Ian McGuire - The North Water

He stares at Stevens, and Stevens shrugs.

“ Nothing will happen next,” Baxter says. “Nothing at all. That’s the beauty of the scheme. Two unknown men have killed each other. There are two murderers and two victims. The crime solves itself, and I am free of Henry Drax at last, free of his threats and his gouging, and free of his mad stench.”

“So after he shoots Sumner I shoot him ,” Stevens says.

“In the chest, not the back. In the back will only provoke questions. And put the gun in his right hand, not his left. Do you understand it now?”

Stevens nods.

“Good. Now take this bottle of brandy up to the attic for him. Empty his pisspot while you’re there, and if he speaks to you say nothing back.”

“That filthy bastard’s time is coming, Mr. Baxter,” Stevens says.

“Indeed it fucking is.”

Drax crouches alone in the corner of the shadowed timber yard. There is an open storage shed running along one side and a sag-roofed, ramshackle cabin at the far end. The ground between is strewn with broken bottles, shattered crates, and planking. Drax has the bottle of brandy in his pocket; every now and then, he takes it out, licks his lips, and drinks. At times like these, when the thirst is on him and he has money enough in his britches, he will drink for a week without pausing for breath. Two or three bottles each day. More. It is not a matter of need or pleasure, not a matter of wanting or not wanting. The thirst carries him forwards, blindly, easily. Tonight he will kill, but the killing is not topmost in his mind. The thirst is much deeper than the rage. The rage is fast and sharp, but the thirst is lengthy. The rage always has an ending, a blood-soaked finale, but the thirst is bottomless and without limit.

He places the bottle carefully on the ground by his feet and checks his revolver. When he breaks open the cylinder, the bullets drop out onto the ground, and, cursing, he reaches down to find them. He loses his balance, staggers sideways, and then rights himself. When he stands again, the timber yard sways in front of him and the moon tips and wobbles across the sky. He blinks and spits. His mouth fills up with vomit, but he swallows it down, picks up the bottle from the ground, and drinks again. He has lost a bullet, but that makes no odds. He has four more left, and it will only need one to kill the Paddy surgeon. He will tarry here by the gate, and when they walk in he will plug him in the head. That will be that. No warning or chatter. If that queer cunt Baxter or his idiot slavey had anything about them, they could do the job themselves, but, as it is, Henry Drax must do it for them. Oh, the others will talk and plan and make oaths and promises, but there are precious few fuckers who will do .

The moon is smothered by clouds, and the shadows in the yard have thickened and merged. He sits on a barrel and peers out into the vague, uneven blackness. He can still make out the edges of the gate and the top of the wall running next to it. When he hears men’s voices, he stands up and takes one slow step forwards, then another one. The voices become louder and more distinct. He cocks the revolver and steadies himself to shoot. The gate creaks and begins to open inwards. He watches as they enter the yard side by side: two dark shapes, blank and featureless as shadows. One head, two heads. He hears the squeak and scurry of a rat, and feels the great thirst agitate inside him. He breathes in once, aims, then fires. The darkness splits open for an instant, swallows him, then spits him out again. The man on the left crumples and drops onto the cinders with a muted thud. Drax lowers the revolver, takes a snort of brandy, and steps forwards to check if he is fully dead or if some knife work is required to finish the job. He crouches over the body and lights a lucifer. He peers down as the yellow flame lengthens in his hand, then rocks back on his heels and curses.

It is Stevens the slavey lying dead. He has shot the wrong fucking man, that’s all. He stands up and looks about. Sumner didn’t run back through the gate — he knows that — and the walls all around are high and topped with broken glass. He must still be in the yard somewhere.

“Are you in here, Mr. Surgeon?” he shouts out. “Why don’t you show yourself? If you plan to capture me, now’s your best chance. You won’t ever get a finer one. Lookee here, I’ll even lay down my gun.” He places the gun on the ground in front of him and holds up his hands. “I’m offering you a fair fight now. No weapons, and I’ve got a drink or two inside me to help even things up.”

He pauses and peers around again, but there is no answer from the darkness and no sign of any movement.

“Come on now,” he shouts, “I know you’re in here. Don’t be bashful. Baxter says you plan to hunt me down, to hire a man to look for me out in Canada, but here I am right in front of you. Alive and in the fucking flesh. So why not take your chances when they’re offered?”

He waits a few seconds more, then picks up the gun and walks towards the cabin at the far end of the yard. When he gets close enough to look inside, he stops. The door is half open. There is one window at the front and another, smaller one, at the side. Both are smashed and shutterless. He knows for certain someone will have heard the first gunshot; if he doesn’t kill the surgeon soon, it will be too late and that will be the end of all his good fortune. But where has the sly fucker got to? Where is he lurking?

* * *

Inside the cabin, Sumner grips a rusted saw blade in both hands. He holds it poised, shoulder high, and waits. When Drax steps across the threshold, he swings it forwards in a hard flat arc. The jagged edge strikes just above the collarbone. There is a hot squirt of arterial blood, a long repellent gurgle. Drax stands poised and upright for a moment as if waiting for something else — something better — to happen to him, then he topples back against the lintel. His head is askew. The ragged wound gapes like a second mouth. Sumner, without thought or qualm, as if moving in a dream, tugs the saw blade back, then drives it deeper in. Drax, half-decapitated, pitches face-first onto the black dirt outside; his gun clatters onto the cabin floor. Sumner stares a moment, horrified by the shape of his accomplishment, then grabs the gun and rushes back across the cindered yard.

In the silent darkness of the narrow street, he feels suddenly enormous, distended, as if his shaking body has swollen to twice its normal size. He walks back towards the town, maintaining a steady pace, not rushing and never looking rearwards. He ignores the first two pubs he sees but enters the third. Inside, a man is playing the piano, and a moon-faced woman is singing. All the tables and benches are filled, so he finds a stool by the bar. He orders a fourpenny ale, waits for his hands to stop trembling, then drinks it down and orders another. When he tries to light his pipe, he fumbles the match, and when he tries again, the same thing happens. He gives up and puts the pipe back into his pocket next to Drax’s revolver. The barman watches on but says nothing.

“I need the railway timetable,” Sumner tells him. “Do you have it there?”

The barman shakes his head.

“Which train is it you’re wanting?”

“The soonest one to leave.”

The barman checks his pocket watch.

“The mail train is likely gone by now,” he says. “It’ll be the morning.”

Sumner nods. The woman begins singing the “Flying Dutchman,” and the men playing dominoes in the corner join in with the chorus. The barman smiles and shakes his head at their raucousness.

“Do you know a man named Jacob Baxter?” Sumner asks him.