Stuart MacBride - A Song for the Dying

I stepped out into the corridor — still holding the shopping — and Francis moved to one side, blocking the front door.

He was big, had to give him that. Broad shoulders. Some muscle working under the leather jacket, hands that looked as if they’d have no problems tearing someone’s face off. Bit of a reputation too.

And I definitely owed him for that shot in the kidneys yesterday.

Blood fizzed in my throat, soothed out the pain in my ribs and chest. Nothing like an adrenaline buzz to take the sharp edges off a bit of bruising.

‘Where’s Alice?’

He just smiled.

I took a step towards him…

Then a voice oiled out from the corridor behind me. His other half: Joseph. ‘Actually, Mister Henderson, it might be considered unwise to reduce this to a bout of pugilism. I fear I would be duty bound to intervene, and two against one wouldn’t be sporting, would it?’

Sodding hell. And where was Bob the Bloody Builder when you needed him? Sat on his stuffed backside at the end of the bed.

I didn’t look around. ‘How did you get in?’

‘Suffice it to say that my colleague, Francis, is not unskilled in the locksmith’s arcane arts. Now, may I prevail upon you to join us in the lounge for a tête-à-tête ?’

Francis didn’t even blink.

One I could take. Two at the same time? Wedged between them in a corridor?

Like being right back in prison again. Trapped. Hemmed in. Waiting for two of Mrs Kerrigan’s goons to beat the living shite out of me.

It … wasn’t worth the risk. Not with Alice in the flat.

I cricked my head to the left, then the right. Held Francis’s gaze for a couple of breaths, then turned my back on him.

Joseph nodded. ‘An excellent decision Mr Henderson. Now, shall we…?’

‘Let’s get one thing crystal: if you’ve laid a finger on her, I’m going to break every one of yours. Then make you eat them.’

‘Her?’ A frown. Then his face opened out again. ‘Ah, I see! The good doctor. Worry not, Mr Henderson, as far as I’m aware she’s perfectly safe. Well, perhaps not perfectly . It was, regrettably, necessary to restrain her after she became obstreperous.’

Behind me, Francis sniffed. ‘Had to give her a bit of a slap. Teach her some-’

I slammed my elbow back into his chest. Dropped the butter and the bread and the tattie scones. Twisted to the left then drove the tin of baked beans into his face, put all my weight into it too. Crunch. His head snapped back, mouth open, blood shining like tiny jewels in the light of the bare bulb.

Two.

Three.

And there was Joseph, head down, charging. Arms pumping as if he was running the hundred metres.

No point trying to dodge.

So I lunged forward instead, leaned to the right, let his head pass under my left arm. Then looped my arm around his neck as his shoulder hit my chest. Tightened it. Let my knees sag. My backside hit the bare floorboards and Joseph went up and over, head still trapped under my arm, making choking noises, setting the light bulb swinging.

Thump — he clattered into Francis and I let go. Scrambled to my feet. Took my weight on my right foot. A jab of pain. But it freed the left up to slam down on Joseph’s face. Once, twice, three times.

Grunting.

The pair of them were a tangled mess of arms and legs, Francis struggling to get out from underneath.

Joseph’s hands came up, fluttering over his blood-spattered face, so I aimed for his throat instead. Got his clavicle. Chest. Then bingo.

His eyes bugged, breath a ragged wheezing gasp.

Francis shoved Joseph off. Got as far as his knees. Scarlet streamed down his chin, dripped from the end of that stupid little soul patch.

I grabbed a handful of ginger ponytail and rammed my knee into his nose. A crunch. A spurt of blood. So I did it again, catching him right in the eye. Then brought the beans down like a hammer on the crown of his head, ripping off a flap of scalp. One more time for luck…

A sound, behind me. A dark, metallic click .

Ah.

Then a cold Irish accent clawed its way down the corridor. ‘Have yez finished foostering about, or would ye like a bullet in the Gary Glitter?’

I let go of Francis’s ponytail and he slumped sideways into the wall, bubbles of neon red popping between his lips, shoulders limp, arms dangling by his sides, blood oozing from his tattered scalp. Joseph gurgled and gasped, both hands wrapped around his throat, as if he was trying to force air into his neck through the skin.

I turned, hands out where they were nice and visible.

Mrs Kerrigan smiled back at me with sharp little teeth. Black suit, grey silk shirt buttoned all the way up, small golden crucifix hanging on a chain over the top. Her hair was almost solid grey, the ends still holding on to the last vestiges of brown where they escaped from the bun at the back. She had a semi-automatic in one hand, the metal dark as a tumour against her yellow Marigold gloves. The barrel drooped to point at my groin. ‘Now are ye going to be a good little boy, or shall we get yez singing soprano?’

‘What do you want?’

A lopsided smile. ‘Yer a lucky man, Mr Henderson. I’ve got an offer for yez that’ll take a bite out what you owe Mr Inglis.’

‘I don’t owe anyone anything.’

It was more like a bark than a laugh. ‘Don’t be a caffler. Thirty-two grand.’

My fist curled around the tin of beans. ‘Go to hell.’

‘A good Catholic girl like me, Mr Henderson? Don’t think so. Why do ye think we invented confession?’ The gun came up till it was pointing at the middle of my chest. ‘Now, why don’t ye drop the Heinz, and come join the party in the lounge? We’ll discuss this like civilized adults.’

‘And if I don’t?’

At my feet, Joseph’s breathing was beginning to sound a little less like he was trying to inhale a bowling ball.

She shrugged. ‘That’s OK. You hand over the thirty-two big ones, and we’ll be on our way.’

‘You killed my brother!’ I pulled my shoulders back. Stepped forwards.

The gun came up again. Right between the eyes. ‘So why the hell would it bother me to rip the head off ye? And then go through for a little fun with yer doctor girl?’

Don’t move. Don’t even blink. Don’t let her know she’s found a weak spot.

‘Or maybe I won’t kill yez? Maybe I’ll just put a hole in your belly and drag you into the bedroom, so you can watch me tie her down and ride the arse off her? Would yez like that? Bet you would, ye dirty old sod.’ The smile hardened. ‘Only I’ll be using a cordless drill with an eight-inch masonry bit. Oh, there’ll still be writhing and screaming, but a lot more mess.’

Not so much as a twitch.

‘Unngh…’ Joseph rolled over onto his front, coughing and spluttering. Dragging in ragged breaths. Blood and spittle corkscrewed across the floorboards. ‘Bastard…’

Mrs Kerrigan rolled her eyes. ‘Serves ye right, yez were getting lazy. Mr Henderson’s done yez both a favour.’

More coughing. Then he spat out a blob of frothy pink. ‘Could’ve killed me…’

‘You should be so lucky.’ Then she stepped back into the lounge and twitched the gun at me. ‘Right so.’

I let the baked beans thump to the floorboards, then followed her. Stopped. Swore.

Shifty sat in the middle of the lounge, on one of the folding chairs, in the slashed wreckage of his inflatable bed. He was stripped to his pants, shivering — but probably not from the cold. Coils of duct tape fixed his arms and legs to the chair. Another thick band of it around his chest. His nose was nearly flat, blood a dark smear down the duct tape gag. A small cut pierced the silver tape, just enough to let out hissing, shuddering breaths. Scarlet oozed from a gash on his forehead. Thick weals of red made parallel lines across his chest. Bruising on his face, neck and shoulders.