Savage Night - Allan Guthrie [77]
Still, wouldn't last for long. The fucker outside would go away and Savage would turn his attention back to the screen. Park just had to wait. Be patient. He'd been doing that all night. It wasn't a problem.
Who knew, maybe the fucker had gone already.
Wishful thinking.
The bell went again. This time followed by a pounding.
And Savage was all wide-eyed and hyper now. No doubt thinking he was about to get rescued. Poor bastard.
Who the fuck was visiting Old Mrs Yardie at this time of night? It was midnight, near enough. Well, never mind what time of night it was. Point was, nobody visited old ladies this late at night and nobody knew Park was here, so there shouldn't be any visitors.
He was wondering what he should do when Savage ran a few feet in the direction of the door, yelling like he was plugged into an amplifier. How someone in such a poor state of health managed to make such a din, Park didn't know. Park took out his gun, shouted at him to shut up. The fucker kept up his racket, though. Not so sick or crazy after all. Malingering bastard.
Loose dust and crumbs of plaster fell onto the bed as Park grabbed Savage's pillow and stepped towards him. He'd reached the end of his chain, still a considerable distance from the open doorway, and was standing with his back to Park, shouting his lungs inside out. Park dropped the pillow over the fucker's face, pulled it tight at the back. Muffled the sounds coming out of Savage's mouth.
"Shut up," Park said. "Or suffocate."
Kept it up, the tosser. For a little while anyway. Then he started to panic when he realised he couldn't breathe. Hands flapped at Park. Having second thoughts now.
The doorbell rang again. The letterbox rattled. Then a voice called, distant but audible, "Anyone in there? Open up."
"Like fuck," Park said, quietly. They'd heard Savage, and that's why they'd shouted through the letterbox.
Savage tried another shout but the sound was a pitiful squawk.
"Stop fucking struggling," Park told him through clenched teeth.
The bell rang once more. A fist pounded on the door. Then a duller sound. Like maybe somebody was kicking it. Then silence.
Good. The fucker had had enough and was going home. At last.
Savage stopped struggling.
Park waited a little longer, then eased the pressure on the pillow.
Savage gulped in air, said, "Help," in a weak voice.
And then nothing.
At first all Park heard was Savage wheezing as he fought for breath. Then he heard voices. Coming from below, inside the house. Jesus Christ. There was more than one of the fuckers and they'd let themselves in the back door. Yes, he probably should have kept it locked but he'd had no reason to suspect company. Particularly the kind of company that invited itself in.
He dropped the pillow, letting Savage fall to his knees with a thump and a groan. Scuttled back to the bed, picked up the sword. Couldn't use it but he couldn't very well leave it there for Savage either. He'd take it with him. Make him look scarier than if he just had a gun.
Savage was croaking again. Got his breath back. "Help," he said. "Help. Please." Like some old crone who'd smoked unfiltered Woodbines all her life.
Park crouched beside him. Dug out the key for the closet chain. Unlocked it. Got an odd look and another, "Help" from Savage. Shoved the gun against his temple. Whispered, "Shut up or I swear I'll put a hole in you right this second."
Savage shut up.
"Now stay quiet and move out onto the landing." Savage crept towards the doorway, rubbing his wrist. Park tucked the pillow under an arm and followed him.
Park eased Savage onto the landing.
Below, someone said, "Probably kids."
And someone else said, "We should call for back up."
Shite. Police.
"And look like a pair of pricks who can't handle a couple of neds? Kids having some fun. Found an empty house, nobody home, door open. That's all it is. Probably skedaddled out the back while we were hammering away round the front."
"Maybe," the other