Savage Night - Allan Guthrie [72]
Now he was back again, staggering under the weight of a man thrown over his shoulder. For a minute, he turned his back to the camera and Tommy saw the back of the other guy's head. His hair was ginger. Was it Phil?
He asked Smith.
Smith cleared his throat, turned on his chair so he was facing Tommy, not the screen. "It certainly is."
White-hot balls of anger swelled in Tommy's stomach, heat rising into his chest, burning his gullet.
Phil dangled over Martin Milne's shoulder. Limp, as if he was ... No, couldn't be. "Is he …?" Tommy asked.
"Is he what?"
"Doesn't matter." Tommy shook his head. Sweat flicked onto his blanket. He pulled it tight around his shoulders.
"Go on. Is he …?"
"Dead, you fuck," Tommy said. "Is he dead?"
"Not yet. But keep watching."
Even through the mask, he looked smug.
Martin Milne dumped Phil on the couch, his leg trailing onto the floor. Milne stood for a minute getting his breath back. Then disappeared.
Nothing stirred for a few seconds. Then Phil's foot twitched. He was waking up. Come on. But there was no further movement. Maybe Tommy had imagined it.
He glanced at Smith. He was leaning in close. Absorbed. Staring at Tommy like he was some kind of exotic zoo creature.
Tommy'd never hit anyone in his life. But he couldn't just sit here and let Phil die. He had to do something. So he clenched his fist and swung it at the cunt.
***
PARK SAW IT coming.
He leaned back, and Savage's knuckles brushed past his cheek. Savage was weak and uncoordinated, and, anyway, couldn't punch for shit. Didn't help that he was trying to hold his blanket on with his other hand. Summed him up. Phil was about to die and all Tommy Savage cared about was that he might give Park an eyeful of scrawny cock.
And now he looked scared. Like he wished he hadn't just done that.
Park gauged where the festering cut was on Savage's arm and punched him there. Put a lot of power into it.
Savage howled. Horrible racket.
He finally stopped, his attention grabbed by what was happening at Fraser's. Park sneaked a look. Martin had returned to the sitting room.
It was going to happen.
Savage had tears in his eyes and a runny nose.
Park could have cried too.
***
TOMMY BLINKED. HIS eyelashes were wet.
Martin Milne's back was to the camera, but he had a large navy blue bag out of which he was removing a rolled-up sheet. He turned to the side, so Tommy got a better view. Unrolled the sheet, laid it out on the floor. Left the room again and returned with a metal tub. He positioned the tub in the middle of the sheet, then moved towards Phil and bent over him. Tommy couldn't see what he was doing. Not till the trousers came off. And then the shoe and sock. Martin stuffed all the clothes into his bag. Then he hoisted Phil, naked, onto his shoulder and let him slump into the tub.
Tommy couldn't stay quiet any longer. "What's going on? What's he doing? Why's he got a tub? What's happening? What's he doing to Phil?"
"Shhh," Smith told him. "Just watch."
"Tell me what he's doing."
"Shut up and watch."
Martin lit a cigarette, walked up and down, sucking the life out of it. He moved closer to the camera. Took his jacket off, folded it, laid it somewhere out of sight. He reappeared moments later, stripped to the waist. He had a long white mark on his neck, which made the rest of his face look dirty. A scar, maybe.
He moved away again. When he came back he was naked. He moved over to his bag, slipped on a pair of plastic gloves and a pair of plastic booties.
He stuck his hand back into the bag. Came out with a knife.
Then a hacksaw.
Oh, Jesus. Oh, Jesus fucking Christ.
"He won't do it," Tommy said. "Martin Milne isn't a cold-blooded killer."
Smith said nothing.
"You can stop this," Tommy said. "Call him. Tell him to stop."
"And spoil the show?"
***
"JESUS CHRIST," SAVAGE shouted.
About time Park looked away.
"Jesus fucking Christ, no."
Savage's face was porcelain white. His quivering jaw told a story.
Park ought to be