Adrian McKinty - Dead I Well May Be

Bridget woke first, looked at me, screamed.

Darkey woke and reached under his pillow. I’d already removed his piece and was pointing it at him. Tight little.38, do the job.

You’re alive, Bridget gasped.

I’m alive, I said.

Bridget and Darkey were wearing matching bunny pajamas. For some reason, I’d thought he’d make her sleep in a vulgar low-cut negligee. Instead, this was domestic and cute. Darkey wasn’t a bad lad really, I thought.

Bridget seemed to be on the verge of passing out. She threw up in her mouth instead. Darkey was looking at me with no fear whatsoever. Like I say, not a bad lad.

You killed Sunshine, he said. It wasn’t a question, just a confirmation of fact.

I nodded.

And Bob, too? he asked. This time, he really didn’t know.

Aye, Bob, too, I said.

Jesus, he said, still a ways away from being afeared.

Why? asked Bridget. What’s going on? Please. What’s going on, honey?

I realized she wasn’t talking to me.

Darkey looked at me and looked at her. He read the expression on my face. His number was up.

Sweetie, Michael and I have some business to discuss. I think it would be best if you went into the bathroom for a moment, Darkey said with admirable calm.

What’s going on? she demanded, hysterical.

I’d wanted to talk to her, to let her know what kind of a man Darkey was. To let her know about Andy, Fergal, and Scotchy. To tell her what I’d been through. To tell her that he was a fucking monster. Subhuman. That he deserved to die, that she was better off without him. Maybe even better with me. I wanted to make a little speech and tell her everything, to tell her that I was the strong right arm of the Lord’s vengeance. But once again, Darkey was correct. She didn’t need to see it. It would be better this way.

Darkey’s right, Bridget. We have to discuss a few things, just go to the bathroom, there’s things you can’t hear.

You’re not going to kill him? There’s four men in the house, all of them armed, you’d never get away with it. They’d kill you, Michael, kill you. My God, you’re alive. How? You survived the… Oh God, we didn’t know, Jesus. Is this about money? Michael, promise me you won’t do anything rash. Promise me.

She was looking at me. But she was clinging to him.

Promise me, give me your word, everything can be sorted out, she said. You won’t do anything rash. Promise, say it.

I promise, I said.

Darkey hadn’t taken his eyes off me.

I’ll explain it all later, Bridget, Darkey said. Please, love, do me a favor, just go to the bathroom for a minute. Just for a minute.

But why? she said, sitting up, leaning forward now, almost touching me.

It’s business, Darkey said firmly. Now go.

I looked at him with wonder. He looked back at me, his face a study in composure and concentration. What a man. He was old school. He was Darkey fucking White.

Why does he need a gun? We’re all friends. Michael, I’m so glad you’re alive. Oh my God, Bridget was saying.

Darkey turned and faced her. He could see that I was losing my patience and he wanted to spare her the scene.

Go to the bathroom, for two minutes. Michael and I have to talk business, he said, loudly, forcefully.

She turned to me.

Why do you need the gun, Michael? she asked.

Those eyes. Jesus. How could you lie to her? How could you storm in here, upset her? How could you even think about hurting her or those whom she loved? It was impossible.

I don’t trust Darkey, that’s all, I said, and gave her a smile. I think it reassured her a little.

And you won’t hurt him? she asked.

Me hurt him? I asked.

Yes, she said, soft, anxious.

Her hands folded themselves in front of her, as if in prayer. It unsettled me, rattled me; my weapon hand twitched.

I won’t touch him, I said.

She let go her hands and took a knot out of her hair.

Darkey breathed in and out.

I remembered to breathe too.

Ok, she said in a monotone. She believed me. She thought it was a misunderstanding, she wanted it all to go away. Tomorrow was Christmas, this was some kind of bad dream.

She looked at Darkey. Darkey nodded.

Two minutes, he said. The bathroom.

She blinked once, got up, and went to the en suite bathroom, closing the door behind her.

She’s gone. You might as well say your piece and get it over, Darkey said in a whisper. I’m ready.

You’re a hard man, Darkey, I said, trying to keep the admiration out of my voice.

Yeah, so are you.

Do you want to know why? I asked him, itching to spill the whole fucking story, but realizing now that I couldn’t.

I suppose I do, he said, still quite cool. If I could be half as together when my time came, I’d be all right. I sat down on the edge of his bed.

I promised Scotchy, after they shot him, I muttered to no one in particular.

Look, Michael. What if I told you that no one was supposed to die? Darkey said quickly.

Do you think it’s the sort of thing you’re likely to tell me? I asked.

Would you believe it? he asked.

Honestly, Darkey, now I don’t think it matters, I said.

He shook his head. Took a deep breath. His temples throbbed. He smiled at me. I was impressed. Was this the same crazy, impulsive, overacting Darkey White? Maybe, I thought, I was finally seeing the real Darkey White.

Is there anything I can say to make you change your mind? If I offered you a lot of money, or, or anything? he said.

I shook my head. It’s a blood feud, Darkey, you know the score. Nothing else will quite do.

He sighed and leaned back in the bed. He looked to one side and then stared at me square in the face.

Ok, Michael, you fuck, do what you’ve come to do. You realize Duffy will hunt you down and kill you? If it takes fifty fucking years, he’ll do it.

Darkey, somehow I never really thought I’d make old bones, I said.

Darkey looked at me and swallowed. He clenched his fists and brought them to his sides.

Get on with it, Darkey said, urgently. I’m ready now.

I raised the pistol, pointing it at his head, but before I could do anything more there was a bang and I was thrown sideways against the closet door. It smashed into the back of my head and I sprawled forward onto the bed and rolled to the floor. I scrambled up but then my foot gave way and I went down again. I looked over. Bridget had shot me in the side. Shot me from the bathroom with a.22 revolver. Silver one.

Fuck, Bridget, I said.

She was walking towards me, shaking all over, eyes wide, face bright. She was determined. Cold. It was an expression I hadn’t seen on her before. Jesus, had I ever really known her at all either? Her lips narrowed.

I’m sorry, Michael. I don’t know what’s between you and Darkey, I don’t know what’s going on, but I love him and-

I kicked the legs from under her and she tumbled backwards. The gun flew out of her hand and onto the bed. Darkey and I both made a grab for it, but Bridget fell on top of me. The.22 slipped between the bed and the bedside cabinet. I dropped my gun, grabbed a fistful of Bridget’s hair, and smacked her skull into the closet door. Her head jarred back sickeningly, and she went limp. I regrabbed my gun and dived for cover at the bottom of the bed just as Darkey managed to find the.22 and began shooting wildly at me. Darkey, full of adrenaline, got off three rounds into the wall before I rolled to one side and shot him in the chest and face and neck. His gun fired another round and then stopped. Blood pumped from him, the left side of his face gone. A bullet had ricocheted off his jawbone, up through his cheek and into his brain. He sat there bleeding and dripping eye jelly onto the pillowcase. His face relaxed and what was left of his mouth drooped into a grimace. He balanced for a moment and then slumped forward. I went over and felt his pulse. It was still beating gently, which afforded me the excuse to lift up his head, take out the Stanley knife, and cut his throat from ear to ear. I checked Bridget and saw that she was ok. Bridget. Jesus.