Neil drags him across the kitchen tiles, over the lip of the patio doors, and tumbles him out into the snow.
So cold against his naked skin it burns.
Richard scrabbles to his knees, hands clasped in front of him, tears and snot running down his face as they form a circle around him, looming. He chokes back a sob. ‘Please,
‘SHUT UP!’ Julie holds the gun out to Bruce. ‘There you go, Babe. Just like we showed you: one shot to the back of the head and it’s all over. We’ll even help you get rid of the body.’
Bruce takes the gun.
Oh God.
‘Please, it wasn’t my fault. I’ve changed!
Bruce scuffs through the snow until he’s standing directly behind Richard, then grabs a handful of hair and forces his head forward.
Something hot runs down Richard’s frozen thigh, steaming in the frigid air. ‘Please don’t do this…’
The gun barrel presses into the skin of his neck, right where Tony’s finger was.
Richard closes his eyes.
Now the only noise is the roar of the wind, the groan and creak of the trees.
Neil sighs. ‘Some time today would be nice, like.’
‘I don’t think I—’
‘Shoot him.’
‘I—’
‘The fucker raped your old man! Do it!’
The barrel presses harder into Richard’s skin.
Neil’s screaming now. ‘KILL HIM!’
Silence.
Then Julie says, ‘Not so easy, is it, Bruce?’
Bruce drags in a huge breath and sobs. ‘I want to…I really want to…but I
The barrel drifts away and Richard falls forward, vomiting into the snow. Oh thank you, thank you merciful God, thank you.
‘You want me to do it, Sweetheart? I can if you like. It’s no problem.’
Richard stares at her, warm bile cooling on his chin as she reaches out and takes the semiautomatic from Bruce’s limp fingers. Takes a step, so she’s standing in front of Richard, the gun barrel a supermassive black hole, sucking everything into it.
‘Any last words, Babe?’
All Richard can think of is, ‘Please…’
She straightens her arm and pulls the trigger.
50
Logan’s Fiat gave one last almighty bang and died, juddering to a halt on Queen Street. PC Butler pursed her lips, pulled the keys out of the ignition, and pointed through the windscreen. ‘You want to get out and push?’
FHQ loomed black and grey up ahead, all the windows shining bright through the swirling snow, less than two hundred feet away. Almost made it.
Logan shook his head. ‘Never get it up the ramp.’ He climbed out into the road, lurching as the wind buffeted at his back. ‘Shove it to the kerb.’
Between them they managed to push the rusty corpse to the side of the road.
Butler pulled her cap down low over her ears, hunching her shoulders. ‘What now?’
Logan checked his watch – just after four. Still an hour to go before he had to face Finnie. Or he could just avoid it altogether…‘Fancy some overtime?’
He jammed his hands deep into his pockets and crumped through the snow towards FHQ.
Logan turned down the police radio till it was barely audible over the car’s rumbling diesel engine and the squeal of the windscreen wipers. ‘Still don’t see how you managed this.’
Sitting behind the huge wheel PC Butler grinned. ‘Trust me, you don’t want to know.’
The police Land Rover was kitted out in full mountain rescue livery, with ladders, shovels, flares, bull bars, one of those collapsible stretchers, and a set of spotlights strong enough to give polar bears a tan. But
Quarter past four on a Wednesday afternoon and the city was at a standstill, nose-to-tail traffic stretching ahead of them, all the way down King Street – taillights and headlights making haloes in the driving snow.
Butler leaned over and thumbed a button. Blue and white flickered from the Land Rover’s roof, then the sirens joined in. The cars in front inched over towards the kerb.
‘That’s more like it.’ The constable sent the Land Rover roaring into the growing gap between the two lanes, the traffic parting before them. Twin streams of slush and snow fountained out from the wheel-arches, spattering the cars on either side of the road.
Logan wasn’t exactly certain this was a ‘lights and music’ kind of trip, but what the hell. He was probably going to get suspended anyway, might as well go out in style.
Click.
Richard sprawls across the frozen ground, screaming, arms wrapped around his head.
And then he realizes he’s still alive. The bullet hasn’t ripped through his skull, spattering the pristine white garden with pink and red and grey like an angry Rorschach ink blot.
Feeling rushes back into his body – fingers and toes burning with cold, legs and arms aching with it, his torso raw. He opens his mouth, but all that comes out is a squeak.
