‘It’s a long way down . . .’ He forced the kid’s head closer to the railing, making him look over the edge at the people below – so small they looked like ants. The kid couldn’t struggle with the gun sticking in his ribs, loaded and ready to blow him away; the same weapon the little runt had nicked to order and brought back hoping for some monetary gain.
Big mistake.
His last?
Probably . . .
Do these street kids never learn?
Passing motorists continued to ignore them, whizzing by in both directions just a few feet behind with no interest in what they were up to. Probably thought they were tourists taking advantage of the river view, the famous bridges, the heart of a city locals called The Toon. By the time anyone stopped and got out of their car, the little twat would be toast and he’d be long gone.
He’d never offed one in public before and thought it’d be a blast.
‘Cat got your tongue?’ he said.
Silence.
‘It’s Friday the thirteenth today,’ he said. ‘Unlucky for some, eh?’
‘Kiddin’, aren’t ya?’ the kid said, suddenly full of bravado.
His eyes glazed over with sheer joy. ‘Do I look like I am?’ he chuckled.
‘You wouldn’t dare!’
The kid was really spooked now, his face set in a scowl, a dribble of sweat running down his cheek. Or was it a tear? He glanced nervously along the pavement, then at the twenty-five-metre drop to the road below. Even if he broke free, there was nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide. And he’d be as good as dead if he jumped from the point where the river ran beneath them.
He kissed the little shit, laughing as a driver hooted his horn.
‘You queer or sommat, mate?’ The kid flinched, expecting some kind of retribution, but when he didn’t get slapped or hoyed over the railings for his cheek, he seized upon the opportunity to worm himself a deal: ‘Money’s not the only currency, know what I’m saying? Let us go and I’ll give ya a blow job for free. Best you’ll get round here by a long chalk. Two, if you want, but that’ll cost extra . . . prob’ly.’
This one had a bit of spunk, at least, he thought. Sad to think he was about to have a tragic accident, or decide to take his life, like the rest of the sad bastards who’d leapt from the Tyne bridge over the years. One of his mates was talked down once after a concerned member of the public saw him teetering on the edge. Swaying back and forth, back and forth, in two minds whether or not to end it all. Fuckwit chose life that night, before rocking himself off on a line of coke.
Shame.
Not.
He took a deep breath of fresh night air, excitement growing inside him. He shut his eyes for a moment, visualizing throwing the little scrote from the parapet. Watching him free-fall past the northern pier before crashing to earth, his body twisted and contorted by the impact, taking out some of the ants below. Passers-by would hear a solid thump, or maybe a splat, as the kid hit the ground like a squashed tomato, exploding in a spray of red. To his knowledge, no one had ever survived the fall before. He looked at the lad again, imagining his skinny frame twisted on the ground, distorted and grotesque, lifeless eyes staring back at him, blood oozing from every orifice.
‘Time to say goodbye!’
‘Gan on then,’ the kid said bravely. ‘Get it over with, if you’re gunna.’
‘Tcht, tcht. That’s no way to talk to your elders, now, is it?’
‘Sorry.’
He was, too. He could tell that just by looking at him. Was it really necessary to kill him? Not strictly. The lad had no idea of his identity – what possible threat did he pose?
‘Thing is, son. I just don’t like loose ends,’ he said. ‘Nothin’ personal.’
‘I got no problem with that,’ the kid said, sniffing snot up his nose, wiping tears on his sleeve. ‘Wanted by the buzzies meself, arn I? Don’t take risks ’less I have to, neither. Won’t tell no one, promise.’
‘Really?’
The kid nodded. ‘Really.’
He relaxed the gun a little and the vice-like grip on the kid’s shoulder. ‘How do I know I can trust you? Think carefully on it, mind. You need to give me the right answer if you’re gonna save your skin.’
‘You can trust me, honest. I swear on my mother’s life.’
Silly boy.
A lull in the traffic and he was gone.