‘Just give me the fucking money.’
Apparently, humanity wasn’t Ronan Cobb’s strong point.
Scott kneeled on the ground while he opened the backpack. He withdrew the thick envelope, then stood again and held it out towards Ronan.
Ronan put his torch back on, as if he needed the additional light to convince his disbelieving eyes.
‘Is that it? What else is in the bag?’
‘My flask. And my sandwich box.’
‘A flask and—Fucking hell, did you think we were going to have a picnic? Give me that fucking envelope.’
He came over to Scott, snatched the package, walked back to his spot. He tore into the envelope and started pulling out its contents.
‘How much is here?’
‘Four thousand, three hundred and twenty-seven pounds and 52p.’
‘Four thousand, three hundred and twenty-seven pounds? Are you—?’
‘And 52p.’
‘Oh, 52p! Well, that makes all the difference, doesn’t it? I can do a lot with fifty-two fucking pence. For a minute there, I thought you were trying to take the piss. But now I know you’re serious, we can close the deal.’
‘I . . . Like I said, it’s all we have. I can show you my bank statement.’ He started to reach into the backpack again.
‘No, I don’t want to read your fucking bank statement, Scott. What do you think I am – the fucking taxman? What sort of game is this?’
‘No game. I’ve done my best. I have no more money.’
‘Four grand is chickenfeed. You owe me twenty-five. Where’s the rest of it?’
‘I . . . I don’t know what you want me to say. I don’t have it. I work in a garage. My wife works part-time at a supermarket. We don’t own property or any valuables. We can’t get a loan from the bank. My car is only worth its scrap value. Please, I’m not trying to cheat you. I just don’t know what else I—’
And then Ronan was tossing the envelope and his torch on the ground, and he was pulling out his massive gun and striding towards Scott.
Scott put his hands up and tried to back away, convinced he was going to slip and that the sudden move would look like an attempt to escape, provoking Ronan to begin shooting.
‘Not good enough, Scott! Not anywhere near good enough.’
‘Please, I . . . Look, maybe I could pay you off more slowly. A chunk of my wages every month. How does that sound?’
Ronan rubbed his chin like a theatre villain. ‘A monthly instalment plan? Interesting.’
‘Yes! And even if you wanted to charge a small amount of interest . . .’
‘Well, yes, of course there’d have to be interest, but I’m sure we could agree on a fair percentage rate.’
He paused.
And then suddenly dropped back into his normal persona.
‘Don’t be fucking stupid. Doesn’t work like that. How long do you think it would take you to pay back twenty-five grand with interest? I’d be an old man by then. I want my money now.’
‘And I told you I don’t have it. Please, you’re asking me to do something that’s not possible.’
Ronan advanced again, his gun raised. ‘Everything is possible. You just need to try harder.’
‘I have tried. Please. Look at my bank statement. It’s—’
‘Which knee, Scott?’
‘W-what?’
‘I’m going to shoot you in one of your knees. I’m allowing you to pick which one.’
Scott backed away again. He felt himself beginning to slide down the hill. He glanced quickly behind him, taking in the vast, empty space. Nobody to help. Nobody even to hear the shots.
‘Don’t even think of running, Scott. You run, and I’ll shoot you in the back.’ He cocked the gun, lowered it to point at Scott’s right knee.
‘Wait! Wait! Maybe . . . maybe I could get some more. I could try. Let me try.’
‘Oh, so you’re willing to give it a proper try now? Actually put some effort in?’
‘Yes. I’m sure I could get some more. A lot more, probably.’
They stood silently on the hill for what seemed an age. Scott could hear the pounding in his chest.