Tyler sucked at his teeth. ‘Barry has done something.’
She moved the pan over the gas ring, poured the egg mix in and swished it around to the edges. ‘What?’
‘Mum, there’s something I have to tell you, please.’
Something in the tone of his voice registered and she turned to face him, rubbing her hands on the front of her jeans. ‘What is it?’
Tyler held her gaze. ‘Kelly’s dead, Mum.’
He could see her swallow and breathe. ‘What?’
‘She was murdered,’ Tyler said. ‘The police found her this morning.’
Angela looked at the omelette then back at him.
Tyler moved towards her and took the pan away from the heat, turned the gas off.
Angela’s hands were shaking. ‘I don’t believe you.’ She lifted a hand to her eyes, rubbed at them, then the bridge of her nose.
She looked at him. ‘Was it Barry?’
Tyler shook his head. Of course she knew what her son was like, that he was capable of this. If Tyler hadn’t known the circumstances, he would’ve put Barry at the top of the suspect list too.
‘I don’t think so,’ he said.
‘Then what?’
‘Barry did something crazy, Mum. He made some bad people very angry. I think they killed Kelly.’
‘I don’t understand,’ she said, reaching out and touching the bowl.
If anything was going to send her back to heroin it was this. He wished he didn’t have to tell her, and he hated Barry for putting him in this position, for making him break the news. He hated Barry for every single thing he’d done over the years, the drip-drip of bullying and intimidation, the beatings and threats, coercing him into breaking into houses, the insinuation that Bean would be next, the perpetuation of all his bullshit.
‘Why don’t you sit down,’ Tyler said, leading her to the sofa. The television was on, sound down low, some low-rent antiques thing, contestants in matching fleeces and some posh guy smarming over them. Everything was about aspiration on daytime TV, turning a few quid at auction, doing up a shithole house, moving your family to the other side of the world. But what if you had nothing to start with? Or less than nothing, what then?
‘Kelly,’ Angela said.
Tyler wondered if she was trying to remember Kelly as a baby, a toddler. When had it all got away from her? Imagine having kids who you barely remembered about half the time. Now dead, too late, no chance to make it right.
‘We need to go,’ Tyler said as softly as he could manage.
She stared at him, but it was as if she couldn’t see him, her mind drifting.
His phone rang. Flick.
He got up and turned away, answered.
‘Hey.’
‘Hello, Tyler.’ A man’s voice, one he recognised from outside the hospital. Deke Holt.
Tyler thought he might be sick. ‘Who is this?’
‘You know who it is.’
‘Where’s Flick?’
‘She’s safe. Same goes for your wee sister. Lovely girls, the pair of them.’
Tyler looked at Angela, in a trance, staring at nothing.
‘Don’t hurt them.’
Deke threw out a croak of a laugh. ‘Like you didn’t hurt my wife?’
‘That wasn’t me.’
‘I don’t care.’
‘How did you find us?’
‘The car. Wee Sam gave you up. We found your sister at the flat. Her bad luck. Sonny picked up your trail at the girl’s primary school earlier.’
Tyler swallowed. ‘So what now?’
Static on the line for a second, maybe the crackle of a lit cigarette. ‘Bring your brother to me. Once I have you and him, I’ll let the girls go.’
‘How can I trust you?’
‘You can’t.’ Another suck on the cigarette. ‘And obviously, if you go to the police, I’ll kill them.’
‘You’re bluffing.’
‘Was I bluffing with Kelly?’
Tyler swallowed and looked around the room for answers. Just egg congealing in a pan, his mum on the sofa in a trance, the television burbling away.
‘Where are you?’ he said.
38
He scoped the house out of habit as he strode up the driveway then took out the key Flick had given him and opened the front door. The house was silent. He walked down the hall and looked in the kitchen. Snook and the pups were sleeping on the floor next to a bowl of water. It felt weird being here without Flick and Bean.
He had to find it. Think, Tyler. She came downstairs with it, which meant it’s kept upstairs. Most likely in the parents’ bedroom.
He took the stairs two at a time and went to the bedroom. The covers were still a mess from last night, it seemed like a lifetime since he’d crashed out here, like it happened to a different person entirely. A guy who’s half-sister hadn’t been murdered, who hadn’t been questioned by police, whose mum was still in hospital, who hadn’t tried to set fire to a house, who’s friend and sister weren’t being held hostage by the biggest hardman in the city. But he was all of those people now, and he had changed.
He checked under the bed first, seemed reasonable of Flick’s dad to want it nearby in case of a break-in. But there was nothing except dust bunnies and a couple of suitcases. He tried the bedside tables too, nothing.
He started going through the drawers as carefully as he could, didn’t want to leave a mess. It felt invasive, trawling through Flick’s mum’s underwear drawer, touching the bras and knickers. He slid his hand into the corners of the drawer but came out with nothing. Then Flick’s dad’s drawers, same result.
Into the wardrobe, riffling through dresses and jackets, trousers and shirts. Boxes of shoes at the bottom. He flipped each one open and scanned the contents. Nothing. He looked around, the only storage space he hadn’t checked was a large chest sitting at the bay window. He went over, slid the catch and opened it. Spare blankets and sheets. He hoofed them out of the way, ran his hands around each layer, down to the bottom, then his knuckle hit something.
He lifted it out. A leather cloth folded around something heavy.
He unwrapped it and stared at the gun. It had U.S. 9mm M9-P. Beretta-12486 embossed along the barrel. He felt the heft of it in his hand, the curve of the grip, the sleek coldness of the metal. He examined it. There were several switches and clips on the handle and barrel. He checked inside the leather cloth, no ammunition.
He got his phone out and Googled ‘how to load and fire an M9 Beretta’. Hundreds of YouTube hits. He watched the shortest one, under a minute. Copied it, opening the slide and setting the slide catch. Popped the magazine out of the well with the catch at the base of the grip, checked the bullets, the well and the barrel, popped it back in. The safety was by the thumb, up was ready to fire, down was safe. Easy.
He carefully placed all the blankets back in the chest and closed it.
He picked up the gun and tried to get used to the weight and shape of it. Pointed at himself in the mirror and tried to imagine firing it, the glass shattering his reflection.
He got his phone out and called.
It rang for a long time, but eventually he picked up.
Tyler stared at himself in the mirror.
‘Barry, I know how we can get the Holts.’
39
Tyler stared out from the roof. Not towards the hospital and castle, but in the other direction, further out of town to the southeast. Over the park to the new houses being built on The Wisp, Fort Kinnaird beyond that, the brown belt wastelands and fields, factories and offices being thrown up quick and cheap. He wondered how far you’d have to go before you reached a place where there were no signs of human occupation, where the planet was being left alone. But that’s not how cities worked, they spread and spread until everything was infected, compromised.
He kept pulling the gun from the waistband of his trousers, fiddling with it, getting used to it. It was uncomfortable and awkward, and he thought about all those dumb movies wh
ere tough guys had four weapons hidden on their bodies. So ludicrous. When he had it in his waistband with his hoodie pulled down and over his belt it seemed so obvious, like it was glowing, sending out a signal to the world.
‘The fuck you doing up here?’
He jumped at the sound of Barry’s voice. He hadn’t heard the metal door opening. He had his back to Barry, and touched the gun barrel through the material of his jeans.
He turned. ‘Just needed some air.’
‘Air,’ Barry said, as if air was the enemy. ‘Fuck’s sake.’
Tyler thought about Bean and Flick, if they were tied up, drugged, beaten. He’d been in the Holt’s place and he tried to think which room he would keep captives in if it was him. He wondered if it would be possible to sneak in somehow, surprise Deke and the rest in their own home. Crazy. He had no idea who was even there, let alone whereabouts they were in the house. And he couldn’t risk Flick and Bean. He had to get them out of this, that was the only thing that mattered.
‘You took your time,’ Tyler said.
Being bolshie was a gamble, but he had to show he was up for it.
Barry grinned. ‘I was getting this.’
He pulled a sawn-off shotgun from his coat pocket. Tyler raised his eyebrows. Seemed it was easy to hide a gun after all.
‘Where from?’
‘Never you mind,’ Barry said, wielding it like he was in a gangster film. ‘The Holts are fucked, that’s the main thing.’
Tyler nodded.
‘So where are they?’ Barry said.
Barry was wide-eyed and sniffing, coked to the eyeballs, his legs shaking, his neck muscles straining. Tyler gazed over Barry’s shoulder at the west of the city, the hundreds of thousands of people just getting on with life.
‘Come on,’ he said, walking past Barry as confidently as his legs would let him. ‘I’ll show you.’
‘Tell me again, from the start.’
Barry was trying to get Tyler to slip up, either that or his coke-addled brain couldn’t keep a single piece of information in it for longer than ten seconds. The car tore along Duddingston Road West past the police station where Tyler had started the day, past the golf course and playing fields then Duddingston Loch on their left. Just one of the countless pockets in the city where the urban suddenly gave way to wildlife, trees and parks and enough quiet space to get away with shit while no one watched.
‘They phoned me. They want to meet up, make a truce.’
They were back amongst houses just as quick, sitting at the crossroads with the A1, Barry tapping the steering wheel, his foot revving on the accelerator. Tyler was surprised he hadn’t just piled through the lights regardless, that’s how unhinged he seemed. Ant and Dec were restless in the back, mirroring Barry’s edginess. Tyler hadn’t thought about the dogs coming, they made things more complicated.
‘How did they have your number?’
Tyler stared at the red light, willing it to stay that way forever.
‘From Kelly’s phone, I presume.’
‘Fucking truce.’ Barry said the word like he was disgusted at the concept. ‘They killed Kelly. Fuck a truce.’
As if Barry had ever cared about Kelly. She was just an excuse to be angry, the latest in a long list of things to be outraged and violent about, the world out to get him, everyone in his way, life as constant combat. It must be so wearing, Tyler thought, being full of rage all the time.
Barry had the shotgun in his lap as he drove, resting his hand there between gear changes. They reached sixty up the A1 in a twenty-limit area, then screeched to another halt at the lights at Jock’s Lodge. There was a gastropub on the corner that until recently had been an old man’s place, a good bar to get a beating. It closed when someone was finally stabbed in the toilets. Only five minutes to the destination and Tyler felt the hot metal of the Beretta stuffed inside his jeans, his crotch sweating up, his stomach like it was full of concrete. One of the dogs barked in the back and Tyler jumped. The other dog snuffled around the first one, pawing at him aggressively.
Red, amber, green and they were off, turning left at Meadowbank towards Holyrood Park then another left up the single-track road that climbed round the back of Arthur’s Seat. The road was narrow and curved, they were going too fast, Tyler thrown this way then that in his seat, feeling the stab of the barrel into his crotch. The dogs tumbled around in the rear footwell and one yelped and snapped as its tail was squashed by the other’s bulk.
‘Why here?’ Barry said.
Tyler shook his head. ‘No one around, I guess. No witnesses.’
‘Suits me. They think they’re fucking smart, top-dog wankers, I’ll tear them new arseholes.’
They were almost there. Arthur’s Seat loomed black against the purple evening sky, darkness overwhelming the streetlight glare from down below as they climbed. Tyler caught a scent of something like coconut from the yellow bushes that lined the road.
‘What’s your plan?’ Tyler said, nodding at the shotgun.
‘All guns blazing,’ Barry said. ‘Then let the dogs tear them apart.’
Christ almighty, some plan.
Barry cut his lights and blackness poured into the car from outside. He pulled into one of the lay-bys before the car park at Dunsapie Loch, killed the engine.
‘What are you doing?’ Tyler said.
‘Element of surprise. Fuck’s sake, don’t you know anything?’
Barry got out with the shotgun then opened the back door for the dogs. They were about fifty feet from the meeting place, round the bend in the road, tree cover in between. Maybe he wasn’t so stupid or coked after all.
Tyler got out and followed as Barry ran in a crouch along the bank of the loch with the dogs at his heel. Swans were out there on the nesting platform built in the middle of the inky water, slashes of white in the shadows. The smell of coconut was stronger now, gorse bushes all around them. Tyler ran too, lifting the pistol out of his jeans in readiness.
Then they were by the car park, in the thick grass at the back, bramble bushes tangled alongside. The car park was empty.
‘What time is it?’ Barry said.
Tyler looked at his watch. ‘We’re early.’
Barry looked around them, checking all sides for movement, but there was nothing. There wouldn’t be, of course. He turned back to the car park as the dogs snuffled in the bushes.
Tyler lifted the gun and pointed it at the back of Barry’s head. He was two feet away. The gun shook in his hand, his arm with a will of its own. He had to do it. This solved everything. He heard the whump of a swan flapping its wings behind him but he didn’t turn. The dogs were ten feet away to his left. If he had to, he would do them too.
Barry shifted his weight, eyes forward, looking along the road for a car, a sign of the Holts arriving.
Tyler pulled the trigger.
At least he tried to. It didn’t budge. He remembered the video, the safety. He moved his thumb up the grip to the switch and slid it down.
It clicked.
Barry turned and looked straight down the barrel at him.
Tyler’s hand was shaking even more now. He began to squeeze the trigger again but Barry reached out and slapped the gun so that the barrel pointed away from his head. The crack of a gunshot barrelled around the hills, shredding the quiet. Crows lifted from the trees and the dogs yelped and snarled at each other.
‘You fucking cunt,’ Barry said.
He twisted Tyler’s arm so that his grip on the gun loosened. He grabbed the gun by the barrel and swung the handle into Tyler’s face, crunching the bone in his cheek, blood spraying from his nose. The dogs perked up as Barry pistol-whipped Tyler about the skull, each blow sending shuddering pain through his head. He fell back into the grass as Barry kicked at his ribs and back.
‘You ungrateful cunt, fuck you, think you can pull a gun on me, you pathetic little arsewipe.’
This was in time with the punches and kicks, staccato insults and pain until Tyler had his head cov
ered, his body curled into a ball. More kicks to the back of his head, his kidneys and spine, his body flooding with pain.
Eventually Barry stopped. Ant and Dec snuffled around Tyler’s body, tugging on his clothes with their teeth, but only playfully. If Barry gave the word, they’d kill him.
Tyler could hear Barry breathing heavily. Barry spat at him, then kept panting and swearing.
‘After everything I’ve fucking done, doss wee cunt. You’re a traitor to your family.’
Tyler brought his arms away from his face and looked up.
Barry had the pistol tucked away, the shotgun pointing in Tyler’s face. He reached down and clutched Tyler’s hair in his fist, pulled him to his feet.
‘This was all a set-up?’
Tyler didn’t speak. Barry smashed the butt of the shotgun into his nose, more blood dripping onto the grass.
‘Where are the fucking Holts?’
Tyler spat blood and wiped at his face. ‘They’re at home. It didn’t burn.’
Barry grabbed Tyler and pulled him towards the car.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘You’re going to help me kill them.’
40
Barry made Tyler drive so he could keep the Beretta pointed at him, the shotgun at his feet, the dogs getting more and more agitated in the back. After they came down from Arthur’s Seat and passed the Commie Pool it was basically one long, straight road until they were there. Tyler toyed with the idea of jerking the steering wheel to the right, throwing the Skoda into an oncoming car, but that could kill the other driver. Maybe go the other way, onto the pavement. They were passing Grange Cemetery, a long high wall that would take the impact. But he didn’t have the bottle. And anyway, if he didn’t deliver Barry to the Holts, Flick and Bean could die. And, of course, if Barry survived the crash, he would shoot Tyler on the spot. He might shoot him anyway once this was over. Tyler thought back to Dunsapie Loch, pointing that pistol at the back of Barry’s head, his hand quivering.
They were there too quick. It seemed as if all the traffic lights turned green just as they arrived at the junctions, like they were fated to get through.
Breakers Page 20
