Savage Night - Allan Guthrie [39]
Her gown was open at the back, too, her buttocks smooth and nicely chubby.
"Night, Simone," Worm said. And to them: "Want a drink of something?"
"Beer," Phil said.
Tommy said, "We're in a bit of a rush."
"Cool," Worm said. "Wait there. I'll get my girls."
He vanished, returned shortly afterwards with a bottle of beer and a couple of swords. A big bastard, and a smaller one. He gave the beer and the big bastard to Phil.
"Two-handed claymore," Worm said. "Has its restrictions. But it's a nice weapon. Here." He took it from Phil. "Heavy beast. Five and a half pounds. You're probably best not to try cutting or thrusting. Takes a bit of getting used to. Just dunt the fucker over the head with it. Slap like that, he won't get up again in a hurry."
To demonstrate, Worm thumped the blade on the arm of the sofa. "Have a go," he said.
Phil took the sword and tried a few practice dunts.
Tommy's sword was a handmade katana, a Japanese Samurai sword that Worm boasted he'd only paid forty quid for on eBay. The seller was some idiot who thought it was one of those crappy imitations, apparently. Worm had several katanas, but this was the real bargain. Even came in a sharkskin sheath and Tommy was more than happy to let it stay there.
"Try it," Worm said. "It's nice and light."
"Got to get moving," Tommy said.
"Try it," Worm said. "It's nice." He paused. "And light."
The guy was wearing a bloody open-arsed smock and yet Tommy felt threatened by him. He'd better do it. After all, Worm was letting them borrow the weapons. True, they were paying a hundred quid for the privilege of doing so, and that was more than Worm had paid for them in the first place. But, still. If the guy owned the weapons, he probably knew how to use them.
"Okay," Tommy said. "Just a couple of swings." He slid the sword out of the sheath. It was long, curved, with a single sharp edge.
"Stand clear," Worm said, dragging Phil back towards the wall.
Tommy squeezed the handle, looked at his reflection in the blade.
"Ready," Worm said.
Tommy didn't move.
Phil said, "What're you waiting for?"
Tommy raised the sword, held it for a second, then took a swing. Just a little one, as if he was chopping the end off a carrot.
"Another," Worm said. "Get the hang of it."
He tried again.
"Bigger swipe," Worm said.
He took a bigger swipe. Didn't feel at all like he was in control of the bloody thing. Slight misjudgement and he was in danger of slicing a chunk out of his thigh with the follow through.
"And a thrust."
Tommy sighed. Took a breath. And thrust his arm forward.
"You have to say 'heeyuh' when you thrust," Worm said.
"Bugger that."
"Go on," Worm said. "It's rude not to."
Phil was smiling, trying to hide his expression behind his upended beer bottle.
Tommy said, "I don't really care."
"I'll take my sword back then."
"You can't. We've paid you for it."
"Not yet, you haven't."
Tommy dipped his hand into the bag of money at his feet, took out a hundred quid and chucked it on the sofa. "Have now."
"Money's no good."
Tommy stared at him for a minute. "You think it's counterfeit?"
"I didn't say that," Worm said. "Phil wouldn't do that to me."
"Then what?"
"The money's no good cause you haven't said 'heeyuh'."
"I'm not going to say … that."
"Then give me my sword back."
"I don't want your fucking sword," Tommy said.
He sheathed it, threw it on the sofa. Picked up his bag and let himself out. He ran to the car and got inside, trembling all over.
After a bit, he lowered the window, clutched the bag hard to his chest. The breeze cooled his face.
He thought about driving away, leaving Phil. But Smith would be there tomorrow. And the next day. And Grant—Tommy moaned. They'd killed him. Jesus frigging Christ.
Tommy wanted to bite something. Anything. As long as it was hard enough to break his teeth on. There was a burning pain