Allan Guthrie: Killing Mum

"Me, playing?" He laughed, no humour in it. "How do you know I didn't kill her?"

She looked at him. "Really?"

"Your lack of faith," he said. "It's worse than your infidelity."

"I didn't sleep with Bob. I told you."

"There's more than one way to be unfaithful."

"Do what you have to," she said. "Just don't give me that holier-than-thou bullshit. Shoot me or take me to a hospital. I'm going to bleed to death here."

"Yeah," he said. He bent over, and she shrank away from him. He placed his free hand on the back of her head and lowered his lips to her forehead. "It's over." He stepped back.

"I know."

"I'm sorry."

"I almost believe you."

We need to get moving.

Jordan had walked over to them without Carlos hearing him. Only now did Carlos notice that the kid wasn't wearing shoes. Must have removed them before he got out of the van. Smart little fucker.

"Charlie," Maggie said. "It wasn't me. Your mother. I never set her up."

You going to pop the bitch or what? Jordan said.

Carlos pivoted, smacked Jordan hard, open-handed, with his left. Caught him full on the cheek.

Jordan's head jerked to the side. He waited, breathed, turned to look at Carlos. He looked puzzled.

Carlos stared back at him.

Jordan raised his gun.

Carlos raised his.

Jordan moved his arm to the side, fired two rounds into Maggie.

Carlos's hand shook. He moaned. Couldn't look at Maggie. Couldn't take his eyes off Jordan.

The fucking kid stared at him, blank. Hadn't even turned his gun on Carlos, just let it dangle by his side.

Jordan was daring him. Just like Carlos had done earlier with Bob.

Carlos said, "Is she dead?"

Jordan glanced down. Very.

"Jesus," Carlos said. "You fucking little animal. You fucking…" He yelled, mouth wide open, the sides of his mouth stretched fit to tear. He stabbed the gun at Jordan. Looked away, down at Maggie, her ruined body. He yelled again, shoved the gun against Jordan's head, forced him to step back. Carlos took a breath, arm still held out straight, gun a foot from Jordan's face. Spit dribbled down his chin. He wiped it with the back of his left hand, catching a whiff of sour milk.

You done? We need to pick that shit up, get it in the van along with the other one. And get the fuck out of here.

"She's not shit," Carlos said. "You're fucking shit. You're the piece of fucking shit."

You know what? If I could drive, I'd waste you right now. Jordan grabbed Carlos's hand, moved the gun away from his face. You're a grown man. You need to deal with this.

The little cocksucker was right, of course. Just cause they were in the middle of nowhere at half two in the morning didn't mean no one had heard the shots. Or that a car wouldn't come along and snare them in its headlights.

Carlos needed Jordan's help. He couldn't sort this mess out on his own. There were two bodies now. And only one bodybag. Carlos didn't like numbers that didn't add up.

He lowered his arm. "I'm a bit fucked up," he said.

That's okay. But if you point that gun at me again, I'll have to shoot you. Even if it means I have to walk all the way back home.

Carlos tucked the gun into his waistband, felt the heat still from the muzzle. Felt like it was inside him, glowing.

"You take the feet," he said, shuffled round, slipped his hands under her armpits.

Jordan got into position. On three, we'll lift it.

"Her," Carlos said. "We'll lift her. "

Fine. You ready?

Yeah, Carlos was as ready as he was going to be.

Wait a minute. Jordan lowered her feet, picked something off the road. Stretched out his hand to offer it to Carlos.

"What is it?" iPod. Still got the headphones round its — her — neck, look.

Carlos took the machine. It looked okay, no cracks that he could see. He slipped the headphones off her neck and put them round his own. He plugged the end into the machine, selected random play and told Jordan to grab her feet again.

Strings. Fiddles and double basses, played posh with a bow. Bach, she'd said. It was supposed to be relaxing.

Carlos pulled into a petrol station and got out of the van, checking himself once again for bloodstains. They'd cleaned up with some rags and babywipes that Maggie'd brought along. He'd had a stain on his jumper, probably from Bob, so he'd taken it off. His shoes were pretty bad, and some of the blood had soaked in. But the all-night attendant wasn't going to notice.

Carlos walked over to him, smiled. He hoped the fucker wasn't the talkative type. "Twenty B amp;H," he said.

The cashier grunted, disappeared to fetch the cigarettes, then returned to the window in his kiosk. He muttered something, presumably the price. Carlos slid a ten-pound note to him, and got his change back with a grunt.

Carlos was about to spring open the packet and light up when he remembered he couldn't do that here.

He walked back to the van, strapped himself into his seat.

You going to smoke in here? Jordan said.

And they'd been getting on so well.

Carlos drove off, looking for a lay-by.

They'd had to get along. Decisions had had to be made. They'd abandoned the idea of chucking the bodies in the Forth. There was only one chain, so they could dispose of one of them that way, but the other was going to be a problem. So they agreed that they'd just dispose of the pair of them with the van. By then, Carlos had been able to think more clearly. It didn't much matter to him whether Maggie had her send-off by water or fire. If anything, fire was the cleaner option. And he was pretty sure it didn't matter to her. He'd need to set up an alibi for himself, but that would be easy enough. And with nothing to link him to the van or the guns, the police wouldn't be able to make a case against him. Not that they'd want to. He was pretty sure it'd be obvious to the dumbest of detectives that he was hurting.

Carlos pulled over. Right under a streetlamp. The sodium light tinted the pavement orange. Or tan.

He lit a cigarette. Dios, the smoke bit the back of his throat. He spluttered.

Jordan swore, opened his window.

Carlos took another drag, coughed again. The smoke seeped into his chest, his lungs, and he felt light-headed. Had to be a nicotine rush. Something he hadn't felt since he first started smoking. Or maybe it was adrenaline.

He slipped his headphones on. A bit of Bach and a fag. If that didn't relax him, he was beyond help.

Twenty minutes later, they were driving through town, the iPod in the glove box. Carlos fumbled for another fag.

The city was quiet as they coasted down Leith Walk. Jordan opened his eyes when Carlos sparked the lighter, made a sleepy sound and closed his eyes again.

Carlos's pulse hammered in his temples. He could feel it in his wrists. In the insides of his knees. In the soles of his feet. The nicotine, the adrenaline, Bach, he wasn't sure what or who was to blame.

Jordan was as relaxed as a kitten. We there yet? he mumbled.

"Won't be long," Carlos told him. He breathed out a lungful of smoke — felt like he remembered it now, like his body had grown used to the invasion and was at peace with it. He dug out his phone and dialled his mum.

She answered right away.

"Thought you might have fallen asleep," Carlos said.

"As if that's likely. Did you find out what you were after?"

"Maybe," he said.

"Just maybe?"

"I can't talk on the phone."

"How did Maggie take it?"

"Not on the phone, Mama!"

"Okay," she said. "You want me to leave now?"

"Yep. And stay in your car."

This time of night it'd be only a ten-minute drive from here to the patch of wasteland they were headed for. Carlos could have driven for hours like this, the whole city to themselves. He rolled his shoulder, his neck stiff, aware that the prickling inside his head wasn't normal.