Simon Kernick - The Business of Dying

I gave him a stern, headmasterly look and pointed him in the direction of Mr Keen's office. He didn't say a word and took off down the hall. It felt strange knowing that he only had a few more minutes of life left in him, and a bit sad to think that it was going to be spent worrying about something he could do nothing about.

Now it was time to wait. Raymond, however, was not hanging about. Within two minutes he phoned through, gruffly telling me to get him a coffee, not bothering to say please. I was glad then that I wasn't a full-time employee of his. He had the sort of brash attitude with his staff that gives capitalism a bad name.

I checked the gun for the second time since sitting down and took the safety off before replacing it in the waistband of my jeans. Then I went into the kitchen and put the kettle on. While I was waiting for it to boil, I gave the place the onceover. I've never been in an undertakers' kitchen before, and wasn't sure what to expect. Maybe a few jokey pictures of the employees posing with the corpses, or some coffin-shaped fridge magnets. But there was none of that. Everything looked depressingly normal. Clean and tidy as well. Scattered about the walls were postcards from various far-flung destinations. One was even from Dhaka in Bangladesh, which struck me as an odd place to spend your holidays. The photograph was of a toothless, barefooted rickshaw driver smiling at the camera. I took it off the wall and saw that it was from Raymond. He said that the weather was too hot and he was looking forward to getting back. If the photo on the front was the best the Bangladeshi tourist industry could do, I couldn't blame him.

The kettle boiled and I poured Raymond's coffee, substituting salt for the two sugars he'd ordered, just so he'd know I wasn't his skivvy. I found a battered Princess Diana memorial tea tray, put the cup on that, and headed off down the hall.

To keep up the ruse, I knocked on the door and waited until I was called in, which took all of about a second.

Raymond beamed at me as I stepped inside and Barry looked round quickly, just to check that everything was all right. 'Ah, thank you, Dennis. Just what the doctor ordered. Are you sure you don't want one, Barry?'

Barry shook his head, but didn't say anything.

I walked over and Raymond took the cup from the tray, managing a brief thanks. He turned back to Barry. 'So don't worry about it,' he told him. 'It's not going to be a problem.'

Still holding the Princess Diana commemorative tea tray, I reached down and pulled the gun from my waistband.

Barry must have sensed I was still in the room. As Raymond continued to gabble, he turned round at the exact moment I raised the gun. The wrong end of the barrel was only three feet from his head.

His eyes widened and his mouth opened. Before he could say anything, I pulled the trigger, wanting to get this over with as soon as possible.

But nothing happened. The trigger didn't move. I squeezed harder. Still nothing. The fucking thing was jammed.

'Don't kill me! For fuck's sake, don't kill me!'

The words were a frightened howl, and it struck me then that it was the first time anyone had ever had the chance to ask me for mercy. It hurt, because it made me feel doubt. Doubt that I had the strength to kill a man face to face in cold blood. He raised his arms in surrender, the mouth opening and shutting ever so slightly like a tropical fish, unintelligible pleas for mercy trembling out. I felt like I was frozen to the spot, like I was completely and utterly incapacitated. What did I do now? What could I do now?

'For the love of God, Dennis! Shoot the bastard!'

Reflexively I pulled the trigger. Again, nothing happened. I knew then that the weapon was useless. It was never going to unjam in the next five seconds.

'Come on!' yelled Raymond, his face red with frustration.

Barry half turned to his boss, still keeping one eye on the gun. 'Mr Keen… Raymond… what are you doing? I won't say nothing-'

'Finish it!'

'The gun's fucking jammed, Raymond!'

'Oh, for Christ's sake!'

In a surprisingly deft movement, he reached over, grabbed a medium-sized statuette of a golfer taking a swing from the side of his desk, and whacked Barry over the head with it. It broke immediately, the golfer's head and torso flying across the room. Barry yelped in pain, but that was about it. He was hardly incapacitated.

Raymond's assault seemed to galvanize Barry into action. Seeing that he was dealing with people who'd have difficulty killing a rumour, he jumped to his feet in an attempt to escape, whereupon I slammed the tea tray into his face, knocking him back down again. He lashed out with his legs, but I jumped aside and tried to hit him with the butt of the gun. It caught him on the arm as he raised it to protect himself, and with his other hand he punched me in the kidneys. This time it was my turn to yelp in pain. I staggered backwards, creating an opening between him and the door. He was off the seat like a greyhound out of a trap and heading towards salvation.

I suddenly had a vision of spending the rest of my days behind bars, stuck in segregation along with the paedophiles and informants, and it was that which stopped me from letting Barry Finn go. Raymond was yelling something, but I couldn't hear it. I jumped on Barry as he reached the door and tried to pull him backwards, dropping the gun in the process.

But Barry had a lot of incentive to get out of there and he wasn't going to give up easily. Despite my best efforts, which included trying to gouge out his eyes, he managed to open the door and stagger unsteadily down the hall with me on his back. He managed about four paces before Raymond came running round the front of him, his face a panting mask of adrenalin and rage.

'All right, Barry boy, let's go quietly now.'

But Barry wasn't going to go quietly, not if he could avoid it. He desperately tried to dodge round Raymond with all the agility of a pantomime horse.

Raymond stood his ground, and punched him hard in the stomach.

Barry gasped as the wind was taken out of him. He fell to his knees and held that position for maybe a second, before toppling over on to his side. I jumped off his back, thinking that Raymond must have one hell of a punch on him. Which was when I saw the bloodied knife in his right hand.

'Pick him up, hold him,' he demanded excitedly.

Barry was crawling along the floor on his stomach, blood oozing out from under his body. Raymond kicked him viciously in the side, which I thought was a bit unnecessary, but he had the look of the sadist about him that day. I've seen it plenty of times before. Sometimes they just get carried away.

'Go on, pick him up, Dennis. Now.'

Barry coughed and tried to say something, but it just came out like a splutter. I felt sick. This was different from a shooting. It was so much more messy and, in a bizarre way, so much more personal.

I stood behind him and pulled him up by the arms. His body made a horrible squelching sound as it disengaged from the pool of blood forming below him, and I had to fight to stop myself from puking.

Raymond's face split open in a wild, maniacal grin and his eyes widened dramatically, as if they were trying to drink in as much of the scene as possible. Again Barry tried to get words out, but it was too late. The hand containing the knife darted out and there was a splitting sound as the blade peeled through soft flesh. Barry gasped. Raymond stabbed again. And again, his face beaming savagely, lost in the joy of murder, his right arm pumping like a demented piston. Barry tried to struggle but his movements were weak and drawn, and every thrust of the knife took just that little bit more out of him. The blood dripped heavily on to the floor and I struggled to hold him upright, slipping slightly in the mess below.