The Jealousy Man and Other Stories

I stared at him. Because it really was him, Amy’s father, I saw that now. Was he asking if it was me who killed Dumbo?

‘No,’ I said, and I had no control at all over my voice. ‘But maybe you did.’

‘Then I would have been better off letting that shaven-headed guy with the laser rifle shoot the two of you up at the villa.’

I didn’t know what to say. Or do. Because yes, I had wondered if it was his voice I’d heard when someone stopped the guy with the laser sight on his rifle from shooting. Shouting that they weren’t murderers and — unless I saw wrong — pointing his own gun at the guy.

‘So then who was it?’ he asked.

‘Dunno,’ I said and started the engine.

‘But you know it wasn’t Dumbo who killed my daughter.’

What the hell was I supposed to say? Dumbo was dead, there was no one left to save any more. No one but myself.

‘I don’t know anything,’ I said and revved the engine. He still kept standing there, the straight idiot.

‘You know it was Brad,’ he said. He rested both hands on my handlebars and stared at me, eyes burning like he was on speed.

I didn’t answer.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘You aren’t like them.’

‘Like who?’

‘Like those others in the gang. Chaos. You want something more than that, don’t you?’

‘I want my Remington rifle back,’ I said. ‘Apart from that I don’t give a fuck about anything. Get out of the way, mister.’

‘I’m living in the villa. If you want justice like me then come and talk to me. I think maybe we can help each other.’

I slipped the clutch and he jumped out of the way. Accelerated away. The exhaust popping and banging from the bullet-holes from when the O’Leary twins peppered the bike. I rode so fast I could feel the tears streaming horizontally into my helmet and across my temples.

It was Ragnar. I knew it was Ragnar, he was the only one who could get Kevin to do something like that. The only question was how did Ragnar know I was going to get Dumbo to withdraw his confession? I mean, it really wasn’t all that fucking complicated.

The connection became even clearer when I got home and saw the ambulance parked in the street. Part of me was surprised because you so rarely see an ambulance these days; another part of me had been half expecting it.

I dismounted and walked over to the two men who were loading a stretcher into the back.

‘Who...’ I started to say, but they jumped in behind the stretcher, slammed the doors in my face and drove off, sirens blaring.

I turned and saw the trail of blood leading from where the ambulance had stood at the entrance to our block. I swallowed. It was my fault. My fault again.

I was the one who had given the address to Dumbo’s drunken and corrupt defence lawyer.

No, it really wasn’t all that complicated.

The street door opened and a pretty young woman came out.

‘What happened?’ I asked.

‘It was a guy with the same kind of helmet as you,’ she said.

‘Red leather jacket with a monster coming up out of the sea?’

‘Yes.’

‘And?’

‘He used a crowbar and broke into the flat at the end of our corridor.’

‘But?’

‘But when he got inside the man there had a knife and the motorbike guy had a Kalashnikov and shot him before he could use it. I spoke to his wife. She says they say he’ll survive.’