Savage Night - Allan Guthrie [74]
Somebody had to take responsibility.
That's all he'd done.
Park sat at the table. Brushed salt off Mrs Yardie's salt shaker. He'd wait a while. Give Martin time to finish the job. Sawing through a body. All that flesh and gristle and bone.
Blood rushed to his head. He tore off his ski mask. Lowered his head to his chest. Breathed deeply. Breathed till he felt better.
He sat for a while and thought about Grant and wished he could cry.
Then he got to his feet. Went back to the sink. Ran the cold water. Stuck his mouth under it. Drank.
Everything in small steps.
Turned off the tap, wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
He wanted to call Effie. See how things were going with Fraser. She'd befriended him easily enough. But was he going to invite her home again? Course he was. He was a bloke.
Anyway, Park had no doubt she'd be able to carry it off. She was tough. Maybe the toughest of them all, Richie included.
And what about Martin? He'd done it. Effie would be proud of him.
But Park couldn't call his daughter. No calls, they'd agreed. The police could trace these things. And they didn't want the police after them. Park had seen enough of the inside of a prison. A couple of prisons, in fact. He didn't fancy seeing any more.
Another drink of water.
Okay.
He put his ski mask back on, picked up the sword, angled the gun so the handle didn't graze his hipbone.
Back to work.
As he passed his bedroom door, he thought about popping in on Liz, see if she needed to go to the bathroom. He'd been taking her every couple of hours since they moved out here, and she seemed to know what to do. Worked pretty effectively. With their new routine, he'd only had to change the occasional overnight nappy.
But, no, Liz would be fine. She wouldn't have to hold on much longer.
***
TOMMY SAVAGE SAT on the edge of his bed clutching his stomach. He had stopped puking, which was something. But he didn't look too good. Pale, sweaty, and his chin was quivering like an old woman singing a love song. He saw Park and said, "You cunt."
Just what Park needed. He switched the sword to his left hand, bitch-slapped Savage on the ear with his right.
Savage gave him a defiant look. "You're still a cunt."
Park slapped him again, harder.
Savage screwed his eyes shut. "Cunt."
Park slapped him. This was more like it.
Savage shook his head. Waited. "Cunt."
Park slapped him.
Tears rolled down Savage's cheeks. Fucker. He said, quietly, "Cunt."
Park slapped him again.
Savage said nothing.
Park wondered if Martin had finished with Phil Savage yet. Park couldn't risk grabbing so much as a peek at the screen now. Frustrating as fuck.
Savage said, "Cunt."
Got Park back, focussed. Park slapped him. "I can do this all night," he said.
Savage whispered, "Cunt."
Park slapped him. His palm stung.
Savage stared at him.
Park slapped him before Savage could open his mouth. "Huh," Park said. "Now who's the cunt?"
***
TOMMY'S EAR WAS ringing. His cheek was hot and smarting. Didn't matter.
Neither did the pain in his arm. He didn't give a shit. Together the anger and the fever seemed to be acting as some kind of analgesic. Smith could slap him all day and he wouldn't feel it.
Not like when Phil had slapped him when they were deciding what to do about Grant. That had stung.
Oh, Christ. Phil.
He couldn't think about that, he'd go mad.
Tommy licked his bottom lip, said to Smith, "You're the cunt."
"Hmmm," Smith said, and slapped him again. Hard enough to knock him across the bed.
Okay. That one hurt. He wasn't going to achieve anything by keeping this up. Apart from making himself feel better. Mentally, of course. Wasn't doing him much good physically. He'd lie here for a minute. Give himself time to recover. He listened to the wash of noise in his ear. It was as if somebody was holding a shell over it.
He glanced at the screen. The killer, Smith's daughter's fiancé, Greg Milne's son,