Savage Night - Allan Guthrie [36]
Martin took a last drag of his cigarette. He couldn't put this off forever.
"I'll be back in a minute," he said to Phil.
Still no reply. Good.
Martin left Phil asleep in the van and walked round to the front of the house. He sucked in a lungful of air. Then he opened the door, found the alarm panel and keyed in the code.
Prelude To A Savage Night
The Savages And The Parks
PHIL TOOK THE torch from Tommy and shone it on Grant's motionless body, highlighting the gleaming patches where blood dripped through the young lad's shirt and trousers.
Tommy looked away, said, "Fuck," for what had to be the twentieth time. His stomach was only just holding out. Felt like a terrified rabbit was trapped inside him, trying to kick its way to freedom.
As far as Tommy could gather, Grant had rammed the door with his head, punching a hole in the glass large enough for his shoulders to fit through. Whatever his velocity, he was never going to make it through the doorway strapped to a dining chair. So he'd slumped down onto what appeared to be a horrifically sharp wedge of broken glass and was stuck there.
Tommy took a step back. "What're we going to do?"
Phil said, "I think we should fuck off."
"You what? We have to do something for him."
"Like?"
"Call an ambulance?"
"What about Smith?"
"Fuck Smith."
"He'll still be wanting his money."
"Fuck the money."
"We could go to the cemetery."
"How does that help Grant?"
"Forget Grant for a minute. Right now we have to think about us."
"Christ's sake, Phil. There's no time. Look at him."
"We'll make time."
Tommy breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth. No good. Wasn't just his stomach, his heart was hammering away too. He took a few rapid breaths. "We have to take him to the hospital."
"You're not listening."
"Jesus, Phil, he's going to—"
Phil smacked Tommy hard on the cheek. "Calm the fuck down."
Tommy stared at his brother, cheek stinging. Said nothing for a while. Then: "Phil? What have we done?"
"It's okay."
Phil raised his hand and Tommy flinched, thinking he was going to get hit again.
But Phil lowered his hand onto Tommy's shoulder and squeezed. "It's a mess," he said. "But it'll be okay."
Tommy wasn't so sure.
"You all right, Tommy?"
"I don't know." His teeth were chattering. That fucking rabbit was still pounding away inside him. His skull felt like it was shrinking.
"You going to pass out?"
Tommy shook his head.
"Then you're okay. I need you to listen. Can you do that?"
"Yeah," Tommy said.
"Good. Now here's what I was thinking. Grant was going to go to the cemetery with the money, right? We can go instead."
"Okay," Tommy said.
"But how do we explain that to Smith?"
"You asking me? It's your suggestion."
"Maybe we don't need to. If Smith's waiting there, he might wonder why we're showing up instead of Grant. But we can just tell him Grant never turned up."
"Turned up where?"
"At the bus station."
"Grant was never supposed to turn up. Not as far as we were concerned. " Tommy felt as if somebody'd rubbed every inch of his skin with a cold cloth. He ignored it, forced himself to concentrate. "I was supposed to leave the money in the locker, drop off the key and go home." He shivered. "And that was the end of the story. You weren't supposed to be there. And we weren't supposed to know about Grant. And he's dying while we're standing here talking, Phil, for Christ's sake."
"I'm not thick. I know all that."
"So why're you suggesting such a dumb idea?"
Phil aimed the light at Tommy, made Tommy put his hand in front of his face.
"Cause I was there," Phil said, lowering the torch. "And we can just admit to it. What's Smith going to do?"
"So if Grant didn't show at the bus station, how come we know to go to the cemetery?"
"Now that," Phil said, "is a much better question. I'll have to think about it."
Phil shone the light over Grant again.