Stuart MacBride - Dark Blood

He raises his pale chin. ‘This is my home.’

‘Good for you, Sweetheart; love what you’ve done with the place.’ Julie perches on a stool at the breakfast bar. ‘Now, you all know why we’re here, so why don’t we act like grown-ups and no one else needs to get hurt.’

Bruce balls his fists. ‘He raped my father.’

‘And you want revenge, correct?’

Bruce nods.

‘And you’re going to…what: kick him to death? Have yourselves a lynch party? Batter his brains in with a hammer?’

A voice from the doorway says, ‘We’re going to hand him over to the police.’

They all turn to look at the old man, standing there in his fleece and jeans. Face is a right mess, you know? All covered in bruises. He purses his lips, raises an eyebrow at Julie. ‘Who the hell are you?’

‘Well, well, well, if it’s not Mr Jimmy Evans. We were reading all about your terrible ordeal in the papers this morning, Babe. Feeling better?’

The old man’s chin comes up. ‘We’re handing him over to the police.’

‘I see…’ Julie smiles. ‘And then what? They believe your trumped-up charges and he goes back to prison for the rest of his sordid little life? That the idea?’

‘They won’t have any choice, he’s-’

‘Oh Sweetie, he’ll be out in six, seven years tops. Then it’ll all start up again.’ She sighs. ‘No, your young friends here have the right idea. Mr Knox needs to pay a much darker price for his crimes.’

‘We won’t-’

‘She’s right.’ Ellen looks down at Richard, then backhands him across the face. The blow snaps his head around, smacking his cheek into a cabinet door. Hot stinging pain on one side, dull throbbing on the other.

They’re going to kill him.

Richard bites his bottom lip. Tries not to cry. It’s a test. It’s all a test.

Oh God, they’re going to kill him.

Julie winks. ‘That’s more like it!’

Ellen straightens her shoulders. ‘He raped my grandad. An eighty-year-old man and this piece of shit tied him up in the basement and raped him.’

‘Tell you what, why don’t we make it nice and simple?’ Julie thumps a huge handbag on the breakfast bar — like a leather mop cap with rope ties and big handles — and digs about inside. Four pairs of 3D glasses go on the worktop followed by a big bunch of keys, a packet of tissues…and a moulded leather holster. She unfastens the restraining strap and pulls out a black slab of metal.

A semiautomatic pistol.

Oh God.

Richard blinks. Tries to look away. But the gun’s like a magnet.

She pulls back the slide and peers inside, then lets it go with a clack, ejects the magazine, and puts it in her pocket. Julie places the gun down in front of her.

It clunks on the marble worktop.

‘One in the breech. All you have to do is shoot him in the back of the head.’ She looks at Neil. ‘Show them, Babe.’

He makes a gun of his thumb and forefinger and marches over — Evans, Bruce, and Ellen shrinking back as he gets close. Then Neil takes his position behind Richard, grabs a handful of hair, and forces his head down. The big man jabs his finger into the dip at the back of Richard’s skull.

‘Bang.’

Oh God…

He lets go and Richard scrabbles sideways against the cabinets, knees drawn up to his chest, hot tears dribbling down his cheeks.

Oh God…

‘Isn’t that fun?’ Julie smiles. ‘Best thing is, because it’s a forty-five, when it comes out the other side it’ll take most of his face off.’

Ellen licks her lips. Looks from Richard to the gun, then up to Matt. ‘You do it.’

‘I…with…’ He rubs at the angry red handprint on his cheek. Looks up at his dad, then drops his eyes. ‘Bruce…?’

The old man bangs his hand on the wall. ‘This isn’t right!’

‘You’re not in charge any more, Evans.’ Bruce holds out his hand. ‘I’ll do it.’

‘Excellent. Tony, get the patio doors would you, Babe? Don’t want the nice man getting brains and bits of skull all over his nice new kitchen.’

Tony — the one who doesn’t look like Elvis — hesitates a second, then does what he’s told. Cold air floods the room.

The security light comes on at the back of the house. The garden’s almost featureless, an expanse of crisp white. The trees and bushes bent under the weight of snow, more flakes swirling down from the dark sky.

‘Oh God, please…’

Neil grabs Richard’s arm.

‘No, please, God no, please…’ Richard snatches at the cabinet handle, holding on, knuckles going white. He stares at the old man. ‘Don’t let them do it!’

But Jimmy Evans just turns his back.

‘Please!’

Neil kicks Richard in the ribs.

He screams, but doesn’t let go. ‘Please! You-’

His head jerks backwards and hot copper fills his mouth; a ringing noise followed by a wave of fire. He lets go.

Neil drags him across the kitchen tiles, over the lip of the patio doors, and tumbles him out into the snow.

So cold against his naked skin it burns.

Richard scrabbles to his knees, hands clasped in front of him, tears and snot running down his face as they form a circle around him, looming. He chokes back a sob. ‘Please, please, I didn’t mean it. You don’t have to-’

‘SHUT UP!’ Julie holds the gun out to Bruce. ‘There you go, Babe. Just like we showed you: one shot to the back of the head and it’s all over. We’ll even help you get rid of the body.’

Bruce takes the gun.

Oh God.

‘Please, it wasn’t my fault. I’ve changed! I’m not like that any more!’

Bruce scuffs through the snow until he’s standing directly behind Richard, then grabs a handful of hair and forces his head forward.

Something hot runs down Richard’s frozen thigh, steaming in the frigid air. ‘Please don’t do this…’

The gun barrel presses into the skin of his neck, right where Tony’s finger was.

Richard closes his eyes.

Father, why have you forsaken me?

Now the only noise is the roar of the wind, the groan and creak of the trees.

Neil sighs. ‘Some time today would be nice, like.’

‘I don’t think I-’

‘Shoot him.’

‘I-’

‘The fucker raped your old man! Do it!’

The barrel presses harder into Richard’s skin.

Neil’s screaming now. ‘KILL HIM!’

Silence.

Then Julie says, ‘Not so easy, is it, Bruce?’

Bruce drags in a huge breath and sobs. ‘I want to…I really want to…but I can’t.’

The barrel drifts away and Richard falls forward, vomiting into the snow. Oh thank you, thank you merciful God, thank you.

‘You want me to do it, Sweetheart? I can if you like. It’s no problem.’

Richard stares at her, warm bile cooling on his chin as she reaches out and takes the semiautomatic from Bruce’s limp fingers. Takes a step, so she’s standing in front of Richard, the gun barrel a supermassive black hole, sucking everything into it.

‘Any last words, Babe?’

All Richard can think of is, ‘Please…’

She straightens her arm and pulls the trigger.

Logan’s Fiat gave one last almighty bang and died, juddering to a halt on Queen Street. PC Butler pursed her lips, pulled the keys out of the ignition, and pointed through the windscreen. ‘You want to get out and push?’

FHQ loomed black and grey up ahead, all the windows shining bright through the swirling snow, less than two hundred feet away. Almost made it.

Logan shook his head. ‘Never get it up the ramp.’ He climbed out into the road, lurching as the wind buffeted at his back. ‘Shove it to the kerb.’

Between them they managed to push the rusty corpse to the side of the road.