Savage Night - Allan Guthrie [86]
Look away. At what? At the blood on the ground? At the fucker who'd done this?
Had to look back.
Don't be dead. No. Don't you dare. Martin. Martin, baby.
It was obscene.
A dark, forked ribbon of blood draped down his cheek, dripped onto the ground.
But that wasn't what had made her retch.
She looked up at the jagged-boned eye socket and stared into the dark space in Martin's face where once there had been an eyeball.
***
"GRAB HIS FEET," Tommy said. Effie Park wasn't listening. Caught up in the moment. Watching her dead boyfriend lying there. Very touching. Tommy almost felt sorry for her. He said, "You can't will him alive, you know. Won't happen. I should know."
She acknowledged him finally. "Huh?"
"He's not coming back from the dead. They don't. Apart from dreams. In your head."
"In my head?"
"Love to chat but we have to move. Grab him."
She bent over, picked up his feet. "Like this?"
Looked like she was in some kind of daze. That was okay. Made her easier to manipulate.
"That's fine," he said. He couldn't use both hands himself, his bad arm was too sore, so he grabbed hold of a handful of jumper. "After three," he said. Counted. And lifted.
That's when she sprang for the gun.
"Shoot her," he told Jordan.
Jordan glanced at him, then did what he'd been told. The shot went wide. But it stopped her in her tracks. "Next time I won't miss," Jordan said. "You fucking bitch."
"Language," Tommy said.
***
SHE WASN'T GOING to cry. She was stronger than that.
Savage closed the van doors. She wanted to ride in the back with Martin but they'd be jammed in pretty tight, the tub on its side, Martin resting on top of the headless Savages at an angle, so he'd fit. Anyway, Tommy Savage said no and he'd taken the gun back so she wasn't going to argue with him. She knew he could shoot straight.
She wasn't going to fucking cry.
Fuck off.
***
TOMMY SHEPHERDED EFFIE round to the front of the van.
He'd get her to drive. He needed to keep his eyes on her, not the road, and anyway he'd found on the way here that driving was agony with his arm in such a poor state.
She had her hand on the door when the dog came at them out of the darkness and made her jump. Looked like a small Collie-Lab cross. It started barking, looked vicious, all teeth. Behind it stood its owner, a guy so pale he seemed to glow in the moonlight. He was wearing a flak jacket and a Che Guevarra cap. He held a shotgun in one hand and was tugging at the dog's leash with the other.
Tommy held his own gun by his side, behind his leg, out of sight and hoped the guy hadn't noticed it. Tommy said, "Evening."
The guy said, "What's going on? What was that noise?"
At least, that's what Tommy thought the guy said. It was hard to hear him over the din the dog was making. Tommy squeezed the butt of his gun. He asked, "Can you get your dog to be quiet?"
The guy nodded, then bent down to scold the dog. It had got into a rhythm, though, and seemed to be enjoying itself.
"We had a spot of engine trouble," Tommy shouted. "Fixed now."
The guy stood, the dog calmed down a little, just growling now. "Yeah. But what was that explosion?"
"Eh?" Tommy said, pretending not to hear him. "Engine trouble. Nothing exploded."
"I heard an explosion. Sounded like a gunshot."
"Oh, explosion," Tommy said. "Came from back that way." He had to use his bad arm to point behind him, into the woods, and only just managed. Hoped the guy didn't see him wince. "The law are already off investigating."
"They are?"
"See for yourself." He nodded at the police car opposite. "You didn't call them, then?"
"Not yet."
"Well, somebody did."
"Yeah," the guy said. "Yeah. Over that way, you say?" He pointed with the gun.
"Yeah."
"Okay." He didn't look convinced.
"Anyway, we have to be going. Engine seems fine now."
The guy watched them all climb into the front of the van.
Effie looked at Tommy.
"What's wrong?" he whispered. "Get moving."
"Won't it