Savage Night - Allan Guthrie [67]
***
ANOTHER DAY.
Smith opened the door, stood there wearing a cheap dark suit and a black tie, studying Tommy through the eyeholes of his ski mask. "Funeral," he said. "My son's funeral."
Tommy held his gaze for as long as he could, then looked away. When he looked back again, the door was closed and Smith had gone.
Pressure built behind Tommy's eyes until he cried, but it didn't help.
***
NEXT TIME SMITH let him call Mum she said, "I've been worried sick. Why haven't you called?"
"Bit difficult."
"Why? Where are you?"
"I can't say."
"Don't you think you're being paranoid?"
"No. They can trace these things. Work out where I am."
Smith flinched.
Had he not thought of that? For a moment, Tommy believed he'd got the better of him. But the sad truth was that nobody was going to trace his calls. Didn't matter if they could pinpoint their origin.
Tommy noticed he was playing with his chain, let it fall onto the bed.
"Jordan misses you," Mum said.
"Can I speak to him?"
Smith shook his head.
"He's at Fraser's," Mum said. "You could try his mobile."
"Okay." He sighed. "Got to go now."
"Where are you? Tell me where you are."
"I can't do that."
"You don't trust me?"
"It's not a matter of trust, Mum. Just believe me that it's better you don't know."
"Better for who?"
"For us all. For the family."
"Tommy, are you in really bad trouble?"
He smiled, wished she could see him. "Yes, I'm in some really deep shit."
Smith dragged his finger across his throat.
Tommy went cold. Then he realised Smith only meant for him to end the call. "In case I don't get through to Jordan," he said to Mum, "tell him I love him."
***
A FEW DAYS later.
"Are you sick?"
When he'd looked at his arm half an hour ago, pus was weeping out of the cut. It hurt to touch. Painful even just to move his arm and there was a stiffness to it that was worrying.
He was weak and sweating. Even the phone in his hand felt like it was perspiring. He smelled sweet. His stomach ached. Last night Grant spoke to him again in a dream and this time both halves of the lad's body were there, the upper half hovering a few inches above the lower. The dead boy's eyes were unblinking black stones in a bone-white face. He told Tommy that there was no such thing as an accident. He told Tommy that a father had a duty to avenge his son or he was no father at all. Tommy said no, it didn't have to be that way. Grant told him he didn't know what he was talking about. As he spoke, blood dribbled from his mouth and then it started to pour from his nose and ears. Then those black eyes started to bleed. Tommy woke up drenched. He hadn't been able to go back to sleep.
"Tommy?"
"Just a bit of a cold, Mum," Tommy said into the phone.
Smith stared at him, tongue flicking out of the mouthhole of the mask.
Mum said, "You have to look after yourself."
"I know."
"Sure you're okay?"
He tried to inject some enthusiasm into his voice. "Absolutely. Nothing to worry about."
"How can I not worry?"
"I know." Pause. "I know."
"You will come home?"
He glanced at Smith. "When it's safe."
"And when's that?"
He struggled to keep his voice from breaking. "Soon."
***
SMITH DUMPED THE food on Tommy's bed—snacks, as usual. Since his incarceration Tommy'd had nothing wholesome to eat apart from a couple of tins of soup and the occasional plate of baked beans. Smith tucked into a bag of crisps. Tommy knew he was about to say something, even though he couldn't read his face through the ski mask. Something to do with the way his body jerked to a halt.
"Not hungry?" Smith said. "I'll have yours if you don't want it."
Tommy stared at the junk pooled in a channel in the rumpled quilt, gathered his blanket round him. Actually, even the thought of a big juicy steak did nothing for him. Scarcely any flab bunched