The Good Son (21 page)

Blood stains on a polished wood floor.

Katrina Egg's sightless eyes.

The back of her head blown open: brains and blood and broken bone.

These Cockney pricks were responsible for all of that and more. And I now had a chance to pay back the pain that they had caused.

Burns had seen through me in the hospital. I wanted a fight, right enough.

Liman said to Robertson, “That the money?”

Robertson stepped forward, offered the case to Ayer.

The gentle rush of traffic on Riverside drifted lazily up to this remote place; we were not quite so isolated as we might have believed.

Ayer took the case from Robertson, yanking it roughly from the other man's grasp. Robertson stumbled back, his hands held up in supplication, as though afraid Ayer would attack him.

Liman adjusted the shotgun's position. A reminder. A warning. I made a show of noticing the gesture, keeping my own hands in plain sight to reassure the bald psychopath that I wasn't about to try anything stupid. He was close enough that the gun could do real damage. If someone could pick off a grouse at thirty yards, what could be done to me at two or three?

The wind picked up. My coat ruffled. The weight of the handgun bumped against my hip.

Just shoot the bastards.

All other sounds muted behind my own heartbeat.

Robertson took a step forward. “It's all there.”
Almost cocky. A far cry from the man I had seen on the other side of the bridge.

Schizophrenic. Unpredictable. Robertson was beginning to worry me more than the Cockney hard men who I knew would shoot me in the head without a moment's hesitation.

Ayer smiled. Turned his back to us. Placed the briefcase on top of a nearby headstone.

Liman made sure Robertson remembered the shotgun, holding it aloft and waving it in the farmer's eyeline. Robertson noticed, but his attention was focused on the other man.

Ayer said, “The combination?”

Robertson recited three numbers, stumbling over them. Sounding jittery. He stuck his hands deep in his pockets. Looked like he was bracing himself against the cold of the evening.

Ayer clicked the locks. Robertson took another step forward, his hands still in his pockets.

“Just stay fuckin' still,” said Liman. Not even bothering to raise the shotgun this time. His point already made. If we were too stupid not to have noticed, then that was our own fault. We were just two savages from a foreign country. Why should he care whether or not we were stupid enough to get out heads blown off?

Rain fell, spotting gently from the sky.

Thunder rumbled.

I watched Robertson closely. His expression, his stance and his attitude appeared strange and unnatural. I told myself it was nerves. The adrenaline coursing through his system.

Robertson took another step, right up close to Liman. The farmer wasn't exactly a tall man, but he towered over the bald Cockney.

Liman said, “I told you to stay fuckin' still.”

Robertson's hand came out his pocket. Something flashed silver.

I tried to move, but my feet were stuck to the spot. Rooted like the headstones in the Necropolis.

Robertson made to stab Liman in the chest. Threw his weight at him, and his feet slipped on the muddy ground. He fell, off balance, and his arms flailed.

Liman was caught by surprise. He tried to swing the shotgun round and blow the farmer's brains out.

The twin explosions reverberated through the night.

And missed. The shot too wild to be accurate.

Robertson came in the inside of Liman's gun arm, his arms flailing as he struggled to regain his balance on the wet ground. The knife slashed out, missing its intended target and slashing the bald Cockney hard man across the cheek instead of slipping deep into his chest.

Ayer, startled by the shotgun's explosion, had spun round, knocked the half-opened case from the headstone.

The notes billowed out, caught in the gentle breeze and scattered in the air. They looked like dead leaves fallen from the canopy of trees above.

Robertson screamed.

Not with fear.

With anger.

The storm that had been threatening exploded around us, the rain falling hard and heavy.

A sound like horses' hooves clattered somewhere in the distance.

Liman's face was sliced across his cheek, the open wound bleeding hard. The shotgun had fallen from his grasp. It lay maybe half a foot away from him.

Ayer looked surprised, hesitating for a moment when he saw what had happened.

Robertson tried to rush him. But the farmer was too slow, and Ayer was a man used to violence. The Cockney bastard grabbed Robertson's wrist and twisted. Robertson squealed. Tried to keep a grip on the knife.

I forced myself to lurch forward, made it as far as Liman. The bastard had one hand up at his face and was reaching out blindly with the other.

Trying to find the shotgun.

I kicked Liman hard. Caught him somewhere around the kidneys. He collapsed to his knees, his body jerking like in an epileptic fit.

I could only hope.

Ayer twisted Robertson's wrist hard. Robertson finally dropped the knife. The interruption of the shotgun blast had clearly shocked him back into a
more sober state of mind.

The Cockney gave the fat farmer a second to realise what was happening before kneeing him in the stomach. Robertson slipped face first into the mud.

Liman was moaning. Rolled into the foetal position, hands gripping his face as though to stop the flow of blood where Robertson's blade had sliced deep.

I pulled Burns's gift out from my coat. Wearing the gloves, my fingers felt fat and clumsy. My balance wobbled and I felt my leg begin to seize up. Another thing to blame on the cold, perhaps. Or the exertion. It didn't matter. Any weakness could get me killed.

I found my feet again, putting as much weight as I could on my good leg, hoping it would be enough to keep me upright.

I held the handgun straight out in front of me. Locked my index finger through the trigger guard. Fought to keep my arms steady.

My muscles twitched uncontrollably.

The rain battered. Soaked my clothes, got in my eyes. I blinked hard to stop my vision from blurring. Bad enough the only light came from the moon and the torch that Ayer had brought with him.

Ayer looked at me with an expression that could have been surprise. “Fuckin' cunts!” he rumbled, before reaching inside his jacket and pulling out a gun. Likely, the same gun that had killed Kat. That had blasted a hole in Bill's stomach. That had killed so many people whose names and faces I would never know.

My trigger finger twitched.

But I didn't fire.

I couldn't.

Robertson had recovered his senses. He rolled away from Ayer, clambering clumsily to his feet. He was caked in mud, plastered with the rain-soaked cash that had been scattered from the briefcase. Before, he had seemed like a wild animal; a man with nothing to lose. Now, all of that anger had gone. His eyes were those of a man who had just woken from a nightmare.

Ayer turned his gun on Robertson. I was no longer a threat. I hadn't pulled the trigger a minute ago. Why would I have the balls to do it now?

Robertson was back on his feet. He took two steps away from the man with the gun.

“You killed my brother.”

“He killed himself, the cunt.”

“Put the fucking gun down!” I yelled, stepping forward. Holding out my own weapon to show I meant business. I still couldn't pull back on the trigger, hoped maybe I could fool Ayer into thinking otherwise. But he didn't even look at me.

Liman was on his knees, his left hand pressed hard against his bloodied face. The fallen torch shone directly on him. Blood, thinned out by the rain, caked his skin. He said, in a muffled voice, “Mathew, cunt's fucking serious and all.”

Ayer turned his attention back to me. Swinging his gun away from Robertson.

The farmer took the opportunity; turned and bolted. At least, he staggered quickly.

Ayer made to turn.

I said, “Don't fucking think about it.”

Robertson became lost in the shadows.

Ayer and I stood with our weapons trained on each other; two cowboys in an old spaghetti western.

Liman finally managed to climb to his feet. He
leant on an old gravestone for support, keeping one hand tight against his wound to stem the flow of blood. Robertson had cut him deep. The slash ran from just below his ear to maybe a quarter of an inch from his lips.

“Y'alright?” Ayer asked his friend. Eyes flicking past me, even if only for a moment. A second of concern, perhaps. Something approaching human in this monstrous bastard.

“Yeah,” said Liman. “What a fuckin' waste of money.” Looking around at the scattered cash; now soaked and ripped by the rainfall. He shook his head, and stepped forward.

I should have shot him right then. Showed these bastards I meant business.

But he was right. All of this was a fucking waste. Robertson had brought the cash. Christ, if he'd wanted them dead, why not swap the cash for a ringer? Why bring it here?

But I knew there were many things about my client I had failed to understand. If I stopped to consider them now, I would be a dead man.

Ayer looked at me. “Looks like your friend's fuckin' bailed on you.”

I nodded. “Aye, sure. But he's not my friend. Just a client. I didn't know he was planning to cheat you. The only reason I came here was to protect his interests.”

“Likely fuckin' story, eh?” said Ayer. His lips twisted. He showed teeth. Maybe he couldn't see the fear in my face yet, but he was willing to wait it out. “Shoulda fuckin' known he'd be a sneaky cunt like his brother.”

Liman was holding the shotgun now. How did I miss that? He said, “This cunt's mine.”

Ayer nodded, stepping backwards graciously. The two of them behaving like gentlemen.

Liman took another step forward. “Shotguns are pretty fucking useless. Clip a grouse from a distance, sure. But a man… you gotta be fucking close. And, then… even money whether he dies or just gets fucked up.” He took a breath, let it out and squeezed the trigger.

Nothing happened.

The other problem with the shotgun: two triggers, two barrels, two shots. Liman had wasted his earlier during the struggle with Robertson.

I kept my own gun trained on Ayer. Watched Liman out of the corner of my eye. “Try anything and I'll shoot your fucking friend here.” Brave talk, but I knew I was fucked. All I could do was wait and hope that someone down on Dunkeld Place had heard the shots and been savvy enough to call the police. Because I didn't know how much longer any of us could wait this out.

Ayer was the one who broke the standoff. He'd seen me for what I was, knew I didn't have the balls to pull the trigger.

He didn't want to talk. Or negotiate. Didn't really care whether I fired my weapon or not.

He smiled and let his arms drop to his sides. His own gun pointed harmlessly towards the sodden ground of the graveyard. I saw a gleam in his eyes. Pleasure. The sick bastard getting off on the idea that he was about to kill a man.

His eyes locked mine in a silent challenge.

There was one certainty: If I didn't shoot him, he'd kill me.

I'd thought if I could hold myself together for long enough, everything would work out. Now, I knew
that was so much watered-down shite.

“I see you,” he said, grinning like a wolf. This was a game to him.

I had no choice. I pulled back on the trigger.

Got nothing but resistance.

The safety still on.

Fuck.

Ayer laughed, raised his own weapon again. He'd had his fun. Had he known all along that even if I wanted to I couldn't have shot him?

I lashed out with my left fist, caught Ayer across the jaw. He stumbled back, more from surprise than pain; the punch had no real power behind it. A reflex. Fear and desperation guiding me now.

I fumbled with the gun. Trying to flick the safety to “off”. The rain and the numbness of my fingers made it hard to feel details. I panicked, feeling the gun start to slip from my grip.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Liman moving. The shotgun was useless as a firearm, but he could still swing it like a baseball bat, aiming for my head.

I ducked, falling on my arse in the mud. I crawled backwards, finding it hard with no grip on the ground. I was on my back, watching him as he raised the shotgun high, holding it by the barrel and using the stock like an axe-head. He meant to cave my skull in.

I was still struggling to flick the switch. Finally, it clicked and I aimed the gun high. Forced my finger into the trigger guard.

All it took was the smallest movement. The gun jerked in my hand. The explosion sent reverberations up my arm, the pain culminating at my shoulder. Powder burned my face.

The bullet caught Liman in the chest. He stopped,
stood still for a moment, and then jerked once before falling backwards, collapsing onto the wet ground: an abandoned doll. Except no child would want a toy that looked like that.

Maybe my earlier attack had thrown Ayer off stride, but it hadn't put him down. He'd recovered fast and now his own gun was up and aimed at my head.

No need for words. I'd shot his mate.

No more games.

I moved fast, scrambling to my feet, ducking left, pushing past Ayer and making for the cover that lay deep in the heart of the Necropolis.

I felt the air catch fire somewhere beside my right ear. Didn't think about it, how close the bullet was. I just ran. Making for the nearby tangle of bushes. I dived through them. Scrambled for a tomb just beyond. Found it locked with no way inside. Pausing for a moment, I realised that there was only one entrance. Hiding inside would have been suicide. I still had my wits about me, at least.

I took a breather, leaned back against the stone walls of the tomb. A few seconds to orientate myself once again. Taking the weight off my legs, I realised that I had been running normally, the limp and the pain gone. Adrenaline?