How a Gunman Says Goodbye Read online

  Across the road and down a small grass embankment. It’s slippery, the grass is wet and he has to be careful. Don’t fall on your arse–it’s embarrassing even when your face is covered up. Not a soul around, brightly lit and empty streets. He’s against the edge of the building now, walking briskly along the pavement towards the corner where the door is. A glance at his watch. It’s going on for two o’clock now. Another gunman on his way. This could be fun and games. Scott and his buddy will be work enough. Scott’s obviously more tuned-in than they realized, and he and his mate will outnumber Calum, no matter how hopeless the friend is. If both men have weapons, this goes beyond the usual risk of the job. You accept that the other man might get the better of you when it’s one on one. Two on one and you’re starting to look suicidal. If Shug’s gunman shows up in the middle of it all, then it will take a miracle to get out.

  There’s one thought that’s been playing in his mind for the last few minutes. He’s thinking about it as he’s coming in the door of the building. The hallway is lit up and he can see two lifts on his left-hand side. The thought, as he’s walking across to the lifts, is that Frank may already be dead. Better than fifty–fifty chance that he is. Shug’s gunman sold them time, but no guarantee. There’s no guarantee that Scott hasn’t already done the job, and that the gunman is only heading here for a removal. Calum knows how these things go. Tense waiting. Someone snaps. Says or does something stupid. Scott reaches for the gun and puts a premature end to it. If he is dead? Calum goes up there and finds himself in a mess. He can kill Scott and his friend, but he doesn’t have the time or the ability to get Frank’s body out of the building. So he leaves him. What a confusing picture that leaves behind. Three bodies. Two young men who belong in the flat, one old man who doesn’t. Throw Shug’s gunman in there, and that’s four bodies for the police to play with.

  The lift doors are sliding open. Calum’s watching, worrying. Nobody there. Thank the good Lord for that. Stepping inside, looking at the buttons. They go up to fourteen. He’s pressing thirteen, and hoping Jamieson’s information is sound. If he has to go searching for flat 34B, then he can forget about saving Frank in time. The doors are closing, the lift shudders and is starting to move up. It’s slow; not quiet, either. Maybe half the flats in the building are empty anyway, which is a bonus. The council is demolishing a lot of these tower blocks, getting rid of the eyesores. No new tenants coming in. Communities in the sky. A horrible place for a community. Even worse place for a job.

  A ping and the doors start to slide open. The corridor in front of him is brightly lit, but thankfully empty. He’s stepping out of the lift, still nobody visible. He’s found the focus he needs. A shadow has fallen across the rest of the world. All that exists right now is this corridor, that flat, Scott, his mate and Frank. There is no Emma, no Jamieson, and no concern beyond this one challenge. Professionalism dictates. Walking along the corridor, not just looking, but listening. Any chattering voices, any doors creaking, any sound that doesn’t belong in the corridor of the thirteenth floor of a tower block at two o’clock in the morning. There’s no sound at all. He’s checking the door numbers as he’s walking, making sure he’s going the right way down the corridor. There’s a 33, but no sign of a 33B. Straight on to 34, then 34B.

  The door to 34B is on his right, 35A is directly opposite on his left. Good place for an ambush–might be how they did it. If they’re still in there, still alive, then they’ll be waiting for a knock on the door. Probably nervous, ready to jump out of their skin. If they see something they don’t like, they’ll react hard and fast. It all comes down to them knowing what Shug’s gunman looks like. If they don’t, he gets inside without a fuss. If they do, this goes the ugly route fast. He’s lifting up his balaclava; Shug’s man wouldn’t wear one going into the flat. He has it on the top of his head, it looks non-threatening. He’s knocking on the door, two quiet taps. Nothing loud enough to wake the neighbours. Not yet. Loud enough to be heard by someone who’s listening. Now he’s turning to look the other way, making sure his face isn’t the first thing they see. It might buy him a few seconds.

  16

  They’re so nervous. They were bad to start with, but they’re insufferable now. It makes Frank want to provoke them, get it over with. The waiting is the worst part, embarrassing somehow. He’s been beaten by people who don’t even know how to kill him. They’re waiting for a gunman to come along and do the job they don’t have the balls for. To think of all the pros he’s beaten over the years, and these two are his undoing. Humiliating, not embarrassing. The gunman will come, do it clean, get his body out. They’ll get away with it. There’s only one other flat occupied on this floor and it’s at the opposite end of the corridor. If their gunman uses a knife, then nobody’s ever going to hear it. They’ll go unpunished. If he can get them to fire the gun, that might change things. Okay, he dies, but he’s going to die anyway. Get them to make a stupid mistake. Sort of thing that puts them behind bars for ten to fifteen. It wouldn’t take much of a push, not with these nerves.

  Scott started out cool enough. He made his phone call, he was keeping it together. It’s the other one. Clueless they call him, easy to see why. He’s been riling Scott for the last half-hour. Provoking his friend and making a hard job harder. He’s like a little kid.

  ‘It shouldn’t take this long,’ he’s saying for the umpteenth time. Frank’s still sitting inside the front door; Scott still has the gun. Clueless has been standing in the corridor, making a lot of useless noise. ‘They call the guy, he comes straight round and does it. They don’t waste time. These guys are professionals, they don’t fanny about. He wouldn’t fuck around when he’s got a top target waiting here. It’s taking way too long. Something’s wrong. I’m telling you.’ Talking like he’s the expert in the room.

  The real expert in the room is sitting on his arse in the corridor, looking down the barrel of his own gun, listening and waiting. Frank hears these little squirts talking and he has to wonder how he ever managed to botch this. The gunman will be here any minute. They didn’t call Shug; Scott isn’t big enough to have his number. They called a third party, the thirty party calls Shug, Shug calls the gunman. The gunman then has to go get a gun and a car. If he doesn’t live close by, then it could take anything up to an hour. Around the half-hour mark is maybe more likely. It feels like the half-hour has passed. He’s not wearing a watch, never does on a job. Nothing that could identify you. Scott’s giving his mate dirty looks, but Clueless isn’t picking up on it. His nerves are all over the place. He’s not picking up on anything.

  ‘You’re gonna get shot, old man,’ Clueless is saying now, leaning in close enough to smell his breath. Frank’s turning to the side, but he’s not saying anything. Don’t make this fun for them. The boy wants to provoke a reaction, preferably a scared one. Frank will give them no joy. ‘How you feel about that, old man? Thought you were supposed to be some big shot, huh? Thought you took down a shitload of people. Couldn’t take us down, could ya? Huh?’

  ‘Knock it off,’ Scott’s saying. Saying it quietly, trying to calm his friend down. Trying to calm them both down.

  ‘Come on, man, we got the bastard. We beat him.’ Clueless is pleading for the chance to have fun, to act the way he thinks a tough guy would. He has it all wrong; it’s not how real tough guys act at all. Scott, in his silence, is closer.

  ‘Our man will be here soon. He won’t knock hard on the door, and he won’t want to have to knock a second time. Let’s keep it quiet.’

  Thinking well when the heat’s on. Staying smart and aware, and cooling his friend down at the same time. Frank respects that. Maybe this kid isn’t some hopeless little pisspot peddler who got out of hand, after all. Shame Jamieson didn’t spot his talent before it got this far. Not Jamieson. Young. Shame Young didn’t spot his talent, because that’s his job. Scott will ditch his dim-witted friend eventually. Scott will realize that the only chance he has to get ahead is to leave people like Clueless behind. Am
bition will snap the bond of friendship. Can’t let a deadweight hold you back. Many best friends fall out of the picture. Clueless doesn’t realize it, and will probably never understand. That’ll be his punishment. Left where he belongs, at the bottom of the heap. This is his pinnacle. It’s only Scott’s beginning.

  Now there’s a knock on the door. Two knocks. Light–nothing that might alert the neighbours. That’s the gunman. Here comes the end of the world. Frank’s surprised at how calm he is about it. He doesn’t feel he deserves it, but this is how a lot of gunmen take their leave from the business. He keeps thinking back to that first job he did, and wishing he could think of something better. He was a tough kid. Benson was a big fat bastard, slippery and full of words that meant nothing at all. He knew the business, though. Sent Frank after some bookie who was keeping money to himself. Frank can’t remember the bookie’s name for the life of him, although people in the business apparently knew him well. Caught up with him in a street near his house, dragged him into an alleyway and kicked him senseless. Frank was just a thug back then. Now he’s getting a thug’s ending. Maybe he does deserve it after all.

  Scott’s moving towards the door, the gun still in his hand. He’s looking more nervous now, obviously keen to make a good impression. The gunman’s more important to Shug than he is. Scott needs the respect of the people who matter, to reach the top. The little prick Clueless is grinning now, looking down at Frank and smiling, mocking. Scott’s stepping over Frank’s outstretched legs. He’s at the door, glancing back. A quick look through the peephole, just a glance. Then looking back at Frank. He’s smart enough to know that he shouldn’t turn his back for long. Doesn’t matter if the old man’s on the floor. Frank has a reputation for being dangerous, one you need to respect. He doesn’t stop being dangerous just because he’s sitting down. Opening the door, trying to look between Frank and the new arrival.

  ‘Come in,’ Scott’s saying, ‘he’s right here.’ You rarely get to choose your last words.

  A figure in black walking into the room, pushing the door shut behind him. Frank notices that he already has his gloves on. A pro then, leave nothing to the last moment. A glance at the face. Recognition. His first feeling is not of relief, it’s of betrayal. Calum must be working for Shug. Typical really, you should never trust anyone in this business. Such a quiet boy. Says little because he doesn’t want to give anything away. Those are the ones you can never trust. He’s feeling a sense of personal failure too. Frank recommended Calum to Jamieson. Now Calum’s putting his hand in his coat pocket. Scott and Clueless are still looking down at Frank–they haven’t seen what’s about to happen. Now the relief’s washing over Frank. He’s worked it out. Frank’s looking at Clueless, and now he’s smiling back.

  Calum’s quick. As soon as he’s closed the door behind him he’s reaching into his pocket for the gun. Not waiting for a moment to present itself, just going for it. Up against the clock. Shug’s gunman can’t be far away. Raising the gun and pointing it at Scott. Scott’s turning, looking at Calum, but he doesn’t have time to look surprised before Calum pulls the trigger. It sounds so loud in the cramped corridor. It always shocks, the bang of a gun; doesn’t matter how used to it you are. There’s a red explosion from Scott, specks of blood hitting the walls on either side, much more to the left than the right, hitting Calum and Frank. Not much, but enough. They’ll have to destroy everything they’re wearing. Scott’s falling backwards; Frank can hear the thump of his head hitting the floor, a dead weight. His gun’s fallen beside him.

  Calum isn’t stopping. There isn’t time for hesitation. You hesitate and someone else might not. That’s the end of you. Clueless has backed away, towards the kitchen door. There’s a puzzled look on his face.

  ‘No,’ he’s saying quietly, ‘it’s him, not us.’ He’s saying it with a bemused sort of smile on his face, like this should be obvious to the gunman. He can’t work out what’s happening to him. Not under all this pressure. Clueless to the last. Calum’s walking right up beside him–Clueless just standing there and watching. Letting the gunman do what he wants, because that’s all you can do with a gunman. Clueless looks like he’s about to start crying. Calum’s pressing the gun against the side of the boy’s head, funny sort of angle. Clueless is closing his eyes as tight as he can. He understands now.

  Frank’s slowly getting back to his feet. He’s a little unsteady; too long sitting in the same position. He’s trying hard not to look feeble. Not that it matters, Calum’s not even looking at him; he’s still wrapped up in finishing his job. He’s a good pro, this one. Walking over to Scott and reaching down with the gun. He’s wrapping Scott’s left hand around the gun, getting prints on it. Now the right, trying to make it hold the weapon in a natural position. Pressing the fingers down all over the gun, making it look like he handled it regularly. Now over to Clueless. Taking his time, pressing both hands against the gun again. Not so often this time. People are more likely to believe it was Scott’s gun than his dippy mate’s. Scott’s prints should be more prevalent. Now trying to get a partial print onto the trigger. Holding the gun in Clueless’s right hand, lifting the hand slightly off the ground. Then letting it drop. The gun’s hitting the floor, falling out of his hand, just beside Clueless. It looks natural.

  Now Calum’s looking at Frank. Two men and two dead men, in a narrow corridor. Unpleasantly cramped, and not likely to get any more pleasant. Many people let go of their bowels when they’re shot. Most gunmen prefer not to hang around long enough to catch a whiff.

  ‘Take your gun with you,’ Calum’s saying to him, all matter-of-fact about it. ‘Have you got your balaclava with you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Frank sighs as he straightens from picking up his gun from beside Scott. He’s pulling the balaclava from his pocket and looking at the two bodies. ‘You think that’ll fool them?’ he’s asking. He’s never been much of a fan of clever set-ups; the police tend to see through it eventually. Making it look like a murder-suicide is fine, but will it hold?

  Calum’s shrugging. ‘It’ll slow them down a little. Buy us time to get rid of anything that needs getting rid of. Come on, Shug’s man will be here any minute.’

  That’s a bloody shock. Frank had been trying to work out how this all came about. He thought Calum was double-crossing Shug on Jamieson’s behalf. Now it turns out Shug does have another man, and he’s on his way. Which means this was a rescue mission. That’s a shock, too. All this risk to rescue him; he can’t help but be embarrassed. It could still turn into an enormous disaster. As they’re stepping out of the flat, all in black and wearing their balaclavas, Frank’s feeling more annoyed with Calum. Why waste all that time with the prints? It’s the one criticism of him. He takes things way too slow, always has. Someone in the building must have heard the gunshots. Two separate shots to hear: harder to dismiss as a random bang. They should be out by now. Someone must have called the police. Surely. Maybe not the person at the other end of the corridor, but there are three flats occupied on the floor below. One right underneath.

  Pressing the button on the lift. The doors opening, nobody there. Inside and down to the ground floor, both standing in silence. The doors open to an empty foyer. Out into the cold night, walking briskly to the car Frank borrowed for the night. Relief, again.

  17

  Frank’s driving. Calum’s sitting in the passenger seat of the car, watching the block of flats get smaller behind them. There are no more lights on now than when he arrived. That’s something to be positive about. No great commotion in the building after the shooting. A glance at the clock in the car: fourteen minutes past two.

  They’re both silent. Some people chatter, some say nothing. They both fall into the nothing category. Most professionals do. Chatter is a comfort blanket for nervous amateurs. There’s little for either of them to say. Plenty of talking to come for both of them, they know it, but not with each other. For now, it’s nice to have a little quiet. Frank hasn’t even said where they’re going. Going to
switch back to his normal car, of course, but that could be anywhere. Calum trusts him to get them there.

  They’re onto an industrial estate now. There are vehicles all around them–these are working companies. Seems an odd place to switch cars; likely to be security cameras around. It’s not a place Calum would have used.

  ‘Jamieson owns a couple of these units,’ Frank’s saying, guessing Calum’s thoughts. ‘He handles security round here. It’s a safe place to use. That’s why I used it,’ he goes on, without feeling the need to add that this is his first job back. Easy job, every best precaution. Breaking him back in gently. Every precaution, every benefit, and it ends like this. He’s pulling up beside his own nondescript Vauxhall Astra. They’re both out of the work car, getting into Frank’s. This feels like a moment of safety, shedding the skin they escaped in.

  ‘Where to?’ Frank’s asking.

  ‘The club. My car’s there.’

  ‘Huh,’ Frank’s saying, but saying no more. You don’t leave your car outside your employer’s place of work when you’re going on a job. It’s sloppy and amateurish. He would say something, but he knows why Calum had to do it. It was all to save him. Every mistake any other person made on this night is his responsibility. They were all compensating for him, and they’ll all be talking about it from now on. Some fuck-ups cast a shadow you can never shake off. Good men. Talented people. One mistake and they’re forever tainted. Everybody treats you differently, because you forced them to make mistakes. They don’t forgive that, no matter what they say. He’s driving carefully, his instincts guiding him well. You never lose those.

  The adrenalin’s wearing off for Calum; he’s starting to feel his hand now. The gloves are uncomfortable, too. Frank’s taken his off; they’re in his car now, after all. Calum’s keeping his on. He doesn’t remember ever being in Frank’s car before now; his prints shouldn’t be here. If you can avoid putting your prints in the car of another gunman, then you avoid it. If you can avoid putting them anywhere near a crime or a criminal, then you do. The silence is starting to grate. It feels like there’s something they need to discuss. They’re coming up towards the club now; it’s along the street on their right. Frank’s pulling up along from the entrance. He knows he’s just out of view of the security cameras. Instinct.