The Killing House by Gomery Kimber

Author:Gomery Kimber [Kimber, Gomery]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-12-05T18:30:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Three hours later, as the sun was going down, Tryphon and American Troy, their ears singing from the noise of gunfire, lifted the Albanian into a hold-all and fastened the zip. The hold-all was the kind used by dive schools for scuba gear, and the oblivious Albanian was trussed up with rope and gaffer tape. The Big Shilling and Frankie the Fish carried the hold-all out to the Range Rover and swung it in the back. Next, Frankie the Fish loaded three other bags as well, containing incendiary devices and arms and ammunition. Then he locked up and they got in the car and drove off, not back to the air base’s main gate, but along a bumpy track amongst the pine trees. When they came to a gate in the chain link fence, Frankie got out, unfastened a padlock and drove them out into the car park at Lady’s Mile.

‘A drink,’ announced the Big Shilling. ‘Who fancies a drink? I’ll take you all for a drink, eh? Frankie, take us to the beach bar, my good man, the Big Shilling is in the chair, the Big Shilling is in the chair.’

They went for a drink at the beach bar, and the Big Shilling insisted everyone drink Leon beer. They didn’t stay long. The Big Shilling chivvied them all into drinking up as quickly as possible. It was as though, thought American Troy, he wanted to keep them all on edge, and this after all the bonding they’d done at the Killing House.

Troy looked at the Greek kid Tryphon who was leering at passing females, some of whom leered back. Tree-phone was a klutz, a retard, and an animal, and it was obvious to American Troy what Tryphon’s likely fate would be. He’d end up bagged and tagged like that other animal, the Albanian. Troy took a sip of beer, but it didn’t taste any better than it had before. He massaged his belly. It ached.

‘Tryphon did well,’ the Big Shilling was saying, ‘Tryphon can shoot, and Tryphon can swim, eh?’

‘I was lifeguard,’ said Tryphon, not for the first time. ‘I was in Greek army.’

‘So you said, my boy, so you said. Fashion model as well, a man of many parts.’

American Troy snorted.

‘What’s wrong, kid?’ Shilling asked him.

‘This beer tastes like piss. I’m getting a Keo.’

‘Sit down and drink your Leon. Leon is the best beer. We’re leaving, in a minute or two.’

American Troy sat down. He knew that if he didn’t, the Big Shilling would share a few home truths with the table, home truths he, American Troy, didn’t particularly want to hear, such as the fact that Tryphon was a better shot than he was. American Troy did his best not to let his thoughts show. He chugged beer and stared out to sea instead. He was wondering how he could make himself indispensable. That seemed the only guarantee: to make himself indispensable. The question was, how? What he needed was an angle. Truth be told, what had happened to the Albanian had unsettled him.

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