All of the great things hed done in his life, the charity work, the glittering political career, and this was going to be what he was remembered for.
Paedophile. Suicide. Murderer.
The first two he could have lived with, no pun intended, but not the last. That was too much to bear on top of everything else.
He drained the bottle, squinted at the empty glass, then threw it out into the void. For a moment it sparkled through the falling snow, turning end over end, fading from sight. He held his breath, straining to hear it smashing against the rocks below . . . but there was nothing. Just the wind and the snow and the night.
Peter clambered all the way up to the top of the battlement wall.
It was time.
The plan is simple: everyone in the club chips in five thousand pounds, and that buys them a life. One human life for thirty-five thousand pounds. Not that much really, when you think about it. Five thousand pounds to carry on like nothing had ever happened. Safe to continue with their private little . . . indiscretions.
Five thousand pounds to have someone killed.
The Man wouldnt go until Peter gave him everyones name, to make sure no one forgot to pay, taking The Pear Tree with him. Leaving a shadow behind on the faded wallpaper. So Peter fills in the time pacing back and forth in the lounge. Drinking cups of tea. Marching up and down the stairs to check on Margaret. Sitting at the dining room table, staring at the hole Monets painting has left behind.
The call comes at half past nine its Tony, sounding like Christmas has arrived three days early. Did you see the news? They released the bastard on bail this afternoon. Found his body at eight hanged in his bedroom. Suicide note, the whole works! He topped himself, we dont have to give your man a bloody penny. Its perfect!
Perfect.
Peter sits at the table and looks up at the shadow on the wall. What makes you think The Man didnt kill him and make it look like suicide?
Dont be. . . A lengthy pause. Can he do that?
Peter almost laughs. Of course he can, but it doesnt matter, does it? He has our names. What do you think hell do if we dont pay up?
Another pause, and then a lot of swearing. You bastard! You put him onto us! You stupid, fucking, ignorant bas-
Peter hangs up, buries his head in his hands, and cries.
Hes betrayed everyone: his family, his friends, his constituents, his city, even his fellow paedophiles. . .
Theres only one more thing he has to do, and then it can all go away. Theres no other choice.
Eighty feet, straight down.
He was too drunk to remember enough secondary school physics to work out how long it would take to hit the ground, or how fast hed be going when he did.
Paedophile, suicide, murderer. . .
Could he let Margaret find out about the horrible things hed done? That hed arranged to have a man killed. No matter what that idiot Tony said, it was obvious The Man had staged James Kirkhills suicide. The schoolteacher had died, just so Peters secret would be safe. It was all his fault.
So hed gone upstairs to Margarets bedroom, kissed her gently on the forehead, lied to her about how beautiful she looked, then held a pillow over her face until she stopped struggling. She would never know what a monster shed married.
Peter took off his glasses, closed his eyes and stepped quietly off of the battlements.
11: Pipers Piping
Dirty. Fucking. Bastard. Craig sat in the car, scowling out of the windscreen, grinding his teeth. Drinking steadily from a bottle of Highland Park. The whisky burned deep inside, stoking the fires.
The song on the radio dribbled to a halt. Ha, ha! Youre listening to Sensational Steves Festive Funathon; hope youve all been good for Santa!
Prick.
Then wailing and screeching erupted from the cars speakers the Oldcastle Military Pipe Band murdering Silent Night.
Craig turned his scowl from the windscreen to the car radio. Then smashed his fist into it. His knuckles creaked and stung: the skin tore across them, oozing blood. He screamed and swore, yanked his seat back as far as it would go and stomped his heel down on the plastic casing. Again and again and again. The music stopped.
One more swig of Highland Park then Craig rammed the cork back in, stuffed the bottle in a pocket of his long Barbour coat, and dragged himself out of the car. Hed made an absolute cock-up of parking the thing, leaving it diagonally across two spaces, but it didnt matter.
He popped the boot and pulled out the shotgun.
Nothing mattered after today.
He didnt even pay and display.
Ho, Ho, Ho. . . Santa beamed, leaning down so he was eye-to-eye with the little girl. Cute wee thing: red hair and freckles, sucking her thumb, and peering round her mummys leg. Bet shed heard stories about Father Christmas all her life, but this was probably the first time shed ever seen him in the flesh.
Whats your name, little girl? Making the words all big and cuddly ? not too loud, or the little buggers had a habit of peeing themselves.
She took her thumb out of her mouth. Thara. Then plugged up again.
Santa, AKA Stephen Wilson, beamed at her.
It wasnt that bad a job: once you got past the crappy grotto made of chipboard; the bum-numbing throne; the padded suit that made sweat trickle down the crack of your arse; the beard that itched like a bastard; the never-ending loop of drive-you-psycho Christmas carols; and the snotty-nosed little sods demanding presents. Other than that, six weeks as a department store Santa wasnt too demanding.
You say Ho, Ho, Ho; you smile and wink; you dont sit them on your knee in case someone thinks youre a paedo; and you dont ask for their mums phone number, even if shes a total MILF. Because shes not going to give it to a fat guy with a beard anyway.
And have you been a good little girl, Sarah? Bit of chat: say your prayers, brush your teeth, work hard in school, and please accept this crappy plastic toy wrapped up in snowman Christmas paper.
The ginger kids mum was definitely a MILF. What do we say to Santa, Sarah?
Thank you, Thanta.
Good girl. She took her daughters hand, and led her out of the grotto.
Thanta stared at Mummys arse ? it was like God had squeezed two perfect grapefruit into a sock. Sigh. . .
And: NEXT!
It was a lot more difficult to hide a shotgun under a long coat than it looked in the movies. The damn thing was nearly impossible to hold like that, especially with his hand all swollen and bleeding hed dropped it half a dozen times between the car and the lifts before figuring out a way to make it work. Craig took his left arm out of the sleeve and held the gun upside-down beneath the coat. Should have sawn the barrel off with a hacksaw. And all that whisky wasnt helping either; the world wouldnt stay in focus. How hed got here without crashing the car into something was anyones guess.
Craig screwed one eye shut and pressed the button for the lifts. Staggered a couple of steps backwards and one to the side as a woman wheeled a massive pushchair over from the MOTHER AND BABY parking spaces.
She stared at him standing there swaying slightly, one arm hidden under his long wax coat. Probably thought he was some sort of drunken pervert. Is that a shotgun in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?
She glanced from the stairs, to the lifts, to Craig, and back to the stairs again. Then the lift went ping and the doors slid open. She shrugged and followed him into the brightly lit metal box.
Im. . . Craig cleared his throat as the doors closed. The trick was to get all the words in the right order. Cant sound pished if all the words are in the right order. Im not a perv . . . pervert.
She didnt make eye contact, just stood there watching the floor numbers count down to ground level and escape.
Im hap . . . happily married. He frowned. No, no, no: not happily. I was happily, but now Im not. . . You know? Silence. You . . . you see I was happy, but, but. . . Shes sleeping with some . . . someone else!
He paused to see if the woman would jump in with an expression of sympathy, but she kept her eyes on the numbers.
Youre right. He leaned his head against the cool metal wall. I should shut up and leave . . . leave you alone. He closed his eyes and waited for the elevator to shudder to a halt.
Ping. A sudden swelling of noise as the doors opened on the main shopping level. The squeak of buggy wheels. And then he was alone.
Craig took a deep breath and lurched out into the crowds, gripping the shotgun tight beneath his coat. It was time to go see Father Fucking Christmas.
Stephen wriggled in the throne. Had to be a position on this bloody thing that didnt make his arse eat itself. Be lucky if he didnt have piles by Boxing Day.
He gave his head elf the signal to send in the next one. A wee boy with a runny nose. Then it was a wee girl called Ashley whose mother looked like a man in drag. And then another little boy called Simon, who wanted a dinosaur and a aeroplane and a puppy and a Action Man kung fu killer and a hat and a dinosaur and a chocolate house and, and, and. . .
Finally it was half eleven: time for the statutory fifteen-minute pee and tea break. The head elf a part-time goth called Greg, dressed up in a green tunic, green pointy hat, green curly-toed slippers and red-and-white striped tights plonked the Santa Will Be Back Soon! sign in front of the grottos entrance. Then they both buggered off out the back.
The store had been kind enough to build the grotto over one of the service entrances, so Santa could go take a piss without the kiddies seeing him. And then, when the call of nature had been answered, Stephen doffed his fur-trimmed red hat, white wig and beard, and joined Greg the Christmas Goth in the stairwell for a sly joint, out of view of the security cameras.
Greg leaned back against the wall. So . . . doing anything exciting tonight?
Stephen took another hit, holding the smoke in his lungs for as long as possible. Then wheezed it out. I wish. Taking my kid to go see that new animated thing: Skeleton Bob and the Witchs Christmas. Shes mad on the books.
Any good?
Fucking doubt it.
Grievous. Greg took another long drag.