Savage Night - Allan Guthrie [40]
A couple of minutes later, Phil appeared. He crouched down outside the car, face in Tommy's face, beer breath in Tommy's nose, and pushed the handle of the katana through the window. "Take it."
"I don't want it."
"Worm was just having a laugh." Phil paused. "He likes you, you know."
Tommy took hold of the handle and said, "Hee-fucking-yuh."
***
THE GROUND SMELLED damp, the grass fresh from the earlier rainfall. Splashes of moonlight trickled through the clouds onto the path ahead.
Tommy needed to pee. Felt like someone was scraping the inside of his bladder with a razorblade. Told himself it was just a side-effect of the adrenaline. Likewise the dizziness and the swishing of the sea in his ears and the ball of fire in his gut.
He had to ignore his body and saunter along towards Warriston Cemetery, nonchalant, like Phil. Never mind that he was carrying a bag containing fifty grand. Or that Smith was hiding out there in the dark. Tommy had a Japanese katana. He was a hard bastard. Nothing to worry about. Maybe he should unsheath the sword. If the moonlight caught it just right, it would look mighty impressive and Smith would surely think twice about trying anything.
Or they'd bump into Smith on the path as he was leaving, and Tommy'd get a fright and drop the sword. Thanks to Worm, they were late, and Smith wasn't going to hang around forever.
"You know where we're going?" Tommy whispered.
Phil whispered back: "Straight ahead. Can't miss it."
Tommy fought against the instinct to turn and run.
Eventually they came out into a clearing but Tommy only finally knew they were there when he banged into something solid and his heart trampolined off his stomach. He jumped back a foot expecting to see Smith's moonlit ski mask in front of him. Turned out he'd collided with what was one of the few gravestones still upright. As he looked around, he saw that somebody'd been having a lot of fun knocking them over. He could make out half a dozen dotting the ground close by.
Apart from the toppled gravestones, it was too dark to make out much else.
"Sword," Phil whispered.
Tommy looked at him.
"Get it out." He moved off.
"I was just going to," Tommy said to his back. He unsheathed the katana. Tried to be quiet, but couldn't avoid the faint sound of scraping steel. Phil turned. Tommy pulled an apologetic face that Phil probably couldn't see.
Phil shook his head, the prick. It wasn't that loud.
Tommy couldn't carry everything, so he laid the sheath on the ground and trailed his brother along another path which arced round the lefthand side of the cemetery, sword in one hand, money in the other. Phil advanced slowly but steadily, both hands wrapped round the handle of his claymore, looking straight ahead. Tommy wished they hadn't had to leave the torch in the car. Phil reckoned a torch would have made them too conspicuous and he was right, but Tommy felt conspicuous anyway.
Something crunched underfoot. If drawing the sword had been a whisper, this was a full-blooded yell. Tommy stopped in his tracks, held his breath. Phil turned again, glared at him. Tommy didn't need that look to tell him what he'd just done. If Smith was around, he now knew they were here, torch or not. That stupid bloody noise meant they'd lost any advantage they might once have had.
He'd stalk them now. Maybe he was already lying prone on the grass over there, masquerading as a collapsed headstone, wearing night vision goggles, sniper rifle ready to fire.
Tommy readjusted his grip on the sword.
Phil started to move again. They edged along the path, Tommy on his tiptoes. He didn't stand on anything else noisy and they didn't encounter a soul. At the end of the path, Phil crouched down. Laid his sword on the ground, flicked on his lighter. The path swung into a hidey-hole. Couldn't tell whether it was man-made or just a naturally cave-shaped thicket.
Phil said, "Give me your sword. Mine's too big."
Tommy handed it over and Phil headed inside.
Tommy peered in after him. "Anybody