Savage Night (15 page)

"So if Grant didn't show at the bus station, how come we know to go to the cemetery?"

"Now that," Phil said, "is a much better question. I'll have to think about it."

Phil shone the light over Grant again. Dark lines dribbled down what remained of the glass in the door. A finger twitched. And again.

"We have to do something, Phil."

"How about this, then?" Phil said, ignoring him. "Grant did show. But we gave him a doing and he told us where to meet Smith."

"If that's what you want."

"We have the money. And we wanted Smith's identity. But maybe we can go one better."

Tommy didn't know what he was talking about. "Let's get Grant some help."

"Fine," Phil said again, shining the light up and down the glass, tracing what looked like paint drips. "Just tell me what you want to do."

"I told you. Call an ambulance."

"They'll contact the police."

"It was an accident."

"Yeah," Phil said, "but I hit him. Kidnapped him. Taped him to a chair. And then we scared him. So much, he tried to do a runner. Through a plate-glass door. The police might not agree it's an accident."

Tommy couldn't think. He felt as if somebody'd taken the top off his head and drizzled honey all over his brain. He said, "So what do you think we should do?"

"Well, first,
we
don't tell the cops anything. I'll phone in. Won't give my name. Tell them I heard a disturbance. Shouts and screams. I'll exaggerate. Make it seem urgent. That way, Grant's got a chance. If he has enough blood in him."

"And then?"

"We have a choice, Tommy. One option is to do nothing. You take the money. Go home. Wait for Smith to get in touch. Wait for him to do whatever it was you were so scared of before tonight. Cause nothing's changed. Apart from how mad he'll be when he finds out about Grant. The boy's got to be somebody he knows. Might be his little cousin. Or his nephew."

"You have to be so fucking negative?"

"Or we can do what I suggested," Phil said. "Go to the cemetery and nail the bastard. Get him out of your life once and for all."

"Nail him?"

Phil nodded. "Yeah."

"You mean what I think you mean?"

"Nobody'll know."

"I'm a businessman. I can't go around … nailing people."

"Look at Grant here."

"He's an accident."

"So I heard. You're making a mistake, Tommy."

"I can't take the chance."

"You never could."

"Fuck you," Tommy said. "Let me think about it."

"There's no time to waste thinking."

Phil was right. Besides, Tommy couldn't think. "Maybe we could just scare him a bit."

"Now you're talking," Phil said. "We'll need weapons."

"Oh, Jesus, Phil. That's too much."

"We're not going to scare him by pulling faces. And he might not be alone." He paused. "Just for show."

"You know where to get guns?"

"You any idea how hard it is to get guns in this city? And at this kind of short notice?" He smiled. "Tell you what I
can
get, though."

***

PHIL DROVE. HE'D always been the better driver and speed was essential.

Tommy clutched the bag on his lap, listened to the revs of the engine. He felt better now, more together, although there was an odd pressure in his head like he hadn't slept in days, and his hand was shaking and he didn't seem to be able to stop it. At least he was able to think straight. Enough to know that he had to take charge. Couldn't have Phil in control or they'd both be fucked. "What're we going to do with the money?" Tommy asked. He couldn't take it home, stash it somewhere safe. No time for that.

Phil glanced at him, at the bag. "Maybe we should have left it with Grant."

"The police would find it."

"Not if we don't call them."

"Jesus, Phil," Tommy said. "Keep your eyes peeled for a phone box."

It was safe to make the call now. They'd put enough distance between themselves and Grant that there was no fear of getting flagged down in the vicinity, asked awkward questions like why they were in possession of fifty grand in cash.

"You sure you want to?" Phil said.

Tommy just looked at him.

Took a couple of minutes, but they found one. It was empty. Probably meant it was broken, though.

"You mind doing it?" Tommy said.

Phil didn't say anything, just opened the door and scuttled out of the car. While he made the call to the police, Tommy watched some drunk lads walk past, scooping chips into their mouths. He had to look away or risk throwing up.

He closed his eyes, banged the back of his head off the seat, said, "Fuck", under his breath. Did it again, harder and louder. And again.

Kept it up cause it stopped him thinking about what had happened. After a while his hands stopped shaking.

"You shouting about?" Phil said when he came back.

"How'd it go? They believe you?"

Phil put the car in gear, headed off. "I said I was a neighbour. Heard a noise. Went to see what was going on. Found the door open. Wandered inside. Saw somebody lying in a pool of blood. Yeah, they believed me."

"Good."

"Yeah, terrific."

They didn't speak for a while, long enough for the tremble to creep back into Tommy's hands. He checked his watch. "You want to put your foot down?" he said. Time was tight if they were going to make the rendezvous with Smith in the graveyard.

"And get stopped for speeding?"

Tommy looked at the speedo. "Sorry," he said. "I'm sorry, Phil. I'm really sorry."

"Yeah, no big deal. Anyway, we'll be at Worm's soon. Maybe he'll look after the money for you."

Tommy knew Phil's mate by reputation only. Something of an eccentric. Worm claimed he hadn't slept in twenty years. "I'm sure he's a great bloke," Tommy said. "But if he looked in the bag and saw all this cash, he might be tempted to keep it."

"You'll just have to keep the money on you, then."

"I'm not leaving it in the car. Some joyriding hoodie will be off with it in no time."

"Keep it on you, I said."

"Can't take it to the cemetery."

"Why not?"

"Smith'll love that."

"Doesn't matter what Smith loves. He's going to be dead meat in an hour or so."

Tommy got a flash of Grant, wedged in the doorway, blood running down the glass, blood dripping onto the floor. Tommy couldn't handle any more bloodshed. "Dead meat?" he said.

"In a manner of speaking. You're not chickening out, are you?"

Tommy looked at his brother. "No," he said.

"Cause I can go to the cemetery alone."

"Don't wind me up."

"I'm serious. I'll go to the cemetery. You take the money somewhere safe."

"I can't let you do that."

"Think I can't handle Smith?"

"I think you might handle him too well."

Phil banged the steering wheel with the heel of his hand. "You want to keep an eye on me?" He puffed his cheeks out, nodded slowly. "Okay, look, you keep the money on you. We find Smith. We … sort him out. Nothing too heavy. Just enough for him to get the message. Threat's over. And you get to keep the money. Okay?"

Tommy swallowed. "That easy, eh?"

Phil speeded up a little. "Don't see why not."

Tommy wished he had a tenth of his brother's confidence. He wanted to reach over and give his arm a squeeze. Then he remembered the slap in the face. He could still feel the warmth in his cheek. He kept his arm by his side.

"One thing I'd like to know," Phil said. "What did you do that pissed this guy off so much?"

Tommy paused. Good question. "I've no idea."

"Come on. You can tell me."

"Honestly, Phil, I haven't a clue." The closest he'd come to an answer was the nursing home guy's death. That was supposed to be significant. "The name McCracken mean anything to you? Eric McCracken?"

Phil slowed down, pulled into a parking space near a bizarre concrete building that looked like it'd been built in the sixties. He switched off the engine, took his gloves off. "Nope," he said. "Not a bloody thing."

***

WORM WAS EXPECTING them. Or so he said. So why he opened the door dressed in what looked like a hospital gown was a puzzle.

Phil made the introductions without commenting on the gown. Worm glanced at the bag in Tommy's hand, then led them inside. The gown was open at the back and Tommy got an eyeful of Worm's hairy arse as he waddled along the corridor in front of them.

Tommy looked at Phil, who shrugged.

The walls were decorated with lots of paintings of military scenes. Battles, regimental marching, cannons, swords. Lots of swords.

The sitting room was spacious, looked comfortable and reeked of dope. A long-haired blonde slouched on the sofa, struggling to keep her eyes open. She was wearing a hospital gown, too. She said hello to Phil, got to her feet, shook Tommy's hand. "Make yourselves at home, gentlemen. You'll have to excuse me." She padded across the room. "I'm dog tired. Gotta catch some shut-eye. Have to do the sleeping for both of us."

Her gown was open at the back, too, her buttocks smooth and nicely chubby.

"Night, Simone," Worm said. And to them: "Want a drink of something?"

"Beer," Phil said.

Tommy said, "We're in a bit of a rush."

"Cool," Worm said. "Wait there. I'll get my girls."

He vanished, returned shortly afterwards with a bottle of beer and a couple of swords. A big bastard, and a smaller one. He gave the beer and the big bastard to Phil.

"Two-handed claymore," Worm said. "Has its restrictions. But it's a nice weapon. Here." He took it from Phil. "Heavy beast. Five and a half pounds. You're probably best not to try cutting or thrusting. Takes a bit of getting used to. Just dunt the fucker over the head with it. Slap like that, he won't get up again in a hurry."

To demonstrate, Worm thumped the blade on the arm of the sofa. "Have a go," he said.

Phil took the sword and tried a few practice dunts.

Tommy's sword was a handmade
katana
, a Japanese Samurai sword that Worm boasted he'd only paid forty quid for on eBay. The seller was some idiot who thought it was one of those crappy imitations, apparently. Worm had several
katanas
, but this was the real bargain. Even came in a sharkskin sheath and Tommy was more than happy to let it stay there.

"Try it," Worm said. "It's nice and light."

"Got to get moving," Tommy said.

"Try it," Worm said. "It's nice." He paused. "And light."

The guy was wearing a bloody open-arsed smock and yet Tommy felt threatened by him. He'd better do it. After all, Worm was letting them borrow the weapons. True, they were paying a hundred quid for the privilege of doing so, and that was more than Worm had paid for them in the first place. But, still. If the guy owned the weapons, he probably knew how to use them.

"Okay," Tommy said. "Just a couple of swings." He slid the sword out of the sheath. It was long, curved, with a single sharp edge.

"Stand clear," Worm said, dragging Phil back towards the wall.

Tommy squeezed the handle, looked at his reflection in the blade.

"Ready," Worm said.

Tommy didn't move.

Phil said, "What're you waiting for?"

Tommy raised the sword, held it for a second, then took a swing. Just a little one, as if he was chopping the end off a carrot.