The Evil And The Pure (52 page)

Big Sandy’s fingers tightened. His face darknened. Gawl
dropped the bag and snatched at Big Sandy’s wrists, to jerk them apart. Big Sandy too strong, his fingers remained locked. Gawl tried to throw himself backwards, to break the grip. Big Sandy followed, collapsing on top of him, driving him to the ground, fingers loosening slightly, then tightening again, Gawl wheezing.

Around them,
people gasped, ogled, nudged their partners. Nobody screamed or intervened, more curious than apprehensive. Kevin scrambled to his feet and sought out Tulip. She was watching, eyes round, a hand over her mouth. He wanted to get to her. He tried to run. Clint stopped him with one hand while holding on to his bag with the other. “What’s happening?” he yelled. Kevin shook his head and tried to break free. Clint held him.

On the ground, Gawl choking,
eyes bulging. He remembered the gun in his coat pocket. Willed his hand to slide down and dig it out. But his fingers wouldn’t obey. They were grasping Big Sandy’s wrists, tearing at them, refusing to let go.

Gawl thinking,
What the fuck?
Startled, bemused, confused. Staring at Big Sandy’s creased face, lips bared in a snarl, eyes tight, naked hatred. This shouldn’t be happening. It made no sense. The deal had been struck. Easiest for everyone to proceed as planned. Why was he doing this? What did he hope to gain? Not the Bush’s orders, Gawl sensed that even as he choked to death. The money? Did Big Sandy plan to cross them all and make off with the two million? But then why bother coming? Why go to the trouble of choking Gawl? Why not just run with the bags earlier?

On the bridge Tulip could take no more. She turned and fled, racing across the road, cars jerking to a halt, horns bl
aring, Tulip slipping away, picking up speed. Kevin saw her flee. Moaned. Punched Clint, half broke free. Clint clung to him. “The money!” he roared.

“Tulip!” Kevin retorted.

“The money first,” Clint cried. “We –” Stopping, heart sinking as he spotted two police officers on Westminster Bridge, a man and woman, marching towards them, alerted by the commotion. Not at the steps yet but they’d reach the top before Kevin and Clint could. Clint grabbed Kevin’s neck. Pointed. “Cops!”

“I don’t care,
” Kevin moaned. “Tulip.”

“Run,
” Clint insisted, pulling Kevin after him. “We’ll find her later.”

“No.
Now.”

“No time,
” Clint screamed. He let go of Kevin, picked up the second bag, thrust it into Kevin’s hands. “If they arrest us, you’ll never see her again.”

The warning struck Kevin like a bullet. He glanced
at the pair on the ground, Gawl’s legs thrashing, hands locked on Big Sandy’s, Big Sandy’s hands locked around Gawl’s throat, Gawl’s eyes all the way open, lips blue, close to death, Big Sandy snarling insanely. Then he stared at the police rushing to the steps, calling in the disturbance on their walkie talkies. Kevin groaned then nodded wretchedly. They leapt over the wrestling men and ran for their lives, Clint panting, Kevin weeping.

Gawl’s strength deserted him. He foun
d himself relaxing. Incredulous.
This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening. This isn’t…

“Bastard,
” Big Sandy grunted and it sounded like a sob. Gawl forced his eyes into focus. Another conundrum — the giant was crying.

Gawl found one final burst of strength
, tugged hard at Big Sandy’s hands, trying to get enough air and space to croak, “
Why?
” If he could just speak with Big Sandy, he was sure he could iron this out. Something was amiss – this wasn’t what either man had planned – but he could fix it if Big Sandy just… gave him… a moment to…

The grey sky turned black. The gasps and mutters of the crowd
were obscured by Big Sandy’s harsh, growling breathing, the sound of a large dog as it chewed at the throat of a defeated rival. Gawl’s fingers unclenched. His hands slipped away. The money forgotten. Dreams forgotten. Future forgotten. Big Sandy’s betrayal forgotten. The pain forgotten.

His last moments. His final thought,
which he could make no sense of, a face forming out of the blackness. A woman, calm, lips slightly lifted in a sneer, hair tied back. He recognised the face – one of the women he’d murdered – but he didn’t know why he was seeing it now. Of all the faces from his past, all the people he’d known, the men he’d fought, the women he’d fucked, the women he’d killed, why did the face of
Nancy Mooney
come to him at the very end?

Before he could pick at the puzzle, life deserted him. A great stillness settled. All faded, even the
woman’s face. He heard nothing. Saw nothing. Knew nothing. Gawl died ignorant.

S
IXTY-FIVE

Big Sandy weeping and snarling, knuckles red/white as his fingers crushed Gawl McCaskey’s throat. McCaskey was dead but Big Sandy didn’t stop
, he wanted to rip the bastard’s head off and take it as a trophy. People in the crowd were screaming and sobbing now. Half backed away, the other half pressed closer. Tourists took photos. Big Sandy saw only McCaskey’s despised face, grinning hellishly in death.

Something struck his right arm hard and fast. Not much pain but the surprise made his fingers unclench. He looked up. A policeman standing over him,
truncheon raised, face twisted with fury and fear. “Let go!” he bellowed. A female cop behind him, truncheon also drawn.

Awareness
flooded back, where he was, what had happened, the shit he was in. The bags were gone. Smith and Kevin Tyne gone. Tulip and the formula gone. Just him, the corpse of Gawl McCaskey, the cops and the crowd. No, not a crowd — witnesses. He saw cameras flashing. Fucked.

He rose slowly. The cop’s face dropped as he
realised how enormous Big Sandy was. He backed off, raising his truncheon defensively. Big Sandy ignored him. Studied Gawl McCaskey’s face from a safe, sane height. Laughed through his tears. The female cop said something, trying to control the situation. The words didn’t register. He turned his back on the cops, laughing, heedless. Let them take him. He didn’t care. On a high. The world couldn’t touch him. Arrested, locked away forever, so what? Life was glorious. The bastard on the ground was dead. Nothing else…

He caught sight of the inside of the hat McCaskey had been wearing
. A name tag. Big Sandy stooped and picked up the hat, incredulous.
Sebastian Parry
. Explosions inside his head. They’d been hiding in the church! Fr Sebastian had sheltered them. No idea how that had happened, why the priest would have given them sanctuary, but Smith and the Tynes might return. They’d been safe in the church this long. No reason for them to think they couldn’t hole-up there again.

Assessing his actions.
He’d shamed the Bush, screwed the deal, lost the formula and the money. One chance to redeem himself — catch them at the church, recover the money, claim the formula. Not worried about what would happen to him later, whether the Bush would slip him out of the country or sacrifice him to the police, only focused on restoring his honour.

The male cop was talking. Big
Sandy shut him up with a snarl. “Stay away from me.” He drew a gun. Those in the crowd who’d been pressing closer shrieked and broke for cover. The cops ducked. Big Sandy ran, knocking them aside. Raced up the steps on to Westminster Bridge. Sprinted to the traffic lights. Waited for them to turn red. Stepped up to the first car that had stopped, only one person in it, a man. Walked around to the driver’s door. Yanked it open. Flashed his gun. “
Out!
” The driver didn’t argue, unclipped his belt and rolled out, whimpering. Big Sandy sat in. Pedestrians staring at him. The cops came flailing up the steps, shouting at him to stop, at the pedestrians to stand back. Big Sandy crashed the lights, leaving the cops, the crowds, the chaos behind, heading for the Elephant & Castle, then the Church of Sacred Martyrs. Calm now. Forcing McCaskey out of his thoughts. Professional. Focused on his job.

He parked in front of the church. Kicked in the door, disrespectful in a church for the first time in his life. Stormed up the aisle, ignoring the stares of the handful of people in the pews. Marched to the sacristy and through to the house. Failed to spot Fr Sebastian to the left of the altar, close to the pulpit. But Fr Sebastian saw Big Sandy. Knew what it meant. Sighed and offered up a prayer for his damned soul as he climbed into the pulpit, loosening his belt, crying softly but not sorrowfully, escape from this life a mercy.

Big Sandy was halfway through his sweep of the house when he heard screams in the church. He raced back, drawing his gun. Crashed in on Fr Sebastian hanging from
a bar which ran along the top of the pulpit, a belt looped around his throat, legs kicking spastically, tongue extruded. One of his female parishioners ran to the priest and grabbed his legs, trying to support him, crying shrilly, “No, Father, no!” Big Sandy watched in silence for a few seconds, then walked up behind her, picked her up and set her down behind him, let the priest strangle. “What are you doing?” the woman shrieked.

“It’s better this way,” Big Sandy said.

The woman stared at him. “Suicide’s a sin,” she whispered.

“I
’m guessing it won’t be his worst,” Big Sandy replied, figuring the priest would only have taken in the fugitives if they had something on him. Maybe Tulip was the link, Fr Sebastian one of the Tynes’ clients. Or maybe he was one of Clint’s junkies, which would explain why the dealer had set up shop in the church. Hell, for all Big Sandy knew, maybe it was both.

He w
aited until the priest’s legs went still, then turned his back on the shamed messenger of God. “Call the police,” he said to the stunned woman as he passed. “Don’t bother with an ambulance.” Out of the church. Back in the car. A leisurely drive to the Bush’s, not worried, not afraid, what must be must be.

The Bush grinning when Big Sandy entered. He got up to greet him. Caught Big Sandy’s expression. Sank back into his chair. Eyes Burton had admitted Big Sandy. The Bush waited for him to leave before speaking. “What happened?”

“I killed Gawl McCaskey. Clint and the Tynes escaped with the money
and the formula. They’d been staying at the Church of Sacred Martyrs. I went there. Fr Sebastian hung himself before I could question him. If the others return, the police will be there to capture them, nothing we can do.”

The Bush took all that in. Dazed. Breathless. He blinked like an owl. Big Sandy stood impassive
ly, waiting for his boss to recover. Finally, uncertainly, the Bush muttered, “Did McCaskey try to cross you?”

“No.”

“Then why did you kill him?”

Big Sandy
’s gaze didn’t flicker. “I recognised him.”

“Of course you
recognised him,” the Bush roared. “Gawl Mc-fucking-Caskey!”

“I
meant I recognised him from the past. I’ve been looking for him most of my life. He murdered my mother.”

The Bush had been poised to bellow more
abuse. At Big Sandy’s statement he stopped. Stared bug-eyed. “No,” he croaked. Big Sandy didn’t reply. “It can’t have been. That was so long ago.”

“I haven’t forgotten. I made him as soon as I
saw his face. If the drawings had been more accurate I would have twigged before, but they were way off.”

“You were mistaken,
” the Bush wheezed.

“I wasn’t
,” Big Sandy said. “He went under a different name back then, Davey Connors. He hadn’t lost half an ear. He was thinner. More hair. But it was him. He butchered my mother. So I killed him. I choked him to death in front of dozens of witnesses, including two police officers. I didn’t care about anything else. Killing him was all that mattered. I don’t apologise for it, but I regret the circumstances in which it happened.”

Big Sandy lapsed into silence,
waited for the Bush to respond. The Bush flabbergasted. It seemed too impossible to be real. One look at Big Sandy’s granite face and he knew the story was true, but still he tried to pick holes in it. “McCaskey knew you, knew that I was sending you. If he’d murdered your mother why the hell would he agree to meet with you?”

“I was eleven years old,” Big Sandy said quietly. “A scrawny kid. He wouldn’t have
remembered me.”

“But your name…”

“My mother always called me by my full name. And she gave me my father’s surname, even though she didn’t bear it herself, but I doubt he was aware of that. If he remembered me at all, it would have been as Alexander Mooney, not Big Sandy Murphy.”

The
Bush shook his head and half-smiled sickly. “You think this was destiny?”

“Just
McCaskey’s bad luck,” Big Sandy grunted. “I don’t believe in destiny.”