Loss (31 page)

I tried to think of something to say but my heart was pumping too hard, the adrenaline spiking through me, making me jumpy.

Dartboard wiped the back of his hand over his mouth and Sammy picked a paper napkin from the pizza box. I tried to watch every movement, but my eyes followed the Undertaker as he went into a drawer at the side of the desk. I felt sure a shooter was coming out. I saw Davie collapse at my side. Mac grabbed him, held him up. As the drawer closed the Undertaker slowly raised his hand from below the line of the desk, and then he stopped. ‘You know the trouble with folk like you, Dury?’

It was a prompt. I shook my head. ‘What’s that?’ I kept watching him closely.

‘Nae sense of humour.’ He lifted up his hand. ‘I’m only having ye on, laddie, y’need to lighten up a wee bit.’ He threw an Ordnance Survey map at me. Dartboard and Sammy started to laugh.

I picked up the map: it was folded over at a section of Midlothian. ‘This where they are?’ Biro markings indicated a line from the bypass at Straiton to a circle around a smallholding.

Mac peered over my shoulder then took the map from my hand. ‘Come on, I know where this is.’ He let go of Davie and the fat prick fell on the floor. Dartboard and Sammy laughed once again; the Undertaker joined them.

On the stairs I grabbed Mac. ‘Gimme the keys.’

‘
Wha’
?’

‘Gimme the fucking keys.’ I tore the map from his hand. ‘You’re not coming.’

Mac looked me in the eye; he knew what I had planned. ‘No way, man. You’re hypo, you’ll get in some right fucking lumber if—’

I pushed my forearm against his neck, forced him up against the wall, hollered, ‘Gimme the fucking keys, Mac, I’m not messing about.’ He froze. I pressed my arm deeper. ‘I mean it, Mac . . . gimme them.’ I felt his arm move at his side. His hand went into his pocket and brought out the keys.

I let him go. Ran down the stairs.

As I went, Mac shouted, ‘Gus, don’t fucking do it . . . They’ll put you away, man.’

I didn’t listen.

In the street I tanked it; my Docs slipped all over the pavement. At the truck my hands shook so much I struggled to get the key in the door. When I got it started I put the steering to full-lock and spun the tyres. It was a tight spot and I clipped the tail of a jeep; its alarm sounded. Pissheads pointed as I reversed and smacked the car behind but I didn’t care. I got out of there and pelted it.

I couldn’t find the wipers, kept hitting the indicators as the snow fell harder. Christmas lights shone from the shopfronts and jakeys rolled into the road but I got out of the city and made for the bypass.

It was a white-out on the main road. Got trapped behind a gritter. The snow came heavier, stacked itself on the road. It was a blizzard now. I drove faster and then slowed in a panic at the thought of coming off the road, but edged the needle up higher and higher until I had to brake.

The back end slipped away. I thought it would fishtail but the truck righted itself. I felt the wheels lurch and then I headed for a ditch at the edge of the road. I pumped the brake again as the truck skidded and saw the front end dip suddenly – I thought I was in the ditch – but the truck had stopped on the last inches of tarmac. I put it into reverse and rejoined the road.

I raced on for a mile, driving into the blizzard.

There was very little traffic and I was thankful for that. A couple of night buses had pulled into lay-bys; I saw people inside shivering, waiting for a break in the blizzard, or perhaps the snowplough. I found it hard to follow the map and keep eyes on the road. It was made worse by the countryside being completely blanketed in snow – the signs were all blocked out, the markings indistinct.

The map indicated a turn-off and a smallholding with outbuildings but I couldn’t find the turn-off. I backtracked, got out and wiped the snow from the front of a signpost. I got rolling again, followed the instructions, but there didn’t seem to be any smallholding.

I banged the wheel, thumped fists into the dash. I stopped the truck and got out again. The whole area was in darkness, there were no street lights. I climbed up the side of a fence, slipping on the icy, frozen slats. All I thought was: Alice, Alice, Alice. ‘Hang on, Alice . . . please hang on.’

I leaped a gate and ran through the blizzard.

She had to be close by. This was the smallholding, I was on it now.

It was too dark to make anything out. I went back to the truck and turned in the road, revved and headed straight through the gate. I drove a circle in the field. Saw nothing. I drove further. The tyres had little traction on the icy surface – it was like skating.

The land undulated and I bounced in the cab; my head kept hitting off the roof. The temperature gauge hit the max, I felt sure the truck would cough any minute, and then I saw I was heading straight for a drystone dyke. I slammed on the brakes and skidded out of control, the truck spun and the headlights danced on the side of an outbuilding. I glimpsed it only for a second before it fell out of view. On the second pass, I caught a better sight of it. As the truck stopped, my heart stilled.

It was Alice.

She was slumped on her side, still tied to the rusting tractor axle.

I put the truck into first and rolled over the field.

‘Alice, Alice . . .’ As I ran from the truck she lay still. The headlights burned over her; she was covered in snow, almost completely white.

I saw Vilem tied behind her – he had freed his legs and kicked out to let me know he was there.

‘Alice . . . Alice . . .’ I said.

I grabbed hold of her: she was cold. Her eyes were closed.

Vilem tried to speak, kicked out again with his legs.

I put a hand on Alice’s head, wiped away the snow. She was almost as pale beneath it all. I removed the gag and her mouth flopped open. I put my face to hers to see if she was breathing. I couldn’t tell.

Vilem kicked out again.

I tried to untie Alice’s hands but I couldn’t. My fingers turned blue in the cold, I lost feeling in them. I tugged at the ropes but I couldn’t get them off. I ran to the truck, grabbed the little tool case from the glovebox. There was no knife, only a screwdriver. I poked it in the knot to ease it open. Alice’s arms fell at her sides as I untied her. I did the same to the knot on her legs and dragged her feet free.

There was no movement, no life in her, as I lifted her from the ground and took her to the truck.

I placed Alice on her back, across the seats. I got the heater blasting, high as it would go. I took off my coat and put it over her. I expected to see some colour return to her face, but none came. She didn’t even shiver. I held her hand, tried to find a pulse but I couldn’t.

‘Alice, come on . . . fucking
live
.’

I slapped at her wrist.

Nothing.

I didn’t know what to do next.

There was no sign of life.

I LOWERED MY HEAD; the heater was going full blast. I felt my heart thumping, the blood pumping in my veins. My thoughts mashed: a million grim and grimmer scenarios played out on the screen of my mind. Oh God . . . Michael, and now Alice. I gulped down my hurt, cuffed away the emotion. Was time to man up – put brass-knuckles on my feelings. Someone had to pay.

Vilem kicked out again as I returned to him. His legs flailed wildly, he was panicked; he’d no idea. He shouted from behind the tape that covered his mouth. The sounds came muffled – I sensed the desperation in his voice, but whatever it was he said, it didn’t matter. This fucker was going to learn about loss.

I picked up the screwdriver and went for him.

His legs shot up, swept the air in grand arcs, I knocked them down. He jerked his shoulders violently, tugging to release his hands. He was too well tied. His eyes widened; I could see the fear spreading in him. It fed some need in me, I knew what it was: revenge. I smacked his head with the butt of the screwdriver. He blared out in pain. For a moment Vilem seemed to gather more strength, flared nostrils at me. I hit him again and then a dark finger of blood ran from his hairline to the bridge of his nose. I watched his chest rise and fall, his chin sink into his neck and then his eyes rolled up in his head and he fell to the side.

I stepped back.

Blood splattered snow as I struck him across the face with my boot again and again. The red on white was stark. The warm blood seeping and sinking into the cold of the snow until the two became one amorphous pink mass. I watched Vilem as he tried to focus his eyes but he was stunned, his lids falling and closing involuntarily. He made a lame effort to raise a leg, to knock the screwdriver out of my hand, but he had no coordination, the tank was empty; he was beat.

I thought of Michael. I thought how he had faced the same terror as his killer did now. My brother, who lay on that mortuary slab, a small hole beneath his heart. Grey, drained of life. He wasn’t coming back to us. My breathing stilled as I loomed over Vilem.

‘Did you think I would let you get away with it?’ I yelled. I heard the words but they didn’t sound like mine. The voice was mine, yeah, but I’d long since ceased to be the man I thought I was; this was new territory, beyond any previous misdemeanours. I knew what I was about to do, I knew the consequences, but I didn’t care. Nothing mattered now – I’d lost everything, there was nothing left; what did it matter if I lost myself too? ‘Did you think I would let you kill my brother and live yourself?’ I roared.

Vilem groaned, moved his head to the side, smeared more blood on the snow. I lifted my boot and stamped on his face, crushed in my heel. His nose split. Blood came in a flood; he gasped for breath, choked it back. I watched him struggle for air as I drank in his pain.

‘My brother was a good man, but what kind of cunt are you?’

He convulsed before me, rocked to and fro as the blood went down his throat. I watched him suffer, wanted to feel his anguish. I was revelling in his misery; was I sick? Fucking A.

‘And now Alice too . . . my niece.’

I grabbed his collars, heaved him to me as I pressed the screwdriver against his jugular. He rasped, spat blood. I wanted to be close enough to hear his death rattle; I wanted to see the lights go out for good. ‘You’re going to fucking die just like them.’

I gripped the handle; my palm was sweating, I held it tighter – so tight my fingers ached. I hesitated. My heart was racing, I felt the blood ping in my temples – what was this, conscience? Never. A fucking eye for an eye; I drew back my arm.

‘No!’ A yell came from the front of the truck. ‘No . . . Leave him!’

I turned. ‘Alice . . .’

I watched her stood shivering in the snow. Her thin arms were held out to me. Her delicate shoulders trembled. She looked so frail, so weak, and white enough to meld into the landscape. ‘He hasn’t done anything, Gus.’

I didn’t understand. I was gone, off some place where words seemed meaningless – action was all I knew now. I turned back to Vilem, put the point of the screwdriver to his throat again.

I heard Alice stumble through the snow. She yelled, ‘It wasn’t him!’

I looked back; I didn’t want her to see this. I wanted to run to her. I wanted to pick her up in my arms and carry her away from this, but I had come too far to stop now. How did I tell her? How could I explain what I had to do? I couldn’t, she was just a kid. She didn’t understand a fucking thing about this world of hurt and misery – she was just a kid, wasn’t that the way it should be?

‘Alice, stay out of this!’ I yelled.

She came stumbling through the drifts towards me, grabbed at my arm, shrieked: ‘No, Gus, don’t – he didn’t do anything . . . It wasn’t him.’

I felt the nerves in my fingers twitch as I held tightly to the hilt of the screwdriver. I looked down at Vilem: he was still choking on his own blood. The air seemed to have been squeezed from my lungs; I couldn’t breathe. Hot bursts exploded behind my eyes; I couldn’t think. All I could do was stare at Alice, shaking before me. ‘What are you fucking saying?’ I hollered.

She held tighter to me, grabbed with all her strength. ‘Dad came home and he saw us, he went crazy, he was shouting and hitting Vilem . . .’

Words. All words. I felt like my head was being pushed under water every time she spoke. I wanted to listen, wanted to come up for air, but I couldn’t.

‘What? . . .
What
?’

She spluttered, tears rolling from her eyes. Her mouth twitched and twisted as her speech came fast: ‘He had a gun . . . Dad had a gun and I ran . . . I ran to the Meadows.’

I felt my grip on Vilem slip; he fell. I went to Alice. ‘You ran?’

‘They came after me, and there was a fight . . . Another fight, and the gun fell . . .’

I watched the snow landing on her as she spoke. Her whole body was shaking now. She looked like a weak sapling thrown about in a gale. So fragile, so utterly at the mercy of a cruel world; what had happened to her? What had happened to our little Alice? I walked closer to her. I saw my brother in her eyes. I spoke: ‘The gun . . . Who took the gun?’

She was coughing and wheezing; tears came faster, her voice was barely a whisper, the words already broken and cracked before she could get them out. ‘I did . . . I picked up the gun.’

I saw the whole image race before me. It felt like my heart was ablaze, like my chest had been cut open and a petrol-bomb chucked inside. I knew no pain like it – it engulfed me. I saw everything clearly now: the struggle, the confusion, the trigger being pulled, the muzzle flash.

‘You . . . shot him.’

She nodded.

Alice’s hands fell to her side, then she dropped to her knees. Her head lolled for a few seconds and then she fell over onto her shoulder and curled up before me. ‘I did it,’ she said, her voice strangled by emotion. I hardly took in the words, then she closed arms round herself and shook. ‘I killed him.’