Savage Night - Allan Guthrie [89]
The gun. Savage had taken it. No matter how weak he was, he could muster the strength to pull the trigger. He'd managed a half-decent strike with the sword, after all. So if he'd found Effie, Park didn't fancy her chances. Fuck, yeah, she could look after herself and had Martin for backup but they'd be hard pushed to beat a crazy man with a gun and a good reason to use it.
Park looked at his watch again. Yeah, if they were coming, they'd surely have been here by now.
"Liz," he shouted. "Liz! Please, I need you. Liz!"
No answer. Of course.
He picked up the sword. When he sliced the air with it, his ribs felt like they'd been kicked all over again. Fuck that. He drove the blade deep into the floor. It was sharp. But was it sharp enough? He figured he'd only have one blow. One chance. He had to get it right. He wriggled the blade out.
Okay. Okay, okay, okay. He'd do it. He had to.
Effie needed him, if she wasn't dead already. And he had to believe she was still alive. And if she was, then he was going to be there for her.
Liz needed him even more.
He couldn't afford to be selfish.
Had to make sure he didn't see the arm, the blood spurting, the nnnnngah blood on the floor or anywhere on the rest of his body. Essential if he was going to do this and get away with it. Didn't trust himself not to look at the damage.
He took off his watch, placed it on the floor. Then dragged Savage's discarded blanket over to him. It stank like a public toilet. He made a nick in it with the sword, then ripped it down a couple of feet. Tore that strip from the rest of the blanket. Did the same with a second strip. Looped it twice around his left arm, a couple of inches above his watch line. If he cut his hand off, he'd lose the tattoo. Who wanted to be decorated with a picture of barbed wire, anyway? Seemed like a good idea at the time. Different, you know. Everybody else with the barbed wire round their bicep, and Park with his round his wrist. Anyway, no loss. He tied the other strip over his eyes. An effective enough blindfold. Fumbled around for the ends of the strip wrapped round his wrist. Pulled them tight, stuck them in his mouth. Tasted something stale and sour. Started to salivate like he'd sucked a lemon. Clamped his jaws tight, felt the muscles in his cheeks dancing a frenzied jig.
He straightened his arm. The material round his wrist tightened. Squeezed his hand into a fist.
Groped for the sword. Grabbed the handle. Held the blade over his wrist. Lowered it so the metal touched his skin.
Lined up. Ready.
Didn't want to do this. He so didn't want to do this. But it happened all the time, every day. Some countries, you stole something, you got your hand cut off. He'd stolen plenty. He just had to pretend he was foreign. No big deal.
At least it was his left hand he was going to lose. Couldn't punch worth a damn with his left. He'd hardly notice it was gone.
In fact, he'd be glad to be rid of it. Fucking thing just got in the way.
Yeah. Okay.
Ready?
Go for it.
He lifted the sword.
***
"YOU'RE SICK," TOMMY said. "That camera ..." A minute, then he continued. "What you did to Fraser." No reaction. "Your … bits hanging out." Again, nothing. Fucking crazy bitch. He'd provoke a reaction. "Your father was revelling in it."
She looked at him. "It was for you. Not for Dad."
"His eyes were glued to the set. Ogling his own daughter like the sick animal he is."
She smiled. "That's impossible."
"Oh, yeah? Were you there in the room with us?" Then he realised what she meant. Fuck the bastard and his fear of blood. "You wanted to see what I've done with that piece of shit?" Tommy said. "Okay. Let's take a drive back to Mrs Yardie's."
Park had wanted Tommy to see his family murdered. No reason why Tommy shouldn't do the same. The cottage was only about half a mile away. Okay, there might be police there