Page 7 of Conor
“You’ve got yourself a deal.”
Crow’s lips flatten, and Fitzy gives me a respectable nod like I’m a man of honor. I’ve never considered that I was until now, and it feels pretty fucking righteous. My Pop was always bitching about me being too weak, and I just wish he were here to see it. If I’m going to die, I think it’s a fair shake. I’ll get what I want, and what I expected anyway.
“Alright lad.” Fitzy bends down and helps me up off the floor. “I suppose we should go ahead and do this then, aye?”
“Aye, I’m ready.”
Crow slaps me on the back and squeezes my shoulder. “Have fun then, lad. And try not to chuck.”
I’ve never killed a man. And before Brady, I never really gave it too much thought either. Pop told me he’d killed a couple of guards in his day. They’d get in the way, sometimes, he said. Trying to be a hero cost them their lives. Hearing these sorts of stories made me think it ran in my blood. Something had me convinced that I was just as hard as Pop was, and when it came time, I could do it too. But that was all before I met the Reaper. He’s the one with the glasses and an emotionless face.
The man is clean cut and as precise as a surgeon the way he moves about the little room where our prisoner waits. He discards his suit jacket and rolls up his shirt sleeves while he listens to classical music. It seems like an awfully weird fucking way to prepare to murder someone, but it looks like he’s probably done it at least a hundred times over.
The guy I’ve been waiting six months to kill is already strapped to a table, mouth gagged, shirt cut off. There isn’t an ounce of fear in his eyes when he looks at me. The Reaper, though, that’s a different story. Albie knows, just as I do, something isn’t quite right with this Fitzy character. He’s too stiff. Too formal. And way too calm. I feel sick all over again when he turns and gestures for me to come look at his selection of tools.
“Pick your pleasure.”
I take a gander at the metal contraptions, but I only recognize a few. Reaper must sense it, because he hands me a pair of shears. “I suggest starting with the fingers and toes. Makes it real for them.”
Jaysus.
I turn back to Albie, and he’s laughing at me with his eyes. Even he knows I don’t have the stomach for something like this.
“Do ye think he made your brother suffer?” Reaper asks.
I have half a notion to tell him to fuck off, but he has a point. The entire reason I set out to do this in the first place is because Albie made Brady suffer. And for what? Because he fucking could.
“He tortured him,” I answer, my voice barely audible.
“Then it’s time to return the favor, lad. One last act before ye go. Would it not give ye peace to know you’d done what ye set out to?”
Reaper’s words give me the conviction I need, and I move to the table. He follows with a metal bowl in his hands, setting it beside Albie. “For the appendages.”
He applies a tourniquet, which never would have occurred to me, and then steps back to let me get after it. Albie’s taunting me with his eyes, still not convinced I can do it. I think of Brady, recalling how his face was so mangled I couldn’t even hold a viewing for him before the service.
From the time he was just a wee lad, it fell upon me to look after him. I fed him, clothed him, made his lunches for school. He was a good kid with a heart of gold. He would have done anything to fit in. All he ever wanted was to feel like he had a family other than the shitty hand we were dealt. I hoped if I guided him in the right direction and stuck by his side it would be enough. But in the end, I failed him.
“He was just a kid.” I meet Albie’s dead eyes. “A fucking kid.”
His lips twist beneath the duct tape, and I can tell he’s smiling when I reach for his hand. It’s all a bleeding joke to him. But it stops being funny when the shears close around his index finger and I start to squeeze.
It’s a lot harder than I expected. There’s a crunch of bone and tissue before a tortured groan rumbles from Albie’s chest. Blood starts to seep from the wound, dripping onto the floor and making a real mess of what I’m trying to do. I can’t seem to get through the bone.
“It takes a wee bit to get the technique down,” Reaper tells me. “Just give it a good hard squeeze.”
I do. I close my eyes and squeeze it like I wanted to squeeze that trigger the night before, and the nub of his finger falls to the floor with a satisfactory thud.
“Good on ya, lad.” Reaper pats me on the back. “Only nineteen more to go.”
He leaves me to it, and I’m surprised to find it gets a little easier each time. Albie’s squirming against the table, moaning and whining and carrying on like the pussy he is. Blood sprays my face and clothes, but I can’t smell it anymore. It’s like I’m in a trance and all I can hear is the sound of Albie’s pain. I like it a lot more than I expected to.
The door opens, and another guy walks in. He’s got a bowl full of stew of some sort, which he continues to eat while he watches.
“Rory.” Reaper greets him.
“Fitz.”
Rory finishes his food and then sets the bowl aside, leaning back against the counter in the same fashion as the Reaper. “What’s the deal with this bloke?”
