Savage Night - Allan Guthrie [69]
Tommy swallowed the rest of his water. "You want more money?"
"Don't piss me off."
Course not. Tommy knew that now. This wasn't about money. For either of them. He shivered again. "So what are you going to do?"
"You'll find out," Smith said. "Won't be long now." He pointed to the screen. "Keep watching."
***
IT BEGAN IN the evening, a couple of days later.
Smith had brought his chair into the bedroom, but he couldn't sit still. Kept getting up, pacing around, swinging the katana—usually in Tommy's direction—and putting the sword away again. Then he'd sit down for five minutes, watch the screen, and fiddle with his gun.
And he kept checking his watch.
And back to the sword again.
Tommy couldn't see the screen very well, seated where he was, upright against the headboard. But if he sat farther forward, that would bring him closer to Smith's periodic lunges and swipes. Still, Tommy inched forward, peering at the screen all the while, keeping Smith in his vision, making sure he wasn't getting too close. He edged forward, until he was at the end of the bed, Smith just a couple of feet away.
Tommy crossed his arms over his blanket.
On screen, Fraser was eating his dinner on the settee, watching TV. All Tommy could see were his feet.
At first Tommy had refused to look at the screen. He didn't want to know what Fraser got up to in the privacy of his own home. But he'd found the temptation impossible to resist. And by now he'd grown used to watching his son. Truth was, Tommy now felt compelled to watch. He felt that Fraser would want him to watch. He'd appreciate the fact that his old man was looking out for him.
Or maybe Tommy was thinking like that to make himself feel better. His emotions were all shot to fuck. He wasn't sure what he felt any longer. It was hard to do the right thing when you'd no idea what that was.
The only thing he did have much of a clue about was that Smith was planning something unpleasant, and the only thing that mattered was stopping him.
Tommy said to Smith, "Whatever you've got in mind, I'm begging you not to do it."
Smith stood still, katana aloft. "Did Greg Milne beg for his life?"
"I don't know. Believe me. I didn't kill him."
Smith sighed. "But you arranged it."
Tommy lowered his voice. "I arranged nothing. Doesn't matter how many times you say I did."
"You admitted it. Back in the woods."
"I'd have admitted anything. For what it's worth, that bastard fucked everybody over."
"You thought he was a bastard?"
"Yes. And not just me. There was a lot of pressure to make an example of him and I refused. I fucking refused. Whoever was responsible for his death had nothing to do with me. Or if they did, they acted in direct contradiction to my orders."
"So you're saying maybe they did have something to do with you?"
Tommy shook his head. "You're not listening."
"I think it's you who isn't listening."
"I had nothing to do with it."
"It doesn't matter." Smith stepped towards the bed. Tommy leaned away as Smith bent towards him. Smith said, "Because what you're about to witness, what you're about to experience, is not for what you did to Milne. It's for what you did to Grant."
That was different.
"Please," Tommy said. He'd promised himself he wouldn't beg, yet here he was pleading with Smith yet again. It was all he had left. "Don't."
"What fucks me off most," Smith said, "isn't your lies about Milne."
"It's the tr—"
"Shut up. What fucks me off is the way you won't take responsibility for my son's death."
Tommy swallowed. Licked his lips. "It was an accid … I won't say it again."
"No, don't. Maybe it was an accident. But kidnapping him and torturing him, that was your fucking fault."
"I didn't mean any harm."
"I don't give a fuck what you meant. Only what you did. It was your fault."
"I …" Tommy said. "I don't know."
"Your brother's fault, then? You saying he's solely to blame?"
"It was nobody's fault."
Smith raised the katana. "Another word, I fucking dare you."
Tommy held up his palms. "Okay, I'm guilty. It was my fault.