For Those Who Know the Ending (30 page)

As he pulled the door shut behind him, Usman thought he heard something, a quiet voice. It spurred him to move faster, not wanting to hear his betrayal mentioned. Usman stepped outside, felt the cold air hit him and gasped. The fast intake of breath caught in his throat, the tiredness and the misery of the night, the churning in his stomach. He had to fight down the bile, take another gasp of air that didn’t help much. Usman got into the van and started driving.

Usman knew where he was supposed to go. He remembered the details that Gully had given him, spelled out carefully. They were right at the front of his mind, and he was ignoring them. Driving the van back into the city, not aware of his speed, not aware of anything other than the need to throw up. He knew he was supposed to go straight to the pub and meet them. He knew he was going to piss them off by being late, but he knew too none of that mattered. Home wasn’t far out of the way, and he needed it. The chance to stop and breathe, to compose himself before the next step. He had to make a good impression, and he couldn’t in this state. And what were they going to do anyway? They wanted him to pull the trigger, and that meant waiting for him. They would just have to work to his schedule, this one time. He’d only be a few minutes late.

Usman went into his flat, closed the door, and felt an urge rush through him to never leave the place again. You go out there and you have to kill a man. You go out there and you won’t be the same person, won’t live the same life. It all changes. Every single thing you think about yourself gets swept away, and you become a killer. He fought it down, felt his stomach turn another sloppy cartwheel and ran into the bathroom.

He threw up, at least once, maybe twice. He couldn’t remember, for a few minutes, where he was or what was happening. He knew that his heart was thumping its way out of his chest, knew that he had never felt so suddenly exhausted in all his life. Those two things seemed so huge that no other thought could compete for space.

There was nothing left to vomit now, so he dropped onto his backside and slid across to the bath, leaning against it. Dropped his head back and stared at the ceiling. Forgetting the rest of the world, focusing on breathing and not having a heart attack. Never felt his pulse move that fast before, all the high-pressure situations he’d been in. He closed his eyes. Opened them suddenly a few seconds later, terrified that he’d fallen asleep.

He hadn’t, his watch told him little time had passed and he’d only been in the flat for a few minutes. But he should have been at the pub half an hour ago. They’d be sitting there, the two of them, waiting for him with a gun. Waiting for him to do all the dirty work, them just along for the profits. He hated the pair of them in that moment, but he knew that would pass. His hatred would slowly morph into something else, something more professional. A tolerance of the men who made him kill, because they’ll become the men who make him money.

Usman leaned his head back against the bath again, hating himself more than he’d ever hated anyone else, and he’d hated a few. He closed his eyes again, hoping that some of the lethargy would leave if he just gave it a few minutes. This time he did sleep, although he didn’t realize it. Was only for a few minutes, and it helped. He was mentally drained, physically weak, but he knew what he had to do. The fog was clearing and those careful details were elbowing their way back to the front. He knew that sitting back against the bath wasn’t going to get the job done.

Up and through to the kitchen, taking a drink of water from the fridge to try and wash out the taste of puke. Over to the sink to splash a little tap water on his face. He was pouring with sweat and he knew it was going to show in his matted hair and stained clothes. He thought about changing, but decided against it. All this, finding little things to do that killed more time, was a pathetic delaying tactic. His brain finding reasons to dodge the effort his body had to make.

Out to the van and driving through the street. His arms were so tired it was hard to even turn the wheel. He needed more time to get his head together. The van weaved across the road, Usman’s concentration weaving with it, pulling him back to reality just before he hit anything. There was anger in there now as well, bubbling up and telling him that this wasn’t his fault. This was Nate Colgan’s fault, and Gully’s fault. They were the professionals, why the fuck weren’t they doing this? They should have been there, should have been sitting outside the warehouse waiting for him to clobber Martin. They should have had a proper gunman there with them, or one of them should have done it. Fuck’s sake, this was their job, the thing they wanted more than he did. They should be the ones carrying the can for it. But no, not them. All the powerful ever had to do was clean up afterwards.

The details. He remembered them all, everything Gully had told him. He remembered the instructions and little else, because little else mattered. In through the alleyway, through a metal gate, across a small yard and in through the back door of the pub. Up the stairs on your left, and they’ll be in the room opposite waiting for him.

They were sitting there, ready for him. Probably annoyed with how late he was, but relieved that he hadn’t botched it. They took him down to their own van, and they all made their way back to Martin.

1.44 a.m.

Now they’re in that silver van, Nate driving and Usman squashed between them. The boy looks twitchy, moving around in his seat. Gully can see him watching the clock on the dashboard, like he can’t quite believe how much time has passed. Wouldn’t have realized how long his drive had taken under pressure. Now he’s too aware of the seconds ticking past, too aware of how long it’s taking to get back to the gunman.

‘Take your time,’ Gully’s saying again, sensing the growing nerves from the kid beside him.

Usman’s nodding. ‘And then afterwards?’

‘Afterwards me and Nate take care of the body; you don’t have to worry about that. We do all that work. We’ll drop you off back home, or wherever you want to go. You just have to do the deed, leave the donkey work to us old nags.’ Gully’s doing his best to keep that understanding tone in his voice, trying to sound like the only friend Usman has in the world right now. Hard to do, when the kid’s so nervous and keeps going back to the same questions, hugging the same fears.

‘And then I’ll be in,’ Usman’s saying, quietly enough to have spoken only to himself.

Gully’s glancing at him, nodding but not saying anything back. The boy’s looking out to that happy future, convincing himself that what he’s doing is worth it because there will be a reward he’s long dreamed of. He’ll be in the Jamieson organization, working his own jobs and everything he’s about to do will be the reason why. Gully knows different. Gully knows that you don’t just kill a man and move on from it because you’re making money out of the deal. That isn’t how it works, not for normal people. He’s seen enough gunmen in his time, knows they’re not normal people. For men like him, like Nate, and like Usman, killing a man is a step out of the life you know, and there’s no turning back.

Nate’s slowing the van down, knowing they’re near the warehouse now. Time to be wary, to watch out for parked police cars or people peeking out of doorways. The nature of the job, leaving the target alone, anything could have happened. Some nosey bastard drives past as Usman is leaving, realizes that Usman shouldn’t have been there. He goes in to check for trouble and finds the gunman tied to the chair. Maybe someone who works there turns up for no good reason, left something behind during the day. Things go wrong, frequently. People get involved who shouldn’t, or someone makes a stupid mistake. Keeping distant from the initial event was as much of a precaution as they could take.

‘Not seeing anyone,’ Nate’s saying quietly, talking to Gully. He’s treating Usman like he’s not there.

‘Take a run past and circle back,’ Gully’s saying, stating the obvious. No way a man of Nate’s experience is going to turn the van into the warehouse yard without scouting the area first.

Usman is pinching his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, trying to fight down his frustration. If they had been nearby, they could be finished by now. The gunman would be in the ground and he would be back home. Wouldn’t need to worry about people finding Martin. Wouldn’t need to make all these time-consuming defensive manoeuvres. They had to do it differently though, keep themselves as far away as possible from the warehouse when the job was going down. Only turning up now, when they felt they could control the risk. This is their fault, and if anyone’s found Martin then they will have to take the blame. No way Usman’s accepting it. No fucking way.

Nate’s driving past the warehouse, all three of them looking into the yard as they go. No sign of anyone there. No vehicles that weren’t there already, no lights on in any buildings. They’re carrying on down the road and round the corner, along the next street. Looking for police cars, someone sitting in a car in the dark, that sort of thing. Anyone that might be trying to park out of view of the warehouse, waiting to jump on them when they return.

‘If there’s anyone around,’ Gully’s saying, ‘they’re doing a damn impressive job of hiding it.’

Nate’s nodding his head. Finding a place he can turn the van so that they can go back. It looks safe. Might look it, but they’ll still be keeping their eyes open; it could be that someone is better at hiding than they are at looking. It happens, and they need to be prepared for it happening to them.

Back round the corner and along the road, keeping eyes open for anything that might have changed since they were last on the street a minute ago. Looking for people who have come out of their hiding places when you went past the first time, thinking you wouldn’t be back so soon. Nobody. Seems like there’s nothing to be concerned about.

Turning left into the yard, swinging the van round and reversing up to the loading-bay doors. Lights off as quickly as possible. That’s one thing that’s going to stand out if anyone drives past. They’ll see a van in a yard and think nothing of it; this is a natural home for it. They see a van with its lights on and they’ll think it’s odd that someone’s working this late at night. So lights off, engine off.

Gully’s the first to get out, slipping down off the seat. Usman’s quickly out after him, obviously grateful for the fresh air, for the room to move his arms and legs. He’s breathing deep, not caring if the other two see that he’s terrified of this. What does he care anyway? Let them see it, let them understand how difficult this is for him. Should be difficult for anyone. Okay for them, they’re not the ones that have to do the shooting, that have to kill a man they know. Neither of them ever has, in all likelihood. Both muscle, both guys who get to avoid the worst of it. Not true in Nate’s case, but Usman doesn’t know that. He just knows that men like them always have the option of pressuring people like him into doing the killing for them.

Gully’s reaching out, putting a hand on the young man’s shoulder. ‘You ready for this?’ he’s asking him quietly.

Usman’s nodding, trying to get a hard look on his face. The sort of look that Nate Colgan has on his face all the time. It fits this occasion.

‘Remember what I said,’ Gully’s telling him, ‘take your time. Get things right in your own head before you do it. Don’t let the size of the job push you around, you know what I mean?’ Looking Usman in the eye, concern on his face.

Usman nodding again, his lips shut tight, breathing in heavily through his nose. Nate’s out of the van, walking round to join them, fiddling with something in his coat.

‘We ready?’ he’s saying.

‘Aye,’ Gully’s nodding. ‘I’ll wait in the van. Second it’s done, you open the bay door, I reverse in and we get the body into the van. Get out of here as quickly as possible.’ Talking low, just in case.

Usman’s looking to Gully, then at Nate. Doesn’t like that it’ll be Nate going in with him and Gully staying outside. He has something like a connection with Gully, a trust, because Gully’s a likeable person who’s at least tried to make this as painless as possible. Nate, he’s just been distant and unpleasant throughout. Making it clear that he doesn’t care how Usman feels, how hard this is for him. Colgan’s a man who doesn’t care about the struggles of others and doesn’t understand why he should.

‘I don’t have a gun,’ Usman’s saying.

Nate’s frowning a little, like he shouldn’t have to explain this. ‘I’ve got it. I’ll give it to you inside, not out here.’

Gully’s nodding to Usman, making eye contact, one last look to make sure that he’s as ready as he’ll ever be. He’s turning and walking round to the driver’s side of the van, leaving Nate to take control of this.

‘Come on,’ Nate’s saying, gesturing towards the door of the warehouse. Not asking if he’s ready, not asking if there’s anything he wants to say or do first. Walking up to the door and opening it, standing in the doorway to make Usman go in first.

He’s doing as he’s instructed, walking inside. It’s darker in here now, or maybe it just seems that way. There’s only the light of the moon coming in through the windows, but even before his eyes adjust to the difference, he can see that everything’s as he left it. The box on the floor where Martin fell. The chair in the middle, Martin in it. Looks like he’s moved slightly, his legs more stretched out than they were. Usman can see the crowbar on the floor behind the chair. Shouldn’t have left it there, Martin might have been able to get to it.

He’s conscious. That’s the thing that Usman’s noticing, looking across the room and making eye contact with him. Martin looking back at him, obviously alert and aware of what’s going to happen next, but not saying anything. Just staring, silent and angry. There’s blood down the side of his face, but the thump on the head doesn’t seem to have done anything more than cosmetic damage. This would be easier if it had, if he was still unconscious. Fuck’s sake, they should have let him do the shooting right away, get it done quick and not have to look Martin in the eye now. This is punishment, not promotion.

Nate’s closing the door behind them, letting the other two stare each other out. Usman’s looking down at the floor, not wanting to say anything, hoping that Martin won’t open his mouth either. He just can’t look at him any more, not when he knows he’s about to put a bullet through that head. He’s walking slowly towards Martin, eyes cast down, walking past him. Martin watching him the whole way, keeping his gaze firmly on Usman until he’s past him and out of sight.