Steve Mosby - The Third Person

The same thoughts pushed the next thing out of my mouth before I’d had a chance to okay the words.

‘It was a snuff text, wasn’t it?’ I said. Two and two clicked together in my mind, and I glanced up at the pictures on the walls. ‘And it was by the man who wrote these things. It was a description of somebody dying.’

Suddenly, it made perfect sense. I remembered what Graham had told me:

It’s more when I just look at the whole printout and take it in all at once. Like the words form a bad shape on the page that I don’t want to see .

I felt myself growing blank.

Amy.

‘That’s how it was sold to me, yes.’ Hughes sounded as bored as ever. ‘However, I have no way of knowing whether it was genuine or not. In fact, I never even got the chance to read it before it was stolen from me by that whore.’

Pale. Blue. Blouse .

I looked back at the bodyguard – or through him. He was smiling but I didn’t even see it properly. He was holding the gun badly, I noticed: pointing it half at the floor.

Maybe two and a half metres between us.

‘And you’re telling me now that you have this text?’ Hughes said. ‘If so, just produce it, and then you can be on your way.’

‘I don’t have it here.’

It felt like the words were falling out of me.

‘Well, where do you have it? And what is it you imagine you want in exchange for it?’

Impatience, but also an air of concession – as though a trivial wish might be granted to save him the bother of redecorating the wall behind me. So this was the key moment. And what I should have said was: I want you to get me access to the cameras at the train station. I want you to tell me where I can find this artist. I want you to tell me where and how I can find the people who did whatever it was they did to Amy – if it even was Amy. This thing which may or may not have been genuine.

That’s what I should have said.

But I was thinking: she screamed se har(d thyt wf jjkpeopllr hurt h…r

I was thinking: Long Tall Jack, the pins and knives man .

Biting something.

‘Mr Klein?’ Hughes said. ‘What is it that you want for the safe return of my property?’

When you box, they teach you how to move. You don’t actually take steps so much as glide from place to place, the idea being to lift your feet off the canvas only as much as you need to in order to move. Once you get used to it, it’s quicker – and it’s also far more efficient. Many boxers use their opponent’s foot movements as guides to what’s about to be flung their way, the same way a dancer might. The less movement you make, and the quicker and smoother you do it, the more unpredictable the attack is when you send it out.

I’d practised this gliding step on the Scream every night for months, usually with a hard left jab to the head or abdomen. It had become instinctive; I didn’t have to think. Hughes’ bodyguard moved quicker than the Scream, and he managed to get the gun up to meet me, but my jab turned into a grab and I found myself with a two handed grip on the top of his wrist, pushing the gun away in a wheeling, straight-armed circle.

I head-butted him, but not well – a desperate thing, really – all the time moving my fingers around the gun. We began wrestling over it back and forth. Our arms swung, fighting for purchase, and I stumbled back a little, realising how strong the man was, and how I was going to die if I let go. I was terrified.

‘Gentlemen.’

Hughes sounded bored and disinterested, even as my adrenalin kicked in and sent my heart skyward.

The bodyguard gritted his teeth as we fought. I felt like I was about to – and just like that, the resistance gave somewhere and the gun went turning upwards and banged once, loudly, under his chin. Blood misted out of the top of his head, puffing up to the ceiling, and his entire body went slack, hitting the floor like a dead weight. The gun tumbled from both our grips as I half-fell to one side.

‘Jesus,’ I said.

Hughes cried out in genuine alarm.

‘Oh my god!’

His bodyguard was lying face-up on the floor, with blood flowing out of his nose in a dark-red stream. Literally pouring out, painting stripes down the sides of his blank face and pooling under his ears: it looked like all the blood in his body was leaving him. His eyes slowly closed.

And even more blood was simply falling out of his neck. A square metre of carpet was soaked dark crimson. And then more. And more. Creeping out.

‘Paul!’

Well, Hughes was out of his chair, moving over. After a blank second, I scrambled for the gun – and got it – but the old man wasn’t interested in me. We crossed paths awkwardly: me trying to point the gun at him defensively and failing, him falling to his knees beside the corpse.

‘Call an ambulance!’ he said. ‘Now!’

I was so shocked that I almost did – probably would have done if I’d been physically able. Instead, I just stood there, eyes wide, staring at the pair of them. Hughes had taken his bodyguard’s limp hand in his own, and was crying.

‘Paul.’ He turned to me without looking at me, as though I was bright like the sun. Told the chair to my left: ‘Call for an ambulance!’

‘He’s dead, Hughes,’ I said.

‘Call a fucking ambulance!’

‘Calm down.’ I took a step back and levelled the gun at him. ‘Just calm down.’

Just keep calm, and everything will be okay .

‘Call an ambulance.’

‘He’s dead. Look: it was an accident. The gun just fucking went off.’

And then I shook my head, realising how ridiculous this was. Hughes was staring at me – actually me, now – with unconcealed hatred, tears streaming down his face. Not five minutes ago he’d been threatening to kill me, and here I was: apologising and making excuses.

‘Just get over there.’ A tired gesture with the gun. I picked the towel off the chair and tossed it to him. ‘I guess you can sit on that if you’re worried about your furniture.’

The old man did as he was told, leaving the body and returning to his armchair. Once there, he leant forward, elbows on knees and face in hands, and simply wept. I found the whole thing suddenly revolting on every conceivable level.

A brandy sounded like a good idea, and so I retrieved a second glass and poured myself a good measure from the decanter. My hands were shaking slightly, but doing something as normal as this made me feel more in control. Not that I usually pour brandy out of anything fancier than a bottle, but the point stands: here was Hughes, in pieces, sobbing like a girl; and then here I was, acting as though nothing had happened, and pouring myself a goddamn drink. Like I killed people every day and sometimes – when the mood took me – more than one.

The brandy tasted good.

‘Come on, Hughes. Get yourself together.’

He looked up.

‘You’re a dead man for this, Klein. You realise that, don’t you?’

‘That’s more like it,’ I said. ‘Keep up the image.’

I sat down in the chair opposite, keeping tight hold of the gun even though I could probably have beaten him to death with one hand behind my back.

‘You won’t get away with this.’ He shook his head and looked over at Paul’s corpse. At least he’d stopped crying: he was more in control of himself. ‘You won’t get away with what you’ve done here.’

I glanced over at the body, figuring that Hughes was probably right.

‘How did you meet Claire Warner?’ I said.

‘I told you. She was a whore.’

‘What?’ I was surprised. ‘You mean literally?’

Hughes nodded, looking at me with what – to a business rival – was probably an intimidating stare. It didn’t work so well because he’d been crying, but still made me feel like the passenger here, rather than the pilot.