The Killing Hour

He lowers his gun. Just slightly, but it’s all I need. They say money can’t buy happiness, but they’re wrong. A make-believe fifty thousand dollars has just brought me all the happiness I need.

I bring my arm around, not wanting to fire a gun in public, but not knowing what other option I have. The gun appears in one smooth sweeping movement that makes Cyris’s eyes open wide, and when it goes off, I miss everything but the ocean as the bullet whistles harmlessly out to sea. The small recoil jumps my arm further around. There’s no time to aim so I just fire, my mind sending an impulse to my finger quicker than Cyris can send one to his. The bullet takes him in the left shoulder and spins him as he fires. His shotgun sounds like thunder, then metal rain fills the air as pellets from the cartridge spray across the railings. I fire another shot, this one taking him in the chest. He does not fly backwards. Just falls to the ground where he stands, the Mossberg clattering onto the concrete alongside him.

The problem is it doesn’t stop him. He reaches for the shotgun and pumps it. He tries to stand. My next shot takes him in his left arm and he staggers into the railing, losing the grip on the gun once again. I halve the distance between us. He’s leaning forward, his hands resting on his knees, his eyes fixed on the ground. I keep the Glock trained on him, but he doesn’t move. I close the remaining distance, moving in from his side, keeping the gun pointing at the side of his head.

He stands straight and rushes his fist towards me but I’m prepared for it. I pull the trigger, only the explosion of sound that ought to happen doesn’t happen, and the only recoil I take is from his punch. I fall back, staring at the gun, staring at the slide that is pulled back and somehow jammed, staring at it with no idea how to fix it. Cyris comes at me but he’s slow from his wounds. I duck his punch and crash the gun into the side of his head. It jags off his skull and Cyris cries out as his head snaps sideways. The momentum from his swinging punch tugs him forward and he crumples into a heap next to his shotgun. I kick the Mossberg further away. I kick the knife away too. I step back and study him. He’s perfectly still. I kick him. He doesn’t move.

I run towards Jo. She’s thirty metres away, balanced near the railing, looking like she’s ready to jump depending on the outcome of events.

‘Is he dead?’ she asks, the moment I reach her. She yells to be heard over the wind and flying sand.

I shake my head. I dig into my pockets for Landry’s handcuff keys and pull them out. We try for a few seconds to undo her cuffs but it’s obvious the key won’t fit. ‘You should go and search for the keys.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘I’ll help you in a minute, okay?’

‘Charlie?’

‘I’ve got a couple of things to do.’

She slowly nods. ‘You don’t have to do this, Charlie. We can take him to the police.’

‘If he ever gets away he’ll come after us. You know that, don’t you? Or in ten years when they let him out for good behaviour. It’s either him or us, Jo. What do you want me to do? Let that happen?’

She doesn’t answer. Instead she raises her cuffed hands over my head and embraces me. We hold each other while I keep my eyes glued to Cyris. He’s not moving. We let go and she runs along the pier as the wind kicks at her.

Sand flicks my face and I use my hands to shield my eyes. So much of it is in the air I can’t even see the beach. I have no idea how we’ll find the keys. As I walk towards Cyris I push and pull at the slide on my Glock, not knowing what I’m doing, but after a few attempts it slides back into place.



The urge to kill Cyris is with me, and it’s the sort of urge I want to give in to. I don’t doubt he’ll come after us when he’s released from prison after spending the appropriate amount of years that balances the scales for killing at least four people. I pick up the rope and Landry’s handcuffs and the same anger that burned through me when I found Frank leaving a briefcase full of money is burning through me now. I snap the handcuffs around his wrists. The moment the second bracelet is in place he shoots both hands upwards, hitting me in the jaw. I reach out and the rope wraps around his neck. When I pull on it, it tightens.

He pushes into me, crushing me between his body and the lamppost. My head clangs against it, and when I look down I see four of his legs getting tangled in two sets of ropes. He tries to keep balanced but the rope is wrapped around him and the handcuffs make it that much more difficult. I grab hold of the rope and twist my body aside, pulling him into the lamppost. Then I push my body weight into him, lifting him onto the railing. I hold him at the top and we seem to realise at the same time that he’s balanced to go either way. All of a sudden he stops fighting me and I stop pushing.

‘We can be partners,’ he says.

‘Go to hell.’