He climbed out of the van and waited for Werewolf to join him. Their breath feathered from their mouths in the cold night air. Somewhere in the distance an owl hooted and high overhead the green and red lights of an airliner were heading for Heathrow.
'Let's look at this logically,' said Frankenstein, his voice just above a whisper. 'The way I see it, Andy's a goner anyway. It was a bloody .22 so the slug'll have spun round in his guts and done God only knows how much damage.'
'Best will in the world, you're not a doctor, Rosie,' said Werewolf.
'But I've seen enough people shot to know what's bad and what isn't,' said Frankenstein. 'And Andy's bad.'
'He's not going to get any better lying in the van, that's for sure.'
'Agreed,' said Frankenstein. 'So, what are the options? We take him to hospital, then hold up our hands to shooting two Yardies and stealing their heroin? What if Andy goes and dies anyway? Where does that leave us? Looking like twats staring at twenty years behind bars for nothing.'
'So we wait for him to die, is that what you're saying?'
said Werewolf.
Frankenstein shrugged.
'Why don't you spit it out?' said Werewolf.
'I shouldn't have to,' said Frankenstein.
'You want to finish him,' said Werewolf flatly. 'You want to put a bullet in his head. What if it was me lying on the floor of the van bleeding? Would you put a bullet in me?
Look me in the eyes and tell me that's what you'd do.'
'If it was me, I'd expect you to do the same,' said Frankenstein.
'Easy for you to say, standing there while Andy's bleeding to death,' said Werewolf. 'Look, maybe there's another way.
We take him to a doctor instead of a hospital.'
'They've all got to report gunshot wounds.'
'A hookie one,' said Werewolf. 'Someone who'll take the bullet out and not say anything.'
'You know someone?'
'There's a guy in Peckham. We could be there in thirty minutes at this time of night.'
'He needs major surgery, not a couple of stitches,' said Frankenstein, 'and blood. Lots of it.'
'At least we can try,' said Werewolf.
'Then what?' asked Frankenstein. 'Your quack patches Andy up, then what? Andy goes on sick leave for six months to recuperate? For God's sake, how's he going to explain away a bullet wound? And what about the quack? Does he know you? Are you going to spend the rest of your life waiting for him to grass you up?'
'We pay him enough he'll keep schtum.'
Frankenstein threw up his hands. 'You're mad,' he said.
'Maybe,' said Werewolf. 'But if it was you, Rosie, I'd be out here saying the same.'
'He'll probably die anyway,' said Frankenstein.
'But at least I'd know I tried,' said Werewolf. 'Let's just get him to the quack and see what the quack says.'
Frankenstein took a deep breath and exhaled. 'Okay. Just don't expect me not to say I told you so when the shit hits the fan.'
'The shit has already hit the fan,' said Werewolf, but Frankenstein was walking back to the van. Werewolf hurried after him.
As Werewolf got into the front, Frankenstein climbed through the rear door and knelt down beside Alien. 'It's okay,
Andy, we're going to get you to hospital.'
Alien didn't respond. Frankenstein took the glove off his right hand and felt for a pulse in his neck, but as soon as he touched it he knew the man was dead. He looked up at Werewolf. 'You might think I'm a callous bastard, but thank heaven for small mercies is what I say.'
'What now?' asked Werewolf.
'We bury him where he'll never be found. Then it's back to life as normal.'
'What about the gear?' asked Werewolf, gesturing at the two bloodstained duffel bags.
'Leave that to me,' said Frankenstein.
'We didn't go into this to steal drugs,' said Werewolf.
'You think we should have left with nothing?' snapped Frankenstein.
'I'm just saying we went there for cash, that's all.'
'And there wasn't any. And Andy took a bullet in the gut.
You want us to go through all that for nothing?'
Werewolf pointed at the MAC 10, which was lying on the floor of the van
'Let's look at this logically,' said Frankenstein, his voice just above a whisper. 'The way I see it, Andy's a goner anyway. It was a bloody .22 so the slug'll have spun round in his guts and done God only knows how much damage.'
'Best will in the world, you're not a doctor, Rosie,' said Werewolf.
'But I've seen enough people shot to know what's bad and what isn't,' said Frankenstein. 'And Andy's bad.'
'He's not going to get any better lying in the van, that's for sure.'
'Agreed,' said Frankenstein. 'So, what are the options? We take him to hospital, then hold up our hands to shooting two Yardies and stealing their heroin? What if Andy goes and dies anyway? Where does that leave us? Looking like twats staring at twenty years behind bars for nothing.'
'So we wait for him to die, is that what you're saying?'
said Werewolf.
Frankenstein shrugged.
'Why don't you spit it out?' said Werewolf.
'I shouldn't have to,' said Frankenstein.
'You want to finish him,' said Werewolf flatly. 'You want to put a bullet in his head. What if it was me lying on the floor of the van bleeding? Would you put a bullet in me?
Look me in the eyes and tell me that's what you'd do.'
'If it was me, I'd expect you to do the same,' said Frankenstein.
'Easy for you to say, standing there while Andy's bleeding to death,' said Werewolf. 'Look, maybe there's another way.
We take him to a doctor instead of a hospital.'
'They've all got to report gunshot wounds.'
'A hookie one,' said Werewolf. 'Someone who'll take the bullet out and not say anything.'
'You know someone?'
'There's a guy in Peckham. We could be there in thirty minutes at this time of night.'
'He needs major surgery, not a couple of stitches,' said Frankenstein, 'and blood. Lots of it.'
'At least we can try,' said Werewolf.
'Then what?' asked Frankenstein. 'Your quack patches Andy up, then what? Andy goes on sick leave for six months to recuperate? For God's sake, how's he going to explain away a bullet wound? And what about the quack? Does he know you? Are you going to spend the rest of your life waiting for him to grass you up?'
'We pay him enough he'll keep schtum.'
Frankenstein threw up his hands. 'You're mad,' he said.
'Maybe,' said Werewolf. 'But if it was you, Rosie, I'd be out here saying the same.'
'He'll probably die anyway,' said Frankenstein.
'But at least I'd know I tried,' said Werewolf. 'Let's just get him to the quack and see what the quack says.'
Frankenstein took a deep breath and exhaled. 'Okay. Just don't expect me not to say I told you so when the shit hits the fan.'
'The shit has already hit the fan,' said Werewolf, but Frankenstein was walking back to the van. Werewolf hurried after him.
As Werewolf got into the front, Frankenstein climbed through the rear door and knelt down beside Alien. 'It's okay,
Andy, we're going to get you to hospital.'
Alien didn't respond. Frankenstein took the glove off his right hand and felt for a pulse in his neck, but as soon as he touched it he knew the man was dead. He looked up at Werewolf. 'You might think I'm a callous bastard, but thank heaven for small mercies is what I say.'
'What now?' asked Werewolf.
'We bury him where he'll never be found. Then it's back to life as normal.'
'What about the gear?' asked Werewolf, gesturing at the two bloodstained duffel bags.
'Leave that to me,' said Frankenstein.
'We didn't go into this to steal drugs,' said Werewolf.
'You think we should have left with nothing?' snapped Frankenstein.
'I'm just saying we went there for cash, that's all.'
'And there wasn't any. And Andy took a bullet in the gut.
You want us to go through all that for nothing?'
Werewolf pointed at the MAC 10, which was lying on the floor of the van
Similar Books
It Must Have Been the Mistletoe...
Kate Hoffmann
The Baker Street Jurors
Michael Robertson
Guestward Ho!
Patrick Dennis
I Wish I Had a Red Dress
Pearl Cleage
Jo Goodman
My Reckless Heart
Sioux Dawn, The Fetterman Massacre, 1866
Terry C. Johnston
Wicked Wager
Mary Gillgannon
The Saint's Wife
Lauren Gallagher
Elektra
Yvonne Navarro
Blood Kiss (Savage Security Series Book 1)
Karen Tjebben