The Man Who Killed

pricked my scalp and my hand clenched the Webley tighter. Jack moved past the bar. Another fellow was posted there. A collective ripple like wind on a wheat field seemed to flutter through the remaining drinkers. Out the corner of my eye the wizened bartender started to crouch. Suddenly there was a shrill whistle, the electric lights went up and someone yelled: “Police!”

The pair at the window jumped and the homburgs did the same. I leapt to my feet with the Webley’s hammer cocked. Jack grabbed a short bastard and held the naked blade from his cane to the man’s neck. I pointed the Webley at the mirror and pulled the trigger. There was a boom and Bushmills Irish Whiskey

shattered, glittering to the floor. Topers hid under tables. I swung the gun to point at the cops, to the lummox at the front door, then back to the Senator’s goons. I was a piece of stone, frozen with fury and fear. The broken looking glass coursed down in silver shards.

“Move and I’ll burn your brains!” I roared.

“This one gets a knife!” shouted Jack.

The four cops were nearly identical in black coats and hats. One muttered to another.

“Ta gueule!” I yelled and took aim at his yap.

“On the ground, all of you, or this one’s dead!” shouted Jack.

Silence. The cops reluctantly bent. I kicked my way through prone bodies; innocent bystanders, one might call them, except everyone’s guilty and I’d kill them all to get out. Eyes down, eyes up, over to Jack.

“Open it,” he commanded his prisoner.

Jack reached into his coat and took out his Browning, jabbing it into his hostage’s lumbar. My arm trembled and I submitted to total tachycardia, my body bursting with searing blood, my skin ice, hair on end. We were in for it now and no mistake.

“You won’t go far!” one of the plainclothesmen shouted.

“In a pig’s eye!” yelled Jack.

He pushed our bartering chip through the door into the dark. Nothing happened. Jack darted out and I covered. I took one last look around the tavern. I’d never forget it. Came Jack’s voice: “Ankle!”

I stepped into the night blind. Jack’s hand grabbed me.

“This way,” he hissed.

He kicked the hostage in the arse and took off down the alley. I peeled after him, fast as I could. Nightmare, nightmare. I wasn’t fast enough. My body was heavy, no air to breathe. Run. Run. Goddammit, the police at last. It was dark, too dark, I couldn’t see a Goddamned thing. My eyes strained wide for light, trying to follow Jack as he ran. Dogs? Were those dogs chasing us? I turned and tripped and dropped my gun, scrambled to my feet. No time to find it. Run.

I broke out of the alley into a lit street and saw Jack sprinting down a narrow ruelle between two high buildings. There was the screech of tires and a pair of yellow headlamps rushed at me. Hanging, it would be hanging for me if I was caught. I charged into the darkness with my legs burning, soaking wet, running. Faster, faster. They won’t hang you; they’ll shoot you down like a fucking dog in the street. Go, Goddammit. Go.

Jack dashed to the left and I caught him turn, then turn again. Footsteps pounded like slamming doors after me and there were echoes and gunshots. I heard shouts, police whistles, dogs barking. No. I slowed for a moment, gasping, chest heaving. I grabbed at my necktie and pulled open the noose. No, there was no one, the noises were in me. I picked up the pace again but Jack was gone. Shit. My head spun wildly looking for a way out, an escape hatch. I turned another corner and hands grabbed the front of my coat. Cardiac arrest.

“Quiet. Breathe through your mouth. Don’t move.”

Jack pushed me down. He had a gun in each hand and we were hiding behind rubbish bins in a loading bay. A rotten stench filled my nostrils. I brushed a waxy brick wall and smelled my fingers: fat. We were behind a butcher shop or slaughterhouse amongst waste meat and filth. I could hear a slithering movement and a squeaking. Rats. My teeth were bared, my eyes staring insanely. My stomach roiled and turned. Don’t. Don’t spew, you’ll give us away. Jack cocked his head and froze. I didn’t dare move. For an agonizing lifetime we waited as the vermin scratched and scratched.

“Lost my gun,” I said at last.

“Here.”

Jack handed over his Webley. We waited for anything. I was parched and screaming for water. We waited for our pursuers, for whistles and shouts, motorcars, footsteps, horse hooves, dog howls. Nothing.

“It gets better and better,” Jack said to himself.

“We’ve got to keep moving,” I said hoarsely.

“They know where to find us.”

“The Senator sold us. Why?”

“Damned if I know. Town’s too hot now,” said Jack.

“Took them long enough.”

“They’ve got us. They’ll cordon off the area and set up patrols. There’ll be a uniform at every callbox and a flying squad ready in a trice. We’ve got to get off the island.”

“How? They’ll call the stations and blockade the bridges. Even if we grab a motor—”

“We’ve got to get off,” repeated Jack.

“No, let’s go to ground,” I whimpered.

Jack rounded on me.

“Where? If they knew we’d be at that dump they’ll have the jump on us wherever we bolt. Use your head.”

His venom put my back up. I tamped down my rage for the moment. “Follow me,” I said.

“Where? Gaol?”

“No. Never that.”

We crept to the alley mouth and argued over our bearings. I told Jack my notion. He thought it over a minute and shrugged.

“Could be worse. Not by much.”

It was touch and go. The most dangerous moment was crossing the wide, well-lit expanse of McGill Street from Griffintown into old Ville Marie. We passed the Customs House and prowled along to the river. Jack stuck by me as I worried our way along, stopping at every noise. We wouldn’t last a night plus the light of day on the run in this city, no friends and the police after us. It would end in a bloody fusillade. By pussyfooting it we came to our goal and fortune smiled on failure. It was there.

“Luck of the bloody Irish,” Jack said.

MY OLD COMRADE managed a tight grin as we stepped out from our concealed position to the deserted promenade between Alexandra and King Edward quays. I looked down at the rowboat I’d seen tied up by a freighter on Friday when we’d killed the moneymen.

“What was the boat called?” I asked.

“The Hatteras Abyssal.”

“Gone now,” I said.

“Back to Holland,” said Jack.

For the nonce there were no other large freighters moored nearby. Either chance or design, it didn’t matter. We coasted to the rusty ladder and Jack climbed down. I spied a nightwatchman or harbour patrolman walking towards us.

“Hurry,” I breathed.

I shoved the Webley in my belt and followed Jack onto the skiff. I wobbled into the stern.

“You row,” Jack said.

I untied us and pushed away. We were in a dark canyon between piers. With the oars I pivoted us around and out of the slack through an eddy of detritus and buoyant trash. We moved into the river proper and I pulled to place us beyond pistol range. I could see the watchman’s head but he never broke stride. My gun barrel bit into my crotch so I passed the gun to Jack. He lay low at the bow with his wrists steady on the rim, ready to fire. In five minutes we were well past the end of the pier and soon entered the wide, strong current of the St. Lawrence. Jack turned and I rested at the oars, letting the flow push us downriver. We gazed back at the dirty maroon