Savage Night (13 page)

"As big as an ostrich egg," the doctor had said. Young guy, neat beard, liked to grin.

Phil had tried to sit up, but the doc eased him back down.

"Not yet," the doc said. "Just going to take an x-ray." He showed his teeth.

"Of the egg?"

The doc didn't reply.

Phil couldn't understand why the doc had lied. Ostrich eggs were massive and the lump on his head was never that big. Didn't seem to be any rhyme or reason to it.

Anyway, the swelling had gone down now.

Phil slugged some more beer. His skull still felt tender but at least it was back to its normal shape. No longer felt like somebody else's.

"No lasting damage," the doc had said.

Well, maybe, but Phil was finding it hard to think straight. Mind you, he always did, if you asked Tommy. His brother thought Phil was stupid. Told him so, as often as possible. Oh, not straight out: "You're thick as mince." Not since they were kids, anyway. He was more subtle these days. Little digs. But enough of them and they scoop out a hole big enough for a body to fall into.

Phil felt himself topple forwards, heard the blast of a car horn, jerked himself upright.

Tommy was the brains, you see. Phil was the muscle. Phil did what he was told. Which was fine. If that's what people thought, there wasn't much Phil could do about it. Everybody had their own opinions. Didn't really matter. An opinion wasn't right or wrong, by its very nature. Just an opinion, eh?

Phil's opinion was that Tommy was nothing. Not without Phil. Which was why Phil was behind the wheel when he shouldn't be. For Tommy's sake. Shit, he didn't mind. Although it'd be nice to get thanked occasionally. Never happened, though, not once. Tommy took him for granted, the bastard. Any time he was in trouble, Phil sorted it out. And the fucker never even remembered Phil's birthday.

Phil burped, a real belter from the back of the throat.

Well, Tommy was in real trouble now. And Phil was sorting it out once again. Yeah, never mind the missed birthdays. Birthdays were for kids. And Phil was the forgiving sort anyway. Phil never missed one of
his
, though. Not once in the best part of fifty years. Well, maybe when they were kids. No money to buy presents, then. But, you know, he'd never missed an adult birthday. In however many years that was. That was it. Not that he cared. They were just birthdays.

Dad said, "Blow out your candles, Phil."

Phil took a breath and blew so hard he thought his eyes might pop out.

Seven of the candles went out. One flickered but the flame didn't die.

"You didn't do it," Tommy said.

Phil punched him in the ribs and Tommy started to cry.

Dad sent Phil to his room. On his fucking birthday.

The traffic lights finally changed. Must be some malfunction. They'd been on red far too long.

Phil couldn't get going though, cause there was a guy halfway across the road. An old geezer, stooped like a beaten kid, wearing a long pale coat that dragged along the ground. Needed a walking stick and didn't have one.

Phil revved the engine, hooted the horn, pointed his bottle at him. None of that helped so Phil made a face.

That hurried him up a bit.

The geezer turned near the kerb and waved. Taunting him, the old coot.

Phil should get out and smack him one, teach him a lesson. Might have done just that, but he had a meeting with Martin Milne. Probably didn't want to get into a fight, anyway, even with an old git. Just in case he landed a lucky shot. Phil wasn't at his best right now. But he'd had the x-ray and his head was fine. They'd kept him in the hospital overnight as a precaution. But he was home by lunchtime.

He couldn't remember being hit. Remembered bits afterwards. It was all like he was drunk, though.

Lying there on the ground for ages, stiff and cold, feeling like somebody'd dropped the back end of a truck on his head. Finally he'd got it together and scrabbled to his feet. Knew he ought to phone an ambulance but also knew he shouldn't. He wasn't sure why.

What should he do, then? Phone somebody. Get out of here. Go home. Go to bed. What had happened? That's how he was thinking. In fucked-up snatches.

He took out his phone. Looked through the names in his contacts. Only one made sense: Tommy. He remembered Tommy. Where was he? Phil looked for his brother and thought he saw him, but it was just a tombstone lying on the ground like a flat person. There was no sign of Tommy.

Phil called him. No answer. Phil wanted to leave a message but couldn't think of the words. He hung up and called again. Same result.

So he took another quick look around, couldn't see anyone, just more flattened tombstones, and staggered down the path. He'd lost something. No idea what. Flashes of something bright, shiny, sharp. The information was in his head, but the harder he tried to locate it, the sicker he felt. Just out of the graveyard, he fell to his knees and spewed. Didn't help him remember, but he felt better. A little.

Dizzy, legs about to give out, he walked down the path. He had to sit down before long. Thought about staying there. But he had somewhere to go. Not home, no. Another place. Where sick people went.

Hospital! That was the fella.

He got there, but it was a mystery how. He couldn't remember a thing.

Taxi? Wasn't possible. It wouldn't have stopped. He looked drunk and taxi drivers didn't like alkies.

But somehow he'd made it.

Yeah, everything was stop-start. For a while. With chunks of time missing.

The doc said, "Turn your head to the side."

"I'll be sick."

"You have to turn your head to the side."

He did. And was sick.

Sometime later the doctor said, "You're feeling better."

"I am?"

"Are you?"

"I think so."

"Your head still hurts?"

He nodded. Bad idea. It hurt.

"Can you tell me your name?"

He could.

"And your address?"

He could.

"That's great," the doctor said. "There are some gentlemen here to see you."

They weren't gentlemen. They were cops.

They asked him what he'd been up to. How he'd hurt his head.

"Fell," he said.

"The doctor tells us you were hit."

"Don't remember."

"So you didn't fall?"

"Don't remember."

They handed him a card and told him to phone if his memory returned.

When Phil left the hospital, first thing he did was call his mum. He'd already called Tommy several times that morning. In the toilets. Private. In case. But no joy. He remembered more of what had happened in the cemetery. Couldn't remember being hit and hadn't seen who'd hit him. But no prizes for guessing.

Smith had taken Tommy. Fuck.

"Where is he?" Mum said when Phil called.

"Where's who?" He knew it was stupid as soon as he'd said it. He was the stupid one all right.

"Tommy. Who do you think?"

"Hoping you'd be able to tell me."

A long shot. But, no. Tommy hadn't gone home. Mum thought he was with Phil. Thought he'd stayed over. She was pissed off with him for leaving her with Jordan. Not that she minded but he could have given her some warning. She was pissed off with him for not answering his phone too.

Phil made some shit up but it didn't calm her down. Since when had Tommy started sleeping around like a teenager? Phil wasn't sure.

"New girlfriend. You know how it is."

But she didn't. She hung up.

Phil knew why Smith was doing this. He had no idea who Smith was. Or how he fitted in. But Phil knew what it was about.

Smith was playing some kind of blackmail card. Holding something over Tommy. But Tommy was clean, always had been. Phil did the dirty work. Tommy didn't have the stomach for it. Had the brains, maybe, but those weren't much good sometimes.

That Milne fucker. That's what this was about.

You try to do something for the best and somebody screws it up. The fucker was a professional, too.

This hired killer was chopping Milne up, everything all fine and dandy. Then some lovey-dovey couple spots him. It's two in the fucking morning, in the woods. Can't get any peace anywhere. So the killer leaves the body. He runs. It's touch and go. But he gets away with it. Milne's dead, which is a start. But not what Phil wanted. Phil wanted him disappeared, all neat and clean.

Next day Tommy finds out. Says, "Somebody cut Greg Milne's head off. Why would anybody do that?"

Phil shrugged.

Tommy pushed. "You think of a reason?"

"Cause he was a thieving bastard?"

"You saying
I
had a reason?"

"Thought you'd already said that."

"What do you mean?"

"You told Jean you were going to kill him."

"Jean?" Tommy said. "Jean. The wife. Right. You still shagging her?"

Phil said nothing. He twisted the ring she'd bought him, round and round his finger. Quarter turns. A Viking longship. Silver. He'd had to take it back and get a bigger one. The new one fitted like a charm. Nobody'd ever bought him jewellery before.

"Cause if you are," Tommy said, "the police will want to speak to you."

"It's over. Long time ago."

"Where
were
you last night?"

"Party at Harris's house. Drank beer. Watched some porn. Fell asleep."

"Cosy."

"What're you saying, Tommy?"

"Sure you weren't with her?"

"You don't believe me?"

Tommy eyeballed him. "You have anything to do with what happened to Milne?"

"Jesus. You not listening? What do you take me for?"

Tommy continued to stare at him. Phil held his gaze. Easy.

"Okay," Tommy said, looking away. "Just wondering." He scratched an eyebrow. "Who do you think it was?"

"Killed Milne? Guy was an alchy. And a thief. And in debt up to his eyeballs. Christ knows who he pissed off."

Tommy didn't want to know. Not really. Which was fine with Phil. Let Tommy think everything was above board. Tommy was a funny guy. Smuggling fags was okay. No violence, though. He didn't approve.

About a week later Phil met with the Spanish kid, Carlos. He looked about twelve, immediately demanded the rest of his money. As arranged. Phil wouldn't give it to him, though.

"Half-arsed job," Phil told him. "No way."

"I tell the police," Carlos said.

"Tell them what?"

"Thomas Savage hires a man to kill Greg Milne."

Phil smiled. "What makes you think I'm Thomas Savage?"

"Your car. When we meet first, I have it checked. Registered to Thomas Savage."

"Okay." Phil paid the man. Let him believe his lie. It was Tommy's money, anyway. Phil had nicked it to set up Milne. Easy. The fucker shouldn't have hit Jean. Could have broken her jaw.

***

PHIL NEVER SLEPT with Jean again. She was convinced Tommy'd had her husband killed. Phil was a reminder, so she said. He looked nothing like Tommy and pointed that out. They did try. A couple of times. But it didn't work for either of them. She had some kind of breakdown, not for the first time. He wanted to help. He made her worse, she said.

***

OUTSIDE THE PUB, Phil pulled into a parking space.

He looked around, checked his watch. He was early.