Read How a Gunman Says Goodbye Online

Authors: Malcolm Mackay

Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Contemporary, #Contemporary Fiction

How a Gunman Says Goodbye (8 page)

14

The door to the office has burst open and Jamieson’s marched in. Kenny has stayed behind in the snooker hall; he knows this isn’t his place. The office is for important people only. Jamieson can’t hide his disappointment that Calum’s not here yet. He always takes everything so bloody slow. Careful is fine, but tardy is annoying.

‘You get a piece for him?’

‘Top drawer of your desk,’ Young’s saying to him. He’s relieved that someone else is here. He feels less vulnerable. The silence is broken, the emptiness chased away. ‘I haven’t touched it, obviously.’

Jamieson’s nodding, but not listening. He’s standing behind his desk, showing no sign of wanting to sit down. ‘Jesus Christ!’ he’s saying under his breath to nobody in particular. Now he’s shaking his head.

Two minutes have passed. Another two. Jamieson just standing there, Young sitting on the couch. There’s been no warning. Just a sudden knock on the door.

‘In,’ Jamieson’s saying loudly. The door’s opening and Calum’s stepping inside, closing it behind him. Typical of him to be able to sneak in without anyone hearing, Young’s thinking. Probably a good sign. Jamieson’s sitting down now. Time to look professional, even if you don’t feel it. Calum doesn’t know what he’s walking into. He won’t enjoy finding out. ‘Sit down,’ Jamieson’s saying. ‘How’s your hand?’

‘Right one’s fine,’ Calum’s saying as he’s sitting down opposite Jamieson, ‘left one’s still a little stiff when I grip things. I’m right-handed, so . . .’ he trails off. It has a curious feel, being in the office in lamplight. Feels like they’re sneaking around Jamieson’s own office. Usual routine, though. Facing Jamieson, Young off to the side, just out of view.

Just come straight out and tell him. He has no opportunity to back out anyway; you’ve drawn him too close for that. ‘I need you to go and do a job,’ Jamieson’s saying, and glancing at his watch. Twenty to two. This is cutting it. ‘Frank went to hit Tommy Scott. Scott and another guy jumped him. They’ve got him at Scott’s flat. They’re waiting for . . . another gunman to turn up and finish him. You’ve got about half an hour to get there first, turn the tables.’

Calum’s not saying anything. Sitting there, listening, taking it all in. Work out what it really means. Read between lines. They jumped Frank. Shouldn’t happen. Someone’s tipped Jamieson off. Seems odd. Must be the gunman who’s going round to do the job. He’s sold them time. Now they want Calum to go and rescue Frank. There’s little worse than a rescue job.

Jamieson can see that the wheels are turning. Give him detail, and then send him on his way. Tell him only what he needs to know. ‘Kenny’s going to drive you there. He’ll drop you off outside the building – he knows where it is. You’re looking for flat 34B. Second-from-top floor of a tower block. Thirteenth floor. Should only be two people there with Frank. Get rid of them. You and Frank can get away in Frank’s motor.’ He’s reaching into the top drawer of his desk, taking out a bag. Calum’s already guessed what’s in there.

‘I need gloves and a balaclava,’ he’s saying matter-of-factly.

Jamieson glances across to Young. He’d thought Calum would take these things from home. He should have. If Emma hadn’t been there, he would have. He’s not going to give them an explanation; they also get only the details they need. Young’s getting up. There’s a couple of balaclavas in a box in the storeroom. The box marked ‘Lost and found’, in case an inquisitive officer of the law happens across it. There’s a few boxes of clear surgical gloves that the cleaners use.

‘You need to be damn quick about this,’ Jamieson’s saying, as Young hurries out to the storeroom. ‘You need to get Frank. I want Scott and his mate dead. Mostly Scott. The mate’s a dickhead, a hanger-on, but he’ll be a witness if you leave him. Scott’s been a fucking nuisance. Get rid of him.’

‘And the other gunman?’ Calum’s asking.

A brief pause. Hutton is Young’s contact. They should protect their useful contacts. They’re hard enough to come by. Too bad. Hutton knew what he was getting involved in when he called and gave them the warning. He shouldn’t expect favours in return. ‘If he turns up and you have to deal with him, then you deal with him. Hopefully he won’t show up. Play it by ear. Do what you need to, nothing more.’ That doesn’t need saying.

Young’s bounding back into the room. He’s not a natural runner, a little too chunky. He’s placing a black balaclava and a box of gloves on the desk.

Calum’s stuffed the balaclava into his pocket and quickly pulled on a pair of gloves. ‘How clean is the gun?’ he’s asking, taking it out of the cloth.

‘We’ve never used it,’ Young’s saying. ‘Been in storage since we bought it.’

Calum’s nodding. Might not be exactly clean, but clean enough. If the police link it to other people, then that’s other people’s problem. As long as it’s untraceable to Calum or anyone near him, he doesn’t much care. He’s checking the clip – it’s full. Now putting the gun into his pocket. ‘Don’t need those,’ he’s saying, nodding to the box of ammo. He doesn’t want to fire more than two shots. More than four and he’s in disaster territory. An entire clip and he’s in the middle of a fucking nightmare. Spare bullets should not be required. ‘Right. I’m off.’

Jamieson wants to say something. He wants to encourage Calum. He’d like to tell him to bring Frank back to the club, but that’s not professional. None of this is professional, but that would be crossing a line. ‘Calum,’ he’s saying as Calum is pulling the door shut behind him. He’s stopped to look back at Jamieson. ‘Text me when it’s done. Has it been successful? Yes or no.’

Calum’s walking along the corridor. Jamieson would never usually ask for a text. He shouldn’t be asking for it now. Calum’s not happy, but he hasn’t a choice. The boss asks, you do. The boss takes stupid risks because he’s emotional about the job, you suffer the consequences. Welcome to organization-work. Out into the snooker hall. He had nodded to Kenny on the way in, sitting on a table. Still there, hanging around in the dark.

‘You know where we’re going?’ Calum’s asking him.

‘Aye, I know,’ Kenny’s saying, getting up and walking briskly towards the door. It’s a rare opportunity for him to shine. Not often a driver gets any sort of real responsibility. Deliver this or that. Go and pick up this fellow. You need to know the city; you need to know how to drive without drawing attention to yourself. A short drive, but he’s looking forward to it.

15

They’re in the car. Kenny doesn’t know what to say, whether to say anything. He’s relaxed, he’d like to talk, but he’s not what counts. Whatever job this is, it’s obviously big and obviously hurried. He might never find out. You do the job and you don’t ask questions. You hope people recognize that you’ve shown restraint by not asking. It’s like that for most people in the business. If you’re not very near the top, then it’s hard to draw praise. If someone ever does praise your work, you’re not likely to hear it. Would be nice to get a few more compliments, a little recognition. Gunmen do. Importers do. People with stature. There aren’t many of them. Kenny just keeps on driving in silence. Some guys don’t like it when you make conversation, especially when they’re on a job. Calum seems like the sort who would resent someone else breaking his silence. He’s quiet even when there’s nothing going on. I’m just a glorified taxi driver, really, Kenny’s thinking. That’s how they all see him.

‘It’s up on the right here,’ Kenny’s saying as they approach the flats. ‘How close do you want me to get?’

‘Not too close. I need to get in unseen.’ Ideally he’d like to get in on the opposite side of the building from Scott’s flat, but neither of them knows which flat is his. Lack of preparation. Calum should know these things before he goes in to do a job. It’s going to be hard to creep up on the flat unseen, when you don’t know what you’re creeping up on. He might not actually need to creep. If Scott doesn’t know who he is, then there’s much less risk. If Scott doesn’t know what Shug’s gunman looks like, either, then he could get right inside the flat unchallenged. Too much to hope for.

‘I’ll go past the building so you can see it,’ Kenny’s saying. ‘See what lights are on, I mean.’

There are no lights visible on the second-from-top floor. Not on the side of the building they’re facing, anyway. Doesn’t mean much. If Scott has an ounce of sense, he’ll have made sure no lights are visible. Kenny’s pulling up at the side of the road, an equal distance between two lamp posts. It’s a good effort, but meaningless. The street is bright; anyone who chooses to look will see them. Now the balaclava question. Do you wear it from the moment you leave the car, or put it on outside the flat? In theory, he might not need it at all. If he can get in without bumping into anyone, get to the flat, kill Scott and his accomplice and get out with Frank, maybe nobody will see him. Nobody who’s going to live to tell the tale. Big maybe. There could be CCTV cameras around. The sort of place a local council would put them up, to look tough on crime. Put the balaclava on now.

He’s pulling it over his head. It always feels uncomfortable – an unnatural thing to have your face covered up. He’s feeling the shape of the gun in his pocket, and turning to Kenny. ‘Okay,’ is all he says, and he’s getting out of the car. As soon as he’s closed the door, Kenny is pulling away. He’ll have more work to do tonight. Take the car to a garage, have it made safe. They’ll change the colour and the plates anyway. Calum has to trust them that it was a safe car to begin with, that nobody can trace it back to them. They’re all forced to trust each other to do a good job. You trust that they wouldn’t have reached this far in the business if they weren’t reliable. Surely people further up the chain would have spotted the lucky but useless before now.

Across the road and down a small grass embankment. It’s slippery, the grass is wet and he has to be careful. Don’t fall on your arse – it’s embarrassing even when your face is covered up. Not a soul around, brightly lit and empty streets. He’s against the edge of the building now, walking briskly along the pavement towards the corner where the door is. A glance at his watch. It’s going on for two o’clock now. Another gunman on his way. This could be fun and games. Scott and his buddy will be work enough. Scott’s obviously more tuned-in than they realized, and he and his mate will outnumber Calum, no matter how hopeless the friend is. If both men have weapons, this goes beyond the usual risk of the job. You accept that the other man might get the better of you when it’s one on one. Two on one and you’re starting to look suicidal. If Shug’s gunman shows up in the middle of it all, then it will take a miracle to get out.

There’s one thought that’s been playing in his mind for the last few minutes. He’s thinking about it as he’s coming in the door of the building. The hallway is lit up and he can see two lifts on his left-hand side. The thought, as he’s walking across to the lifts, is that Frank may already be dead. Better than fifty–fifty chance that he is. Shug’s gunman sold them time, but no guarantee. There’s no guarantee that Scott hasn’t already done the job, and that the gunman is only heading here for a removal. Calum knows how these things go. Tense waiting. Someone snaps. Says or does something stupid. Scott reaches for the gun and puts a premature end to it. If he is dead? Calum goes up there and finds himself in a mess. He can kill Scott and his friend, but he doesn’t have the time or the ability to get Frank’s body out of the building. So he leaves him. What a confusing picture that leaves behind. Three bodies. Two young men who belong in the flat, one old man who doesn’t. Throw Shug’s gunman in there, and that’s four bodies for the police to play with.

The lift doors are sliding open. Calum’s watching, worrying. Nobody there. Thank the good Lord for that. Stepping inside, looking at the buttons. They go up to fourteen. He’s pressing thirteen, and hoping Jamieson’s information is sound. If he has to go searching for flat 34B, then he can forget about saving Frank in time. The doors are closing, the lift shudders and is starting to move up. It’s slow; not quiet, either. Maybe half the flats in the building are empty anyway, which is a bonus. The council is demolishing a lot of these tower blocks, getting rid of the eyesores. No new tenants coming in. Communities in the sky. A horrible place for a community. Even worse place for a job.

A ping and the doors start to slide open. The corridor in front of him is brightly lit, but thankfully empty. He’s stepping out of the lift, still nobody visible. He’s found the focus he needs. A shadow has fallen across the rest of the world. All that exists right now is this corridor, that flat, Scott, his mate and Frank. There is no Emma, no Jamieson, and no concern beyond this one challenge. Professionalism dictates. Walking along the corridor, not just looking, but listening. Any chattering voices, any doors creaking, any sound that doesn’t belong in the corridor of the thirteenth floor of a tower block at two o’clock in the morning. There’s no sound at all. He’s checking the door numbers as he’s walking, making sure he’s going the right way down the corridor. There’s a 33, but no sign of a 33B. Straight on to 34, then 34B.

The door to 34B is on his right, 35A is directly opposite on his left. Good place for an ambush – might be how they did it. If they’re still in there, still alive, then they’ll be waiting for a knock on the door. Probably nervous, ready to jump out of their skin. If they see something they don’t like, they’ll react hard and fast. It all comes down to them knowing what Shug’s gunman looks like. If they don’t, he gets inside without a fuss. If they do, this goes the ugly route fast. He’s lifting up his balaclava; Shug’s man wouldn’t wear one going into the flat. He has it on the top of his head, it looks non-threatening. He’s knocking on the door, two quiet taps. Nothing loud enough to wake the neighbours. Not yet. Loud enough to be heard by someone who’s listening. Now he’s turning to look the other way, making sure his face isn’t the first thing they see. It might buy him a few seconds.

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