Peter Temple: In the Evil Day

There was something wrong here.

Niemand went into the passage, looked up and down, went into the dining room, a formal dining room with a big blond table and ten chairs. Zeke was on his mobile, half-sitting on the table. He looked at Niemand, raised an eyebrow. Niemand shrugged, went back to the sitting room.

Mrs Shawn was coming out of the kitchen, glass refilled.

‘My husband,’ she said. ‘He’ll be here in a minute. He’s going to London tomorrow. Won’t take me. Sometimes I think he’d like to see me murdered.’

Niemand felt some of his feeling go away, went out to escort the husband in. The driveway and street outside were floodlit, bright as day, and as the man drove the Audi past him, he saw a chubby face.

In the garage, the man got out, briefcase in his left hand, looked at his watch. He was short and paunchy and even an expensive suit didn’t improve that.

‘Just you?’ he said.

Niemand shook his head. ‘My partner’s inside.’

The man looked at him. He’d been drinking, face flushed. ‘What colour’s he?’

‘Black.’

‘No blacks in the house. Don’t trust any black.’ He pointed at the floor. ‘Next time, he waits here.’

This man should be allowed to die violently, thought Niemand. He didn’t say anything, walked to the door into the house and waited.

The man came over and opened the door. Niemand went in first, went through the hall, into the sitting room. The woman was standing in the kitchen doorway, champagne flute in hand. Zeke was sitting in a leather chair, the shotgun on his thighs.

Brett Shawn dropped the briefcase on a chair, was taking off his jacket, didn’t look at his wife, eyes on Zeke, threw the expensive garment sideways, careless of where it fell, walked to the middle of the room, made a stand-up sign to Zeke, palm upwards, short fingers held together, flicking urgently.

‘Up,’ he said. ‘On your bike. Don’t pay a bloody fortune to have people sit on my bloody furniture.’

Zeke’s expression didn’t change. He stood, weapon at the end of a slack arm, looked at Niemand. Niemand nodded at Mrs Shawn.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Thank you both.’

Brett Shawn went into the passage first, Zeke behind him. Shawn was at the door to the hall, had his hand on the doorhandle, when the hair on the back of Niemand’s skull pricked. He looked up, saw something on the ceiling behind him, something at the edge of his vision, a dark line not there before, shouted Zeke’s name, spinning around, finding the pistol at his waist, throwing himself away from the line of sight, hitting the floor, rolling into position.

The man in the ceiling pushed open the inspection hatch, fired a pumpgun, hit Shawn in the side of his belly as he turned around, in the pinstriped shirt distended over the sagging gut, almost cut him in half, fired again. Zeke raised his shotgun and fired at the ceiling without turning, just his head tilted backwards, deafening noise in the corridor. Then Zeke’s head blew apart, a balloon of blood and bone and pink and grey material exploding.

Niemand had the.38 out, was about to fire into the roof behind the inspection hatch, didn’t.

Waited.

Silence.

A noise overhead, a bumping sound.

Waited.

A shortened shotgun dropped into the passage. Then a bare arm and a shoulder in a T-shirt fell through the hatch. A dark hand dangled.

Niemand registered the voice of Mrs Shawn screaming. He paid no attention, reached forward, got Zeke’s shotgun, ran his hand over his friend’s head, smeared his own throat and chest with Zeke’s blood, lay back and looked at the hatch.

Mrs Shawn stopped screaming.

Behind him, the door to the sitting room opened. Niemand closed his eyes.

Mrs Shawn screamed again, slammed the door.

Niemand lay on the mulberry carpet, shotgun at his side, eyes closed, looking through his lashes at the hatch.

Nothing. Just blood running down the bare arm, down the fingers, dripping.

Mrs Shawn was shouting. She was on the telephone. She’d got through to someone. Niemand couldn’t make out the words.

They’d been in the ceiling all the time. They’d come via the empty house next door, probably bridged the gap between the roofs with a ladder.

Niemand waited. His sight was going fuzzy. No sound from above.

Dead or gone, he thought.

He tensed his shoulder muscles, readied himself to get up.

A scraping noise.

The gunman’s body fell through the hatch, landed in front of him, just missed his feet, blood going everywhere.

He’d been pushed.

Niemand didn’t move, didn’t breathe.

The other person in the ceiling didn’t have a firearm, his instinct told him that. And the person was running out of time: the rest of the team would be close now, waiting to have the gates opened for them. If it didn’t happen soon, they would probably desert him.

Seen through his lashes, the hatch was just a black square.

Nothing happened.

Niemand heard the door to the sitting room open.

Mrs Shawn didn’t scream this time, she said, in a small voice, a child’s voice, ‘Oh, Jesus, God, are you all dead?’

Niemand was looking at the hatch through his lashes.

Nothing.

Feet first.

The black man came out of the hole feet first, just stepped into air, dropped from the roof like an acrobat, long butcher’s knife held to his chest.

Mrs Shawn screamed, high-pitched, the scream of steel meeting steel at great speed.

The man landed feet astride his partner’s body, a slightly built man, perfectly balanced, as if he’d jumped from a chair, knife hand down, the blade pointed at Mrs Shawn.

‘Shut up, bitch,’ he said.

He looked at Niemand lying on the floor, didn’t change his grip on the knife, took a step forward, bent at the waist, took his arm back to put the blade into Niemand’s groin, sever the femoral artery.

‘No!’ Mrs Shawn, the abrading metal shriek.

Niemand opened his eyes, raised the shotgun, pulled the trigger, heard the hammer fall.

Nothing. Shell malfunction, one in five thousand chance.

The man lunged.

Niemand brought his right leg up, kicked as hard as he could, his shin just below the knee made contact with the man’s crotch, a shout of pain, he saw the knife hand move away, sat up, braced himself on his left hand, hooked his left knee around the man’s right calf, rolled savagely to the left, right knee pressing in the man’s upper thigh.

He felt the joint give, tendons, cartilage tearing, saw the man hit the wall with his shoulder, head turning sideways, mouth open and twisted in pain and surprise, saw the teeth and the furred tongue, the knife hand coming around, the knife huge, shining. Pain in his shoulder. He grabbed for the man’s wrist with his left hand, clubbed at his head with the shotgun, laid the short barrel across his jaw and his ear, pulled the weapon back…

The shotgun went off, a shocking concussion. Niemand hadn’t realised he’d pulled the trigger.

For a second, they were frozen, two men, one black, one white, legs twisted and locked together, faces close, looking into each other’s eyes.

He’s strong, Niemand thought.

The man got his right hand on the shotgun barrel, had the advantage of pushing. Niemand felt the strength leaving his left arm, he was going to lose this, he wasn’t the quickest this time, he could see the knife blade, see his blood on it.

No. He couldn’t die here, in this bastard’s house, in the service of this English prick.

He let his right arm go slack, caught the black man by surprise, pushed the shotgun barrel at him, pulled the trigger.

It worked. Eyes closed against the muzzle flash, he saw its furnace flame through his lids, felt it burn his face, felt the man go limp, felt hot liquid in his mouth and his eyes and up his nostrils.