Something Freeing
by Danny Gillan
Genre: Crime/Mystery
Swearwords: A lot of strong ones.
Description: All that was left to be done was to deal with Job Done. Then it would be… erm… job done – and five-star luxury in Antigua.
Swearwords: A lot of strong ones.
Description: All that was left to be done was to deal with Job Done. Then it would be… erm… job done – and five-star luxury in Antigua.
I don’t have a full life, no. It’s not unhappy – ‘empty’ might be the word. Before today my last substantial contact with another human being was three days ago when I shot a pregnant seventeen-year-old girl in the face. I’m the bad guy.
The route is thought-out, it’s no big deal. Out of their hotel room, left down the corridor to the fire door that opens on to the emergency stairway. Stay low, zig-zag a bit and it’s fine. His aim is terrible. He’s a griever at this point, not a killer.
Bottom of the stairs, out into the foyer and left again through the door marked private into the staff area. He’s still upstairs trying to reload the gun as he stares at the inside of his daughter’s head, no threat.
Past the changing room, the eating room and the we’ll-just-fuck-in-here-because-why-the-hell-not-room (dry store), into the kitchen.
Chefs with knives, need to be careful. Chefs are violent bastards, in the main. KPs, too. Slow down, head up, look like you’re judging them. They hate being judged. Stroll. Look at the veg prep station as you pass. Nod a little, wince a little. Keep walking. Keep judging. Sympathetic look to the commis de-bearding the mussels and out the back door. Sorted.
It is a sad yet obvious fact that most people who choose violence as a life-style are thick fucks. Smart people don’t need to know how to break body parts. Smart people get a degree and find a job in a bank or start a business selling non-violent ways to fuck people up. I’m an exception. That’s why I get all the fun gigs.
My business model follows closely that of a Complaint Resolution Consultant I smothered with a bath towel in 2008. We had a lovely chat in the hotel bar earlier in the evening, when he introduced me to the delights of fixed-term contracts and working for organisations who know they have issues but can’t be arsed putting their own resources into solving them and so choose to hire in. It suits me. No long-term commitments, flexible holidays and a more than acceptable hourly rate. Watching them try to argue about my expense claims is always fun, too.
My current contract is due to end in a week, the ex-seventeen-year-old being the penultimate item on my to-do list. In truth I could have put the bullet in her any time during the last fortnight, but I’ve been milking this one to fund a week in a five-star in Antigua. Never been there.
Back to work. I could probably get away with going back to the Blythswood Square Hotel. The food is excellent and the father will be long gone, plus reception staff are brilliant at not noticing or recognising anyone or anything that might make an already hard life more problematic. No point risking it, though. It also means I’ll get away with not paying the bill while still claiming it. Win-win. The hotel won’t be out of pocket. The credit card details I gave them are real enough. Not mine, but real enough. That complaint resolution guy still proves useful, as does my then employer’s desire to have no one notice he’s dead.
Job Done, as I like to call the final chapter of each contract, is a local. He’s one of those sad fuckers who bought a luxury flat on Glasgow’s Clyde-side back when everyone who was an idiot thought property prices would never crash. Funny story – I actually sold it to him in a previous life. Never met in person, but it was my commission. He now has a half-million-quid mortgage on a two-bed shithole with a book price of three hundred grand no one will ever pay and two generations of junkies living in his doorway. I’ll be doing him a favour.
I check in to the Radisson Blu on Argyle Street. It’s impressive for a place of its size. Not intimate, too big for that, but it still has class. Manage to snag a sixty-quid room rate through Late-Rooms, which is a total bargain.
It’s three hundred yards from Job Done’s place. Just alang the watter, as we Glaswegians apparently say.
Save the best for last is a cliché. I much prefer to save the easiest for last. This guy is a dick. He has no alarm and he lives in a place where the police rarely respond to anything less than a terrorist threat.
I step over two semi-conscious Proud British heroin addicts and push the security door open with a gentle shove. Pathetic. He’s on the third floor. There’s a lift but I choose the stairs. The place still has remnants of the luxury Job Done thought he was buying. The detailing is delightful. The light fittings wouldn’t be out of place in House of Fraser. There are wee gold-leaf lion motifs all the way up the stairway. Someone, some-when thought this was going to be a not-quite-but-almost-millionaires’ playground, and decided to do it on the cheap. The building is only seven years old and I can already feel the floor sagging beneath me. Every door I pass would crumble under a determined assault from an angry badger. It’s a disgrace. There was a time when bricks and mortar meant something. I get to the third floor, and his door, angry. Job Done.
I’ve got a key, I could sneak in. Fuck it. I knock.
‘Ah, Peter, hello. Come in,’ Job Done says. He pulls the door open and extends a hand into the hall. ‘Straight through to the living room.’
I go straight through to the living room. It’s small but well-appointed. 22 by 18 at a glance. Not great but liveable. I could sell it. Again.
‘Have a seat,’ Job Done says, pointing to the two-person sofa that sits flush to the south wall. ‘Margarita?’
I shake my head.
‘No? I have fresh lime.’ I shake my head even more. ‘Ah well,’ he says. ‘I got them in specially, but no matter.’ He steps behind the breakfast bar and gathers ingredients.
I’m at that stage of confusion where I really need a margarita. He knows my name.
I sit there as he squeezes limes and mixes Triple Sec and tequila with crushed ice. He smiles at me as he turns the handle on the ice-crusher.
‘You’re sure you don’t want one?’
I shake again, hoping he only notices my head. He nods and smiles, filling two salt-rimmed tumblers.
‘I made you one anyway,’ he says, proffering me a glass, which I take. He sits next to me on the small settee. There’s an empty armchair four feet away.
For reasons I’m unable to satisfactorily identify I don’t take the gun out of my pocket and shoot him through the ear. I do drink the margarita, though.
‘How’s the ankle?’ he asks. ‘All sorted now?’
Jesus fuck. I should be doing my job and going away. Why am I sitting here? I can see the door. I have a plan. It doesn’t even involve any fucking planning. Shoot him in the head and leave. Not fucking hard.
‘Tricky this, eh?’ he says. ‘Macaroon?’
‘What?’ I get a ridiculous amount of satisfaction from getting a word out.
‘Would you like a macaroon?’ he says. ‘I’ve got some in the proving drawer. I made them this morning.’
That’s me done. I have no idea what’s going on and I don’t care. This guy. This fucking guy. There’s something…
It shouldn’t have been possible, but he budges up even closer. We’re basically snuggling now. ‘How’s the retirement fund, Peter?’ he asks. ‘Got your pension sorted?’ The smile on his face is the opposite of creepy. It’s all warmth and concern. Which is fucking creepy.
I give my brain an internal shake and the vibration must be a match or the equal and opposite or some such bollocks to the external shaking I’ve been doing for the past ten minutes because it all cancels out and I manage a semblance of calm.
‘I take it you know why I’m here?’ I say. Calm or not, I still sound like the wee guy at school who decides to stand up to the bully and immediately regrets it.
The not creepy creep continues with the not creepy smile. To add insult to insanity he reaches over with his free hand and strokes my cheek.
I go for the gun now. Given how tightly he has me squeezed into the corner of the sofa this is an instant failure of a venture.
‘Don’t be daft,’ he says gently, pulling my arm back by the wrist, twisting it so tightly I think my forearm is about to snap. ‘Want to buy my flat?’
Ah. Fuck.
He knows who I used to be and what I used to do. How he knows that I have no fucking idea and that is something I shall have to look into with extreme prejudice at a later date, starting with an initially polite but potentially violent visit to my current employers. Still, at least I know what I’m dealing with now.
‘Nah, mate. It’s a shithole,’ I say.
‘Ha! Yes it is, Peter. Yes it is.’ He lets go of my arm, apparently satisfied that a major sprain is enough to prevent me being an idiot again. ‘The gold lions are nice, right enough.’
Job Done stands up and moves over to the arm-chair. I reclaim the centre of the small sofa. The gun is still in my pocket. I leave it there.
‘So anyway,’ he says, matter-of-fact. ‘You killed a pregnant teenager recently. How did that feel?’
What? ‘What?’ I say. What?
‘How did it feel?’ he asks again. ‘Not good, I hope.’
This is supposed to be about shitey house sales. ‘What?’
‘Her name was Linda. Linda Craighorn. You shot her in the face. She’s dead now. Because you got an email and a bank transfer. That’s her finished, over. Whatever she was, whatever she could have been, gone. That life she had growing in her – could have been a wee shit, might have been the saviour of the planet – we’ll never know. You ended all that. Over. Job Done. How you feeling about that?’
Shit. My current employer is going to find a lot more than cash on their outgoings column. This bullshit is unprofessional.
‘A job’s a job,’ I say.
‘And what a career you’ve chosen, eh, Peter?’
‘Pays the bills.’ Weak, I know.
‘Ah, it does that. All those hotel bills mount up. You’re a travelling man, aren’t you?’
‘Everyone likes a holiday.’ Why am I engaged in a haircut conversation with a guy I’m supposed to be killing? I need to get the initiative back, if I ever had it. ‘So you know who I am and why I’m here. Mind if I ask how?’
‘I’d have thought that was obvious,’ he says, finishing his drink. ‘I hired you. Another margarita?’
He goes back behind the kitchen counter and fiddles with the cocktail shaker. Perfect opportunity for me to do my job and get the fuck out.
Can’t. Too curious.
‘You hired me to kill you?’
‘Yep. Weird, isn’t it?’ He crushes ice.
‘Any particular reason?’
‘Several.’ He’s back with the drinks now and hands me a glass. This time he sits on the armchair. ‘How’s your love life lately?’
‘Fuck you,’ I say. It’s a reflex.
Friendly, empathetic, creepy-as-fuck smile again. ‘Sorry. Anyway, yes, I arranged for you to be here tonight. Don’t get me wrong, the rest of your list had nothing to do with me, I simply lobbied to have an amendment added to the contract before it was ratified. Personally, I’d have stopped short of murdering a pregnant teenager just to scare her father into passing a planning application. I mean, Christ. Who actually gives a shit about one more Costa in Rutherglen?’
‘Huh?’
‘That’s why you shot Linda Craighorn. So her criminal father would pressure his councillor brother into passing an unpopular planning application. What a world, eh?’
He has a point. As motives go that’s pretty weak. Since when are Costas unpopular?
‘The father was also the father, by the way. Not sure if that’ll make you feel better or worse.’
‘Oh for fuck’s sake.’
‘Indeed,’ he says. ‘You killed two of his kids with one bullet. You should add that to your CV.’
‘Jesus.’
‘By the sounds of it you were doing the girl a favour. No happy childhoods happening in that family. Anyway, let’s talk about Jake.’
I launch forward and rocket my left fist into his balls. Both our margaritas are on the carpet before I realise he’s not hurt at all and I’m in fucking agony. I stagger backwards to the sofa and collapse on my arse, cradling my throbbing hand. ‘What the fuck?’
‘Sorry, I anticipated that one and dressed appropriately.’ He raps his knuckles against his groin a few times. Sounds like a door being chapped. ‘They make them for cricket players, I think. Not the comfiest, to be fair. So, back to Jake.’
‘I don’t talk about him.’ My left hand is fucking killing me. My right wrist is still sore from when he twisted it, too. It’s been a while since I was this unhappy. Couple of weeks, at least.
‘Ever think that might be part of the problem?’ He gets up, lifts the empty glasses from the floor and heads back to the counter.
‘My current problems? Not really, no,’ I say. A bit petulantly, if I’m honest. ‘They’re more based around wondering who the fuck you are and what the fuck is going on right now.’
‘I suppose so, yes.’ He brings the fresh drinks over and takes his seat once again. He shifts a bit as he sits down, suggesting at least some discomfort. That cheers me up a touch.
‘Can you remember how you ended up selling me this place?’ he continues after settling.
Are we back to that now? Bloody hell. ‘I assume you contacted our office and I delegated you to one of the wee neds in suits that worked for us.’
‘I did, yes. Jake suggested you. He said I could trust you.’
‘Right, enough. What the fuck’s happening?’ I’m not cheery at all now.
‘Jake and I were a couple before you and Jake were a couple. And after we stopped being a couple we were friends. Jake was my friend, Peter. I was at your wedding.’
‘You were fucking not any of those things!’
‘He didn’t tell you about me because he didn’t want you to feel threatened or insecure. I was okay with that. I stood at the back during the ceremony, you didn’t see me.’
My brain is doing something other than working properly by this point. I don’t talk about Jake. I don’t talk about what happened to him. And I definitely don’t talk about what happened after…
‘You married in secret because his family were massive, violent, homophobic dicks. His massive, violent, homophobic dick of a brother, Steph, murdered Jake when he found out he was gay. You killed Steph and your boss helped you cover it up. Along with Steph’s boss, as it happens, which I’ve always thought was decent of him. Ten years later you’ve gone from being a dodgy estate agent who committed an act of violence out of love, grief and justifiable revenge to a, and I’m just going to be blunt here, complete wanker who kills people to pay for holidays. Holidays you go on alone and, I’m fairly certain, don’t enjoy. Is that about right?’
I sit quietly for a minute. Fuck of an info dump, there. It takes some processing.
‘It was a civil partnership. They didn’t have real marriage back then,’ is the only thing I can think of to say.
‘He was still your husband.’ He leans across and extends his hand. ‘Good to finally meet you, Peter. I’m Charles.’
I take his hand and shake it. My wrist still hurts. ‘Hi, Charles.’ I don’t take my hand back. He doesn’t either. He squeezes. My wrist hurts more. That’s okay.
‘Are you wearing a bulletproof vest?’ I ask, to fill some space.
‘Yes I am,’ Charles says. ‘Please don’t shoot me, though. It would still hurt.’
‘Okay.’ Our hands separate and we both lean back.
Well, fuck me. This is all very strange. I down my margarita.
‘Right, so. Why am I here again?’ I say after a while.
‘I went to Italy after you got married. I was happy for you both, I really was, but the prideful old man in me decided not to hang about. I cared for him a lot.’ For the first time since I arrived his control wavers. His eyes drop and his head tilts. Not much, but enough. ‘He and I would email back and forth but when the messages stopped I assumed he had just settled into his life with you. I’m not ashamed to say I moved on myself.’ His eyes are back up now. ‘I had some very fine years in Tuscany, let’s leave it at that.’ The memories appear on his face, fully formed and joyous, before fading abruptly. ‘I only found out about Jake when I got back to Scotland, three years ago. I’m so sorry, Peter. I wish I’d been here for you. And for him.’
‘Okay. Yep. Fair enough. Cheers,’ I say.
‘Christ, you really have forgotten how to do emotions, haven’t you?’
I laugh, by accident. ‘Choosing isn’t the same as forgetting.’
‘It’s the wrong choice, though,’ Charles says.
‘Could be, could be,’ I say. ‘Right, so, Charles. Obviously I’m not going to shoot you now, so that’s off the table. I’m still curious about a few things, though. Like, how do you know so much about me and what I do, and, still, why the fuck am I here?’
Charles makes a noise like a farting balloon - which I quickly realise is a sigh - sags into his chair and looks at the tequila stain on the carpet. ‘I suppose I want to save you.’
‘Oh right.’
He sits up again quickly, eye contact firmly re-established. ‘I think if I’d been here when Jake died I might have been able to help you avoid turning into … whatever you are now.’
‘Okay.’
‘But I wasn’t, and I have some guilt about that. So, I figured I’d see if I could do anything to help now. Not the same, I know, but it’s the best I can offer.’
‘I appreciate that, cheers. But, the whole contract thing? And knowing about me and all the detail and stuff? That’s a bit mental. How do you know all that shit?’
‘Hmm? Oh, I’m an enormous criminal. Very successful. Bit of a mastermind, really.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, yeah. Fingers in all the pies, me. Not literally, obviously. But, yeah. I basically run the west of Scotland. I’m the silent partner all those louds twats like your ex-boss Kenny have. I had 30% of him, before he went to hospital. 30% of you back then, I suppose. If anyone knew who I was they’d probably call me the Scottish Moriarty or something similar.’
‘Cool. I would not have guessed that.’
‘That’s sort of the point,’ Charles says, standing up. ‘Another drink?’
‘Go on. Why do you live in this shithole, then?’
‘Fucking hell, Peter, I don’t live here. It’s horrible. I only bought this place for a postal address. Can’t even remember why I needed it now, to be honest. Drug deliveries, I would imagine. I used to be quite heavily involved in all that.’
‘Not now?’ He made a bloody good margarita, it has to be said.
‘Nah. It’s all politics and property these days. I still get a percentage from the drug stuff but I’m not directly involved. Too many dicks, to be frank.’
‘Unlike politics?’
‘Touché. Politicians are less complicated. Grubby fuckers, but predictable.’
‘Power corrupts?’
‘Fuck, no. They’re all corrupted long before they get into that game. That’s why they get into it. Politics is about ego, not power.’
‘Makes sense. What do you mean by “save me”?’
Charles grins. ‘Ah, back to it. Good man. What do I mean by “save you”? I don’t really know. I’ve been keeping tabs on you for the last couple of years. You don’t seem happy. You are possibly the most solitary person I’ve ever come across. I know how happy you made Jake. And I know how happy you were with Jake. He told me. It seems wrong to me that, ten years later, you’re still miserable. And maybe the fact you spend your time shooting strangers in the face is contributing to that loneliness. I think you should stop doing that. For you.’
‘That’s kind, thank you,’ I say. ‘Have to ask, though. Why the contract? Why not just arrange to meet without the risk of me shooting you?’
‘Where’s the fun in that?’
His smile grows into a laugh. My frown grows into a smile, then a laugh. It’s forced at first but it quickly changes into something real. Something cathartic. Something freeing. We cross-contaminate one another with laughter and soon we’re both grasping for a breath.
‘Are you really wearing a bulletproof vest?’ I manage to say.
‘Ha, yep, I am. Never quite know how it’s going to go,’ Charles says, giggling like a child.
‘And yet you’ve repeatedly pointed out that I shoot people in the face,’ I say, forcing the words out through the chortles.
His eyes turn quizzical for a brief moment before I shoot him through the bridge of his nose and he stops laughing altogether.
It doesn’t happen often, but sometimes you get two contracts for the same person.
‘Save yourself, prick. I’m not your job,’ I say, before realising I’m talking to myself and feeling embarrassed.
Antigua!
The route is thought-out, it’s no big deal. Out of their hotel room, left down the corridor to the fire door that opens on to the emergency stairway. Stay low, zig-zag a bit and it’s fine. His aim is terrible. He’s a griever at this point, not a killer.
Bottom of the stairs, out into the foyer and left again through the door marked private into the staff area. He’s still upstairs trying to reload the gun as he stares at the inside of his daughter’s head, no threat.
Past the changing room, the eating room and the we’ll-just-fuck-in-here-because-why-the-hell-not-room (dry store), into the kitchen.
Chefs with knives, need to be careful. Chefs are violent bastards, in the main. KPs, too. Slow down, head up, look like you’re judging them. They hate being judged. Stroll. Look at the veg prep station as you pass. Nod a little, wince a little. Keep walking. Keep judging. Sympathetic look to the commis de-bearding the mussels and out the back door. Sorted.
It is a sad yet obvious fact that most people who choose violence as a life-style are thick fucks. Smart people don’t need to know how to break body parts. Smart people get a degree and find a job in a bank or start a business selling non-violent ways to fuck people up. I’m an exception. That’s why I get all the fun gigs.
My business model follows closely that of a Complaint Resolution Consultant I smothered with a bath towel in 2008. We had a lovely chat in the hotel bar earlier in the evening, when he introduced me to the delights of fixed-term contracts and working for organisations who know they have issues but can’t be arsed putting their own resources into solving them and so choose to hire in. It suits me. No long-term commitments, flexible holidays and a more than acceptable hourly rate. Watching them try to argue about my expense claims is always fun, too.
My current contract is due to end in a week, the ex-seventeen-year-old being the penultimate item on my to-do list. In truth I could have put the bullet in her any time during the last fortnight, but I’ve been milking this one to fund a week in a five-star in Antigua. Never been there.
Back to work. I could probably get away with going back to the Blythswood Square Hotel. The food is excellent and the father will be long gone, plus reception staff are brilliant at not noticing or recognising anyone or anything that might make an already hard life more problematic. No point risking it, though. It also means I’ll get away with not paying the bill while still claiming it. Win-win. The hotel won’t be out of pocket. The credit card details I gave them are real enough. Not mine, but real enough. That complaint resolution guy still proves useful, as does my then employer’s desire to have no one notice he’s dead.
Job Done, as I like to call the final chapter of each contract, is a local. He’s one of those sad fuckers who bought a luxury flat on Glasgow’s Clyde-side back when everyone who was an idiot thought property prices would never crash. Funny story – I actually sold it to him in a previous life. Never met in person, but it was my commission. He now has a half-million-quid mortgage on a two-bed shithole with a book price of three hundred grand no one will ever pay and two generations of junkies living in his doorway. I’ll be doing him a favour.
I check in to the Radisson Blu on Argyle Street. It’s impressive for a place of its size. Not intimate, too big for that, but it still has class. Manage to snag a sixty-quid room rate through Late-Rooms, which is a total bargain.
It’s three hundred yards from Job Done’s place. Just alang the watter, as we Glaswegians apparently say.
Save the best for last is a cliché. I much prefer to save the easiest for last. This guy is a dick. He has no alarm and he lives in a place where the police rarely respond to anything less than a terrorist threat.
I step over two semi-conscious Proud British heroin addicts and push the security door open with a gentle shove. Pathetic. He’s on the third floor. There’s a lift but I choose the stairs. The place still has remnants of the luxury Job Done thought he was buying. The detailing is delightful. The light fittings wouldn’t be out of place in House of Fraser. There are wee gold-leaf lion motifs all the way up the stairway. Someone, some-when thought this was going to be a not-quite-but-almost-millionaires’ playground, and decided to do it on the cheap. The building is only seven years old and I can already feel the floor sagging beneath me. Every door I pass would crumble under a determined assault from an angry badger. It’s a disgrace. There was a time when bricks and mortar meant something. I get to the third floor, and his door, angry. Job Done.
I’ve got a key, I could sneak in. Fuck it. I knock.
‘Ah, Peter, hello. Come in,’ Job Done says. He pulls the door open and extends a hand into the hall. ‘Straight through to the living room.’
I go straight through to the living room. It’s small but well-appointed. 22 by 18 at a glance. Not great but liveable. I could sell it. Again.
‘Have a seat,’ Job Done says, pointing to the two-person sofa that sits flush to the south wall. ‘Margarita?’
I shake my head.
‘No? I have fresh lime.’ I shake my head even more. ‘Ah well,’ he says. ‘I got them in specially, but no matter.’ He steps behind the breakfast bar and gathers ingredients.
I’m at that stage of confusion where I really need a margarita. He knows my name.
I sit there as he squeezes limes and mixes Triple Sec and tequila with crushed ice. He smiles at me as he turns the handle on the ice-crusher.
‘You’re sure you don’t want one?’
I shake again, hoping he only notices my head. He nods and smiles, filling two salt-rimmed tumblers.
‘I made you one anyway,’ he says, proffering me a glass, which I take. He sits next to me on the small settee. There’s an empty armchair four feet away.
For reasons I’m unable to satisfactorily identify I don’t take the gun out of my pocket and shoot him through the ear. I do drink the margarita, though.
‘How’s the ankle?’ he asks. ‘All sorted now?’
Jesus fuck. I should be doing my job and going away. Why am I sitting here? I can see the door. I have a plan. It doesn’t even involve any fucking planning. Shoot him in the head and leave. Not fucking hard.
‘Tricky this, eh?’ he says. ‘Macaroon?’
‘What?’ I get a ridiculous amount of satisfaction from getting a word out.
‘Would you like a macaroon?’ he says. ‘I’ve got some in the proving drawer. I made them this morning.’
That’s me done. I have no idea what’s going on and I don’t care. This guy. This fucking guy. There’s something…
It shouldn’t have been possible, but he budges up even closer. We’re basically snuggling now. ‘How’s the retirement fund, Peter?’ he asks. ‘Got your pension sorted?’ The smile on his face is the opposite of creepy. It’s all warmth and concern. Which is fucking creepy.
I give my brain an internal shake and the vibration must be a match or the equal and opposite or some such bollocks to the external shaking I’ve been doing for the past ten minutes because it all cancels out and I manage a semblance of calm.
‘I take it you know why I’m here?’ I say. Calm or not, I still sound like the wee guy at school who decides to stand up to the bully and immediately regrets it.
The not creepy creep continues with the not creepy smile. To add insult to insanity he reaches over with his free hand and strokes my cheek.
I go for the gun now. Given how tightly he has me squeezed into the corner of the sofa this is an instant failure of a venture.
‘Don’t be daft,’ he says gently, pulling my arm back by the wrist, twisting it so tightly I think my forearm is about to snap. ‘Want to buy my flat?’
Ah. Fuck.
He knows who I used to be and what I used to do. How he knows that I have no fucking idea and that is something I shall have to look into with extreme prejudice at a later date, starting with an initially polite but potentially violent visit to my current employers. Still, at least I know what I’m dealing with now.
‘Nah, mate. It’s a shithole,’ I say.
‘Ha! Yes it is, Peter. Yes it is.’ He lets go of my arm, apparently satisfied that a major sprain is enough to prevent me being an idiot again. ‘The gold lions are nice, right enough.’
Job Done stands up and moves over to the arm-chair. I reclaim the centre of the small sofa. The gun is still in my pocket. I leave it there.
‘So anyway,’ he says, matter-of-fact. ‘You killed a pregnant teenager recently. How did that feel?’
What? ‘What?’ I say. What?
‘How did it feel?’ he asks again. ‘Not good, I hope.’
This is supposed to be about shitey house sales. ‘What?’
‘Her name was Linda. Linda Craighorn. You shot her in the face. She’s dead now. Because you got an email and a bank transfer. That’s her finished, over. Whatever she was, whatever she could have been, gone. That life she had growing in her – could have been a wee shit, might have been the saviour of the planet – we’ll never know. You ended all that. Over. Job Done. How you feeling about that?’
Shit. My current employer is going to find a lot more than cash on their outgoings column. This bullshit is unprofessional.
‘A job’s a job,’ I say.
‘And what a career you’ve chosen, eh, Peter?’
‘Pays the bills.’ Weak, I know.
‘Ah, it does that. All those hotel bills mount up. You’re a travelling man, aren’t you?’
‘Everyone likes a holiday.’ Why am I engaged in a haircut conversation with a guy I’m supposed to be killing? I need to get the initiative back, if I ever had it. ‘So you know who I am and why I’m here. Mind if I ask how?’
‘I’d have thought that was obvious,’ he says, finishing his drink. ‘I hired you. Another margarita?’
He goes back behind the kitchen counter and fiddles with the cocktail shaker. Perfect opportunity for me to do my job and get the fuck out.
Can’t. Too curious.
‘You hired me to kill you?’
‘Yep. Weird, isn’t it?’ He crushes ice.
‘Any particular reason?’
‘Several.’ He’s back with the drinks now and hands me a glass. This time he sits on the armchair. ‘How’s your love life lately?’
‘Fuck you,’ I say. It’s a reflex.
Friendly, empathetic, creepy-as-fuck smile again. ‘Sorry. Anyway, yes, I arranged for you to be here tonight. Don’t get me wrong, the rest of your list had nothing to do with me, I simply lobbied to have an amendment added to the contract before it was ratified. Personally, I’d have stopped short of murdering a pregnant teenager just to scare her father into passing a planning application. I mean, Christ. Who actually gives a shit about one more Costa in Rutherglen?’
‘Huh?’
‘That’s why you shot Linda Craighorn. So her criminal father would pressure his councillor brother into passing an unpopular planning application. What a world, eh?’
He has a point. As motives go that’s pretty weak. Since when are Costas unpopular?
‘The father was also the father, by the way. Not sure if that’ll make you feel better or worse.’
‘Oh for fuck’s sake.’
‘Indeed,’ he says. ‘You killed two of his kids with one bullet. You should add that to your CV.’
‘Jesus.’
‘By the sounds of it you were doing the girl a favour. No happy childhoods happening in that family. Anyway, let’s talk about Jake.’
I launch forward and rocket my left fist into his balls. Both our margaritas are on the carpet before I realise he’s not hurt at all and I’m in fucking agony. I stagger backwards to the sofa and collapse on my arse, cradling my throbbing hand. ‘What the fuck?’
‘Sorry, I anticipated that one and dressed appropriately.’ He raps his knuckles against his groin a few times. Sounds like a door being chapped. ‘They make them for cricket players, I think. Not the comfiest, to be fair. So, back to Jake.’
‘I don’t talk about him.’ My left hand is fucking killing me. My right wrist is still sore from when he twisted it, too. It’s been a while since I was this unhappy. Couple of weeks, at least.
‘Ever think that might be part of the problem?’ He gets up, lifts the empty glasses from the floor and heads back to the counter.
‘My current problems? Not really, no,’ I say. A bit petulantly, if I’m honest. ‘They’re more based around wondering who the fuck you are and what the fuck is going on right now.’
‘I suppose so, yes.’ He brings the fresh drinks over and takes his seat once again. He shifts a bit as he sits down, suggesting at least some discomfort. That cheers me up a touch.
‘Can you remember how you ended up selling me this place?’ he continues after settling.
Are we back to that now? Bloody hell. ‘I assume you contacted our office and I delegated you to one of the wee neds in suits that worked for us.’
‘I did, yes. Jake suggested you. He said I could trust you.’
‘Right, enough. What the fuck’s happening?’ I’m not cheery at all now.
‘Jake and I were a couple before you and Jake were a couple. And after we stopped being a couple we were friends. Jake was my friend, Peter. I was at your wedding.’
‘You were fucking not any of those things!’
‘He didn’t tell you about me because he didn’t want you to feel threatened or insecure. I was okay with that. I stood at the back during the ceremony, you didn’t see me.’
My brain is doing something other than working properly by this point. I don’t talk about Jake. I don’t talk about what happened to him. And I definitely don’t talk about what happened after…
‘You married in secret because his family were massive, violent, homophobic dicks. His massive, violent, homophobic dick of a brother, Steph, murdered Jake when he found out he was gay. You killed Steph and your boss helped you cover it up. Along with Steph’s boss, as it happens, which I’ve always thought was decent of him. Ten years later you’ve gone from being a dodgy estate agent who committed an act of violence out of love, grief and justifiable revenge to a, and I’m just going to be blunt here, complete wanker who kills people to pay for holidays. Holidays you go on alone and, I’m fairly certain, don’t enjoy. Is that about right?’
I sit quietly for a minute. Fuck of an info dump, there. It takes some processing.
‘It was a civil partnership. They didn’t have real marriage back then,’ is the only thing I can think of to say.
‘He was still your husband.’ He leans across and extends his hand. ‘Good to finally meet you, Peter. I’m Charles.’
I take his hand and shake it. My wrist still hurts. ‘Hi, Charles.’ I don’t take my hand back. He doesn’t either. He squeezes. My wrist hurts more. That’s okay.
‘Are you wearing a bulletproof vest?’ I ask, to fill some space.
‘Yes I am,’ Charles says. ‘Please don’t shoot me, though. It would still hurt.’
‘Okay.’ Our hands separate and we both lean back.
Well, fuck me. This is all very strange. I down my margarita.
‘Right, so. Why am I here again?’ I say after a while.
‘I went to Italy after you got married. I was happy for you both, I really was, but the prideful old man in me decided not to hang about. I cared for him a lot.’ For the first time since I arrived his control wavers. His eyes drop and his head tilts. Not much, but enough. ‘He and I would email back and forth but when the messages stopped I assumed he had just settled into his life with you. I’m not ashamed to say I moved on myself.’ His eyes are back up now. ‘I had some very fine years in Tuscany, let’s leave it at that.’ The memories appear on his face, fully formed and joyous, before fading abruptly. ‘I only found out about Jake when I got back to Scotland, three years ago. I’m so sorry, Peter. I wish I’d been here for you. And for him.’
‘Okay. Yep. Fair enough. Cheers,’ I say.
‘Christ, you really have forgotten how to do emotions, haven’t you?’
I laugh, by accident. ‘Choosing isn’t the same as forgetting.’
‘It’s the wrong choice, though,’ Charles says.
‘Could be, could be,’ I say. ‘Right, so, Charles. Obviously I’m not going to shoot you now, so that’s off the table. I’m still curious about a few things, though. Like, how do you know so much about me and what I do, and, still, why the fuck am I here?’
Charles makes a noise like a farting balloon - which I quickly realise is a sigh - sags into his chair and looks at the tequila stain on the carpet. ‘I suppose I want to save you.’
‘Oh right.’
He sits up again quickly, eye contact firmly re-established. ‘I think if I’d been here when Jake died I might have been able to help you avoid turning into … whatever you are now.’
‘Okay.’
‘But I wasn’t, and I have some guilt about that. So, I figured I’d see if I could do anything to help now. Not the same, I know, but it’s the best I can offer.’
‘I appreciate that, cheers. But, the whole contract thing? And knowing about me and all the detail and stuff? That’s a bit mental. How do you know all that shit?’
‘Hmm? Oh, I’m an enormous criminal. Very successful. Bit of a mastermind, really.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, yeah. Fingers in all the pies, me. Not literally, obviously. But, yeah. I basically run the west of Scotland. I’m the silent partner all those louds twats like your ex-boss Kenny have. I had 30% of him, before he went to hospital. 30% of you back then, I suppose. If anyone knew who I was they’d probably call me the Scottish Moriarty or something similar.’
‘Cool. I would not have guessed that.’
‘That’s sort of the point,’ Charles says, standing up. ‘Another drink?’
‘Go on. Why do you live in this shithole, then?’
‘Fucking hell, Peter, I don’t live here. It’s horrible. I only bought this place for a postal address. Can’t even remember why I needed it now, to be honest. Drug deliveries, I would imagine. I used to be quite heavily involved in all that.’
‘Not now?’ He made a bloody good margarita, it has to be said.
‘Nah. It’s all politics and property these days. I still get a percentage from the drug stuff but I’m not directly involved. Too many dicks, to be frank.’
‘Unlike politics?’
‘Touché. Politicians are less complicated. Grubby fuckers, but predictable.’
‘Power corrupts?’
‘Fuck, no. They’re all corrupted long before they get into that game. That’s why they get into it. Politics is about ego, not power.’
‘Makes sense. What do you mean by “save me”?’
Charles grins. ‘Ah, back to it. Good man. What do I mean by “save you”? I don’t really know. I’ve been keeping tabs on you for the last couple of years. You don’t seem happy. You are possibly the most solitary person I’ve ever come across. I know how happy you made Jake. And I know how happy you were with Jake. He told me. It seems wrong to me that, ten years later, you’re still miserable. And maybe the fact you spend your time shooting strangers in the face is contributing to that loneliness. I think you should stop doing that. For you.’
‘That’s kind, thank you,’ I say. ‘Have to ask, though. Why the contract? Why not just arrange to meet without the risk of me shooting you?’
‘Where’s the fun in that?’
His smile grows into a laugh. My frown grows into a smile, then a laugh. It’s forced at first but it quickly changes into something real. Something cathartic. Something freeing. We cross-contaminate one another with laughter and soon we’re both grasping for a breath.
‘Are you really wearing a bulletproof vest?’ I manage to say.
‘Ha, yep, I am. Never quite know how it’s going to go,’ Charles says, giggling like a child.
‘And yet you’ve repeatedly pointed out that I shoot people in the face,’ I say, forcing the words out through the chortles.
His eyes turn quizzical for a brief moment before I shoot him through the bridge of his nose and he stops laughing altogether.
It doesn’t happen often, but sometimes you get two contracts for the same person.
‘Save yourself, prick. I’m not your job,’ I say, before realising I’m talking to myself and feeling embarrassed.
Antigua!
About the Author
As a youth, Glaswegian Danny Gillan was a musician. This was a mistake. When, in his thirties, his hairline began receding almost as quickly as his waistline expanded he switched to the less physically taxing endeavour of fiction writing. Sitting down a lot suited him and he has continued this futile expression of desperation for the past 15 years, to little avail. His writing career has involved an impressive two publishing contracts so far. Even more impressively, both publishing houses became insolvent shortly after signing him. His work (two novels and a short story anthology) is currently available on Amazon Kindle. He pretends not to care if anyone buys it.