The Hanging Shed

FORTY-ONE

I took a tip from the dead man and ran silently down the grass at the side of the house until I was level with the end of one of the wings of the house. I stepped on to the gravel and tiptoed across it and round to the corner. I peeped round. No one, but the front door was ajar.

I drew back and picked up a handful of stones. I flung my arm round the corner and let go. There was a satisfying clatter as a rain of pebbles fell against the door and walls and the window. I heard a shout from inside and the dog started barking.

‘What the fuck you playing at out there?’

The door crashed properly open and someone strode out on to the gravel. I waited and waited.

‘Martin! Where the fuck are you? Stop playing silly buggers!’

Then I heard the deep growl of a dog about to attack and I knew I needed to face this, fast. I darted into the open and dropped to my knee with the Dickson raised and pointed. Fergie was standing twenty feet from me in front of the door. He held another of their trademark sawn-offs in one hand. Dermot was in the doorframe holding the hound by the collar.

Dermot reacted first. ‘It’s fucking Brodie! Shoot him!’ At the same time he let slip the dog of war, which sprang past Fergie heading straight for my face.

Its jaws were already snapping in anticipation of fastening on my throat. The beast bounded forward, all muscle and snarl, and took off about six feet from me. Not the normal clay pigeon shot. I pulled the trigger. The blast caught it full in the chest. It turned in mid air and landed in a sprawling writhing heap next to me. I was already diving to the side just as Fergie fired. I felt a rush of pellets shred the air around me. Then, lying on my side, I gave him the second barrel. I didn’t miss.

He was flung backwards on to the gravel. His shotgun went up in the air and clattered beside him. I dropped my empty Dickson and ran forward, pulling my pistol out of my waistband. I fired at Dermot but missed. He dived back in the house and crashed the door shut. I heard locks fall and knew he’d barricaded himself in. I heard him shouting and the woman screaming at him. But there was no other voice; still no sign of Gerrit. Fergie was writing on the ground clutching his stomach. He was screaming in a choked, panting way. It was a painful way to die. I didn’t pause to put him out of his misery.

I ran at the door and hit it with my shoulder. It was a tough old plank of oak and I bounced back. The locks held. I slid my revolver in my belt and drew the sawn-off. I stood back and blasted the area round the keyhole. I kicked the door in and dived through headfirst, rolling into the small hall. Dermot was well down a long corridor dragging the woman into one of the rooms. She was shrieking her head off. I couldn’t fire in case I hit her. He slammed the door and locked it. I heard furniture being dragged across. I ran down the corridor like an avenging angel. I stood to one side of the door in case there was a third shotgun in Dermot’s hands.

‘Dermot! You might as well come out! Or I’ll come in and get you! I won’t harm the woman. Unless of course you’ve injured a single hair on the head of Samantha Campbell! In which case all bets are off. Do you hear me?’

All the response I got was more sobbing and more crashing of furniture. Then there was a new sound, of hinges opening, followed by the sound of feet on the gravel. He’d got out the window. I sprinted back down the corridor and flung myself through the front door. Dermot had dived into the car and was starting it up. The motor whirred and caught and he flung it into gear. The car shot forward sending pebbles flying back at my face. It accelerated down the 150-yard drive towards the wooden gate.

I dropped the sawn-off and gripped my revolver in both hands. I fired steadily, once, twice, three times, smashing the rear window but seemingly doing no other damage. I stuffed it in my waistband. I had one shot left in the sawn-off. I knelt, picked it up, and let fly. I blew a hole in the boot but the car sped on. Shit, shit, shit! I dropped the useless weapon and ran forward, maddened at my rotten shooting.

I snatched up the Dickson and broke it open. The two used cartridges spun into the air. I delved in my pocket and grabbed one shell. No time for a second. I rammed it home and slammed the gun closed. I knelt in the gravel, pulled the Dickson tight into my shoulder and took a deep breath. Then another. The car was racing for the wooden gate and escape. I took a careful bead on his head and then lowered the barrel. I needed him alive to find out about Sam. I squeezed the trigger. The gun jerked back into my shoulder. I waited. There was no time to reload and fire. He was within twenty yards of freedom.

At first I thought I’d missed and was regretting my generosity of not aiming at his head. Then I saw the car lurch to the side as a rear tyre blew. Slattery swung the wheel to counter it. Swung too far and was on the grass. Swung again, all the while accelerating, aiming to ram his way through the gate. But the big car pitched again and hit the solid stone pillar with an almighty crash. I ran down the drive ramming shells into my revolver.

There was a great hissing and clattering as the engine kept trying to pull the car forward. But the fan was jammed and there was nowhere to go. I wrenched the door open to find Slattery sitting with blood all over his face, groaning against the steering wheel. His head had gone through the screen. But I was taking no chances.

I caught him by his shirt collar and tried to drag him out of the car. He was stuck. I looked closer. The steering shaft running from the front axle up into the cabin had been driven back with the impact. Like a long blunt-ended spear. At the same moment his seat had catapulted forward. His chest was impaled on the central column. The bastard was dying.

He wasn’t getting off that easy. I grabbed his hair at the nape of his neck and shook him. ‘Where’s Samantha Campbell, you little prick!’ I shoved the gun barrel into his ear. ‘Where is she!’

Someone was running down the drive. It was the woman he’d used as a shield. Her legs were flapping as she stumbled forward in her bare feet. Her hands were clawing at her mass of white hair. ‘Don’t kill him! Oh, don’t kill him!’ she shouted and flung herself at me.

I pushed her back and held her away from me, as she flailed at my head. ‘OK, OK! Tend to your man!’

Her mad eyes searched my face and then she sagged like a broken doll. She dived into the car and held Slattery’s bloody head. He moaned and red seeped from his mouth.

‘He needs an ambulance!’ she shouted at me. ‘Get help! There’s a phone in there!’

‘Mrs Slattery?’ I said quietly, ‘he needs a priest.’

She stopped and turned to me, her eyes filled with despair. ‘That’s the last thing Derry Slattery needs. The very last thing.’

There was a sound from Dermot, a great groan. He turned his face to her and tried to speak. Only a moan came out of his broken lips.

‘Oh darlin’, don’t try to speak. You’ll be fine. Just wait. We’ll get the doctor to ye. Just you hold on.’ She turned to me. ‘Can we get him out? Make him more comfy?’

Together we tugged and pulled and manoeuvred his wrecked body out of the car and on to the grass. We laid him on his back and she cradled his head. She wiped the blood off his face as best she could using her skirt. Then she rocked him gently like a child until Dermot Slattery shuddered once more and gave up his violent life.

I have no idea why I helped her, but I found myself dragooned into dragging his body back the 150 yards to the house. We passed the now still body of Fergie without a glance. We dropped Dermot on a bed and I sought the kitchen. I found what I was looking for. It was Irish, but it had the same effect. I poured a big glass and ran some tap water into it. I slugged it back in two gulps. Then I stood by the sink and rinsed the blood off my hands and off my jacket sleeves as best I could. I realised my legs were shaking. The day was catching up on me. The familiar pattern. When the fighting stops the adrenaline drains away. I felt sick and leaned over the sink in case. For a moment I was flung back to the darkest days this past winter. Despondency swept over me, disorientated me. The smell of the foxhole in the Ardennes choked me. I’d lain in it for two days while the shelling and straffing went on. Just me and my dead corporal. It seems I’d only killed one dog out there. I sucked in air and clung to the sink until the nausea passed. I heard someone come in. I turned fast in case she was carrying a grudge and a gun.

She shouldered me aside and filled a bowl with clear water. She took a towel and went off again. Later she returned and flushed the bloody bowl down the sink. Then she rinsed her own hands.

‘I’m makin’ tea,’ she said.

‘Is that an offer?’

She shrugged.