Gerald Seymour: The Collaborator

‘I kill him. One step closer, dead, him.’

Almost, Eddie thought, the man cried tears, and edged to hysteria. And he was a spectator also when he gazed into the calm face of Lukas. He could see each hair on his head and face, the stubble growth, what was in his ears and nostrils, the curled hair on his chest and at the base of his stomach, visible because the boxers drooped.

‘I shoot him. Do you not believe me? You will.’

The skin was broken by the force used to press the pistol barrel against his neck and Eddie could feel the wet there. Lukas had not moved, had not gone back or forward, and his hands were still on his hips. They were not flexed and there seemed no strategy of deceit about the posture. Lukas was, Eddie believed, in control.

‘You believe me when I shoot him. Not one step.’

He felt comfort given him. The man, Lukas, oozed competence and experience. He didn’t have to speak. He had the calm of a parent while a toddler rages, knows the child will quieten. He’d had an old teacher at school, sixth-form English, forty years in the job and a new headmaster, half his age, had trashed the veteran’s ideas: ‘Experience often clouds judgement, best without it.’ The pupils had thought it bullshit. Eddie valued experience. Valued it big when it was in a smile from a man who masked any trace of fear. A weedy little beggar. No strength to him, no muscle, spindly legs, arms almost emaciated, and that burn mark on his lower lip that came from smoking cigarettes to the filter. Seemed to offer no threat.

‘I tell you, you believe me, I will shoot.’

‘What I believe, friend – I want to call you that, OK? I believe, friend, that you’re a big man, a smart man. Too big and too smart for an accident. I think, friend, you’re hurting Eddie with the barrel. Can we do something about that? Not hurt him… That’s good.’

The barrel was less pressured on his neck, Eddie knew. It no longer gouged. It had an indent, but less force was used.

‘That’s good, friend, and it’s generous. I appreciate that. We have to figure a way out of this.’

‘I shoot. I have no fear.’

‘You have no fear, of course you don’t. Fear is for little guys. Him, Eddie, he’s fit to shit his pants, but he’s not a big guy.’

‘You come no closer.’

‘I’m not moving.’

Maybe there was cramp in Salvatore’s hand – maybe it was, ironic, bloody generosity – but the pistol had moved again, imperceptibly but a further lessening of the pressure. Eddie didn’t move, was one of those guys with painted faces and robes who struck statue poses at tourist sites. He realised that Lukas, too, had moved, edged closer. Eddie knew it because he could match the window-sill across the walkway with the corner of Lukas’s right elbow, and there was less of the sill to see, and a big paint flake was obscured by the arm. Eddie knew, standing and held upright, with the pistol in his skin and the tiny sounds inside his ear from the firings, where all the paint scrapes and flakes were on the window opposite. It could have been a full pace closer – could have put him, damn near anyway, with a lunge, in touching distance. Eddie reckoned Lukas knew what he was doing and the comfort in him grew.

‘You don’t move.’

‘I don’t move… What I care, friend, is how we come out of this, before there’s an accident.’

‘They don’t take me.’

‘Not a surrender, no… Not paraded like some damn chimpanzee in a zoo cage. Absolutely not.’

‘You call me scimpanze? Do you? A scimpanze, chimpanzee, cannot shoot. I can. I am not taken.’

‘How about, friend, you try to shoot? Try. Not Eddie, not worth the cost of a bullet. You try to shoot me. You jam and-’

‘What is “jam”?’

‘It is “block”. Malfunction, does not fire, but you tried… a smart guy, you know about weapons. There could be dirt in the ammunition, dirt in the pistol with a build-up of cordite in the barrel, dirt in the magazine mechanism. It can be the extractor bar breaking. The automatic blow-back can fail. For many reasons it can block and jam… the word gets passed.’

‘I will not be taken.’

‘Yes, yes…’ Eddie thought then that he heard the first wisp of impatience. Like it had been a good game, and an interesting experience, and it had run its course, and the first twist of boredom was there, and a little of the confidence slipped in him. ‘What is important is your prestige and dignity, friend. You tried. You did not surrender. You were good to your word. It was just that the damn machine, the pistol, the kit, failed you. That message gets put around. Nobody can say that Salvatore, big man and smart man, bottled out. Not him. It was the pistol that failed. There’s another thing.’

Eddie could watch the eyes of Lukas. Every feature of his body was unremarkable, stunted, without authority, except his eyes. There was less of the window to see and the gap between Lukas and the two of them shortened, and it would only have been a short lunge for the touch. The eyes were extraordinary. They were locked on the man who pressed his body against Eddie. They had the quality to hold and mesmerise. Eddie did not think that he, himself, held interest to Lukas, only Salvatore – the friend. He didn’t know how it would end, but knew it would be very soon. A minute or two minutes. His comfort bled because he thought he recognised impatience.

‘The other thing… You get a good lawyer. You’re intelligent and you have the resources, and you get a top man to front up for you. You pull a prosecution case to pieces: not difficult because they’re always second rate. Maybe you walk at the trial. Maybe you go free on appeal. It doesn’t last, locked up. Show me, Salvatore, that you’re a big guy and a smart guy, and I already know you’re a generous guy.’

‘Do what?’

‘We all have some food. We all get some sleep. There’s no accident. What do you say, friend?’

Lukas had moved again, could have touched. Two bright flashes on the dirt and the concrete, which caught in Eddie’s glance. Two discharged cartridge cases. Two shots fired and two cartridge cases thrown out – no fucking jam, play-acted or otherwise… The comfort had gone and he felt the stress build again and his body was rigid.

‘You did not listen.’

‘Course I did, friend. I listened well. Heard all you said. Just giving you the good back way out and-’

‘You did not listen.’

The pistol was off Eddie’s neck, gone from his skin. It was out in front of Eddie’s face, and the arm was loosed that had been across his chest. Two hands on the pistol grip. Eddie understood. Should have taken longer… maybe too tired, maybe too hungry, maybe just bored pig-sick with a thug with a gun, maybe done it all before and so many times… saw the shock spread on Lukas’s face, like disbelief.

Eddie heard, ‘God, did I do this, did I?’

And then the pistol blast and the cordite dust flashed in his face, and the bright brass of the cartridge was ejected, fell, bounced and rolled. Blood came back at him, a fine spray, and there was more behind. He saw the slight ugly knees bend, then falter, then collapse, and saw the shock on the face, preserved, like the scale of a mistake and its consequences were the last thought that… He did a sort of hop. Eddie had no legs free to kick backwards. As he jumped up, held by the belt, he hacked his heels behind him and felt them hit and hurt, and he could punch with his hands, all done in one crazy, uncontrolled moment – his clenched fists hit the belly.

The pistol arced, fell and clattered.

They went down. He was underneath Salvatore and his head was held, gripped, and his face was beaten into the concrete… and they came. His eyes were closed, shut tight – couldn’t absorb more.