museum and the pub.
He knew there had been failure. Body language told him: his brother’s head and the slump of the shoulders. Robbie still had the overalls on and – dear God, couldn’t believe it – he had in his hand something that looked the right colour for the balaclava. They didn’t run, but Leanne was trying to speed him up. He could see – but not yet hear – that she was pestering him with questions and not getting answers.
How had it been every other time that Vern had done the driver’s role? He had been sitting or standing by the car and Robbie had materialised round a corner, never panting, never with a hair out of place, and had sauntered over, opened his door, lowered himself into the seat, slipped on the seatbelt and locked it. He had never looked fussed or troubled. Nothing to shout that he was stressed. Every other time Vern had eased the car away from a kerb or a supermarket parking bay and hadn’t screamed the tyres or burned the rubber, but had gone off main roads on to back doubles and rat-runs where there weren’t cameras. Didn’t quiz. Every other time he had let Robbie have his space and let him break the quiet in the car. And every other time there had been a half-wink, a slight nod or a wisp of a smile. They were near to him, and no reaction from Robbie, Leanne biting her lip and opening the big plastic bag from her pocket, and there in the street, but behind a tree, his brother peeled off the overalls and dropped them in, then the balaclava. She reached into the boot and had the lighter fuel out, was spraying his arms and trying to dab his face with cotton wool. Nobody came. The street stayed empty. The museum still had the closed sign up and the pub was shuttered. Seemed to take for ever.
It was an untravelled road, new territory.
He was in the car, twisting the ignition, when he heard the smack of the rear door closing. Then Leanne was beside him, her expression dead, as if shock had hit her. Her hands shook.
‘Where to?’ He was entitled to ask.
Nothing from Robbie, except the stink of lighter fuel. Leanne said, ‘Just get clear.’
‘How fast?’ Needed to know – big speed or like nothing had happened?
Robbie didn’t speak. Leanne did: ‘Out of here.’
He had never peppered questions before because there had been no need. Was now. ‘What happened?’
A little hiss of breath from Robbie. Leanne spoke for him. ‘It didn’t – didn’t happen.’
Robbie accepted it – had no choice. Like the first time he’d been in an interview room, aged ten years and four months, and his mother was the ‘responsible adult’. She answered all the questions the big butch police cow had put. Leanne would be the mouthpiece.
Vern ignored his brother. ‘He fired. That’s why we’ve done clothing and why we’ve this bloody smell. So what happened?’
‘He missed,’ she said softly.
‘He missed? Am I hearing right? How many shots?’
‘Two. He told me when I met him. I don’t know everything.’
‘He missed with two shots? What range?’
‘He said it was about three yards.’
‘He missed with two shots and three yards – nine feet? Not possible. How?’
‘He stood where some grass was dumped, off the track. There were rotten apples and wasps and-’ She spoke without expression.
‘He stood on a wasps’ nest – is that what you’re saying?’
‘He saw the target, with the dog, came out on to the track after him, and the target ducked as he fired first so he missed and-’
‘The target ducked? What’s the target supposed to do? Stand fucking still?’ He was close to losing the car. Head shaking, eyes big, hands off the wheel and over his eyes and ‘He missed with the second shot because he had a wasp in his nose and a wasp in his eye.’
Vern had control again of the car, had bumped the kerb and missed a tree, and was back on the road. ‘Yes – so?’
‘I don’t know much more, Vern. He fired twice, missed twice and quit. Vern, the target threw a flipflop at him.’
‘Was armed with a flipflop and threw it.’
‘And hit him with it.’
And Vern – on new territory, milking the moment and maybe reflecting years of resentment at the kid brother who used him as chauffeur and messenger-boy, never as a trusted confidant – said, ‘Oh, that’s serious. Should we go to Accident and Emergency? What a prat – a tosser. What a-’
An arm came from behind, and the hand was at his throat, closing on his windpipe. The skin on the fingers stank of lighter fuel, and he fought for breath. He hung on to the wheel and stayed off the pavement, and heard her voice, soft, speaking past him. The grip loosened. There were no sirens.
He didn’t respond, wouldn’t have rubbed his neck or showed that it had hurt him. He didn’t apologise for what he had called his brother – a prat and a tosser – and could have called him worse. He couldn’t get his head round Robbie standing on rotten apples, stirring shit in a wasps’ nest and missing twice. No Cairns ever apologised, not his granddad or his dad, and he wouldn’t be the first.
He turned off at a line of shops and went right, heading towards the high old buildings of the prison for young guys. He found a narrow entrance to an old quarry he had located when he had done his drive round.
What he understood was pretty clear: his young brother had screwed up big. He didn’t know if, in Robbie’s trade, second chances were handed out.
‘Let him wait,’ she’d said. ‘Let him bloody wait and stew.’
They should have had an hour, maybe more. If her husband took the dog right up to the Bill and had a coffee or tea at the cafe, it would be more than an hour. If he went the other way, took the path past the young-offenders prison and went all the way to the adults’ gaol, that would be an hour too. She had been standing behind the chair in the kitchen, and her hands had been on the man’s shoulders. She had been working the muscles, taking the tension from them when she had heard the shots. Then nothing, silence. Perhaps a little anxiety had eaten at her resolve. A couple of minutes had passed and her hands had been off his neck.
She couldn’t have said what she wanted – for Harvey to walk into the house, soft-soled shoes and quiet, when they were in the kitchen, her hitched up on the table, or they might have been on the floor in any damn room… It was her dream, ever-present. But she jibbed a little at its fulfilment… she didn’t know how he would react. Fine if he was apoplectic, scarlet-faced, broke down in tears or threatened violence. Grim if he stayed in the doorway, watched the hips bounce and asked if there had been calls, then went off to his office.
Two shots.
In the early days, she had been with him to arms fairs where there were 25-metre ranges and customers were invited to shoot, the prizes champagne magnums. There had been a day out – four-course lunch in the officers’ mess – at the Infantry Training School’s firepower demonstration, when blank and live rounds had been fired.
Her gardener did not know that her husband’s life was threatened and a contract taken, but would have seen him go out of the gates and heard shots. She strained to listen.
A young man’s laughter, then a young woman’s, from behind the high wall that bordered the driveway and the patio. Must have been wrong, not shots. Could have sworn they were, though. She couldn’t ring Harvey because his phone was within arm’s reach. Her hands had gone back to the shoulders, the rippling muscles, and her fingers slipped down into the mat of chest hair – and there had been his voice: If you two haven’t started shagging yet, let me in.
There had been the fall of stones on the drive, and she could see the high gate rocking as if someone was trying to force it.
Let him wait. Let him bloody wait and stew.
A kiss, wet against the salt gathered behind an ear. There would be no more. She yearned for it, but wouldn’t have it – even though she had a condom in her pocket, and knew there was always one – ribbed – in his wallet. A good bet her Harvey wouldn’t care anyway. He used to tell her that in Belarus or Bulgaria, Romania or Georgia the whores would be queuing in the bar for his attentions. Skinny girls and heavy girls, tall and short, natural and artificial blonde patrolled the corridor outside his room in the hope he’d weaken and take the chain off the door. Implants, suspenders and HIV. Would have been easier for her, if she could have been the wronged wife because he took tarts into his room. She let go of the shoulders.
