Nathan hesitated.
Mark gave him a big hug. Felt the Browning in his hand against the small of the boy’s back.
‘I promise this will all be over soon. But you need to do as I say, OK?’
‘OK.’
‘Good. Now go and wait in the other room and I’ll be through in a minute.’
‘I don’t want to leave you, Daddy.’
‘No one’s leaving anyone, Big Guy. I’m right here. Go and wait, I’ll be with you in a second.’
Nathan turned and scuffed to the bedroom. Mark watched him go, smiling falsely when the boy turned back to look at him.
34
The man hadn’t moved. Blood everywhere, a pool of it in the middle of the floor, rivulets running off in different directions, smears from the pool to the door.
Mark stood looking at him. The man’s chest was rising and falling in a shallow, uneven lurch. Still alive, then. Hands at his throat, eyes closed. He still had the dust mask on.
Mark thought.
His son had shot someone. With an illegal gun. But Nathan had been protecting his daddy. The men had broken in.
He checked the Browning. Safety off.
He crept towards the man on the floor. Gave him a tentative kick in the ribs. Grey let out a soft groan. Looked like he was concentrating on staying alive.
Mark squatted down on his haunches next to the man’s head. Blood was still oozing through the fingers at his neck, dripping from the stumps on his hand. So Nathan’s bullet had taken two fingers off his outstretched hand then ploughed into his neck. Good shot, Big Guy.
Mark nudged at Grey’s temple with the gun barrel.
‘Hey.’
The man’s breathing got louder, but that was it.
‘Look at me.’
A few seconds, then his eyelids fluttered open. Mark wanted to see something in those eyes, like you read in books. That he was evil, or scared, or sorry. Anything. But it didn’t work like that. They were just a man’s empty eyes.
Mark reached out and pulled the dust mask down from Grey’s face. The nose had been broken in the past, the mouth small, cluttered with brown teeth. The smell of hash and whisky mingled with the ferric tang of blood.
‘Can you speak?’
The man’s eyes moved to look at Mark.
‘Who do you work for?’
He blinked, made the slightest sideways motion with his head. Like Nathan when he didn’t want to admit he’d done something naughty.
Mark shook his head. ‘That’s not very clever.’
Grey coughed and blood spattered out his mouth, leaving a thin dribble down his chin.
Mark sucked his teeth. ‘I could phone an ambulance.’
The man’s eyes widened.
‘Then again, I might not.’
Grey just breathed. Ragged. In. Out.
‘Looks like you could do with one.’
Grey closed his eyes, like a long blink, then struggled to open them again. He took a while to focus.
‘Come on,’ Mark said. ‘I’ll make it easy for you.’
Another cough, more blood.
‘This is about my wife, right?’
A wheezy, rasping breath.
‘Who are you working for? Taylor?’
Nothing in his face gave anything away.
‘Fisher?’
His eyes moved, avoided Mark’s gaze.
‘You work for Fisher?’
He kept his eyes turned away.
Mark moved the muzzle of the Browning from Grey’s head and stuck it into his neck. He grunted in pain, rolled his head. That was all he could manage. He looked like he was about to die.
‘Tell me you work for Fisher, or I’ll make this pain so much worse.’
The man looked at Mark, then closed his eyes and nodded.
‘Tell me.’
His lips parted. He coughed blood.
‘Fisher.’
‘Did he kill my wife?’
Slight shake of the head.
‘Did you kill her?’
A more vigorous shake.
‘Then who did?’
The man’s eyes went to the door. Mark followed his gaze.
‘The other guy?’
A clear nod.
Mark wondered about that.
‘Is that the truth?’
A cough then a whisper. ‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
A slight shake of the head.
‘Why was Lauren killed?’
Mark pushed the Browning further into his neck wound. Grey’s body went rigid with pain and he spat blood.
‘What password were you talking about?’
‘Ambulance,’ he said.
‘No ambulance. Tell me first.’
‘Ambulance.’
Mark pushed the gun further. Grey choked, then closed his eyes.
Mark slapped his cheek. Nothing. Slapped him again. Checked his pulse.
Unconscious. Fuck.
Mark stood up and backed away.
He left the room. Flicked the safety on the gun and tucked it into the back of his jeans.
Went into the bedroom.
Nathan was sitting on the bed, head slumped. The wardrobe door was still open, the underwear drawer pulled out. The empty shammy cloth on the bed.
Mark thought about the man dying next door.
And Fisher.
‘Am I in trouble, Daddy?’
Mark sat down next to him and pulled him close, lifted his chin up. The look in Nathan’s eyes made him catch his breath. So much to deal with, only six years old.
‘No, you’re not in trouble. You’ve been a very brave boy. Do you understand?’
‘But I shot that man.’
‘He was hurting Daddy, wasn’t he? You helped me.’
Nathan reached out to Mark’s neck. Where the tip of the knife had gone in. Mark laid his hand over the boy’s and lifted it away. Both hands with bloody fingers. Mark dabbed at the wound. Didn’t seem to still be bleeding, only a nick really.
‘Is he a bad man?’
‘Yes, a very bad man.’
‘Is he dead? Did I kill him?’
‘He’s not dead, no.’
‘Then shouldn’t we get him some help?’
Mark tried to think straight. How would this play out? Should he call the police and tell the truth? He had to think about what would happen to Nathan. Maybe Mark should say that he shot the man. But then what would happen to him? Would Nathan be able to stick to a lie? He was terrible at lying at the best of times, but maybe Mark just thought that because he knew the boy so well, knew when he wasn’t telling the truth. No, a six-year-old wouldn’t hold up under police interrogation, no way. Then they would just be in even deeper shit.
They should keep Grey alive so he could link Fisher to everything. What was the link, though? Anyway, once Grey got better, he might change his story, deny all knowledge, just make out it was a simple break-in.
Mark rubbed Nathan’s shoulders.
‘Wait here.’
‘Don’t leave me, Daddy.’
‘I’m just going to check on the bad man, OK? I’ll be back in a few seconds.’
He walked through the flat and into the living room. His stomach lurched when he saw the mess again. Grey was still there in the middle of it, hadn’t moved.
Mark stared at the body. No movement. He walked across and crouched over the man. Laid a hand on his chest. Nothing. Put his hand over Grey’s mouth. Didn’t feel any breath. Took hold of the guy’s wrist and felt with his forefinger and thumb. Held him like that for a while.
No pulse.
Too late for an ambulance.
He couldn’t link Fisher and Taylor to Lauren’s murder now.
Mark saw his possible futures disappearing, paths vanishing in fog. He tried to see a way clear, but couldn’t.
‘Daddy?’
Mark turned.
Nathan was standing in the doorway, staring at the body.
‘Should we get an ambulance for
him?’
Mark ran a hand through his hair and went over to the boy. Tried to turn him away from the corpse, but met resistance. Nathan was transfixed.
‘Look at me,’ Mark said.
Nathan turned slowly. ‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’ The boy’s eyes filled with tears. ‘I killed him.’
Mark pulled him into a hug. Tried to imagine what was going through his mind. What could he possibly tell him that would make this go away? Nothing. That was the truth of it. Nothing could undo this.
‘I already told you, Big Guy, you didn’t do anything wrong.’
‘But I killed that man.’
‘You had to. It’s called self-defence. Do you know what that is?’
A slight shake of the head amongst the sniffles and tears.
Mark lifted Nathan’s chin up again. ‘It’s when you have to stop someone from hurting you or hurting someone you love. You have to do it, you don’t have any choice.’
Nathan frowned and stole a glance at the corpse again.
‘It means it wasn’t your fault.’
Nathan’s breath was ragged as his chest heaved. ‘So I won’t get into trouble with the police?’
Mark shook his head, a dumb, exaggerated movement. ‘I promise, you won’t get in any trouble with the police.’
He tried to think about that. He wished it was that simple. His mind was scrambled, he couldn’t think straight. He wanted to reassure the boy some more, say something that would make a difference. But what the hell could he say?
‘Should we call the police now, Daddy? Tell them what’s happened.’
Mark frowned. He needed time to work things out.
‘Not yet, Big Guy.’
He gave Nathan another big, long cuddle, then stood up. Went to the sofa and picked up his phone. Pressed a number and waited till he heard a familiar voice.
‘We need help.’
35
‘Where’s my grandson?’
Mark nodded towards the bedroom door.
Ruth scuttled in and brushed past him. He trailed behind her.
Nathan was under the covers, staring at the ceiling. Ruth gave him a suffocating hug.
As he watched them, Mark realised he still had the gun stuck down the back of his jeans. He pulled his T-shirt down to cover it.
He’d explained to Ruth over the phone some of what had happened. She came straight away. He hadn’t called anyone else. No point in an ambulance, and he wasn’t sure about the police, not yet.
No one else had come round either, no police or neighbours. He wondered about that, with the gunshot noise, but he could understand people wanting to keep out of trouble.
While he’d waited for Ruth to arrive, he’d washed the blood off Nathan’s legs and feet then washed the boy’s hands thoroughly. Thought about gunpowder residue. Then got a change of jammies and threw the dirty ones in the washing machine. Pointless really, with a corpse leaking pints of blood all over the living room, but the methodical, mundane appearance of housework kept his mind from caving in. Nathan was like a zombie again, doing exactly what he was told, blank look on his face. Mark felt a rock in his stomach as he saw that look. He tried to think about the boy’s mind, about how this was all piling up on top of them, but his own brain couldn’t cope with it. They had both been reduced to basic functioning to keep their sanity and their lives together.
He was chewing it all up again as Ruth fussed over Nathan in bed now.
Fisher.
Fisher was responsible, but he had no proof, just a dead man’s word for it. He’d gone through the man’s pockets, no ID. Would the police take Mark seriously? Ferguson had already ignored him when he mentioned Fisher and Taylor. Mark had an assault charge pending thanks to that school thing, and now he had a dead man in his living room. That his son had shot and killed.
Ruth got up from the bed and turned to Mark.
‘Where’s the . . .’
Mark nodded towards the living room then followed as she went through.
Ruth put her hands to her mouth. ‘Mother of God.’ She crossed herself.
He tried to see it through her eyes. It was a fucking mess, a bloody, violent, disgusting mess. And he was responsible, he was in charge and had exposed her grandchild to this.
Ruth turned away from the body. ‘Have you phoned the police?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘What will happen to Nathan?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Can they charge him with murder?’
‘I don’t know.’
Ruth stared at him. ‘You don’t know much, do you?’
Mark scratched at his scalp. ‘I could say I did it.’
‘Then you might get put away, leaving him with no parents at all. I don’t think so.’
They stood looking at each other.
Ruth spoke. ‘I could say I did it.’
Mark thought about that. Shook his head.
‘Nathan would never be able to stick to a lie.’
‘He could just say he was asleep the whole time.’
‘And what were you doing round here?’
‘Staying over to help out, since Lauren’s . . .’
Mark put a hand on her shoulder. He could see she was serious.
‘No. I think we have to tell the truth. For Nathan’s sake as much as anything else.’
Ruth glanced back at the body. ‘Why did he have to break in here of all places?’
Mark sighed. He hadn’t told her on the phone.
‘It wasn’t random. He told me something.’
There was a slow spread of realisation on Ruth’s face. ‘This is to do with Lauren?’
Mark nodded and looked at the corpse. ‘He worked for someone who knew Lauren’s boss.’
‘So?’
‘I don’t know, he didn’t tell me. But it’s not just a coincidence. They were here looking for a password. But I’ve already checked all Lauren’s online stuff, I didn’t find anything.’
‘We have to tell the police straight away.’
‘No.’
‘What do you mean, no?’
‘This guy’s dead, so I’ve got no link to Lauren.’
‘Just tell the police what he told you.’
‘Why would they believe me? I need to get some evidence.’
‘No, you just need to tell the truth.’
Mark rubbed at his eye. ‘No, I need evidence.’
He walked through to the bedroom, Ruth behind. Nathan was asleep.
They both stood staring at him.
Ruth sat down on the bed and laid a hand on the covers. Raised her other hand to her brow. ‘This is all too much.’ She waved her hand around. ‘This is all just too much to take.’
‘It’ll soon be over,’ Mark said.
He got Ferguson’s card from his pocket and held it out to her.
‘Phone this number and tell her everything that’s happened.’
Ruth hesitated then eventually took the card.
‘Everything?’
Mark nodded. ‘There’s no point trying to cover it up.’
Ruth stared at the card. ‘What are you going to do?’
Mark looked at Nathan and thought about Lauren.
‘I’m going to get some evidence.’
36
As he drove through empty streets, he could feel fury simmer inside him, replacing the adrenalin from the break-in. He nurtured it, built it into something he could use for what was coming.
And yet he was still plagued by doubt. What did Lauren and Caledonia Dreaming have to do with this guy Fisher, someone who could hire thugs to burgle and torture people? What was the password they wanted? What would the police do once they got to the flat? Was he right to leave Ruth to look after Nathan and deal with all that? They’d be safer in police custody than where he was going.
The thought of Nathan made his stomach cramp. His son had killed a man to save his daddy. What a thing to l
ive with for the rest of your life. On top of Lauren dying and everything else, this was a lifetime of trauma piling up.
The wind was still tormenting the trees as he sped round Cameron Toll towards Morningside and Merchiston. Taxis and night buses trundled along the street as he raced across roundabouts and junctions.
He drove past all the big houses with sprawling gardens, moneyed families sleeping soundly at night, never any problems in their little bubble worlds.
He shot across Holy Corner and hung a right, slowing, trying to keep his hands on the wheel from shaking.
He stopped a few doors down from number 40. There were no cars parked on the street, everyone in their driveways, so he stuck out as a stranger, an unwelcome intrusion on the leafy paradise. Fuck it.
He glanced down at the pistol on the passenger seat. One fired round meant nine bullets left. He hoped he didn’t have to rely on that knowledge.
He picked it up, ejected the magazine, counted the bullets to be sure, then pushed it back in. Kept the safety on for now. Hauled open the car door and tucked the gun into his jeans.
The wind was making a racket in the tops of the oaks lining the street.
He got to number 40. The metal gates were closed across the entrance to the driveway, a hefty lock with a buzzer system.
Mark stepped back and scoped the place. He spotted a CCTV camera and ducked in behind the pillar. The gates were ten feet tall topped with iron spikes. The old stone wall to the side was shorter, but the top of it was coated in a line of cement with bits of broken glass jutting out. Mark had seen similar on houses across Edinburgh. Old homemade defences.
He looked at the camera. It was stationary, pointing at the middle of the gates. He didn’t think it could see him from here. He crouched then leapt, got a hand on the top of the wall, but jerked it away as a piece of glass sliced into his palm.
‘Shit.’
He looked at his hand. Just a shallow cut, nothing serious. He pulled his jacket sleeve down over his fist then jumped again, this time finding a hold in between the bits of glass. He kicked at a part of the stone wall and a small crumble of masonry fell out. He chipped away with his foot at the dried mortar until he had a foothold, then hoisted himself up, grabbing the top of the pillar with his other hand.
He heaved with both arms and dragged his body to the top of the wall, his stomach snagging on the glass embedded there. He sucked his gut in as the glass scraped at his T-shirt. He hovered for a moment, supported only by his hands, then carefully placed a knee on the wall between glass shards. Then on to his feet. The drop at the other side was less, only five feet to a landscaped lawn.
Gone Again Page 16
