Right at this very second, Tyrell had never hated himself more. Never could hate himself more.
They had arrived there with no trouble. Once Amy saw what kind of venue it was and what was happening there, she had become angry. Striding up and down in the car park, swearing, ranting to herself that she had allowed herself to be duped, played. Josephina and Tyrell had just stood there, silent. She had then hurried them inside, pulled them to the back of the hall, hidden from the rest of the punters by the huge hay bales. And that was when she had handed him the gun, told him to hold it against Josephina’s head. The little girl had just stared at him, her eyes brimming with tears, threatening to spill over.
‘Tell her,’ Amy had said, ‘that if she doesn’t stand still and do what she’s told, she won’t get to see her mother. Ever.’
Tyrell had stared at the gun in his hand, felt its cold heaviness, then looked at the girl and back to Amy. He had shaken his head. ‘No. I won’t.’
‘Really?’ Amy had smiled then. It wasn’t pleasant. ‘One of us has to do it. You want me to? Shall I? Do you trust me?’ He didn’t have to answer her. She knew what he was thinking. She smiled, seeing he had no choice. ‘Thought so.’
He had looked between Amy and Josephina and reluctantly held on to the gun. ‘I hate guns,’ he said to Amy. ‘And I really, really hate you.’
She shrugged. ‘Not the first time you’ve told me that. Just do as you’re told. And make sure she does what she’s told. And don’t get clever. Don’t even think about using it on me.’
He hadn’t. Not until she had said it. And by then it was too late.
‘Just do it. We get this done, go back to the house, get sorted and it’s all over.’
Tyrell’s hand was shaking. He really did hate guns. The sound they made, the look of them, the heft of them. They were cold, hard. Dead to the touch.
And now he was standing there, holding the automatic on a child. A child he had made promises to, who trusted him. Now she couldn’t look at him. She was shaking too. The threatened tears had never happened only because she was too frightened to cry.
‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘I’m not … not going to hurt you. You know that … ’
He didn’t know if he was speaking to the child or to himself.
‘I know … you won’t believe me, but please … I want you to go back to your mother. I want you to go home.’ He sighed. ‘I want to go home too.’
All around were too many people making too much noise. Screaming and braying. Worse even than the worst nights in prison. At least then he was on his own, just listening to the noise. Here he was right among it. In the thick of it. He didn’t know what to do, couldn’t think.
So he just stood there, holding the gun. Hating himself. Josephina wouldn’t even look at him. That really hurt. Knowing he had let her down, betrayed her trust. And he had done it by being weak. Making the wrong decisions, the wrong choices.
And that made him angry with himself.
He looked again at the gun. At the child. At Amy next to him, talking on the phone.
At the gun. Again.
Yes. He was hurt. Yes. He was angry.
It was time to do something about it.