Savage Night (29 page)

That's all he'd done.

Park sat at the table. Brushed salt off Mrs Yardie's salt shaker. He'd wait a while. Give Martin time to finish the job. Sawing through a body. All that flesh and gristle and bone.

Blood rushed to his head. He tore off his ski mask. Lowered his head to his chest. Breathed deeply. Breathed till he felt better.

He sat for a while and thought about Grant and wished he could cry.

Then he got to his feet. Went back to the sink. Ran the cold water. Stuck his mouth under it. Drank.

Everything in small steps.

Turned off the tap, wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

He wanted to call Effie. See how things were going with Fraser. She'd befriended him easily enough. But was he going to invite her home again? Course he was. He was a bloke.

Anyway, Park had no doubt she'd be able to carry it off. She was tough. Maybe the toughest of them all, Richie included.

And what about Martin? He'd done it. Effie would be proud of him.

But Park couldn't call his daughter. No calls, they'd agreed. The police could trace these things. And they didn't want the police after them. Park had seen enough of the inside of a prison. A couple of prisons, in fact. He didn't fancy seeing any more.

Another drink of water.

Okay.

He put his ski mask back on, picked up the sword, angled the gun so the handle didn't graze his hipbone.

Back to work.

As he passed his bedroom door, he thought about popping in on Liz, see if she needed to go to the bathroom. He'd been taking her every couple of hours since they moved out here, and she seemed to know what to do. Worked pretty effectively. With their new routine, he'd only had to change the occasional overnight nappy.

But, no, Liz would be fine. She wouldn't have to hold on much longer.

***

TOMMY SAVAGE SAT on the edge of his bed clutching his stomach. He had stopped puking, which was something. But he didn't look too good. Pale, sweaty, and his chin was quivering like an old woman singing a love song. He saw Park and said, "You cunt."

Just what Park needed. He switched the sword to his left hand, bitch-slapped Savage on the ear with his right.

Savage gave him a defiant look. "You're still a cunt."

Park slapped him again, harder.

Savage screwed his eyes shut. "Cunt."

Park slapped him. This was more like it.

Savage shook his head. Waited. "Cunt."

Park slapped him.

Tears rolled down Savage's cheeks. Fucker. He said, quietly, "Cunt."

Park slapped him again.

Savage said nothing.

Park wondered if Martin had finished with Phil Savage yet. Park couldn't risk grabbing so much as a peek at the screen now. Frustrating as fuck.

Savage said, "Cunt."

Got Park back, focussed. Park slapped him. "I can do this all night," he said.

Savage whispered, "Cunt."

Park slapped him. His palm stung.

Savage stared at him.

Park slapped him before Savage could open his mouth. "Huh," Park said. "Now who's the cunt?"

***

TOMMY'S EAR WAS ringing. His cheek was hot and smarting. Didn't matter.

Neither did the pain in his arm. He didn't give a shit. Together the anger and the fever seemed to be acting as some kind of analgesic. Smith could slap him all day and he wouldn't feel it.

Not like when Phil had slapped him when they were deciding what to do about Grant. That had stung.

Oh, Christ. Phil.

He couldn't think about that, he'd go mad.

Tommy licked his bottom lip, said to Smith, "You're the cunt."

"Hmmm," Smith said, and slapped him again. Hard enough to knock him across the bed.

Okay. That one hurt. He wasn't going to achieve anything by keeping this up. Apart from making himself feel better. Mentally, of course. Wasn't doing him much good physically. He'd lie here for a minute. Give himself time to recover. He listened to the wash of noise in his ear. It was as if somebody was holding a shell over it.

He glanced at the screen. The killer, Smith's daughter's fiancé, Greg Milne's son, was bent over the tub, naked, making sawing motions.

Tommy moaned. He had to look away. But couldn't. Yet Smith wasn't watching. You'd think he'd have had his nose pressed right up against the screen, the equivalent of a ringside seat, the sadistic crazy fuck. But, no, he wasn't interested in the screen. He was watching Tommy instead. Maybe thought Tommy was going to attack him again.

"Stop it," Tommy said, pushing himself upright with his good arm. "Make him stop, for God's sake."

Smith's tongue darted out from between his lips, and again. He said, "You're boring me."

Tommy pressed the back of his free hand to his cheek. "Why does Milne have to do that?" He indicated the screen.

"What?"

"Look and see."

"I'm not falling for that one." And he kept staring at Tommy.

Tommy shook his head, asked him, "So what's next?"

Smith grinned. "Stay tuned."

"Cunt," Tommy said, lunged at him again. Missed.

Smith took his gun out from the waistband of his trousers, pointed it at Tommy and fired. The noise was much louder than Tommy expected. He heard the bullet whistle past his cheek. It slammed into the wall and plaster dropped onto the pillow. He started to shake.

"Look at the mess you've made," Smith said. "You're a thoughtless bastard. Broke the window with that metal bucket. Now there's a hole in the wall. You think I want to go round tidying up after you? I hate DIY."

Tommy kept his mouth shut.

***

PARK COULD TELL the exact moment Fraser Savage arrived home.

Firing that bullet had shut Tommy up. Shame about the wall, but a wee squeeze of Polyfilla and a slap of paint and Old Mrs Yardie'd never notice.

For a while, Savage had sat there shaking and whimpering, rocking and moaning, hugging that disgusting blanket round himself. But he was off on one again now. His mouth hung open, tears running down his cheeks. He was making a keening sound.

"Fraser home?" Park said.

Savage glanced at him. Shook like an electrocuted dog. Managed to stop moaning and shaking long enough to ask, "What can I do to stop this?"

"Not a thing," Park said.

***

AFTER ALL THE bloodshed, Tommy had expected a knife. Maybe a sword.

Instead, Smith's daughter removed a length of clothesline from her pocket, and coiled the ends round her fists while she stood behind Fraser.

Tommy looked away. When he looked back at the screen, the cord was around Fraser's neck. He had his back to the camera so Tommy couldn't see his face. Tommy looked at Smith. He was staring at Tommy. Tommy couldn't look at him either. Not without wanting to charge at him, smash his head to a pulp, rip out his organs.

Felt like somebody'd shoved a couple of grenades in Tommy's ears.

Violence. Maybe Phil was right. Maybe it was the answer.

In any case, it was all there was. But Tommy had nowhere to go with it. He bowed his head. Whispered his son's name: "Fraser." And again. And again.

"Hey," Tommy heard Smith say. "Check on him. How's he doing?"

Tommy turned to face the screen. Fraser was slumped on the floor. Tommy willed him to move. He didn't.

Tommy said, "I swear I'm going to kill you."

"Feel free to have a go," Smith said. "I'm right here."

Flay him alive, take a bite out of his heart, whatever it took. Tommy wasn't fussy, just so long as the bastard died.

Smith spoke again. Tommy couldn't hear him clearly. The buzzing in his ears was too loud. Not that Tommy was deaf. No, he could hear other sounds. He heard a baby crying.

"… and it's not as if you weren't warned in advance," Smith was saying. "You knew. I showed you. McCracken."

There was no baby.

Tommy looked back at the screen just as the killers walked out of the kitchen, naked. The bitch now had a hacksaw. So Fraser was going to be carved up too.

Smith said, "Your son's dead on account of you. Proud of yourself?"

Tommy lunged off the bed. But Smith was prepared once again. Jumped off his seat and stepped to the side. Still, Tommy kept after him, shouting, throwing wild punches with his good arm. Smith dodged them easily. Held out his gun.

"So shoot me," Tommy said. "Why are you waiting?"

Tommy swung at Smith again and Smith ducked inside, brought the butt of the gun down on Tommy's wound.

Tommy gasped, couldn't breathe. Dropped to one knee, his chain rattling as it tightened.

Smith placed the blade of his sword under Tommy's chin. Pushed it up, forcing Tommy to tilt his head backwards. "If I can't control you," Smith said, "then I will kill you. Understand?"

Tommy gave the slightest of nods.

"Good," Smith said. "That's your last warning. Now stay there." He stuck the gun in his belt, kept the sword where it was while he dug Tommy's mobile out from his pocket. "Let's see," he said. "Text messages." He spoke slowly as he typed the words into the phone. "Jordan," he said, his voice sounding cheery. "Go," he said, "to," he said, "Fraser's." Then he typed in, narrating along the way, "Don't say a word to Granny. Our secret."

"Oh, Christ," Tommy said.

"And," Smith said, "send." He pushed the button with an exaggerated gesture. "What now, Tommy?" he said. Waited a minute. "Run out of ideas? You could call me names again. And I could slap you. That was fun."

Tommy said nothing. Something had pierced his heart and an unseen hand was squeezing it empty.

"No?" Smith said. "Something else, then. You want to attack me again? That was fun too."

"You killed my son," Tommy said.

"Technically, no. I've been sitting right here."

"You arranged it. You're responsible."

"Oh, now, isn't that interesting? If somebody arranges a murder then they're responsible. Bit like you and Greg Milne."

"I told you—"

"I know. Doesn't matter. Both our sons are dead."

Tommy let his head drop, shook it. "Let's leave it there. Please."

"Now? When the fun's just beginning? You're not a party person, are you, Tommy? Let's wait and see what Jordan gets up to."

Tommy didn't reply.

He'd been shot at and it wasn't so bad. Made him shake, but that couldn't be helped. Suicide for the sake of it was almost an attractive proposition. But he didn't want to die just yet. Because somewhere, somehow, he hoped Jordan would survive, no matter how heavily the odds were stacked against him and Tommy wanted to be there for him when it was over.

He had to get through this. Do whatever it took.

***

"WHAT'RE THEY DOING now?" Park asked Savage, some time later.

"Why don't you look for yourself?"

"Cause I don't trust you an inch. I'm not taking my eyes off you."

"That's a shame."

"Tell me what's happening."

"Fuck you."

You'd be forgiven for thinking Savage had grown some balls. Park said, "Tell me."

"I don't think so. You want to know what's happening, take a look yourself. I'm saying nothing."

"Jordan arrived yet?"

Silence again.

Park couldn't help but wonder if Effie and Martin were screwing this up. All they had to do was make a decision about what to do with Jordan. And they didn't have much choice. The kid would have walked in when they were in the middle of disposing of a couple of bodies. What could they do?