Yes, an instant. Not even a second of pain.
He sat down in the driver’s seat of the Audi again, sideways on, his feet on the garage floor. His eyes were still on the gun. He raised it, pressed the muzzle into the hollow beneath his chin.
A little bit of pressure on the trigger, he thought. That’s all it will take, and all my troubles will be over. No more sleepless nights. No more worrying about killing or being killed. I’ll be out of it forever.
So do it, then. Go on. Stop thinking about it and do it.
But then other voices intruded. Gemma and Daniel.
What about us? they asked. Why would you run away and leave us to deal with your mess?
He lowered the gun again.
Someone else would have to die.
46
Familiarising himself with the gun had taken far too long. By the time Scott had driven home through the rush-hour traffic, it was quarter past six. He was already fifteen minutes behind schedule.
There was no sign of Biggo and his mates, but he had to share the lift with a woman who looked to be about a hundred. He had to keep the doors open for her while she wheeled in her tartan shopping basket at the pace of a snail on tranquilisers.
‘Which floor?’ he asked when she had finally conveyed her bones across the threshold. He was aware how terse it sounded, but he had no time for pleasantries.
‘One, please, dearie.’
One fucking floor.
He jabbed the buttons for the first and the eighth floors.
‘I got stuck in this lift last week,’ she said as the lift rose.
Scott grimaced. Please don’t break down again, he prayed. Not now, of all times.
He willed the doors to open. When they finally consented, he had to wait another age for the woman to get herself out of the lift again. As she shuffled through the doorway, he wanted to launch a foot into her back to speed things up. Finally the doors closed behind her.
Focus now, he told himself. You’ll only get one shot at this. No pun intended.
Shit, this isn’t funny. It’s insane. Who do I think I am? Al Capone? I have a fucking gun in my backpack. How did I let it get to this?
He began to pace in the lift, felt it rock with his movement.
Go ahead, he thought. Drop like a stone. Smash me to bits in the basement. It would be so much easier. Take the decision out of my hands. I don’t know if I can do this.
You can do it. You have to do it. Think about Daniel. Think about Gemma. You can’t let them down.
And then the lift slowed and jerked to a halt. The doors opened, and he was looking at that number again.
801.
Scott stepped out of the lift and stood in front of flat 801, just staring at the digits. Behind him, the lift closed itself up and abandoned him, as though it wanted nothing more to do with this.
He moved closer to the door. A part of him hoped there was nobody home, but he could hear the sound of a video game from inside.
Last chance to consider alternatives. Final opportunity to call it a day. But you’ll need another plan if you do.
Time’s up.
MOVE!
He rang the doorbell.
The computerised noises from within ceased. The inside of Scott’s mouth turned to dry, dusty cement. His heart felt as though it was in spasm.
The door opened, but it was on a chain. Scott could just about see a man on the other side. Looked like . . . looked like he was wearing a parka with the hood up.
‘Whassup?’ Barrington asked.
Scott cleared his throat. ‘Sorry to bother you, mate. I’m a plumber, working in the flat directly below yours. They’ve got a leak in their bathroom ceiling. I’ve checked it out, and it looks like it’s coming from your place.’
To add weight to his story, Scott shifted his backpack. It jangled with the spanners and wrenches he’d tossed in there.
‘My place?’ Barrington said. ‘I haven’t seen no leak. How’s it coming from here?’
‘You got a bath or a shower?’
‘A bath. Shower over it.’
‘Yeah, it’s common in these flats. The sealant along the edge of the bath shrinks and pulls away after a while. Only takes the tiniest gap for the shower water to run down the side of the bath and into the flat below. You wouldn’t even notice it, but it’s a big problem for the people downstairs.’
