Chapter 41

CHAPTER 41

In the office above, Raymond Doyle’s rage had emptied the room, the men inside piling out and pulling faces at other guys who’d been standing on the gantry listening, bemused, to the events inside the office. Back to work, back to work.

Left in the room was a raging Ray Doyle, a ruined ashtray cake, Cynthia Doyle, their son, Finn, and McGregor – McGregor, who wore an odd look. Who seemed unsure as to whether he should go or stay. Acting like a cat on a hot tin roof.

Behaving strangely, thought Cynthia, who said to him, ‘What the fuck is wrong with you, Mac?’ She was going to have to have words with him, she thought. Find out just exactly what the little toad was playing at by organising a party and making her look like an idiot.

His eyes were darting. His mouth was working. He even glanced at his watch.

‘McGregor . . .’ she prompted.

And then it came. From downstairs. Shouts. A gunshot. The sound of soft popping and more shouting, running.

McGregor pulled out a gun. He held it on Doyle. ‘Get out,’ he yelled. ‘Out of the office.’

Doyle looked at him, a picture of confusion. His mouth worked, but no sound came out.

‘McGregor,’ shrieked Cynthia.

McGregor turned the gun on her.

And shot her. Twice.

Finn, the kid – the as-it-turned-out brave kid – gave a shout and leaped forward, but McGregor was quicker, swinging the weapon around and plugging the kid once before he could even reach him.

Two bodies. Mrs Doyle sprawled half on and half off the sofa, a patch of purple blood on the front of her Juicy Couture; Finn, sliding down the wall, his mouth working like a beached fish, dying before their very eyes.

‘You’re a dead man,’ said Doyle.

But McGregor had already turned the gun on him. ‘Out,’ he said.

Doyle’s eyes blazed, but he did as he was told, leaving the office on the end of McGregor’s gun. His cheeks were puffed out. He was reddening. Sweat poured off him. A picture of fury and confusion.

Out on the gantry and oblivious to the combat raging below, McGregor punched the big red button to activate the grinder.

‘Get in,’ he told Doyle.

Doyle looked at him incredulously. ‘If you think . . .’ he began and then clutched at his chest. The faded area of his sweatshirt was suddenly bunched in his fist. He was gasping for breath, shivering at the same time.

McGregor saw his chance. He stepped forward. Manoeuvred the breathless, convulsing Doyle in front of the chute and was about to shove him backwards when from behind him he heard a familiar voice.

Abbott calling out to him. ‘McGregor!’

Chapter 42

CHAPTER 42