Savage Night - Allan Guthrie [75]
Tommy moaned. He had to look away. But couldn't. Yet Smith wasn't watching. You'd think he'd have had his nose pressed right up against the screen, the equivalent of a ringside seat, the sadistic crazy fuck. But, no, he wasn't interested in the screen. He was watching Tommy instead. Maybe thought Tommy was going to attack him again.
"Stop it," Tommy said, pushing himself upright with his good arm. "Make him stop, for God's sake."
Smith's tongue darted out from between his lips, and again. He said, "You're boring me."
Tommy pressed the back of his free hand to his cheek. "Why does Milne have to do that?" He indicated the screen.
"What?"
"Look and see."
"I'm not falling for that one." And he kept staring at Tommy.
Tommy shook his head, asked him, "So what's next?"
Smith grinned. "Stay tuned."
"Cunt," Tommy said, lunged at him again. Missed.
Smith took his gun out from the waistband of his trousers, pointed it at Tommy and fired. The noise was much louder than Tommy expected. He heard the bullet whistle past his cheek. It slammed into the wall and plaster dropped onto the pillow. He started to shake.
"Look at the mess you've made," Smith said. "You're a thoughtless bastard. Broke the window with that metal bucket. Now there's a hole in the wall. You think I want to go round tidying up after you? I hate DIY."
Tommy kept his mouth shut.
***
PARK COULD TELL the exact moment Fraser Savage arrived home.
Firing that bullet had shut Tommy up. Shame about the wall, but a wee squeeze of Polyfilla and a slap of paint and Old Mrs Yardie'd never notice.
For a while, Savage had sat there shaking and whimpering, rocking and moaning, hugging that disgusting blanket round himself. But he was off on one again now. His mouth hung open, tears running down his cheeks. He was making a keening sound.
"Fraser home?" Park said.
Savage glanced at him. Shook like an electrocuted dog. Managed to stop moaning and shaking long enough to ask, "What can I do to stop this?"
"Not a thing," Park said.
***
AFTER ALL THE bloodshed, Tommy had expected a knife. Maybe a sword.
Instead, Smith's daughter removed a length of clothesline from her pocket, and coiled the ends round her fists while she stood behind Fraser.
Tommy looked away. When he looked back at the screen, the cord was around Fraser's neck. He had his back to the camera so Tommy couldn't see his face. Tommy looked at Smith. He was staring at Tommy. Tommy couldn't look at him either. Not without wanting to charge at him, smash his head to a pulp, rip out his organs.
Felt like somebody'd shoved a couple of grenades in Tommy's ears.
Violence. Maybe Phil was right. Maybe it was the answer.
In any case, it was all there was. But Tommy had nowhere to go with it. He bowed his head. Whispered his son's name: "Fraser." And again. And again.
"Hey," Tommy heard Smith say. "Check on him. How's he doing?"
Tommy turned to face the screen. Fraser was slumped on the floor. Tommy willed him to move. He didn't.
Tommy said, "I swear I'm going to kill you."
"Feel free to have a go," Smith said. "I'm right here."
Flay him alive, take a bite out of his heart, whatever it took. Tommy wasn't fussy, just so long as the bastard died.
Smith spoke again. Tommy couldn't hear him clearly. The buzzing in his ears was too loud. Not that Tommy was deaf. No, he could hear other sounds. He heard a baby crying.
"… and it's not as if you weren't warned in advance," Smith was saying. "You knew. I showed you. McCracken."
There was no baby.
Tommy looked back at the screen just as the killers walked out of the kitchen, naked. The bitch now had a hacksaw. So Fraser was going to be carved up too.
Smith said, "Your son's dead on account of you. Proud of yourself?"
Tommy lunged off the bed. But Smith was prepared once again. Jumped off his seat and stepped to the side. Still, Tommy kept after him, shouting, throwing wild punches with his good arm. Smith dodged them easily. Held out his gun.
"So shoot me," Tommy said. "Why are you waiting?"
Tommy