The old man kneels before me. Spreads his arms. Lowers his head. Showing regret for what he has done? Or acceptance for what he knows has to happen?
‘Do it, then, you prick.’
I’m shaking. My breath is shallow. Staccato. Something in my chest vibrates with every puff of my lungs.
After all these years, it ends here.
Like it began. In the rain. Blood mixing with water. Unspoken anger. Another man waiting for me to decide his fate.
I was ready to kill a man then.
Do I still have that within me?
Or have I changed?
The rain batters down. We’re both soaked through. The water rivulets down my face, gets in my eyes, obscures my vision.
Over the noise, the old man says, ‘This is what you wanted all along. Do it.’
I lock my arm. Committing. My fingers snake around the grip, index extending to the guard.
The gun trembles.
I think to myself, that after all this time, I have to do this. For everyone the old man killed. Directly. Indirectly. For every injustice carried out in his name, under his orders.
Whether or not the old anger burns, from a pure and pragmatic point of view the world is better off without men like David Burns.
He deserves this.
No trial. No jail time. No cushy, gentle death as a guest at Her Majesty’s pleasure. No, not for David Bloody Burns. He was always going to die like this. Maybe not with me at the other end of the gun, but someone. Someone who hated him. Who understood what they were doing. Whose actions were justified. Maybe not in the eyes of the law, but under a grander and greater kind of justice.
The old man isn’t afraid. Acting like he welcomes death. And maybe he does. Maybe he’s prepared himself for a moment like this. Or maybe he knows that, just a few moments ago, he stepped over the line. Going from a man who could justify what he had done to a man who committed violent acts for no other reason than it was in his nature.
Or maybe he’s banking on the fact that he knows I won’t pull the trigger.
After all, I’m the good guy. The man in the white hat. For all my flaws, I have always tried to do the right thing. The only men I ever killed, I killed them because they were threatening my life and the lives of those closest to me.
At least in part.
So what is my justification here?
Why do I have to kill David Burns? Why is there no other choice?
Seven years ago I shot a man. Knocked him off his feet. Watched him die in the mud and the rain, his blood diluting as it sopped through his shirt.
He deserved to die.
Same as the old man does now.
Yes. David Burns deserves to die.
I can end all the years of misery and heartache. To gain some kind of justice for all the people caught in his sick pool of self-indulgence and greed.
So do it.
Do it, you fuck.
Do it!
My finger finds the trigger.
He remains on his knees with his head bowed. ‘I didn’t kill Ernie. I didn’t kill your fiancée. I didn’t bring you to this. But if it makes you feel better …’ Is he taunting me?
I had it all back. Had it together. Was moving on. Rebuilding my fucking life. And what was it that pulled me back down? Back to this?
David Bloody Burns.
Always David Burns.
The albatross around my fucking neck.
I see it, now.
Everything leads here.
High above the city. Surrounded by the dead and dying. Blood diluting in the rain.
Making this choice.
All I have to do is squeeze.
All I have to do is squeeze. And it ends.
Tonight.
In blood.
It’s so easy.
He lifts his head. Maybe thinking that I won’t do it. That I won’t kill him.
He thinks he knows me. He has manipulated me every step of the way.
So here, now, I have to make a choice.
No hesitation.
Trust your instincts, McNee.
He starts to smile.
I squeeze.