Romeo's Tune (1990)

by Timlin, Mark

  ‘And take care.’

  I crabbed my way across to where he’d indicated. The door was unlocked. On the other side was a narrow, steep staircase. I crawled down head-first, wincing as my injured hand scraped on the carpet. There was no sign of life on the first floor, but I was careful as I headed towards the main staircase, kicking open the bedroom doors as I went, flattening myself against the walls and checking the interiors for more of the Divas’ men, or the family themselves.

  I walked down the wide staircase to the entrance hall, fanning the gun as I went. The whole of the interior of the house stank of explosives and burning petrol from the porch. To my left was the open door of the large living-room. The smell was stronger as I crept closer, and as I peered through the door I could see some of the damage McBain’s gelignite stick had done. The room was a shambles. Pictures had been tilted or thrown completely off the walls. The picture window had been blown outwards and the curtains fluttered in the breeze. The dynamite had exploded in the hearth and the Adam fireplace had been knocked out of true by the blast. Diva Jr was sitting, waiting for me, in an overstuffed armchair to one side of the fireplace. In his right hand he was clutching the small silver automatic pistol. But he would never fire it. The brass poker from the fire set, the very same one he’d used to inflict torture on my hand, was embedded in his throat. It had been propelled by the force of the explosion. He was slumped forward in his seat and I could see two or three inches of bloody metal sticking from the back of his neck. The poker must have flown like a bolt from a crossbow. I pulled his head back by his hair and stared into his sightless eyes.

  His torturing days were over.

  I went back into the hall. The door of the study was closed. I walked over the parquet floor, turned the handle and threw the door open. Diva Sr was standing by the window facing me. The sound of the sirens was louder here. The police were only a minute or so away.

  I looked around the room. The TV and video rig were still in place. The TV was switched on, but on the silent screen there was nothing but drop-out from a blank tape. I felt tears prickling under my eyelids and my left hand which was holding the pistol was shaking.

  ‘You’ve been watching it again, haven’t you?’ The words hurt as I squeezed them through my teeth. I hardly expected a reply.

  ‘I’ve wiped the tape,’ Diva said triumphantly.

  ‘Not from my eyes you haven’t,’ I screamed with a high-pitched keening sound that I don’t like to think about too much. ‘Not from my eyes,’ I repeated, more softly.

  I looked at the snowstorm on the screen and I knew that somewhere in those random images were tiny pictures of Little Jo being blown into hamburger.

  I fired from the hip. I blew the screen out of the TV with McBain’s .45. It imploded in a shower of silver-coated glass.

  ‘Where’s Stevie?’ asked the old man. ‘Where’s my son?’

  ‘He’s dead,’ I said. ‘Thank Christ, he’s dead and I’m so glad it’s me that’s giving you the news.’

  ‘You killed him,’ the old man said and his face crumpled.

  ‘Not me, Diva,’ I said. ‘McBain killed him.’

  The sirens were close, right outside.

  ‘Too late,’ Diva said. ‘The police are here.’

  ‘It’s never too late,’ I replied, and he knew I meant it.

  ‘We can do a deal,’ he pleaded.

  ‘A deal,’ I said. ‘You love your deals don’t you? You fucking adore deals, you fucking whoreson. Well there’s a saying. Some days you get the deal and some days the deal gets you.’

  And with that I turned the pistol towards him and fired again. The bullet smashed into his face just below his right eye. The heavy slug exited from the back of his head, spraying bone, splinters, blood and brains across the curtains behind him. His other eye registered sheer disbelief as he turned slowly, took a tentative step and fell forward onto the carpet. The sirens from outside died as the convoy skidded to a halt outside the window and peace descended on the farmhouse.

  I didn’t look at the old man again. I just tucked the gun back into the waistband of my jeans and went back to see McBain.

  This ebook edition published in the UK in 2013

  by No Exit Press an imprint of

  Oldcastle Books

  P O Box 394,

  Harpenden, AL5 1XJ, UK

  noexit.co.uk

  First published in the UK in 1990 by Headline Book Publishing plc

  All rights reserved

  © Mark Timlin 1990

  The right of Mark Timlin to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly

  ISBN

  978–1–84344–083-3 (Print)

  978–1–84344–084-0 (ePub)

  78–1–84344–085-7 (Kindle)

  978–1–84344–086-4 (PDF)

  For further information please visit @crimetimeuk