Savage Night - Allan Guthrie [35]
"Wake up, you fat ginger bastard," Martin said.
No reply.
Sleepy Head had convinced Martin's mum that he'd had no involvement in his dad's death. But Martin wasn't so sure. Phil Savage was exactly the kind of man who would have killed Martin's dad. And even if he hadn't, the dirty fucker had slept with his mum.
Phil Savage deserved everything that was coming to him.
Martin had had two weeks to tell himself this over and over. Which was just as well. He'd needed it. But he was ready now. This was not something he was going to mess up, whatever Effie and her dad thought. Oh, they never said as much, but he knew they didn't think he had it in him.
"Well, I do," he told the unconscious man. "You wait and see."
He'd make Effie proud of him.
Fifteen minutes later, and the warm, wet patch on Martin's jeans was spreading towards his crotch. He'd been warned that GHB could induce some powerful reactions: spasms and vomiting weren't uncommon. But he'd managed to sneak a look and he was pretty sure Savage was drooling on him rather than spewing.
Still, he was glad when he pulled into Fraser's driveway. He drove round the back of the house. Out of sight, not cause of the neighbours—there weren't any—but to ensure Fraser didn't spot the van when he came back with Effie.
When Martin lifted Phil's face off his leg, the damp patch instantly cooled. Definitely drool, but he'd have to get rid of all his clothes afterwards, anyway, so whether it was sick or drool really wasn't a big deal. He had to stop flustering about shit that didn't matter.
He shook Savage. No response. Shook him harder. Nothing. He was hardly breathing. Had to look closely to detect the rise and fall of his chest. Could have been fooled into thinking he was already dead.
Martin lit a cigarette. The smoke hit the back of his throat, fired a dart of adrenalin into his brain.
Getting into the house would be no hassle. Park had given Martin a key. And Effie had got the number for the burglar alarm the night she'd gone back with Fraser. Martin hadn't liked that, but there was nothing he could do about it. He trusted her enough to know that nothing had happened, but still.
He'd take in the bag first—a few tools, dropcloth, plastic footwear, shit like that. Then he'd take in the tub. Could do it all in the bathroom, yeah, but the bathroom was upstairs and that would mean hefting Phil Savage all the way up there and then back down afterwards. Much more straightforward to do it in the sitting room. They'd worked it all out.
He had to stick to the plan. That was the only way he'd get through this.
Mr Park, Andy (couldn't get used to calling him that), wanted Fraser to see what they'd done to Phil. He wanted Fraser distracted so that Effie could do her thing. Which seemed pretty sadistic to Martin. He'd said so to Effie and she just said, "Yep, and?" And he wasn't sure, so he shrugged, and she said, "That's the whole point, Martin," and he nodded.
As for Martin's role in this, yeah, he'd considered waiting till they were in the house before spiking Savage's drink. He'd weighed up the pros and cons with Effie and decided there was less risk doing it this way. Doctor the beer before handing it over, then the only risk was that Savage was going to say no, but according to Effie he was a pisshead so that was unlikely. Or that he'd notice the beer was a bit flat. If he had, the plan had been to kill him in the car park. Wait till he was buckled in, then reach into the back, get the knife out of the bag, and chib him where he sat.
This way was better. Meant Martin hadn't had to drive around with a corpse for a passenger, which wouldn't have been any fun if he'd been pulled over. At