn’t do nothing? Huh? Is that what you thought?

Blood was pouring from Shovel’s face. He was protesting. He was innocent. He had no idea what Scotchy was talking about. Fergal was still sitting on him. Scotchy took the pistol butt and smashed it into Shovel’s mouth. He started to struggle wildly. I sat down on his legs and Fergal wedged himself on the torso. Scotchy stood up and started kicking him in the back and head. He exhausted himself after a few seconds. Blood was everywhere now. It was on our clothes and pooling dark and awful on the wood floor. Shovel had lost consciousness.

Get a pillow, get two, Scotchy barked at Fergal.

Fergal went off to find the bedroom.

Are you going to shoot him? I asked dispassionately.

Aye, I’m going to shoot him, Scotchy said.

I felt myself go a bit weak. This I hadn’t signed on for. The teen rackets seldom came to this in the Cool or Greenisland or Carricktown. A chill went through me. I’d never seen a real murder before and I didn’t want to now.

Fortunately, I was not to break my duck that night, for even Scotchy was not that big of an eejit.

Belfast six-pack, he said after a pause.

Harsh, I said.

With fucking Andy dying on us, probably brain-damaged for life, Scotchy yelled in my face, spittle landing on my cheeks.

I said nothing. He glared at me.

Fergal came back with the pillows.

Fergal, turn the TV on, loud, Scotchy said.

Fergal went off again. I looked at Scotchy and then at Shovel.

I’ll do it, I said. Better the .22 for the noise.

Scotchy nodded. I was thinking more of Shovel than the noise. Me with a .22 was going to be a lot easier to get over than Scotchy with the .38. I put one pillow over his ankle and pushed the gun in deep. I waited until the TV got loud. I pulled the trigger. Feathers, blood. I did the other ankle. Same again. Cordite, the pillow caught fire. I put it out. I did the left knee and Shovel convulsed and woke and vomited. Scotchy knocked him out with a surprisingly deft kick to the temple. I did the other knee and gave the gun to Fergal to do the elbows. I couldn’t hack it anymore. I stood and took a breath. Scotchy thought I was just giving Fergal the weapon because he was in a better position. He didn’t realize I was on the verge of fainting or puking. Fergal shot him in an elbow, messily. I should have done it myself. Not that I was any expert, but I’d more sense than him. I took a breath and grabbed the gun back.

More like this, Fergal, I said and shot him in the other elbow, aiming for the fleshy parts. His body convulsed and there was just the bleeding and the feathers and a low moan from the wife.

I remembered to breathe again.

It was a terrible thing. It had been ugly. Kicking someone, punching
them, is one thing but shooting an unconscious man six times is something else. A mate, too.

All three of us got up. We stood there, stunned.

Six shots, Belfast six-pack, Scotchy said in a whisper, and a gurgle that apparently was laughter came into his mouth. Fergal nodded and broke into a smile.

Always wondered what that meant. Is that really how they do it, Michael? he asked, quietly awed.

That, Fergal, is how they do it, I said clinically, as if it was all second nature to me now, as if I’d maybe seen it dozens of times. Perhaps it was even a little tedious. Of course I’d never done it, seen it once and had been sick for a week. Fergal looked at me in a new light. I was quite the cold motherfucker. He would spread it around too. Even Scotchy, I could see, was a bit appalled by what we had accomplished. Last time in the Four P. Shovel had bought us all a round.

Their discomfort was an opportunity and I took it.

Let’s go, I said and opened the door. The others followed. Scotchy was going to kick him on the way out but he felt bad now and didn’t. We were spattered with blood, but it was night and the car was just outside. Scotchy was shaking and trying not to show it. He handed me the keys.