Stuart MacBride - A Song for the Dying

Mrs Kerrigan picked her way between the puddles, rain sparking off the umbrella. ‘Paul Manson…’ She stopped, six foot away. Licked her cherry-red lips. ‘Turn him over. I want to see his face.’

I pulled him onto his side, then let him roll the rest of the way. He flopped back to the wet ground. Rain spattered against his face and the gag.

‘Well, well, well, Paul Manson.’ A laugh broke free. ‘That’s what ye get for being a boring arrogant wee caffler. Not so feckin’ gobby now, are yez?’

I thumped my toe against his leg. ‘Got a shallow grave all ready and waiting for him.’

‘Ye know, it’s a shame. I thought ye’d bottle it, turn up with the fecker still kicking so I could do the honours.’ She reached into her coat and came out with a small black semiautomatic. ‘But it’s the thought that counts. Right?’

Shite… I reached for the small of my back-

The gun kicked in her hand, a blare of white light seared across my eyes, and Paul Manson’s head jerked up off the tarmac. Then thudded down again.

The gun’s roar echoed off the metal warehouse.

A dark hole sat in the middle of his forehead, the ground beneath him was spattered with glistening lumps and flecks of white. One eye open, the pupil pointing off to the left.

Sodding hell.

She lowered the gun. ‘Now, will ye look at that? Must’ve been nice and fresh to still be all wet inside.’

A knot formed beneath my ribs, then spread up into my throat. Cutting off the air for a couple of deafening heartbeats. Then faded.

So much for getting him to testify against Andy Inglis. Still, if you run with wolves you’re going to get bitten sooner or later. Really, it served the bastard right.

Still…

I leaned against the car, fingers wrapped around the pistol’s handgrip.

Mrs Kerrigan took a step to the side, avoiding the puddle spreading out from what was left of Manson’s head. ‘What’s up, Mr Henderson? Yez are looking all shocked.’

‘Nothing. Why should I give a toss about some mob accountant scumbag?’

She laughed, a proper full-on belly laugh, rocking backwards and forwards beneath her funeral-black umbrella. ‘Ahh…’ A sigh. A smile. Then she wiped her eyes on the back of her sleeve, gun still in hand. ‘Don’t be thick — do ye really think I’d let yez anywhere near Mr Inglis’s accountant? Feck that. You’d try to get him to squeal.’ She waved the semiautomatic at Manson. ‘Had to sit next to this gobshite at some charity boxing dinner last night. Banging on about how lovely his wife is, and how great his kid is, and how much they love each other. And would I like to see photos of their feckin’ holiday in Spain?’

Not Andy Inglis’s accountant?

Oh shite.

Just an innocent bystander.

Oh buggering shite.

The knot was back, and it’d brought friends, curdling my lungs.

The gun kicked in her hand again, punching a hole in Manson’s chest, leaving another scar on my retina. Then another. And one more, the body twitching with every bullet. ‘Does it look like I want to see yer manky holiday snaps?’

‘You said he was a bloody mob accountant!’

She brought the semiautomatic up to point at my chest. Pouted. ‘Did ye really think I’d stop feckin’ with ye just because ye got out of prison?’

‘You…’

‘Don’t blame me: ye’re the one who grabbed him. Ye killed him. Ye brought him here. Ye left his poor wife a widow and his precious wee boy without an old man.’ She stepped back a couple of paces. ‘And now ye can clean him up. Dig the bullets out though, eh? Don’t want anything left lying about now, do we?’

Used me. Played me for a moron.

And I did it.

Didn’t matter who pulled the trigger, she was right: I gagged and tied him, injected him with a cocktail of surgery-grade anaesthetics, and dragged him out to a disused chandler’s warehouse to be shot in the head. All on me.

Mrs Kerrigan gave one last laugh, then turned and started towards the car.

I dragged the gun out from my back. ‘You think that’s funny ?’

She didn’t stop. ‘Oh grow up, Mr Henderson. It’s feckin’ hilarious.’

My semiautomatic barked, digging a chunk out of the tarmac at her feet.

She froze. ‘Seriously?’

‘He bored you at dinner, and that’s it ?’

‘Mr Henderson,’ she shook her head, gun arm hanging slack at her side, ‘do ye really think I’m after being that thick? That I’m just messing here, with no insurance like a Muppet?’ She glanced over her shoulder. ‘Joseph?’

Silence.

‘Joseph, I’m all for yer dramatic moment, but it’s time for show-and-tell. Give Mr Henderson one of his little girlfriend’s ears. No need to gift wrap it.’

I pointed the gun at the back of her head. ‘He touches her: the next bullet takes your face with it.’

She sighed. Turned. Frowned. ‘Joseph?’

Somewhere in the distance a motorbike revved its engine, then faded away into the night, leaving nothing but the hiss of the rain behind.

‘Where the feckin’ hell…’ She shook her head. Closed her eyes and pressed the flat of the barrel against the skin between her eyebrows. ‘But would I listen? No: give the bastard another chance, I said. Let him prove himself. Too bloody soft, that’s my problem.’ She lowered the gun and raised her voice. ‘Francis! Get the bitch out the car and cut her feckin’ ear off.’

Lying flat on his back, half-wrapped in clear plastic sheeting, Shifty groaned.

Rain thrummed against Mrs Kerrigan’s umbrella.

‘Francis?’ A sigh. ‘For feck’s sake, turn yer back for two seconds… Fine.’ The gun came up again, pointing right in the middle of my chest. ‘Can’t get the feckin’ staff.’

A dark shape emerged from behind the 4×4. Cleared its throat.

Mrs Kerrigan nodded. ‘About time. Now get yer arse in gear, before I change my mind about your career prospects.’

The figure stepped forwards, into the headlights. Tall and thin, blue jumper on over a white shirt turned see-through by the rain, hair plastered to his head. Wee Free McFee.

‘Francis, I’m not going to tell ye again.’

Wee Free raised his right hand. What looked like a lump hammer glistened in his fist. ‘He’s busy.’

Mrs Kerrigan spun around. Wee Free’s arm crashed down, battering the hammer off the side of her head. Blood glittered in the air, caught in the 4×4’s headlights like burning fireflies. She kept turning, spinning as she crumpled to the tarmac, hitting it like a bag of wet laundry.

She lay there, groaning, right arm twitching, the gun still clasped in her hand.

Clunk — the lump hammer hit the ground.

Not so big now, was she?

I stepped forwards. ‘OK, that’s-’

‘“Thus saith the LORD: Execute ye judgment and righteousness, and deliver the spoiled out of the hand of the oppressor.”’ He stepped on her gun-hand, grinding the heel of his shoe from side to side, until the semiautomatic clattered out onto the tarmac, then bent and picked it up. Turned it over in his hands. Ran his fingers along the barrel. Sighed. ‘You know, I never really saw the appeal. It’s impersonal. Weak. Give a three-year-old a gun and they can kill someone. How can that be right?’

She coughed, retched, then struggled over onto her side. Blood dripped from the tip of her nose. ‘Gnnnghh…’

I limped closer, gun up. ‘OK, nobody move.’

Wee Free grabbed a handful of Mrs Kerrigan’s hair and dragged her to her knees. Forced her head back, so she was looking up at him. ‘Listen carefully, sweetheart, because this is your only telling.’

She spat at him, a frothy gobbet of phlegm tainted with red. ‘I… I will … feckin’ end ye!’