Savage Night - Allan Guthrie [14]
Tommy sighed, said to Phil, "You want to check his pockets?"
Phil said, "Not particularly. I don't doubt he's got the fifty quid. Hardly a fortune."
"Fair point." Tommy breathed in through his nose. "What's your name?" he asked the boy.
The boy paused.
"Don't bother making one up."
The boy said, "Grant."
"Well, Grant. I'm going to go out to the car and get my toolbox. Got all sorts of things in there. Screwdrivers with the ends filed to a point. Hacksaws. Powerdrills." He remembered there probably wouldn't be any electricity here. "Cordless, of course. All charged up and ready to go. I'll just be five minutes. When I come back, I want to know the truth, or I'll start doing some carpentry on you. Okay?"
"It is the truth. I'm telling you, man. I'm telling you the fucking truth."
"No need to swear." Tommy turned.
Grant started to scream. It was short-lived, though, cause before Grant had time to take a second breath, Phil was right on top of him, arm locked round his mouth, stifling his cries.
Tommy carried on walking. "You want the torch?" he said to Phil.
"Nah," Phil said, puffing as he held onto Grant. "We'll have a great time in the dark, won't we, Grant?"
Tommy went out into the corridor. Opened the flat's front door, but stayed where he was and let it swing shut with a bang. Then he crept back along the corridor, popped into the nearest room. A bedroom. The bed was still there. No other furniture, though.
He was about to sit down on the bed but smelled that sickly sweet popcorn/dead-mouse odour again and decided to stay standing. Looked at his watch. He'd give it five minutes.
It'd be so different if Smith was in the sitting room with Phil instead of Grant. If Smith was in the chair, Tommy might have actually gone out to the car to fetch his toolbox. Assuming he had a toolbox. Nah, course he wouldn't. Not his style. But Phil would. Only question would have been whether Tommy would have let him.
Stupid kid just had to tell them the truth instead of making up shit. If Phil had half a brain he'd be describing to Grant what he could expect once Tommy came back. And Grant would be crapping himself.
That's if he'd got Grant to shut up by now.
Tommy listened, but couldn't hear anything other than the distant thump of a downstairs neighbour's music. Almost as bad as Grant's phone. He turned off the torch. The music immediately seemed louder. Not so much as a whisper from the sitting room.
Phil probably still had the poor sod in that chokehold.
Tommy had always steered clear of this kind of crap. Knew that Phil had to get rough now and then but he'd never wanted to know about it. But until now, nobody had ever threatened Tommy's mother and children.
They had to convince Grant to reveal the identity of Mr fucking Smith. And once they had that information, Phil would have a quiet word with Smith and that would be an end to the violence.
Simple.
Okay, Smith was a killer and maybe it wouldn't be so simple but Tommy didn't see a whole lot of alternatives. He'd like nothing better than to bring all this to an end without anyone getting hurt. Once Grant told them where his boss was, they'd sort something out. Just knowing who Smith was would give them enough leverage for him to back off.
Yeah, it was going to work out fine.
Tommy wondered if maybe enough time had passed now for Grant to believe he'd been out to the car and back. But it was only a couple of minutes since he'd last looked at his watch.
Tommy slipped off his shoes. Didn't much fancy walking on this floor in his socks but he didn't want to risk making a noise. He shuffled along the corridor. Crouched down by the sitting room door and placed his ear to the keyhole.
"… a machete," Phil was saying. "Sliced off the guy's arse cheeks." He laughed. "I know. You're thinking that's pretty funny. No? Anyway, you can't ever walk again. No arse cheeks, no walking muscles. You know that? Hard to find a pair of trousers that fit, too."
Pause. Tommy heard himself breathing.
Then: "Not laughing?" Phil said. "Right. Cause