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.
