Silencing the Dead by Will Harker (ereader ebook .txt) 📕

doors behind me, I could hear the sound of kids kicking a ball in a neighbouring street, a couple’s muffled argument, a lawnmower chuntering into life, the summery chimes of an ice cream van, incongruous in the autumn dank. Life rolling on, oblivious to the psychopath currently threatening to emasculate me in his late grandmother’s armchair.

Noonan moved the gun up and down my groin before tutting at himself. “I just can’t bring myself to do it.” He sighed. “I’ve heard such wonderful things, it would be like desecrating a work of art. But perhaps a bullet to the gut would satisfy me?” He jabbed the barrel into my navel and hissed between his teeth. “Such a bad way to go. Takes a fucking age for them to die. I’m not sure I’d want him rolling around on the floor, squealing like a stuck pig for the rest of the afternoon. What about we just cut to the chase and finish this thing?”

He played the pistol around my jaw, over my left cheek, and into the tumble of curls that curtained my forehead. I felt the muzzle find that hot, throbbing wound Christopher Cloade had inflicted, and at its slightest touch, stars exploded before my eyes.

“I can see you’ve been pissing off other people behind my back,” Noonan pouted. “And I thought we were exclusive.”

“What can I say?” I grunted back at him. “I’m too much of a pain in the arse for just one crazy motherfucker.”

“You know your problem, Scott?” he seethed.

“I’m acutely aware of about half a dozen. Look, Mark, if there’s a choice between being psychoanalysed by a certified sociopath in a tracksuit that does nothing for him, and having my brains blown out, please hurry up and feed me the fucking bullet already.”

“Well, isn’t she a sassy princess?” The mobster straightened up and raked the gun hard across my forehead, splitting the surgical glue, reopening the wound, and making me roar. “Maybe her fairy godfather should make her wish come true.”

The pain burned under my skin, ran like liquid fire down my spine, made my fists clench, and my toes curl. I felt the warm cascade of blood flow down my face. I wanted to wipe the spill from my chin, but it was important to let Noonan have his moment. He had to make enough of an example of me to save face and to keep the husbands in check. I might have made it easier for myself just now by not running my mouth off—but hey, nice to meet you, I’m Scott Jericho.

Finally, he pushed the weapon between my eyes and pulled the trigger.

A single, impotent click.

“Ha!” he cried ecstatically. “Oh, poor Scottster. Didn’t you know I was only fucking with you?”

He flicked the gun away, and returning it to his holster, spun on tiptoes to face his crew. The husbands all burst into competitive applause, as if Noonan had just pulled the crown jewels out of his arse. After a moment or two, he seemed satisfied and ordered Timmo to go to the bathroom and fetch clean towels and the first aid box. While I thumbed blood from my eyes, the middle-aged mobster came and sat on the arm of the chair, his diamond-encrusted sausage fingers massaging my shoulder.

“You know that was nothing personal, don’t you?” he whispered. “It’s just the way things have always been done. And I think you’ll agree that I let you off quite lightly. No hard feelings?”

“Never where you’re concerned, Mark,” I assured him. “And I knew you wouldn’t dishonour Nana’s memory by killing me in her favourite chair. I remembered her rule—no severe beatings in the sitting room.”

We both looked up at the portrait of the long-dead gargoyle, leering down at us from her spot above the mantelpiece. In her final years, Nana Noonan had sported the kind of moustache a nineteenth-century strongman might have envied, but a loving eye is very forgiving. Mark patted my hand almost affectionately.

“Wasn’t she a handsome old lady? Always had a soft spot for you, you know.”

I was saved from inventing any fond feelings for Nana by the arrival of Timmo and the towels. Mark asked for the room to be cleared while he personally cleaned and bandaged my wound. His personality had flipped again, switching from Old Testament tyrant—thou shalt not worship any gang boss but me—to forgiving mobster messiah. The husbands looked relieved to be dismissed and the door clicked shut behind them. While Noonan fussed, sterilised, and bandaged, I tried to return us to the topic in hand.

“Now you’ve had your fun, can we talk about Nick?”

“Stop squirming or you’ll open this cut right back up again,” he chided. “And we’ll get to Nicholas in a moment. First, you still owe me a favour for the way you went off with the filth. This little production today doesn’t even begin to balance out the scales between us.”

“Mark,” I sighed. “There’s no way I’m coming back to work for you. Not even for a one-off job.”

“All right, you great virtuous saint,” he said lightly. “It isn’t anything that will compromise all these new-found morals of yours. I’ll fill you in on the details once this business you’re involved with up north is done and dusted.” For Noonan, anywhere beyond the end of the Piccadilly Line was classified as ‘up north.’ “I just need you to look into a family matter for me.”

“And if I say yes, you’ll tell me about Nick?”

“If you say yes, I won’t cut off your balls and feed them to Doris’ cat over the road.”

I admitted defeat as he secured the last bandage and patted my curls back into place. “Fine.” Standing up, I checked my reflection in the mirror next to Nana’s portrait. I had to hand it to Noonan, thirty years of digging out bullets and patching up husbands had made him a pretty skilled first-aider. “Just promise me this favour won’t get me arrested.”

“Can anyone guarantee such a thing with Scott Jericho?”

I shrugged.