Shaun Hutson: Knife Edge

'Pure bullshit,' Brady retorted.

Macarthy raised his glass and sipped once more at the brandy.

The blast was deafening.

A thundercrack which seemed to reverberate not just around the dining room but also over the lake, echoing away like wiling thunder.

The window behind Macarthy shattered, the first bullet striking him in the back of the head, at the base of the skull.

It exploded from his mouth, blasting two teeth free, smashing the brandy glass.

A thick gout of blood spouted from the wound, tiny pieces of pulverised bone spinning through the air like bloodied confetti.

The impact drove him forward, slamming his shattered face into the table which immediately upended, sending more glasses flying into the air.

Three more shots followed in rapid succession.

One caught Black in the chest, staving in his sternum before exploding from his back just below his shoulder blade. He remained motionless for what seemed like an eternity then dropped to his knees, hands clapped to his chest as if trying to hold in the blood.

Brady threw himself down as two more bullets sent glass flying into the dining room. He looked across at Black who was on his knees, head bowed as if in prayer, blood pouring down his chest and stomach.

Macarthy lay face down a foot or so from him, eyes open.

Brady felt his stomach somersault as he looked at the back of his companion's head.

Where the bullet had entered there was something thick, swollen and pinkish-white bulging from the hole.

He realised it was brain.

Brady vomited.

Outside, the thunderous echo of the firing died away on the cold air.

The sound of an engine drifted across the lake as a car sped away into the enveloping gloom.

The noise from the Datsun's heater was irritating him.

It needed fixing.

The constant rattling pissed him off.

The weather pissed him off.

Being stuck in the car at this time in the morning pissed him off.

There wasn't much that didn't piss him off if he was honest.

Sean Doyle leaned forward and pushed a cassette into the car stereo, twisting the volume knob. Music filled the car, loud and threatening.

'Almost called it today…'

Doyle slid down in his seat, one foot propped against the dashboard. He flicked some mud from the side of one cowboy boot trying to remember how long ago it had been since he'd cleaned the boots.

'Turned my face to the void, along with the suffering…'

The trail of people passing by on either side of the road, heading for work, or wherever, was still little more than a trickle. It wouldn't become a stream for another hour or so. Some looked in at him, others seemed more intent on trying to walk down London Road while glancing back over their shoulders in the direction of number ten.

From where he sat, Doyle had a clear view of the house.

‘And the question, why ami?…'

It was a simple red-brick dwelling with a white porch and white-framed windows. There were no lights on inside. The sodium glare of street lights reflected in the glass like a candle flame in blind eyes.

Doyle flipped open the glove compartment, pulled out a packet of hard-boiled sweets and popped one into his mouth.

There were more cassettes in there, tape cases, a crushed box which had once held a McDonald's fruit pie, a few balled-up pieces of paper with scribbles on them.

And a box of 9mm shells.

Just the usual shit.

'So many times I've tried and failed, to gather my courage, reach again for that nail…'

Doyle reached for the box of ammo and slid it open. He reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a spare magazine for the Beretta. Slowly, he began to feed shells into it.

'Life's been like dragging feet through sand, and never finding a Promised Land…'

Each of the bullets was hollow-tipped.

Doyle also wore a holster around his left ankle, hidden by his jeans and boot. In it nestled a. 45 PD Star. The pistol was less than four inches long but Doyle had its six-shot magazine loaded with hollow tips too.

It would take the back of a man's head off from twenty yards.

He knew it would because he'd seen it do just such a job.

How many times?

A dozen? Two dozen?

He'd lost count.

Who fucking cared?

Doyle certainly didn't and if he didn't, it was for sure no other bastard was going to.

He had no idea how many men he'd killed over the years. With guns, with knives. With his bare hands. He knew some of their names, others were just faces.

He'd been close enough to some of them to smell them, to look in their eyes. To see that combination of fear and pain.

Pain.

The constant companion.

Death was part of his job.

As a member of the Counter Terrorist Unit, Doyle had seen it in more guises than he cared to remember for more years than he could be bothered to recall.

How long?

Five years? Ten?

A hundred?

He smiled to himself.

For every death he'd dispensed, he'd seen one. A colleague, innocent men and women, sometimes children.

And her.

The only one he'd ever really cared for.

Georgie.

He pushed the last shell into the magazine and dropped it into his pocket.

Fuck it.

He closed his eyes momentarily and she was there.

She was always there, especially in quiet moments. He hated the nights more than ever now. Thoughts of her came to him in the lonely stillness and even though he fought to keep those thoughts at bay they battered against his consciousness.

She'd been dead more than eight years now.

Hadn't she?

You should know. You held her that night, you looked into her eyes. You felt her blood on your hands. You smelled her.

'Fuck it,' Doyle hissed under his breath and reached for another cassette, jamming it into the stereo, turning the sound even louder.

'I hope the end is less painful than my life…'

Doyle saw movement in his rear-view mirror and turned in his seat.

The paper boy was about twelve, maybe younger. A tall lanky lad who was standing looking towards number ten London Road.

He could see figures moving about on the path in front of the house.

Uniformed figures.

Doyle swung himself out of the car and the boy looked at him with an expression coloured by fear.

Doyle ran a hand through his long hair, sweeping it back from his forehead. The cold wind sent it lashing back around his face.

'You got any spare papers in there?' he asked, nodding towards the boy's bag.

The paper boy looked at him blankly

'I want a paper,' Doyle told him.

I need something to pass the fucking time.

The boy shook his head.

'Do you deliver to number ten?'

The boy nodded.

Doyle held out a hand. 'I'll have theirs. They won't be needing it today.'

The paper boy hesitated a moment then reached into his bag and handed the Mirror to the counter terrorist who took it and slid back behind the wheel.

He turned to the sports pages and began reading.

The paper boy stood motionless for a moment longer then tapped on Doyle's window. 'What's going on?'

'Nothing for you to worry about,' Doyle said. 'You'd better deliver the rest of those papers.'

'Are you sure number ten don't want theirs?' the boy persisted.

'Trust me,' Doyle said, watching as the boy nodded and rode off.

The counter terrorist glanced first at his watch then at number ten London Road.

The house was still in darkness.

Doyle sighed irritably.

How much longer?

Broadcasting House, Belfast

As the lift descended, William Hatcher looked across at the young woman standing opposite him.

She was in her early twenties he guessed, perhaps younger.