London Calling - James Craig [126]
Xavier struggled to lift his head far enough from the floor to see Murray’s face. When his gaze reached the jagged neck of the bottle still clutched in Murray’s right hand, he felt his bladder spasm and a fearful warmth spread through the carpet beneath his groin. Scanning the boy’s face, he tried to make meaningful eye contact, while praying that someone else would finally wonder where they were and come to their aid.
‘What do you want?’ he gasped.
Murray stood between the two brothers, flushed, exultant, not flinching from Xavier’s gaze, but saying nothing. For a moment, the two men eyeballed each other, both ignoring the steady, heaving sobs of the soon-to-be prime minister of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. Xavier realised that he had never really looked Murray up and down before. Now, on closer inspection, he realised that there really was nothing to the boy at all. Although he had been one of their inner circle, and a senior trusty, he was but one of dozens, if not hundreds, of similar helpers. If he were to leave tomorrow – and now, after this comical breakdown, he would be leaving tomorrow, if not sooner – there were plenty of others queuing up to take his place. All of them were young, bright, fiercely ambitious, and utterly disposable.
Utterly disposable.
Like a cheap razor. Or a tampon.
Xavier started laughing.
Maybe Murray had flipped simply because he was worried that he had already passed his sell-by date.
Maybe he’d just started partying too hard, too quickly. Maybe he had taken too much ecstasy and had suffered a brain meltdown. If that was the case, he certainly wouldn’t have been the first.
Maybe …
‘Oh my God!’ Looking deep into the boy’s eyes, Xavier suddenly realised what was going on. Struggling to breathe, his eyes misted up as he was transported back half a lifetime – to the true night of a lifetime.
Murray gave him a crooked smile.
‘Oh my God!’ Xavier repeated.
Murray took a contented puff on his cigar.
‘You!’ Xavier pulled ineffectually against his restraints. ‘It was you all along.’
Murray nodded.
Xavier let his forehead sink back to the floor: ‘Icarus, the boy who flew too close to the sun …’
‘Not a very original choice of name.’ Murray spoke quietly, flicking some ash on to the carpet, his words almost getting lost against the music. ‘Not his name, of course.’
‘Of course,’ Xavier nodded subconsciously.
Murray flicked some cigar ash towards Edgar, who had fallen silent. The shock had finally kicked in, and it looked as if he had passed out. Probably just as well, Xavier thought. Where the fuck was that useless fat bastard Trevor Miller? Probably out in the ballroom getting drunk and trying to grope one of the secretaries.
‘His name was Robert.’
‘Yes.’
‘The name of the man you killed was Robert Ashton.’
‘But—’
‘He was my father.’
Murray dropped to his knees and pulled Xavier’s head up by his hair, bringing the broken bottle neck close to his neck. For a few moments, the noise outside died down as Kylie’s singing gave way to another thumping dance track.
Out of nowhere, Xavier summoned some new reserves of spirit. ‘You’ll never get away with it!’ he hissed.
‘I don’t want to get away with it,’ Murray snarled. ‘I want everyone to know what you people did.’
‘It wasn’t me. I wasn’t even there,’ a voice snivelled. Edgar had obviously reawakened.
‘Yes, you were!’ Xavier retorted angrily. He wasn’t going to let this lunatic have the pleasure of watching either of the brothers grovel.
‘Only at the end,’ Edgar protested. ‘I didn’t—’
‘You didn’t fuck him,’ Xavier hissed. ‘Big deal, so what? You still got your rocks off. We all did.’ Craning his neck, he turned back to face Murray who had dropped the neck of the broken bottle on to the carpet and was now fumbling with a mobile phone.
Edgar grew even more agitated as Murray started filming the grotesque scene that he had staged.
Laughing, Murray gave him a sharp kick. ‘Keep it up,’ he jeered. ‘This will make for better viewing. You