Page 40

Donny and Gunner awaited him in the pub, and the brothers left without another lick of whiskey.

“Come on, boys,” Patrick muttered, heading straight for the door. “It’s been a long day.”

They walked along brightly lit Main Street until they reached the first canal, then followed it downstream, not stopping until the rooftops shrunk and the pasture peeked over the tiles.

Ferris Manly was asleep, face down in his straw cot, beside horses of a pedigree far above his own.

He reeked of liquor and horse shit. A half-empty bottle had fallen from his hand and spilled out onto the hay. His face resembled pulp.

“Look at this sorry lump, eh?” Gunner said, dragging on his cigarette. “Took me a case of single malt to get him this fuckin’ job.”

Patrick shared his indignation. On occasions like this, he wondered if it wouldn’t be more efficient to just rid the world of men with Ferris’s character than entertain fantasies of righting the ship.

“Well,” Donny muttered, stubbing out his own smoke against a wooden post. “God rest his soul and all that.”

The horses were quiet in their stables. Even they seemed accepting of Ferris’s fate.

“Oy,” Patrick called loudly and kicked the sole of Ferris’s foot. “Up you get.”

The man came to slowly, eyes rolling. His pupils dilated at the sight of Gunner leaning over him. “Hello, Ferris,” Gunner said.

Even as a boy, Gunner had been possessed of the ability to shrivel a man where he sat. Patrick wagered there were none in Kenton Hill who did not fear him. He’d seen the turn of their pallor in his presence.

Ferris now resembled a trapped rodent, trying to curl in on himself. Already, he blustered. “I—I didn’t—”

“Didn’t what, Ferris?” Patrick asked.

His breaths snagged in his chest. His syllables came ever more disjointed. The Colsons hadn’t yet touched him.

Donny took a pistol from his pocket and pointed it in the vague direction of the cot.

Ferris quaked. The unmistakable smell of piss scented the air.

Gunner didn’t move. He looked to Patrick, now confused. “Mercy killin’?” he asked. “I thought we was here for sport.”

“We are,” Patrick assured him. “Put the fuckin’ gun down, Donny.”

Donny reluctantly lowered his gun, nose wrinkling.

“Scottie and Briggs are just rounding up some of your colleagues, Ferris,” Patrick told the man on the ground. “They’ll be joining us in a moment.”

As though summoned, feet could be heard slapping off the compacted dirt outside. Briggs stuck his burly head into the stables. “Got ’em, Patty,” he said.

Patrick nodded. “Get him on his feet, Gunner. Let’s see how fast this pig can run.”

Gunner grabbed Ferris’s arms, ignoring his whining protests. “Gunner,” Ferris coughed. “Please, Gunner… We were friends.”

Gunner merely scoffed, taking Ferris’s scruff in one hand and forcing him out into the night.

Standing like strays between Scottie and Briggs were five others, all known former hawkers. All now in more morally gainful positions. The Colsons gave second chances, just not to traitors.

“Hello again, boys,” Patrick said to them, making his voice louder than the growing wails of Ferris.

“Pardon the interruption to your evenin’.

We’ve brought you here to help us decide your associate’s fate.

” They shifted uneasily, not wanting to look at Ferris, nor any Colson.

They all stared at their boots instead. Except one, who glared at Patrick with obvious defiance.

“All of you,” Patrick continued. “Have been given new jobs. A fresh start, if you like.”

“Shovelin’ shit,” said the bold one, Leon. “Or chasin’ rats round the canals.”

“But employment nonetheless,” Patrick countered, undeterred. “And yet, Ferris here has decided to throw away the opportunities handed to him. You look like a betting man, Leon.” Patrick held aloft a coin, flipping it to show both sides. “If it’s heads, then I shoot Ferris as he runs.”

Leon’s eyes went wide. Ferris whimpered behind Patrick.

“Tails, and I’ll let you decide who gets to shoot him.”

Leon looked once to Ferris, pupils widening, and then he nodded. “I want to flip the coin meself.”

After a brief contemplation, Patrick threw the coin to him, “Be sure to give it back, won’t you? Times are hard.”

Briggs and Scottie chuckled.

Leon’s fingers shook around the coin. He squared his feet and shoulders as though preparing to throw a grenade. He gave Ferris a nod in solidarity, then flipped the coin on his thumbnail.

It spun and spun, then fell and fell, right into the waiting cradle of Leon’s palm.

He smiled, loosened a breath, looked to me exultantly. “Tails,” he said, grin stretching.

“Very good. And who’s your pick?”

He took no time at all to answer. “Donny,” Leon said. “My pick is Donny.”

Patrick nodded.

Donny clicked his tongue and winked an unseeing eye. “Why do they always pick me?”

Patrick smirked. “When you’re ready, Gunner, cut Ferris loose. To make things fair, we’ll give young Donny only one shot. What say you, Leon?”

Leon gave a curt nod, an air of smugness lifting his chin.

Ferris had stopped wailing.

Donny had yet to draw a gun.

“Let’s see how fast you scamper, Ferris,” said Gunner. “He’ll be headed downwind, Donny.”

Patrick felt their spectators lean forward, the sport getting the better of them.

“Ready, Ferris?” Gunner called. “Take your mark… steady… and he’s off!”

Ferris was surprisingly agile on his feet, despite a small stumble upon release. He was twenty feet away before Donny had even brushed his coat aside. Ferris’s legs pounded the dirt back toward the cobbles.

His colleagues whooped and cheered; Leon was the loudest, barking a laugh skyward.

Donny cocked the hammer of his pistol and raised it in the general direction of Ferris, though the gun barrel erred to the right. “Am I straight on, Patty?”

Patrick lit a cigarette. “Straight enough.”

The end of the lane was near enough for Ferris to smell the victory. He closed in on the corner, fading into the late evening mist.

An almighty bang rented the air.

The bullet made whorls of the mist.

In the distance, Ferris fell.

The brick walls carried the sound upward with the smoke, and Kenton grew silent once more.

“How’d I do?” Donny asked.

“Square in the back of his head,” Gunner answered.

Donny cursed. “Was aimin’ for his arse.”

Leon’s expression had fallen, arrogance as shot as poor Ferris. Fear always filled the hollow.

The rest of the men stared back and forth between the felled man and the blind man, disbelief rebounding.

“Thanks for joinin’ us, boys. And just so there’s no confusion, know that your pastimes are not welcome commerce in the marketplace.

As for your new positions of employment,” Patrick stepped toward Leon, eclipsing his view of Kenton Hill.

“You could do worse than horse shit and rats.” Patrick’s head filled with flickering lantern light and groaning timber and walls made of mud.

“Show some fuckin’ gratitude that I don’t throw you down a mine shaft instead. ”

Leon shrunk, his brow spotting with perspiration, thoughts of the tunnels turning him quiet.

It was late. Patrick was tired. He wondered if perhaps tonight would render any sleep.

“Be sure to turn up to work in the morning, boys,” he said, giving them his back. “As demonstrated here tonight, your life depends on it.”