Savage Night (28 page)

Shite.

"Jordan's?" Martin asked, indicating the phone.

She nodded.

"Who is it?" he asked.

"It says: 'dad'."

"I don't like this," Martin said. "What should we do?"

"We can't just ignore it."

"No, we can't."

She held it out to him. "You want to?"

"You go on."

"I'm driving."

"Answer it, Effie. I wouldn't know what to say."

"You expect
me
to?" Christ's sake. She answered it: "Who is this?"

"You fucking know, bitch." Tommy Savage's voice.

She swallowed. Looked for somewhere to pull over. "Where's my father?"

"What did you do to Jordan?"

"I want to speak to Dad."

"I want to speak to my son."

Her voice was weak. "No," she said. "You can't."

"I can't? If you've harmed him—"

"He's alive. He's here. In the van."

"Put him on the phone."

"I can't do that."

"Savage? What does he want?" Martin said.

She shook her head at him.

"If you don't prove to me that Jordan's alive," Savage said, "your dad's dead."

So Dad was still alive. Meant she'd be able to forgive him for landing Jordan on her.

Savage said, "I know what you did to Phil and Fraser."

Of course he did. He'd seen it in graphic detail.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Mr Savage," she said.

"Want me to tell you about the tub? About the hacksaws? About you and loverboy all naked and covered in my family's blood?"

Silence. She could hear him breathe, thought she heard him sniff. "Where are you?" she said. "Maybe we can arrange an exchange."

"What about my brother and my other son? Who are you going to exchange for them?"

She'd already said too much. "I don't know who you mean. But even if I did, there's nothing we can do about what's already done." She waited. He said nothing. His breath rattled down the phone. "Okay," she said. "Where do you want to meet?"

He told her. The parking lot at the East Calder entrance to Almondell Country Park. "Bet you know where that is," he said.

"I'll find it," she said.

Savage Night

9:30 PM

Old Mrs Yardie's

TOMMY WATCHED THE screen. A few minutes ago Martin Milne had wandered into Fraser's sitting room. Martin was much beefier than his dad. Then again, his dad was an alchy. Martin had looked around, then disappeared.

Now he was back again, staggering under the weight of a man thrown over his shoulder. For a minute, he turned his back to the camera and Tommy saw the back of the other guy's head. His hair was ginger. Was it Phil?

He asked Smith.

Smith cleared his throat, turned on his chair so he was facing Tommy, not the screen. "It certainly is."

White-hot balls of anger swelled in Tommy's stomach, heat rising into his chest, burning his gullet.

Phil dangled over Martin Milne's shoulder. Limp, as if he was ... No, couldn't be. "Is he …?" Tommy asked.

"Is he what?"

"Doesn't matter." Tommy shook his head. Sweat flicked onto his blanket. He pulled it tight around his shoulders.

"Go on. Is he …?"

"Dead, you fuck," Tommy said. "Is he dead?"

"Not yet. But keep watching."

Even through the mask, he looked smug.

Martin Milne dumped Phil on the couch, his leg trailing onto the floor. Milne stood for a minute getting his breath back. Then disappeared.

Nothing stirred for a few seconds. Then Phil's foot twitched. He was waking up.
Come on.
But there was no further movement. Maybe Tommy had imagined it.

He glanced at Smith. He was leaning in close. Absorbed. Staring at Tommy like he was some kind of exotic zoo creature.

Tommy'd never hit anyone in his life. But he couldn't just sit here and let Phil die. He had to do something. So he clenched his fist and swung it at the cunt.

***

PARK SAW IT coming.

He leaned back, and Savage's knuckles brushed past his cheek. Savage was weak and uncoordinated, and, anyway, couldn't punch for shit. Didn't help that he was trying to hold his blanket on with his other hand. Summed him up. Phil was about to die and all Tommy Savage cared about was that he might give Park an eyeful of scrawny cock.

And now he looked scared. Like he wished he hadn't just done that.

Park gauged where the festering cut was on Savage's arm and punched him there. Put a lot of power into it.

Savage howled. Horrible racket.

He finally stopped, his attention grabbed by what was happening at Fraser's. Park sneaked a look. Martin had returned to the sitting room.

It was going to happen.

Savage had tears in his eyes and a runny nose.

Park could have cried too.

***

TOMMY BLINKED. HIS eyelashes were wet.

Martin Milne's back was to the camera, but he had a large navy blue bag out of which he was removing a rolled-up sheet. He turned to the side, so Tommy got a better view. Unrolled the sheet, laid it out on the floor. Left the room again and returned with a metal tub. He positioned the tub in the middle of the sheet, then moved towards Phil and bent over him. Tommy couldn't see what he was doing. Not till the trousers came off. And then the shoe and sock. Martin stuffed all the clothes into his bag. Then he hoisted Phil, naked, onto his shoulder and let him slump into the tub.

Tommy couldn't stay quiet any longer. "What's going on? What's he doing? Why's he got a tub? What's happening? What's he doing to Phil?"

"Shhh," Smith told him. "Just watch."

"Tell me what he's doing."

"Shut up and watch."

Martin lit a cigarette, walked up and down, sucking the life out of it. He moved closer to the camera. Took his jacket off, folded it, laid it somewhere out of sight. He reappeared moments later, stripped to the waist. He had a long white mark on his neck, which made the rest of his face look dirty. A scar, maybe.

He moved away again. When he came back he was naked. He moved over to his bag, slipped on a pair of plastic gloves and a pair of plastic booties.

He stuck his hand back into the bag. Came out with a knife.

Then a hacksaw.

Oh, Jesus. Oh, Jesus fucking Christ.

"He won't do it," Tommy said. "Martin Milne isn't a cold-blooded killer."

Smith said nothing.

"You can stop this," Tommy said. "Call him. Tell him to stop."

"And spoil the show?"

***

"JESUS CHRIST," SAVAGE shouted.

About time Park looked away.

"Jesus fucking Christ, no."

Savage's face was porcelain white. His quivering jaw told a story.

Park ought to be enjoying this but he felt squeamish. Took a strong character to do what he was doing. Maybe he'd be able to enjoy the next instalment, when Fraser returned with Effie. Savage would know what to expect by that point. A brother was one thing, but a son was an entirely different matter.

And then there'd be the surprise to follow. Park didn't feel good about dumping Effie in it, but she wouldn't agree to killing Jordan so it hadn't left him much of a choice.

Had to be done.

"You arranged this?" Savage said. "You fucking sick bastard. You fucking sick fuck. What did he ever do to you?"

Savage really didn't get it, did he? Couldn't get his head round this
at all
. Maybe Park should try to explain once again. Or maybe he should leave Savage alone for a while.

"Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck me," Savage said. "He's killing him. He's cutting … oh, Christ. You've got to stop this."

Yeah, Park was starting to feel a bit sick. Maybe he'd leave Tommy to it, see how Liz was doing. Or maybe go grab a sandwich or something, settle his stomach. Park got to his feet. "Want something to eat?"

Savage gagged, made it to the bucket just before he spewed.

***

AT FRASER'S HOUSE, Martin was remembering that he had to stop Phil Savage's heart first. Effie'd said that he shouldn't cut him up while it was still pumping. It'd make a right mess. And although Martin had the tub, and the dropcloth, he didn't want to make any more mess than necessary.

He'd thought it'd all be harder than it was. He'd psyched himself up and felt fine. Thought of Effie, what she'd think if he screwed this up. But he wouldn't. He stared at Phil Savage, just so much flab that looked dead already. Martin aimed the knife—holding it two-handed—over the heart. Counted to three and plunged it in.

The body jerked. The eyes opened. Fingers straightened. A foot kicked out.

Martin tugged the knife out and slammed it back in. Did that three times and then Savage was still. Wouldn't close his eyes though. Martin tried to force them shut, but they kept springing open. He gave up. Wrestled Savage over so he was face down in the tub.

Martin took a moment, remembered he was doing this for his dad, too. For Grant, for the Parks, of course. He wouldn't be here otherwise. But maybe he should have done this years ago.

He'd told himself there wasn't sufficient evidence. But everybody knew Tommy Savage had had Martin's dad killed. Everybody but his mum thought Phil Savage was involved.

Truth was, Martin hadn't had the balls. Not on his own. But with Effie, he could do anything.

He picked up the hacksaw.

Tommy Savage, your brother's dead. How does it feel?

Wished his mum was here to see this.

I'm about to carve up a corpse and I think of my mother.

He knew why.

Pictured it. Ten years old. Standing on the stool in the kitchen. Smelling Mum's clean gin-breath as she placed the noose round his neck. Pulling the rope tight. Her voice cracking as she said, "I'll be with you soon, Martin." Sound of chair legs scraping on the linoleum floor. Burning pain in his throat, neck jolted, legs lashing out, unable to breathe. And then Dad running into the room, grabbing him round the waist and yelling at his mum, "You stupid fucking mental bitch."

Dad had replaced the chair. Untied him. Held him. Martin was warm and in pain and safe.

Mum said, "I'm sorry, Martin. I'm so sorry."

"I won't say anything, Mum," he'd said, a coil of pain searing his neck.

Dad had slapped her, told her to shut her fat face.

An accident, they'd said when they arrived at the hospital. He'd been playing. Nobody suspected it was a lie. Why would they? What kind of mother would try to hang her son?

He hadn't told anybody that. Not even Effie.

Martin started cutting into the back of Phil Savage's neck. Revenge was much harder work than you could ever imagine.

***

PARK FLICKED ON the light in the kitchen and hurried over to the sink. Laid the sword on the worktop. Opened the window.

Better.

He'd done what any father would have done. The whole family had agreed. Well, apart from the business about Jordan. Richie had only wished he could have helped. Effie was all for it, too. Liz wouldn't have been keen on any of it, but she was always too soft-hearted. That was her downfall.

Somebody had to take responsibility.