Read How a Gunman Says Goodbye Online

Authors: Malcolm Mackay

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

How a Gunman Says Goodbye (9 page)

16

They’re so nervous. They were bad to start with, but they’re insufferable now. It makes Frank want to provoke them, get it over with. The waiting is the worst part, embarrassing somehow. He’s been beaten by people who don’t even know how to kill him. They’re waiting for a gunman to come along and do the job they don’t have the balls for. To think of all the pros he’s beaten over the years, and these two are his undoing. Humiliating, not embarrassing. The gunman will come, do it clean, get his body out. They’ll get away with it. There’s only one other flat occupied on this floor and it’s at the opposite end of the corridor. If their gunman uses a knife, then nobody’s ever going to hear it. They’ll go unpunished. If he can get them to fire the gun, that might change things. Okay, he dies, but he’s going to die anyway. Get them to make a stupid mistake. Sort of thing that puts them behind bars for ten to fifteen. It wouldn’t take much of a push, not with these nerves.

Scott started out cool enough. He made his phone call, he was keeping it together. It’s the other one. Clueless they call him, easy to see why. He’s been riling Scott for the last half-hour. Provoking his friend and making a hard job harder. He’s like a little kid.

‘It shouldn’t take this long,’ he’s saying for the umpteenth time. Frank’s still sitting inside the front door; Scott still has the gun. Clueless has been standing in the corridor, making a lot of useless noise. ‘They call the guy, he comes straight round and does it. They don’t waste time. These guys are professionals, they don’t fanny about. He wouldn’t fuck around when he’s got a top target waiting here. It’s taking way too long. Something’s wrong. I’m telling you.’ Talking like he’s the expert in the room.

The real expert in the room is sitting on his arse in the corridor, looking down the barrel of his own gun, listening and waiting. Frank hears these little squirts talking and he has to wonder how he ever managed to botch this. The gunman will be here any minute. They didn’t call Shug; Scott isn’t big enough to have his number. They called a third party, the thirty party calls Shug, Shug calls the gunman. The gunman then has to go get a gun and a car. If he doesn’t live close by, then it could take anything up to an hour. Around the half-hour mark is maybe more likely. It feels like the half-hour has passed. He’s not wearing a watch, never does on a job. Nothing that could identify you. Scott’s giving his mate dirty looks, but Clueless isn’t picking up on it. His nerves are all over the place. He’s not picking up on anything.

‘You’re gonna get shot, old man,’ Clueless is saying now, leaning in close enough to smell his breath. Frank’s turning to the side, but he’s not saying anything. Don’t make this fun for them. The boy wants to provoke a reaction, preferably a scared one. Frank will give them no joy. ‘How you feel about that, old man? Thought you were supposed to be some big shot, huh? Thought you took down a shitload of people. Couldn’t take us down, could ya? Huh?’

‘Knock it off,’ Scott’s saying. Saying it quietly, trying to calm his friend down. Trying to calm them both down.

‘Come on, man, we got the bastard. We beat him.’ Clueless is pleading for the chance to have fun, to act the way he thinks a tough guy would. He has it all wrong; it’s not how real tough guys act at all. Scott, in his silence, is closer.

‘Our man will be here soon. He won’t knock hard on the door, and he won’t want to have to knock a second time. Let’s keep it quiet.’

Thinking well when the heat’s on. Staying smart and aware, and cooling his friend down at the same time. Frank respects that. Maybe this kid isn’t some hopeless little pisspot peddler who got out of hand, after all. Shame Jamieson didn’t spot his talent before it got this far. Not Jamieson. Young. Shame Young didn’t spot his talent, because that’s his job. Scott will ditch his dim-witted friend eventually. Scott will realize that the only chance he has to get ahead is to leave people like Clueless behind. Ambition will snap the bond of friendship. Can’t let a deadweight hold you back. Many best friends fall out of the picture. Clueless doesn’t realize it, and will probably never understand. That’ll be his punishment. Left where he belongs, at the bottom of the heap. This is his pinnacle. It’s only Scott’s beginning.

Now there’s a knock on the door. Two knocks. Light – nothing that might alert the neighbours. That’s the gunman. Here comes the end of the world. Frank’s surprised at how calm he is about it. He doesn’t feel he deserves it, but this is how a lot of gunmen take their leave from the business. He keeps thinking back to that first job he did, and wishing he could think of something better. He was a tough kid. Benson was a big fat bastard, slippery and full of words that meant nothing at all. He knew the business, though. Sent Frank after some bookie who was keeping money to himself. Frank can’t remember the bookie’s name for the life of him, although people in the business apparently knew him well. Caught up with him in a street near his house, dragged him into an alleyway and kicked him senseless. Frank was just a thug back then. Now he’s getting a thug’s ending. Maybe he does deserve it after all.

Scott’s moving towards the door, the gun still in his hand. He’s looking more nervous now, obviously keen to make a good impression. The gunman’s more important to Shug than he is. Scott needs the respect of the people who matter, to reach the top. The little prick Clueless is grinning now, looking down at Frank and smiling, mocking. Scott’s stepping over Frank’s outstretched legs. He’s at the door, glancing back. A quick look through the peephole, just a glance. Then looking back at Frank. He’s smart enough to know that he shouldn’t turn his back for long. Doesn’t matter if the old man’s on the floor. Frank has a reputation for being dangerous, one you need to respect. He doesn’t stop being dangerous just because he’s sitting down. Opening the door, trying to look between Frank and the new arrival.

‘Come in,’ Scott’s saying, ‘he’s right here.’ You rarely get to choose your last words.

A figure in black walking into the room, pushing the door shut behind him. Frank notices that he already has his gloves on. A pro then, leave nothing to the last moment. A glance at the face. Recognition. His first feeling is not of relief, it’s of betrayal. Calum must be working for Shug. Typical really, you should never trust anyone in this business. Such a quiet boy. Says little because he doesn’t want to give anything away. Those are the ones you can never trust. He’s feeling a sense of personal failure too. Frank recommended Calum to Jamieson. Now Calum’s putting his hand in his coat pocket. Scott and Clueless are still looking down at Frank – they haven’t seen what’s about to happen. Now the relief’s washing over Frank. He’s worked it out. Frank’s looking at Clueless, and now he’s smiling back.

Calum’s quick. As soon as he’s closed the door behind him he’s reaching into his pocket for the gun. Not waiting for a moment to present itself, just going for it. Up against the clock. Shug’s gunman can’t be far away. Raising the gun and pointing it at Scott. Scott’s turning, looking at Calum, but he doesn’t have time to look surprised before Calum pulls the trigger. It sounds so loud in the cramped corridor. It always shocks, the bang of a gun; doesn’t matter how used to it you are. There’s a red explosion from Scott, specks of blood hitting the walls on either side, much more to the left than the right, hitting Calum and Frank. Not much, but enough. They’ll have to destroy everything they’re wearing. Scott’s falling backwards; Frank can hear the thump of his head hitting the floor, a dead weight. His gun’s fallen beside him.

Calum isn’t stopping. There isn’t time for hesitation. You hesitate and someone else might not. That’s the end of you. Clueless has backed away, towards the kitchen door. There’s a puzzled look on his face.

‘No,’ he’s saying quietly, ‘it’s him, not us.’ He’s saying it with a bemused sort of smile on his face, like this should be obvious to the gunman. He can’t work out what’s happening to him. Not under all this pressure. Clueless to the last. Calum’s walking right up beside him – Clueless just standing there and watching. Letting the gunman do what he wants, because that’s all you can do with a gunman. Clueless looks like he’s about to start crying. Calum’s pressing the gun against the side of the boy’s head, funny sort of angle. Clueless is closing his eyes as tight as he can. He understands now.

Frank’s slowly getting back to his feet. He’s a little unsteady; too long sitting in the same position. He’s trying hard not to look feeble. Not that it matters, Calum’s not even looking at him; he’s still wrapped up in finishing his job. He’s a good pro, this one. Walking over to Scott and reaching down with the gun. He’s wrapping Scott’s left hand around the gun, getting prints on it. Now the right, trying to make it hold the weapon in a natural position. Pressing the fingers down all over the gun, making it look like he handled it regularly. Now over to Clueless. Taking his time, pressing both hands against the gun again. Not so often this time. People are more likely to believe it was Scott’s gun than his dippy mate’s. Scott’s prints should be more prevalent. Now trying to get a partial print onto the trigger. Holding the gun in Clueless’s right hand, lifting the hand slightly off the ground. Then letting it drop. The gun’s hitting the floor, falling out of his hand, just beside Clueless. It looks natural.

Now Calum’s looking at Frank. Two men and two dead men, in a narrow corridor. Unpleasantly cramped, and not likely to get any more pleasant. Many people let go of their bowels when they’re shot. Most gunmen prefer not to hang around long enough to catch a whiff.

‘Take your gun with you,’ Calum’s saying to him, all matter-of-fact about it. ‘Have you got your balaclava with you?’

‘Yes,’ Frank sighs as he straightens from picking up his gun from beside Scott. He’s pulling the balaclava from his pocket and looking at the two bodies. ‘You think that’ll fool them?’ he’s asking. He’s never been much of a fan of clever set-ups; the police tend to see through it eventually. Making it look like a murder-suicide is fine, but will it hold?

Calum’s shrugging. ‘It’ll slow them down a little. Buy us time to get rid of anything that needs getting rid of. Come on, Shug’s man will be here any minute.’

That’s a bloody shock. Frank had been trying to work out how this all came about. He thought Calum was double-crossing Shug on Jamieson’s behalf. Now it turns out Shug does have another man, and he’s on his way. Which means this was a rescue mission. That’s a shock, too. All this risk to rescue him; he can’t help but be embarrassed. It could still turn into an enormous disaster. As they’re stepping out of the flat, all in black and wearing their balaclavas, Frank’s feeling more annoyed with Calum. Why waste all that time with the prints? It’s the one criticism of him. He takes things way too slow, always has. Someone in the building must have heard the gunshots. Two separate shots to hear: harder to dismiss as a random bang. They should be out by now. Someone must have called the police. Surely. Maybe not the person at the other end of the corridor, but there are three flats occupied on the floor below. One right underneath.

Pressing the button on the lift. The doors opening, nobody there. Inside and down to the ground floor, both standing in silence. The doors open to an empty foyer. Out into the cold night, walking briskly to the car Frank borrowed for the night. Relief, again.

17

Frank’s driving. Calum’s sitting in the passenger seat of the car, watching the block of flats get smaller behind them. There are no more lights on now than when he arrived. That’s something to be positive about. No great commotion in the building after the shooting. A glance at the clock in the car: fourteen minutes past two.

They’re both silent. Some people chatter, some say nothing. They both fall into the nothing category. Most professionals do. Chatter is a comfort blanket for nervous amateurs. There’s little for either of them to say. Plenty of talking to come for both of them, they know it, but not with each other. For now, it’s nice to have a little quiet. Frank hasn’t even said where they’re going. Going to switch back to his normal car, of course, but that could be anywhere. Calum trusts him to get them there.

They’re onto an industrial estate now. There are vehicles all around them – these are working companies. Seems an odd place to switch cars; likely to be security cameras around. It’s not a place Calum would have used.

‘Jamieson owns a couple of these units,’ Frank’s saying, guessing Calum’s thoughts. ‘He handles security round here. It’s a safe place to use. That’s why I used it,’ he goes on, without feeling the need to add that this is his first job back. Easy job, every best precaution. Breaking him back in gently. Every precaution, every benefit, and it ends like this. He’s pulling up beside his own nondescript Vauxhall Astra. They’re both out of the work car, getting into Frank’s. This feels like a moment of safety, shedding the skin they escaped in.

‘Where to?’ Frank’s asking.

‘The club. My car’s there.’

‘Huh,’ Frank’s saying, but saying no more. You don’t leave your car outside your employer’s place of work when you’re going on a job. It’s sloppy and amateurish. He would say something, but he knows why Calum had to do it. It was all to save him. Every mistake any other person made on this night is his responsibility. They were all compensating for him, and they’ll all be talking about it from now on. Some fuck-ups cast a shadow you can never shake off. Good men. Talented people. One mistake and they’re forever tainted. Everybody treats you differently, because you forced them to make mistakes. They don’t forgive that, no matter what they say. He’s driving carefully, his instincts guiding him well. You never lose those.

The adrenalin’s wearing off for Calum; he’s starting to feel his hand now. The gloves are uncomfortable, too. Frank’s taken his off; they’re in his car now, after all. Calum’s keeping his on. He doesn’t remember ever being in Frank’s car before now; his prints shouldn’t be here. If you can avoid putting your prints in the car of another gunman, then you avoid it. If you can avoid putting them anywhere near a crime or a criminal, then you do. The silence is starting to grate. It feels like there’s something they need to discuss. They’re coming up towards the club now; it’s along the street on their right. Frank’s pulling up along from the entrance. He knows he’s just out of view of the security cameras. Instinct.

‘Listen, Calum,’ he’s saying. ‘You did a great job tonight, did me a real turn. I owe you. If I can ever repay the favour, I will.’

Calum’s smiling, trying to take the awkwardness out of it. This is embarrassing for both of them. ‘I hope you never have to.’

Frank’s nodding now. ‘So do I. Still, this business, you never know. Thanks.’ Hard words to say. So hard it almost sounds like he doesn’t mean it.

‘Forget about it,’ Calum’s saying, and he’s opening the door to get out. As he steps onto the pavement after closing the door, Frank pulls away. Calum’s walking along to his car, and he knows things have changed. It’s a horrible thing, very sudden, but a reality. This night has changed everything for a number of people, him included.

He’ll never look at Frank the same way again. He was always the gnarled old veteran, the man who had seen and done it all. Done it all to a better standard than anyone else. The man who had killed more people in the city, and got away with it, than anyone else. A master of the trade. He’s still that person. He’s also now the person who was slumped in a corridor with two lousy peddlers standing over him. They said Scott was one to watch, a talent who was rising fast, but he let Calum in without even checking his ID. He can’t have been that sharp. The other one was just a good old-fashioned moron. And they still got the better of Frank. Once you’ve looked down on a guy like that, it’s hard to look up to him again. It’s not as if Calum and Frank were ever especially close. They were never master and apprentice. Still, Calum liked and respected him more than any other gunman he’d ever met. He still likes him, but a good deal of the respect has been left behind in Tommy Scott’s corridor.

He’s dropping into his own car now, and pulling the gloves off with relief. Trying to clench his left hand, knowing that the discomfort will pass. How much longer is it going to be like this? Now he’s looking in the mirror, checking for specks of other people’s blood on his face. He can’t see any. He’s starting the car. There won’t be anyone in the club now. Jamieson and Young will have left soon after Calum and Kenny. They wouldn’t want to be there any longer than necessary. He’s pulling away and driving back home, thinking about his clothes. Thinking about Emma and his clothes. She’s back in his world, now that he’s done the job. There’s bound to be specks of blood on them. He’s going to have to get rid of his coat and his trousers, his shoes too. He’ll do it tomorrow, when she’s gone to lectures. In the meantime he’s going to have to treat them like he would normal clothes. Breaking habits, just to keep her around.

He’s parking in what’s becoming his usual spot, just a little way along from the front door. It’s nice to start forming habits in your new home. He’s making his way up to his flat. Still not entirely safe. Could be a bunch of cops waiting for him at the top of the stairs. They could be in the flat, talking to Emma right now. He’d left his keys in the car while he was doing the job; now he’s taking his door key out of his pocket and putting it in the lock. There’s always a moment of nerves returning from a job. Who could be in there? There are worse people than the police. People like to get their revenge quickly, no matter what the common serving suggestion may be. It’s worse now. No matter who else might be in there, Emma definitely will be. He has to face her. Remember the lie, try to make it sound convincing, don’t push it too far. The door’s open, the flat’s in darkness. He’s switching on a light. Nothing lurking. A little relief.

There’s one more thing he needs to do before he goes back to bed. Another break with common sense. Jamieson asked, so he has to do it. If the boss asks you to do it, then you do, regardless of how stupid it is. He left his mobile on the kitchen table when he went out. Hopefully Emma didn’t get up and see it. Not likely, she’s a sound sleeper. He’s picking it up, looking for Jamieson’s number. He wanted a yes or no answer to the question: Has Frank been rescued? Calum’s texting the word ‘yes’ and nothing else into the message. It’s a stupid breach of standards. A cop could easily find out that he texted Peter Jamieson at twenty to three in the morning. How would he explain that one?

Too many breaches of etiquette throughout this job. Too many ways for it all to go wrong. It’s hard to believe that Jamieson would have sent him in there to save anyone else. Probably only Frank has earned the right to be rescued. God knows, they wouldn’t have sent Frank in for him. The more he thinks about it, the more he thinks they should have left Frank to his fate. He’s sent the text message. He’s taking off his coat, hanging it in the hall with the others. He’s pulling the coat next to it across a little. Shoes off, pushing them halfway under the radiator, out of sight, for the same reason. Normally he’d strip off and put all the clothes in a bag. Not tonight. Not with Emma there. She complicates everything.

He’s walking into the bedroom, silent in his socks. He’s pulled his trousers and top off, and now he’s pulling his socks off, sitting on the side of the bed.

‘How’s your brother?’ a slightly muffled-sounding voice is asking from the other side of the bed. She’s facing the other way, half-asleep.

‘Drunk and apologetic,’ Calum’s saying, throwing his socks onto a chair and getting in under the duvet. Say as little as you can get away with. Loading it with detail only makes it sound less convincing, more rehearsed.

‘He didn’t give you any bother?’

‘Bother? No, course not.’

‘Huh.’ And that’s all she’s saying. Enough to tell him that she knows he wasn’t picking up his brother. Calum’s not going to sleep tonight.

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