“Pull the fucking trigger, Jamie.”
My fingers tighten but the gun feels slippery in my hands – like it’s going to melt into my skin, bullets and all.
I sense Graeme behind me. Hot breath on the back of my neck. Thick fingertips digging into my shoulders. His mates laugh and sneer but they’re just glad they aren’t in the spotlight tonight. Mark stays silent and just watches me. He’s the one to be scared off, the one who doesn’t warn you.
“Do it, I said.” Graeme’s voice is an angry whisper but the unspoken words are the ones I’m afraid of.
The man I’m aiming a gun at raises his hands up to me, every inch of his naked body trembling. He’s covered in snot and sweat; his body stinks with his own piss and shit. He lost his dignity half an hour ago, when they started cutting away his tattoos. That’s when he realised this wasn’t a warning.
“Please, Jamie,” he says, spluttering, his eyes wide with the kind of terror that makes me want to look away. “Please, you know me. You know me, Jamie, just look at me, look! Help me! Help me, Jamie, help me. Jamie! Jamie!”
If he’d just stop saying my fucking name it wouldn’t be too bad. I’d aim, close my eyes, pull the trigger and pretend his brains weren’t splattered all over the place. I barely know him, and what the fuck could I do for him anyway? God help us both.
“What would your ma say, Jamie? What would she say?” He grabs at my leg; his hand is a curling, bloody mess that reminds me of a horror film. I need to throw up but instead, I kick him away.
“I reckon she’d rather you than me,” I say, looking at the others with a fake smile plastered on my face. They laugh, more at the man’s face than my words, and I laugh along with them. I wonder how it managed to get this far, how I deteriorated so badly in such a small space of time. I just wanted to fit in, to make a little money, to enjoy life. I never wanted to be a murderer.
Graeme’s eager, he shoves me a little. “I swear to fucking God, you have sixty seconds to do that rat in or you’re taking his fucking place. D’ya hear me, young fella?” He means it. He doesn’t care who dies, as long as he gets to watch. That’s Graeme’s thing. Especially when he’s coked up. Somebody isn’t going home tonight. I’ll do anything for it not to be me.
I close my eyes. Take a breath. Think.
Sixty seconds.
Me ma’s face, lined with worries. Money. Me. The mess I’m making of my life. Would she want a murderer or a dead son?
Forty seconds.
Gemma. The smell of her skin and the dimples in her back that I kiss just to feel her squirm beneath me. The baby in her belly, the kid I may never see, hidden under the hard curve that has replaced her once soft stomach.
Jesus, I haven’t told her I love her since the positive pregnancy test. I’ve left her thinking I blame her. Would she want to hear it again? Even if it came from a murderer’s lips?
Ten seconds.
Can I live with myself? Can I lie down and die?
I open my eyes and look right at the man I’m about to kill. I owe him that much, the poor bastard. The gun is heavier than it looks now. Clammy hands. Sweaty face. I need to throw up.
He shakes his head, silently pleading with me. Too late. A second later he’s on the ground with a hole in his head and I’m deaf. Except for his last cry. I hear him call my name over and over, despite his mouth no longer being capable of making a sound.
Someone takes the gun from my hand, claps me on the back. I can’t stop looking at dead eyes, still wide open with fear. Graeme ruffles my hair, high on something other than the cocaine he snorted.
“Great show, son,” he says. “You’re in.”
I don’t throw up.