Killing Mum

TWO

When Carlos arrived at his mother's flat, she was drinking coffee and Jordan was sitting opposite on the settee with the dregs of a glass of milk on the table in front of him.

"Everything okay?" Carlos said.

"We've been having a lovely chat," his mother said.

Carlos wasn't sure for a second, then saw her lips curl slightly and decided she was being sarcastic. Jordan wasn't exactly chatty at the best of times. Not surprising given what the poor kid had gone through. Course, this whole situation was complex, what with Jordan and Richie's families having pretty much annihilated one another about eighteen months ago. Luckily, with Richie still in prison and likely to stay there for a long, long time, that wasn't a problem.

Carlos didn't feel too bad about it, though. He'd needed someone to replace Richie. And Jordan visited Richie's mother regularly, even now, which was something. Just sat there, neither of them speaking, holding hands. He'd seen them there that first time at the Home. Jordan was a blank. And Richie's mother hadn't spoken in years.

It was Richie's fault that Carlos and Jordan had met. Richie'd asked Carlos to check in on Liz, see how she was coping. Carlos couldn't see the point, wasn't intending hanging around, just dropping off some fresh flowers and scarpering, but when he got there he'd found this kid with her, a boy, barely a teenager, and remembered seeing the picture of them together in the newspaper. Part of the media frenzy. Kid Rescues Brain-Damaged Woman From Inferno. Not to mention the horror show inside the country cottage as body after body was discovered. Fascinating. Then all the speculation. Nobody knew who'd killed who. It was all guesswork. The fire saw to that.

And of the only two survivors, Liz couldn't speak and the kid wouldn't speak. Too traumatised, apparently.

And he wasn't the only one. Richie couldn't handle it. Went berserk in the slammer, killed a guard, which meant that he'd probably never get out now. Anyway, no chance he'd get to visit his mum. Which is why he'd asked Carlos to go see her, and how Carlos had bumped into Jordan.

Carlos had spotted it right away. He'd seen it in the photos. He saw it the minute he saw Jordan in the flesh. The kid was dead behind the eyes. Just like Richie used to be.

"Nice of you to visit," Carlos had said to Jordan. "But why?"

Jordan shrugged.

Carlos cleared his throat, lowered his voice. "You can tell me."

No response.

Carlos said, "Tell me what you did."

Jordan looked him in the eye.

"It can be our secret," Carlos said.

Are you a poof or something? Sounded like a young lad's voice, one on the point of breaking, flitting about like it wasn't sure which register suited best. Carlos hadn't seen Jordan open his mouth, but he was the only kid in the room. Well?

"No." Carlos smiled. "No, no." He waited a moment. "Is it because you feel guilty? Is that why you're here?"

I feel nothing.

"Good," Carlos said. "That's excellent. Anyway, I suppose the bitch got what she deserved."

Jordan looked at him again.

The bitch. Liz's daughter. Richie's sister.

"I thought so," Carlos said. "I know how you must feel."

Jordan stared at his feet, tapped the toes of his trainers on the floor.

"You sorry about what you did?" Carlos asked.

Why would I be sorry?

"You like money, Jordan?"

The kid shrugged again.

"You and me," Carlos said. "I think we'll get along just fine."

And they had done. The kid needed an outlet and spilled everything to Carlos eventually. Run out of bullets or he'd still be there pumping slugs into her, he'd said. Or at least that's what Carlos heard him say. Something had happened with Jordan's dad, too, but he wouldn't elaborate. He claimed he didn't feel anything, but there was something there, something raw that Carlos knew was best avoided.

Jordan was good. Professional. Ruthless. Problem was he could only do local jobs. He lived with his grandmother and she kept tabs on him, protective of him now that her sons were dead. Carlos didn't know what had happened to Jordan's mother, but she was out of the picture. So, while Jordan could sneak out for the night easily enough, he couldn't pop down to London for a couple of days. But that was okay. Carlos had wound down the operation anyway and just the occasional job now and again was fine with him. Once Jordan got a bit older, maybe they'd pick up again.

Anyway, it would appear from tonight's showing that Jordan hadn't said anything to Carlos's mother. Maggie didn't care for him much, found the silences hard to bear, although she'd only ever met him a couple of times to deliver his money to him and claimed that he said, "Clever," when she took the money out of the pram the first time, and thanks the second time. But she conceded that he was good at what he did. Carlos had expected his mother would get herself plastered as usual tonight, give them a piece of her booze-addled mind, but she looked as sober as he'd seen her in ages.

Carlos tossed the bodybag onto the shag carpet. "Hope you like the colour," he said.

"You sure you want to go through with this?" his mum asked.

"It's the only way."

He didn't want to discuss this again. They'd been over it enough times already. They really needed to get moving now. Maggie was waiting outside in the Ford Escort van her sister's boyfriend had nicked to order, trying to keep herself relaxed by listening to her iPod, and Carlos was due to give her a bell once he was done. He promised her it'd be quick. She'd be ringing him to see what the problem was if he didn't hurry.

He didn't hurry. He sat down next to Jordan, shifting the gun tucked down the back of his waistband as it dug into his spine.

She had to ring. She had to tell him to stop what he was about to do. This was her last chance.

"Maybe it wasn't her," his mother said.

"Doesn't matter," he said. Maybe Maggie'd taken out the contract, maybe not. But either way, she should make him stop this craziness. He was about to kill his mother, for Christ's sake. Her silence made her guilty of something unforgivable, even if he couldn't pinpoint it just yet. "Whatever way you look at it, if she doesn't put a stop to this, she's a bitch from hell." And she'd signed her own death warrant.

"I'll give her ten more minutes," he said to his mother. "And then…"

"I'm dead," she said, nodding. "Thanks, Maggie."

They sat in silence, Carlos counting down the minutes, then the seconds, and finally, he said, "If you were looking for a monster, I think you've found one." He took the gun out of his waistband and handed it to Jordan. "You'll be needing this," he said. "It's not pretty but it'll do the job."

Maggie arrived a minute after he'd texted her. He answered the door, aware of a dull throb behind his eyes when he looked at her.

"Is it done?" she asked.

He turned away from her, led her into the sitting room, pointed at the bodybag, filled out, zipped up.

"Shit," she said. "You did it."

"Of course I did it."

"Shit," she said again. "Do you feel okay?"

"Fine."

"Really?"

"Yeah. How should I feel?"

"I dunno. In pain. Emotional. Horrible."

"I'm fine," Carlos said.

They stood for a minute, looking at each other, at the bodybag, back at each other. "So," Carlos said. "Give me a hand to lift this?"

Maggie didn't move.

"What?"

"How can you be 'fine'?" she asked.

"How many times do I need to say it?"

"I just find it hard to believe — "

"Maggie, we don't have time for this. Help me get the bag onto my shoulder."

"You can't be 'fine'."

"I assure you, I'm just fine. Por favor." He indicated the bag.

"You're right." She stepped forward. "You're right," she said again. "Looks heavy. You going to manage it?"

"No problem. Diet of vodka, she weighs next to nothing."

"Dead weight though." She looked at him, realised what she'd said. She laughed. "I'm sorry," she said.

"What for?"

"It's not funny."

"No," he said. "It isn't."

"I'm just nervous. I can't get my head round this."

"Don't think," he said. "Act."

"I didn't think you'd go through with it."

"Don't think," he said, louder.

"I should have stopped you."

They stared at the bag. He'd thought all bodybags were black. But the mortuary only had a spare one in tan.

"Charlie," she said.

"Yeah?"

"You killed your mother."

He grabbed her wrist. "For Christ's sake, Maggie. You knew I was going to do it. Why are you acting so surprised?"

"I didn't…" She pulled her arm away.

"You didn't what?"

"Forget it. It's done." She rubbed her wrist.

He spoke quietly. "You wish it wasn't? Maybe you should have talked me out of it."

"Not my call."

He took a long breath through his nose. Smelled Maggie's face cream. She was wearing lipstick too. For her, this was just a night out.

"Fair enough," he said. "Are you going to stand there, or are you going to help?"

Once Carlos had watched a delivery guy carry a washing machine on his back up three flights of stairs. Impressive. Even more impressive, the same guy had taken the old one away with him on the way back down. In comparison, carrying a body down a single flight of stairs shouldn't be too much of a task. Carlos took a couple of steps towards the door, testing out the weight on his shoulders.

Maggie looked at him.

"It's not so bad," he said.

He was wrong. He'd only managed three steps and already his legs felt leaden. And he kept thinking he was going to topple forwards. He couldn't balance properly, wanted to put his hand on the rail but knew if he did that the body would slip. Maybe the bodybag hadn't been such a great idea after all. This was an extra heavy duty job. Greater 'leakage protection', he was told, after he'd complained about the colour. Sounded just fine as a sales pitch, but the reality was that the bag weighed more than the standard model.

He considered turning round, walking backwards. Felt like it'd be a damn sight easier, leaning against the slope. But he needed to see where he was going. He'd stumble, fall, land on his neck or something.

Mierda. At this pace, he'd be here all night. Somebody might come home. Always a risk, even though it was late. If they did, there was the wedge under the front door and Maggie poised to stall them. But if someone who was already at home decided to head on out for some reason, there wasn't much he could do. Couldn't hide. Couldn't run away. He'd just have to own up. Which would ruin everything.

The thought had occurred to him before. He tried to remember why he'd decided it wouldn't be a problem.

Ideally, his mother's murder should have been committed elsewhere. But this was all for Maggie's benefit. Not that she could appreciate it. Or would if she could. He'd just have to get on with it. Tuesday night. One in the morning. Nobody was going to be coming in or out. Fuck it, everything'd be fine.

He limped his way down the rest of the steps, one careful step after another. By the time he reached the bottom, sweat was running into his eyes and the muscles in his neck and shoulder felt like they were being twisted around each other and pulled so tight they were about to snap. His thighs burned.

But so far, so good. Only ten feet between him and the front door. He took a breath, staggered forwards.

A few steps later, Maggie bent down, removed the wooden wedge from under the door. She fumbled the wedge, sprang back when it bounced on the floor with a clack. "Shit," she said. "Shit, shit." She picked up the wedge, her hand shaking. "Should I check outside?"

He wanted to nod but couldn't. And he was too out of breath to say anything. He let his eyes do the talking.

Yes.

She disappeared, returned a few seconds later. "Clear," she said. "I'll go open the van."

He still couldn't believe she was doing this.

Ten minutes later, Maggie removed her headphones, turned off her iPod. "Classical music. Bach," she said. "Thought I'd give it a go. Supposed to help you relax."

"And I thought you just didn't want to talk to me." Carlos grinned to show he wasn't serious.

"Hope Sofia's okay."

Their babysitter was a seventeen-year-old whose name Carlos couldn't remember. They'd used her before. Maggie was friends with her sister. Or someone. "She'll be just fine," he said. "Why don't you phone and check?"

"It's late," Maggie said. "I'm fretting. I have to worry about her, you know. Mother's duty."

He watched the white lines in the middle of the road, pushed the wheel of his palm against the steering wheel.

Maggie asked, "How's the shoulder?"

The pain was a fading ache now. "Gone," he said.

"Gone," Maggie said.

"Yeah," he said. "Just about."

Those white lines reminded him of when he was a kid, first time in a plane, looking out the window as they were about to land, still trying to work out how something so heavy could float in the air.

"What?" Maggie said.

"Nothing. Why?"

"You look like you're somewhere else."

"I do?" God, it was weird, but he felt some kind of sense of loss. Maybe it was because of what was going to happen to Maggie. A state of pre-mourning or something. His stomach felt empty. Not that he was hungry. It just felt like he hadn't eaten. And the sound of the car engine was too loud, high-pitched. Like an airplane.

"You know how I hate airports," he said, for something to say.

"I've noticed, yeah."

"You know why?"

She shrugged. "They're no fun. Nobody likes them. Security checks, all that crap."

"I've always hated them, long before the days of liquid bombs. First flight, I was nine or ten. We'd just got back from Spain, looking for Dad. The passengers were all clustered round the carousel at the baggage retrieval and there was this hubbub of chat floating around. You ever noticed airport acoustics?" He didn't wait for an answer. He was talking to himself anyway. "There's this swell of noise. You can pick out layers, but no words. And over the top you can hear the sound of rattling cutlery, like it's in your headphones, and someone's telling you he's dead. Your father's dead. And you look over to a coffee shop that's a hundred feet away and someone's stacking cups, that's all, and you go, fuck me, that's what I'm hearing, my dad's okay. That's what happened to me, anyway. After our failed trip to find Dad. But I thought my hearing was buggered for good, and it filled me with, I don't know, dread, I suppose, hearing that voice, and I felt this pressure behind my eyes and I burst into tears."

He felt her hand on his thigh, warming his tingling muscles.

"In fact, I wasn't so far wrong. My left ear's not so good, and maybe that's part of the problem. You know that, but did you know that my left eye's weaker than my right?"

"I didn't," she said. "But thanks for telling me."

"And my left foot's smaller than my right. My dad used to say that I was 'all right'. Funny guy, my dad. That was his best English joke. He was proud of it." He didn't want to tell her any more but he couldn't stop. "Ironic, my issues with airports. Cause up to that point, I believed I wanted to travel the world when I grew up. Used to have a model plane I took everywhere with me. A spitfire. War plane. Type 356-Mk 22. Teardrop canopy. Built it from a kit. Painted it camouflage colours. Green, light and dark brown. But the nose, for some reason, I painted the nose a dark blue. The underbelly was a pale cream. Apart from the decals on the wingtips, the eyes. They were blue, like the nose, and I spent a long time with a fine brush giving them perfect little evenly spaced eyelashes."

"Charlie."

"My mum bought me the plane. She worked for a travel agency. Spent her days selling holidays to places she never saw herself. I'd never flown before. I don't remember her flying either. Just that once. My dad left us nothing. Just disappeared without even saying goodbye. She married that rich fuck, George, who was able to take her places she'd only dreamed about. But that was a long time later. My dad, Pablo, he just walked away one day without so much as a goodbye kiss."

"Charlie."

"As a kid, that plane represented an escape route. And yeah, those guns fitted in the wings were probably significant, too."

"Charlie." She put her hand on his shoulder.

"Am I a monster?" he asked her.

She squeezed, fingers massaging the muscle. "Maybe in some people's eyes," she said.

"In my mother's, you mean."

She turned her head slightly, glanced through the loose chickenwire partition into the back. "Yes."

Carlos checked the rearview. Too dark to see much. But his brain compensated for the limitations of his eyes and he made out the bodybag, the heavy chains, the petrol cans, the holdall. "And in yours?"

She didn't reply.

"Well?"

"I'm here, ain't I?" she said.

"You are," he said. "I'm sorry about that."

She gave a little laugh. "It's okay."

But that wasn't what he'd meant.

"Tell me about you," he said.

"What do you mean?"

He wanted to know everything. There were plenty of things she hadn't told him. Not just the reason she'd taken out the contract on his mother. No, other things. Trivial things. Things he shouldn't care about but which seemed to matter now. He didn't know if there'd been a sandpit at her infant school; didn't know the name of the boy she first held hands with; didn't know if she could ride a horse; didn't know the name of her favourite dolls or teddy bears; didn't know her mother's maiden name.

Sentimentality. He had to put a stop to it. Think of something else.

He pictured them dragging the bodybag out of the van, laying it on the ground. He heard himself tell Maggie he wanted to say goodbye. Saw himself pull down the zipper. Jordan's face staring back at him. "Come closer," Carlos said to Maggie. "Say a few words." She kept her distance, a few feet away, said she'd rather not. He nodded, said he understood. He pulled the zipper all the way down. He said, "Okay," to Jordan and the kid sat up, hair matted to his forehead from the heat inside the bodybag, gun in his hand. And Carlos said to Maggie, "Are you sure there isn't anything you'd like to say?"

If she still didn't confess, facing certain death like that, then Carlos could assume it wasn't her who'd arranged the contract. And maybe he could let her go, like he'd promised his mother. Jordan, they'd agreed, was just to scare Maggie into admitting her guilt. Whatever happened afterwards, they'd have to divorce. He'd make sure he got custody. That wouldn't be a problem.

Course, the reality was that Carlos couldn't think of a scenario that didn't end up with Maggie having to take a long nap in the bodybag.

That's what he meant. It made his heart twitch.

But for now, all he said was, "Nothing. It doesn't matter."

A few minutes later, they were driving along a country road and Carlos was remembering his first time with Maggie — how she'd led him into his bedroom, yanked his trousers down to his knees, buried her head in his crotch, and moaned as she sucked and moaned and took her head away briefly to say fuck fuck fuck yeah and sucked and moaned until he spasmed and shuddered like a man in an electric chair, and then after she cleaned up with her t-shirt, she steered his mouth from nipple to nipple to bellybutton to crotch, telling him what he should do and where and how hard and fast and deep until she came in a series of fuck fuck fuck yeahs, but he just couldn't get it up again no matter how she coaxed and teased, so they didn't fuck until the following weekend — when he saw a flashing light in the rearview.

Couldn't be. Not now.

" Mierda," he said.

"What?" Maggie asked.

"Behind us."

She looked over her shoulder. "Shit. So much for my idea of taking the back roads."

"Just our fucking luck. You'd think the cops would have something better to do with their time than haul us up at two in the morning." He couldn't think of a way out of this.

"We'll have to pull over," Maggie said, confirming that she was out of ideas too.

"With a corpse in the back?"

"What do you suggest? This piece of junk can't outrun a police car."

She was right. They didn't have a choice. He slowed to a crawl.

The police car overtook them, pulled into the side of the road, and stopped.

Carlos swore. He kept swearing. Puta, puta, puta. Fuck.

After a bit, somebody climbed out of the car. A young guy. Late teens, maybe. He wasn't in uniform.

"He's not a cop," Carlos said to Maggie.

"Maybe he's a detective."

"Too young."

"Whoever he is, he's got a gun."

So he did. And he was pointing it their way.

But it was okay.

"Don't worry," Carlos said. "That's a Glock. Almost definitely a replica." Cause even Carlos, with all his connections, found it almost impossible to buy a reasonably priced fully operational Glock these days. He owned one once, but Richie's crazy dad had stolen it just before he got himself killed. Carlos didn't know for sure, but he suspected it was the same gun Jordan had used that night at the cottage. Unlike tonight, where he'd had to give Jordan a converted Valtro 98 "gas alarm" pistol. Lot of them about at the moment. Good business in buying replicas in bulk in Berlin, smuggling them into the UK, and adapting them to fire live rounds. So Carlos was told. But Glocks? Apparently they were hard to come by, priced accordingly. Supply and demand. But there were shitloads of replicas sold before the ban was introduced in October last year. So either this cop-teenager had more money than was likely, or that was a replica in his hand. Carlos was betting on the latter.

What the fucker was doing out here in a police car pretending to be a cop with a Glock, Carlos had no idea. He smiled, wound down the window, stuck his head out. Felt good to get some cool air on his skin. The night smelt of fox piss and rapeseed. " Problemo, Officer?"

The guy said nothing. Got closer to the car. "Turn off the engine and get out."

"Why?"

He waved the gun in Maggie's direction. His hand was big, fingers thick, looked swollen. "Tell him."

That was interesting. Almost as if he knew her.

And Maggie, well, she didn't look scared at all. She leaned across and turned off the engine.

"You a joyrider?" Carlos asked him. Seemed like a logical guess.

"Get out."

"Do what he says, Carlos," Maggie said.

"You heard her."

"I don't think so," Carlos said.

"Get the fuck out."

"I don't the fuck think so."

"If you don't, I'll kill you." He looked at Carlos, didn't move. "I'll shoot you in the head."

Carlos stared at him, pretty sure he was right about the Glock being a replica. Pretty damn fucking sure. Yeah. "Go on, then," Carlos said.

"Eh?"

"Kill me."

The guy's lips tightened. He said, "I want you to get out first."

"I know."

"You better do it," Maggie said.

"Listen to her."

Carlos said, "I'm fine where I am."

"You have to do what you're told."

" No posible. Sorry." He didn't know what was going on here, but he was going to find out. "Why don't you tell me what you want?"

The guy looked at Maggie, then back at Carlos. "I want you out of the van, standing the fuck right here."

"Is it the van you want?" Carlos asked. "Or me? Or my wife?"

"I told you." He was getting twitchy, jerking the gun around. "Just get the fuck out."

"Listen," Carlos said. "How about you fuck off back to your police car and drive away. Then we can all get on with what we were doing."

"Right. I'm going to shoot you."

Carlos folded his arms. "And I'm going to sit right here."

"You can't do that."

"Why not?"

"Cause I'll…"

"Shoot me?"

"Yeah."

"Glad that's settled."

The guy blinked hard. "You think I'm fucking messing around?"

Carlos uncrossed his arms. "How did you get the car?"

"Huh?"

"Stealing a cop car can't be easy."

He said, "What's it to you?"

"Just saying," Carlos said. "Must have taken a bit of planning. A bit of know-how."

"Not really. Just hung around Lothian Road. Only a matter of time before a police car showed up."

"Hmm," Carlos said. "I bet they didn't leave the door open and the key in the ignition."

"Got a technique," he said. "See — " He broke off as the passenger door clicked open.

Carlos turned to see Maggie getting out of the car. "Wait," he said.

"It's okay," she said, the door snicking shut behind her.

He watched her walk round the front of the van, no hesitation, sidle up to the joyrider.

"A police car," she said to him. "I didn't expect that."

"I'm good."

"So I see." She fingered her hair. "My husband doesn't think your gun's loaded, you know."

"Doesn't he?" He looked at Carlos. "You don't?"

"Maggie," Carlos said. "Don't taunt him."

"He thinks I'm taunting you," Maggie said to the joyrider. "Do you think so?"

"What I think," the guy said. "I think I should blow this fucker away."

"What's your problem?" Carlos asked. "You got some issue with me, spit it out? I'm getting bored of this."

"Bored? You're getting fucking bored?" The guy twisted his body, pointed the gun at the police car and fired. The windscreen exploded.

" Mierda. " Carlos felt the explosion reverberate in his bowels, the sound of the windscreen shattering like an after-effect in his veins. He glanced in the rearview, saw the bodybag wriggle. Thank Christ. They'd left the zipper undone just enough to allow air into the bag. Should mean Jordan would be able to get the bag open from the inside. Wasn't the plan, of course. But the plan was all gone to fuck. From now on, there was no fucking plan.

The joyrider said, "If you don't get out of there right now, I'll shoot you where you sit. Last chance."

Looked like everybody was on their last chance tonight.

"What does it matter?" Carlos asked.

"I don't want Maggie having to drive with your blood all over the place."

Maggie?

The joyrider knew where to find them, he knew Maggie's name. This was definitely no accidental encounter.

"Maggie?" Carlos said, looking at his wife.

She nestled in close to the joyrider, stood facing Carlos. "You killed your mother," she said. "You crossed a line, Charlie. How do I know that you won't kill me? Or Sofia?"

Holy shit. Maggie was behind this? Bad enough that she'd want to get rid of his mum, but she was planning on getting rid of him as well? Fuck, what a bitch. Carlos felt stupid to have been so misled for so long.

"Christ's sake," he said. "Don't be fucking ridiculous."

"Is it?" Maggie said. "I thought long and hard about it. If you can bump off your mother, nobody's safe. Seems fucking logical to me."

"I'd never hurt Sofia."

"Right," Maggie said. "But you'd hurt me?"

"I didn't say that."

"You don't know how scary you are, Charlie. What you do. And it's bad enough when I'm not involved. But look what you've made me do now. I'm an accessory to murder. You think I like driving around with that thing in the back?" Her chin wobbled. "It fucking creeps me out. You creep me out. I need to protect myself."

He could tell her the truth. But, he thought, it was too late for that. He reached forward and turned the engine on.

"Hey," the guy said. "What d'you think you're doing? You're not going anywhere."

No, but the engine was making enough noise to allow Jordan to get the zip pulled down without being heard.

"I'm cold all of a sudden," Carlos said. "Just wanted to warm my hands."

"Turn it off."

"Just a couple of minutes."

"Turn it off!"

Carlos sighed, turned it off. Jordan was out of the bag now, but Carlos needed to keep talking, make a noise so he could get out of the van. "Do you have a name?" he asked.

"Why do you want to know?"

"Don't you think I deserve to know the name of the man who kills me?"

"Should I tell him?" the guy asked Maggie.

"It's Bob," she said to Carlos.

"Bob," Carlos repeated.

"My sister's boyfriend."

Carlos tapped his fingertips together. It was tough not to look, see if the kid was out of the vehicle yet. But Carlos focused his attention on Bob. "You're the guy who got the van for us?"

"Yeah," he said.

"Gave Maggie all that info about burning it?"

"Yeah."

"So you're a killer as well as a car thief and arsonist?"

"Only once."

Carlos looked him in the eye. The bastard wasn't bluffing. "So what's between you and Maggie?" he asked. "Why would you kill me for her? What'd she offer you? Money? Sex?"

Bob was about to speak when there was a muscle-clenching bang and something slapped against the side of the van. Carlos made out a dark splotch above Bob's nose, and then Bob swayed, fell forward, bounced off the bonnet and slumped to the ground.

Maggie jumped back, and when she saw Jordan with his still-smoking gun pointed at her, she ran.

Carlos said, "No," as he shoved the door open and scooped up Bob's Glock off the road. "No, Jordan," he said. "Maggie, stop."

She looked behind her, still running, beyond the police car.

Carlos aimed at her. "Maggie," he said.

She kept looking at him, stumbling sideways.

His hand was steady. He squeezed the trigger.

A flash in his hand and her leg buckled under her. She fell into the grass at the side of the road. "Shit," she said, in a strangled voice. "You fucking bastard. This fucking hurts. Fuck, it hurts."

That's a bonus, Carlos thought, and slammed his fist into the van door.

She started to crawl forward. There was a barbed-wire fence which she might have managed to climb over had it not been for her wounded leg. But she was clearly in too much pain to get to her feet, let alone hurdle a fence.

Carlos didn't have to walk very fast to catch up with her.

Once he got there, he strolled alongside her, slowly, as she inched along in the grass, left leg dragging. Looked like the bullet had caught her in the thigh.

"I never slept with him," she said.

Carlos didn't answer. He just shivered.

"Fuck you," she said. She gasped, panted for breath. "Why did you stop Jordan from killing me?"

"No questions, Maggie. We're beyond that now."

"You still love me. You don't want me to die."

"You think?"

"Charlie, you know this is all fucked up. I thought you'd killed your mother. I didn't realise she wasn't in that fucking bodybag. What were you playing at?"

"Me, playing?" He laughed, no humour in it. "How do you know I didn't kill her?"

She looked at him. "Really?"

"Your lack of faith," he said. "It's worse than your infidelity."

"I didn't sleep with Bob. I told you."

"There's more than one way to be unfaithful."

"Do what you have to," she said. "Just don't give me that holier-than-thou bullshit. Shoot me or take me to a hospital. I'm going to bleed to death here."

"Yeah," he said. He bent over, and she shrank away from him. He placed his free hand on the back of her head and lowered his lips to her forehead. "It's over." He stepped back.

"I know."

"I'm sorry."

"I almost believe you."

We need to get moving.

Jordan had walked over to them without Carlos hearing him. Only now did Carlos notice that the kid wasn't wearing shoes. Must have removed them before he got out of the van. Smart little fucker.

"Charlie," Maggie said. "It wasn't me. Your mother. I never set her up."

You going to pop the bitch or what? Jordan said.

Carlos pivoted, smacked Jordan hard, open-handed, with his left. Caught him full on the cheek.

Jordan's head jerked to the side. He waited, breathed, turned to look at Carlos. He looked puzzled.

Carlos stared back at him.

Jordan raised his gun.

Carlos raised his.

Jordan moved his arm to the side, fired two rounds into Maggie.

Carlos's hand shook. He moaned. Couldn't look at Maggie. Couldn't take his eyes off Jordan.

The fucking kid stared at him, blank. Hadn't even turned his gun on Carlos, just let it dangle by his side.

Jordan was daring him. Just like Carlos had done earlier with Bob.

Carlos said, "Is she dead?"

Jordan glanced down. Very.

"Jesus," Carlos said. "You fucking little animal. You fucking…" He yelled, mouth wide open, the sides of his mouth stretched fit to tear. He stabbed the gun at Jordan. Looked away, down at Maggie, her ruined body. He yelled again, shoved the gun against Jordan's head, forced him to step back. Carlos took a breath, arm still held out straight, gun a foot from Jordan's face. Spit dribbled down his chin. He wiped it with the back of his left hand, catching a whiff of sour milk.

You done? We need to pick that shit up, get it in the van along with the other one. And get the fuck out of here.

"She's not shit," Carlos said. "You're fucking shit. You're the piece of fucking shit."

You know what? If I could drive, I'd waste you right now. Jordan grabbed Carlos's hand, moved the gun away from his face. You're a grown man. You need to deal with this.

The little cocksucker was right, of course. Just cause they were in the middle of nowhere at half two in the morning didn't mean no one had heard the shots. Or that a car wouldn't come along and snare them in its headlights.

Carlos needed Jordan's help. He couldn't sort this mess out on his own. There were two bodies now. And only one bodybag. Carlos didn't like numbers that didn't add up.

He lowered his arm. "I'm a bit fucked up," he said.

That's okay. But if you point that gun at me again, I'll have to shoot you. Even if it means I have to walk all the way back home.

Carlos tucked the gun into his waistband, felt the heat still from the muzzle. Felt like it was inside him, glowing.

"You take the feet," he said, shuffled round, slipped his hands under her armpits.

Jordan got into position. On three, we'll lift it.

"Her," Carlos said. "We'll lift her. "

Fine. You ready?

Yeah, Carlos was as ready as he was going to be.

Wait a minute. Jordan lowered her feet, picked something off the road. Stretched out his hand to offer it to Carlos.

"What is it?" iPod. Still got the headphones round its — her — neck, look.

Carlos took the machine. It looked okay, no cracks that he could see. He slipped the headphones off her neck and put them round his own. He plugged the end into the machine, selected random play and told Jordan to grab her feet again.

Strings. Fiddles and double basses, played posh with a bow. Bach, she'd said. It was supposed to be relaxing.