Adrian McKinty - The Dead Yard

“And another thing. Neither of you bloody talked. I don’t know what they teach you nowadays, but that was impressive.

Or it could be that I’m getting soft,” he said.

He reached to get his cigarette.

“Keep your hands where they are, Touched.”

“Sorry, Michael, I forgot,” he said and put his hands back on his hat, drumming them, pretending to be relaxed.

I limped closer until I was close enough.

It wasn’t my style to gloat over him; to exult, to lecture him with famous last words. There wasn’t time for that anyway. I just needed information and then I’d bloody get rid of him.

“Do you have a gun on ya?” I asked.

“No. No, I don’t. If you believe me,” he said.

“Stand up, shake out your pockets on the dressing gown.”

He turned out the pockets.

“It’s in the bog,” he offered.

“Sit down again.”

He sat and put his hands on his head unbidden.

“Ok. Where’s the big shotguns?” I asked. “Where do you keep that big shotgun Gerry had yesterday?”

“Why should I tell you?”

“Tell me or I’ll fucking kill you, Touched.”

“It’s in my room upstairs. I cleaned it,” he said.

“Loaded?”

“Aye, think so.”

“You know so. Is it loaded or not?”

“It’s not loaded,” he said.

“Where’s the shells?”

“They’re on the dresser in my room.”

“Which one’s your room?”

“First left at the top of the stairs. Two down from yours.

What the fuck you want the shotgun for?”

I was going to kill Touched but I wanted the other two alive. The.22 wasn’t going to impress Gerry. And I wanted them unarmed and intimidated by overwhelming force. If I killed Touched down here, the noise would bring out Gerry, he’d get that shotgun from Touched’s room, and he’d blow my brains out. But if I took a little more effort, marched Touched upstairs, got the shotgun, killed him, and waited outside Gerry’s room with those big double barrels pointed at him, he’d have no choice whatsoever. He’d have to surrender. It would be suicide to come at me then. Pointless suicide. He gives up. March him and Kit downstairs, find the phone…

Nice and neat.

“Take that cord off your robe.”

He unthreaded the dressing-gown tie and held it out to me.

“Turn around, put your hands behind your back,” I ordered.

“I thought you were going to kill me,” he said smugly.

“Plenty of time for that later, now spin around.”

He smiled, spat.

“Hurry up.”

He turned and put his hands behind him.

“Ok, Touched, one fidget, one move, and I blow your bloody brains out,” I said.

I made a slipknot with one end of the bathrobe cord and placed it over his wrist and pulled it tight. Waited for him to try something since this was the best chance he was going to get. But he stood there and didn’t move. I made another slipknot and put his other wrist into it. I tightened both loops and turned him to face me.

“This is how it’s going to be. We’re going to go upstairs and get the shotgun; if you behave yourself you just might live through this,” I lied.

“Changed your mind, huh? That’s what you get from hanging about with feds, it fucking weakens ya,” he said with contempt.

“Whatever. If you try to shout a warning, I’ll kill you.Understand?”

“Aye,” he said and then a look went across his face that I couldn’t interpret but it seemed to be concern.

“Tell me one thing, Michael, is the lad tied up out there too?” he asked. Of course, it wouldn’t be fear for himself, he was worried about his protégé.

“What lad?”

“Jackie. Did you tie him up too?” Touched asked.

“I killed him.”

He swallowed. Paled.

“And Sonia?” Touched asked, a trace of the composure disappearing from his dark eyes.

“Aye. Had to do it. Hated to do it. No choice.”

“Ye wee fucker, peeler agent bastard,” Touched said, anger making him slur his words.

“Keep your voice down. I won’t tell you again.”

Touched shook his head. His face tightened, his temple throbbed and then relaxed. He was no poker player. He was putting together a little plan.

It might have concerned me once. But I was transformed. I could see through him. He was obvious now. Old and obvious and tied. Let him plan.

I had the gun, I was ready.

“Ok, we’ll go up the stairs and we’ll get your gun and maybe you’ll live to do jail time,” I said.

I motioned for him to lead me up the stairs.

Yeah. Coming together. Up to his room, get that shotgun, kill that son of a bitch, arrest those other two, take them to the smokehouse, chain them up, then back to the cabin, untie Touched’s wrists so I could claim it was self-defense and not an execution.

Touched began walking up the stairs. His dressing gown wafting backwards, his legs unsteady. He turned his head to look at me.

“I’m not sure I want to go to prison, Michael,” he said.

“Don’t see that you have much say in the matter.”

He took another step.

“You know a comedy always ends in a marriage, a tragedy in a death,” he said, sly and sleekit.

“Which one’s this?” I asked cautiously.

“Oh, you know,” he said, suddenly throwing himself backwards off the stair and crashing into me with his full body weight. We tumbled down the stairs, Touched landing on top of me, knocking the wind out of me and sending the gun awkwardly under a chair.

He head-butted me on the top of my skull.

“Fucking show ya,” he muttered.

He struggled desperately to get out of the restraints, but I’d bound that bastard tight and good. I pushed him off me and he rolled to the side. He hooked the robe cord over his ass and down his legs, getting it over first his left leg and then the right. Fast for an old geezer. He tried to undo the knot but it was too tight. His hands still tied, but tied in front of him, which was more dangerous. He lunged at me, but I’d had a second to anticipate the attack and finally managed to get the gun round to face him.

Touched hadn’t survived a couple of assassination attempts for nothing.

Before I could pull the trigger he kicked my hand and sent the gun clattering across the wooden floor.

He tried to kick me again but I caught the foot and violently twisted his leg and ankle.

He squirmed out of his slipper, turned, and spitting like a demon, jumped on top of me.

I punched him, breaking his nose with a right hook that sprayed blood into his eyes. Partially blinded, he swung wildly with his fist, missed my head completely but, luckily for him, managed to bring the side of his hand down onto my cracked ribs.

A tidal wave of pain rocked through me, paralyzing me. “Fuuuuu…”

Touched took the opportunity to kneel on my arms, pinning me.

He pushed the robe cord down onto my throat and began to squeeze with all the controlled rage and seething elation of a professional killer. His eyes were wide apart, gray, emotionless.

This was what Samantha saw when he killed her.

“Have you now, Forsythe,” he whispered, intimately, like a lover. He pushed down with all his weight, the blackout beginning with a ringing in my head and my eyes rolling back in their sockets.

If he’d had garroting wire or rope instead of a robe tie, Touched would be telling this story, not me. But as it was, the cord was too thick and too padded to strangle me. He needed more leverage, he needed to wrap the cord completely round my neck and pull with two hands.

He kept pushing down on my throat but he saw that I wasn’t dead yet.

“Kill ya,” he muttered to himself, his breath a few inches from me.

He lifted my head up, slipped the cord behind my neck, and gave me one chance to suck air into my lungs.