For a long second, the only noise seemed to be the echoing crash of the gun. It was a relief to find the ten-year-old shells still worked. Then Curly began screaming.
‘He shot me! He fucking shot me!’ he advised us all, superfluously.
He fell over clutching his foot, squealing like a kid. At the two tables, every man jack of them was on his feet. Chairs crashed to the ground, pint mugs went flying, and the whole pack reared back a couple of feet from this madman in tweed. Before any of them decided to play the hero and rush me, I aimed my gun directly at Dermot Slattery’s head.
‘Shut up!’ I shouted. Peace fell on the pub except for Curly’s whimpers.
‘Shut up, for Christ’s sake,’ said Gerrit, his pale face now blotched red with what I hoped was fear. Curly stifled his moans and lay breathing heavily with blood staining his shoe and leaking into the sawdust. There was a two-inch hole in the wood floor where his foot had been, so it must have hurt.
I heard a movement from the other side of the bar and saw the swing door open and some of the hangers-on flee into the night. It wouldn’t be long before they summoned the coppers. I had to move fast while I still held the initiative provided by a smoking gun. I stepped forward quickly and jammed the barrel into Dermot’s gut. At last I got a different look in his sardonic eyes. Fear and uncertainty.
‘Turn round. Fast!’ I shouted at him.
He turned to face his gang and I rammed my fingers down the neck of his soft-necked shirt so that I was throttling him with his buttoned collar and tie. I had a good grip of him with my left hand. I rammed the gun barrel into the side of his head.
‘Anyone tries anything and the next bullet will blow his head off. Understand? I said: Understand?’ I got nods from the five faces in front of me.
‘What do you want us to do, Dermot?’ shouted Fergie.
He choked out, ‘Do nuthin’, you eejit. Nuthin’!’
I whispered in his ear. ‘Smart, Dermot. Keep being smart and you might not end up dead this night. OK?’ He nodded as best a man could while being garrotted with his own shirt collar.
‘Right! I want all of you to walk round to the other side of the bar, where I can see you. Move it!’
They unfroze and began to mill round to the far side. Gerrit stood still facing me.
‘If you so much as…’
‘Save your puff, Gerrit. Get round there with the rest.’ I pressed harder on Dermot’s skull with the gun.
‘Do it, for Christ’s sake,’ croaked Dermot.
Gerrit and the others clustered round the bar and I began to walk Slattery to the door. I kicked it open and pushed him through, keeping tight grip of his neck. I stood in the open doorway and looked back at the pack. They were already creeping forward.
‘I’ll shoot the first man that walks through this door. And then I’ll shoot your boss here. Got that? I said: Got that!’ Grudging nods. It would give me about twenty seconds. I pushed Dermot on to the pavement, tightened my grip on his collar and began to run him ahead of me down the darkened side alley. He wasn’t fit, couldn’t breathe easily and was soon puffing like a broken steam engine. I propelled him on, encouraging him by jabbing my gun into his neck from time to time.
‘Jesus, Jesus, I can’t… Jesus…’ He was well into his second time round the rosary when I hauled him down a cobbled alley that ran parallel to the pub. Halfway along I threw him into the dark gap of a garage entrance. I rammed him against the wall and let him slide to the ground. I put the pistol to his head. The anger was thudding away in a tight place inside my head.
‘Shut up, Slattery. Just shut the fuck up.’ I squeezed the words out through gritted teeth.
He gasped and spluttered and then threw up his stout. The sour stink tainted the air. But at least he wasn’t calling for his Maker any more. Behind us, I could hear shouts and clattering feet on the pavements and cobbles.
‘Don’t – kill – me – Brodie,’ he gasped. ‘I can pay you. Anything you want.’
I wanted to kick him, badly.
‘I want Mrs Reid and her kids. I want the life of my pal, Hugh Donovan.’
‘OK, we can talk. We can help.’ He kneeled in front of me in supplication. I brought the cold snout of the gun against his temple.
‘Can we, Dermot? Can we? Can I trust you?’
He shook his head up and down like a puppy. The hard man was gone.
‘As God’s my judge.’
‘I’m pretty sure he is, Slattery.’
It was a dizzying moment. I caught a glimpse of one of his futures: a shrunken body sprawled on the cobbles, with half his face missing and a dark pool forming under his head. I rubbed my face and focused on the present. The moonlight reflected white on his pinched face. Sweat dripped from his brow and breath panted in his throat. I’d taken life in battle but not like this, not a cold execution of a tired, middle-aged man. For all his foul deeds, including ordering my death, an unexpected pang of shame shot through me. I pulled my gun away and stepped back.
I listened to the shouts and the running feet. There was confusion, with the search party splitting up. At the end of the alley, backlit by the orange glow of the streetlamp, two men had stopped and were staring into the blackness. They were wondering whether they should take the chance and venture in or look somewhere brighter, less threatening. I leaned in close and told Slattery in a voice only he could hear.
‘I want you to pick Mrs Reid and all four weans from wherever you’re hiding them on Arran. You’ve got Sunday to pick them up and get them back here. You will deliver them to the public library at Townhead, Monday morning. Ten o’clock. Got that?’
He nodded.
‘If they’re not there, Slattery, I will come after you and your kin and I will shoot you down like rats. Do you understand?’
I peered at him in the moonlight. His small eyes glittered with hope and some of the old cunning.
‘It’s a deal, Brodie.’
I looked at him. I doubted it. But it was worth a try. The prospect of Slattery handing over a witness capable of putting him and his crew on the scaffold had as much chance as a three-legged donkey of winning the Derby. But I had stirred up the nest. There would be action resulting from it. Some of it might play my way. On the other hand I could just get badly stung. To death.
‘Get up. Start walking towards your pals. Don’t run. Don’t shout out, or I will put a bullet in your back.’
He stood up and backed away, still facing me, trying to gauge my mood and intention. A spark of triumph? Contempt? flitted across his face. Then he turned and began to walk towards the entry, his back stiffened in anticipation. I turned and ran. My leather soles slapped on the cobbles. That was enough for Slattery. I heard him break into a run in the opposite direction.
‘Here, you fuckers! I’m here!’ he shouted.
I stopped, turned and fired. Into the air. The bang reverberated among the tall buildings. Slattery flung himself to the ground and the two figures at the alley end dived to the side. I broke into a sprint, erupting from the alley and off down the quiet streets. I twisted and turned and slowed to a walk and found my way back on to the Byers Road. The sweat was pouring down my body under my good tweed suit. I pulled my cap off and rubbed my face dry on its rough surface. I wondered what I’d done.