Founder, Installment 15
Chapters 29 and 30
Chapter 29
Green-Eyed Monster, November 2021
Just as Hugh is leaving the hospital and heading down Great Easton Road to the metro station, his mobile rings. The prefix on his caller ID is a Gursey number.
“Hugh?” asks a male caller when he answers. “Have you got a minute? It’s Tommy.”
Hugh stops walking and steps to the curb to avoid pedestrians. “Tom, hey. What’s up?”
“I heard what happened to your uncle, Hugh. Is he doing better?”
“Yeah, much. Thanks. He might get outta the hospital soon.”
“Brilliant,” says Tommy. “That’s a huge relief. Look, I won’t keep you, but I was hoping to meet up if that works for you. Had something I wanted to clear the air about…”
Oh, fuck.
“Absolutely,” replies Hugh. “No problem.”
“I could meet you for a pint tonight if that works? If you’re not working.”
“Nah,” says Hugh. “I took the week off to be with Maggie—and deal with some stuff.”
They agree to meet at the Spotted Pig at eight o’clock; Tommy says brilliant and thanks, and I’ll let you go. Even though Tommy was perfectly cordial on the phone, Hugh doesn’t need yet another complication to deal with right now—and someone doesn’t ask to clear the air about uncomplicated subjects. Besides, not that Hugh holds grudges any longer than the next fellow, Tommy promised to help find a DNA match and then dropped out of sight, which is absolute rubbish.
Tommy probably got wind of Silvia’s night with Hugh, which means it’s going to be a really interesting conversation.
Hugh fishes a Gauloises from his jacket pocket and lights it as he walks. Traffic is light this time of day, so he cuts across Great Easton Road and heads to the park opposite the hospital, where plane trees and shrubbery flank a gravel path. He finds a bench beside the path and sits down to smoke his cigarette. Across the walkway, dry ornamental grass rustles in the cold wind. He draws on his Gauloises and looks down Great Easton Road at the pedestrians, the oncoming traffic, an approaching double-decker tour bus. After a minute, he takes out his mobile and texts Silvia.
hey, he writes. just got a call from tommy. he wants to talk. any idea what about?
Now rising from the bench, he heads down the gravel path. After 50 meters, the path emerges into a clearing with a bronze statue flanked by park benches. The figure is that of a young woman tied to a stake and surrounded by a great pile of faggots. Swirling flames encircle her legs; her back is arched in agony, her eyes raised beseechingly to the heavens. As he passes the statue, Hugh slows his pace. He’s seen the Sedane statue a dozen times at least and read the plaque—about the medieval martyr burned at the stake by German Christians.
“They blamed her for bringing the plague from Bressen,” his mother told him when he first saw the statue.
He can’t remember if Sedane was figan or founder, or, for that matter, why the Germans picked her as a scapegoat. As he passes, he nods at the statue.
Of course you were a yazzer.
Nobody would remember you if you weren’t.
The next few hours crawl by slowly, as if to give Hugh more time to dread his meeting with Tommy. When at last eight o’clock is near, Hugh slings on his backpack and heads downstairs for his walk to the pub. He hasn’t heard back from Silvia, so he’ll be heading into this conversation with no more insight than Tommy provided. It’s dark outside, and colder than usual. On the stoop, Hugh lights a cigarette, looks along the mews for strangers, and begins walking. Halfway down the lane, he sees his neighbor Mrs. Geedy emptying her rubbish bin in the glow of a porch light. Seeing Hugh approach, the old woman looks up and smiles as he approaches. “Evenin’, Hugh.”
“Evening Mrs. Geedy,” he replies. Then, looking around the old woman’s yard, asks, “How’s Winnie doing?”
The woman smiles appreciatively. “Gettin’ better now. Vet says he can go back outside in a few days.”
“That’s good. I miss seeing him when I come home at night.”
She smiles again, wipes her hands on her skirt. “You headin’ to work now, are you?”
“Nah. Just meeting someone at The Pig.”
The old woman is about to go back inside when she hesitates and asks. “I haven’t seen Silvia in a while,” she begins. “I hope she’s not sick.”
“No, no,” he replies. “She’s fine. Just busy studying.”
This seems to please Mrs. Geedy who nods agreeably and goes back inside her house, the screen door slamming behind her.
When Hugh arrives at the Spotted Pig he finds Tommy seated at a booth in the front room, well into a pint of Guinness. Tommy rises from his seat and shakes Hugh’s hand with a vigorous pump of the arm. As he does, he catches Hugh’s eye, then, just as quickly, looks away.
Hugh removes his coat and takes a seat across the table.
“Thanks for coming out, mate,” says Tommy, eyeing him carefully.
“Nah, good, Tom. What’s on your mind?”
Tommy’s expression turns grave. He looks down and rotates his pint glass on the coaster a half-turn, as if setting a clock. “Have you heard from Sil at all?” he asks.
“I haven’t actually,” Hugh replies. “Not since the Maggie thing when she helped at the hospital.”
His reference to that night is intentional; if Tommy wants to confront him over sleeping with Silvia, Hugh figures to give him the chance right away and get it over with. But Tommy continues to stare glumly at his glass.
Just then Evie comes by to take Hugh’s order. “Alright, Hugh,” she says. “The usual?”
“Yeah,” says Hugh. “That’s good, Evie. Thanks.”
When Evie returns to the bar, Hugh asks, “Is something up with Silvia?”
Tommy rotates his pint glass another half-turn, then laughs grimly, eyes on the coaster. “She’s fine, as far as I know.” Now he looks directly at Hugh. “She moved out a couple days ago, actually. Broke up with me and moved out.”
“Moved out?” Hugh asks. “Where’d she go?”
Tommy leans back against the banquette and drinks from his beer. “Her parents’ place for now. I don’t know her plan after that.”
Hugh runs his hands through his hair, rubs his chin. “Wow, Tommy, I’m really sorry.”
“Yeah.”
“How’re you making out?” Hugh asks, not knowing what else to say. This elicits another grim laugh.
Just as Tommy is about to reply, Evie arrives with Hugh’s order. Hugh downs the whiskey straight away, following it with a sip of beer. Tommy watches him closely. “How am I making out?” he asks. “I’m bloody devastated. I wanted to marry that girl, you know? I really did. And my parents absolutely adore her, which is saying a lot if you knew my parents. The Ransors liked me as well, I think.”
Hugh nods.
“But I blew it with her, you know? I screwed up, and knowing Silvia, I doubt she’ll ever forgive me.”
Hugh reaches across the table and taps Tommy’s hand with his index finger. “Sil knows you’re a good egg, Tom. I’m sure she’ll come around, yeah? She probably just needs some space.” It’s amazing how disingenuous a person can be when consoling his rival.
“Thanks, mate,” says Tommy, his face contorted in a tragic sort of frown. He leans back against the banquette now and fixes his eyes on Hugh. “But, actually, that’s not why I wanted to talk.”
“No?”
“No,” says Tommy, rotating his coaster again. Then, as if unsatisfied with the result, he pushes his glass to the side. “Look,” he begins, “I’m the reason Propago’s been harrassing you.”
Hugh sits back hard against the bench, his mouth half-open.
“Tell me this is a joke, Tommy.”
“I wish it was,” says the lawyer, now speaking so softly he is difficult to hear. “Before Sil moved in, she and I got into an argument about you. I don’t even remember how it started, but I ended up asking her if she had a thing for you. She got all evasive and tried to reassure me that you’re just really good friends. But I could tell there was more to it. I decided not to press the issue at the time, but it really started to eat at me.”
Hugh leans forward and rests his elbows on the table.
“Then, later on, when you asked for help with your claim, and decided to help, even though I resented you. I was strangely flattered that you asked, actually. And I wanted to help—as a way to show Silvia I could handle your friendship.” At this point, Tommy pauses to drink from his beer. He licks his lips, sets the beer off to his side again, and continues. “Then a few nights later I was at one of my dad’s dinner parties and I met this guy who’s a high-up at Propago. I’d had a lot to drink by then, and I was fairly pissed.”
“So?”
“Well, the guy started telling me about this conspiracy theory, that dissident groups are organizing feegies to get a reparations bill through the House—that it’s going to cost the founders billions of euros. Then he says that the reparations bill is part of a larger effort to take down the founders. Feegies are planning to overwhelm the system with legislation, lawsuits, disinformation campaigns on social media…and false ancestry claims.” Tommy takes a breath as if he’s about to dive underwater. “I was totally pissed by then, and I mentioned that I know a feegie bloke who filed a claim.”
Now Hugh is seething. “What’d you tell him?”
“I’m really sorry, Hugh,” pleads Tommy. “I told him everything—about the DNA test and the Godor connection. All of it.”
Slammed his hands in a door.
In a door.
In a door.
“Why the fuck would you do that, Tommy?” shouts Hugh. “They beat my uncle half to death. Do you even get that?”
Tommy sits as if strapped to his seat, his hands in his lap, his eyes glazing with tears.
“Tommy,” Hugh demands. “What the fuck?”
Suddenly Hugh is aware that people at nearby tables have stopped their conversations and turned to see what the yelling is about.
“There’s no excuse, Hugh…” says Tommy, shaking his head. “I tried to rationalize it by telling myself your claim was fake. But I could tell right away I’d screwed up. This guy was obviously super far-right, and he started talking about how figan people have it in for the families, how they want us stripped of our wealth, and to disband the Senate. All this stuff.”
“Unbelievable,” mutters Hugh, shaking his head.
“He never actually said Propago would do anything about your claim…” Tommy continues, “but I could tell from all the questions he was asking that they would, and I didn’t care because I was insanely jealous of you.” When Hugh rolls his eyes, Tommy keeps talking. “That’s the truth, mate. I could tell Silvia was into you and it absolutely killed me. So, after I offered to help you out, I ended up screwing you over, and I can’t tell you how sorry I am.” Tears are now streaming down his face and he wipes them away with the heels of his hands.
“Did you tell Silvia this?”
“That’s why she broke up with me,” he answers. “I’ve never seen her so disgusted, and it made me want to crawl in a hole and die, you know? Before she moved out, though, I told her I’d make things right with you, ‘cause I owe you that.”
“What’d she say?”
Tommy hesitates, adjusts his pint glass, then leans back against the banquette. “She made me promise to tell you everything—and to pull any strings I could to make Propago back off.”
Hugh says nothing.
“You know this is super complicated for her, right?”
“Complicated how?” asks Hugh.
“She’s not a fan of the families, right? Or the whole class system. So it really bothered her that you were so into proving this Godor connection…”
“I’m not into it…” Hugh protests.
“That you were pursuing it…because she’s so focused on abolishing the class system, and you were, like, plugging right into it.”
“She said that?”
“I’m paraphrasing, but yeah.”
Hugh shakes his head, thinks for a moment, and replies, “Well, if she’s got such a problem with the families, why was she living with you?”
Tommy’s frowns. “I’m more than a name, Hugh. Anyway, I think Sil cares about you a lot—a lot—and she wants you to get whatever you want, even if it puts the two of you on opposite sides of some ideological line. That’s what’s so amazing about her. But now she won’t have anything to do with either of us.”
“Wait,” Hugh says, his voice growing louder again, “All I did was research my family tree. I didn’t sell out a friend just ‘cause I got my feelings hurt, yeah? And I didn’t move in with a yazzer lawyer to make my parents happy. I didn’t do anything wrong…” Once again, Hugh sees other customers craning their necks toward his booth.
Tommy lowers his head but does not respond.
When Evie comes by their table, Hugh angrily waves her off.
“I don’t think she blames you for anything, Hugh,” says Tommy. “But she talked a lot about how you were so into Tullia Bruggen, which confirmed for her that you’re really into the whole founder lifestyle.” Hugh raises himself up to speak, but Tommy goes on. “Plus I think her feelings were hurt because you never showed interest in her, you know? She said you talked all the time about Tullia and all the research you were doing at the Ministry, and I think she decided it would never work between you two. So she gave up on you first, then me—for different reasons.”
Suddenly Hugh has an urge to tell Tommy that Silvia slipped into his bed a few nights ago— that she didn’t seem so disapproving then—but then he remembers her text the following morning, and the distance she’s maintained since then. Another radically different thought occurs to him: Silvia was saying goodbye. He tries to summon memories from that night—Silvia’s face above him in the darkness, the smell of her hair, the feel of her skin against his—and for an instant he feels her presence. But then the memories vanish and he cannot recapture them.
Tommy drains the last of his beer and looks awkwardly around the pub. “Look, mate,” he says. “I’m really sorry. I just wanted to clear the air, you know?”
“Yeah,” mutters Hugh, making no effort to hide his disgust. “Go fuck yourself.”
Tommy’s face grows taut. “I’m going to find you a Godor to get tested. I swear. I’ve already made some calls.”
“Right,” says Hugh, looking everywhere but at Tommy.
Tommy leans forward, pulls some cash from his wallet, and sets it tentatively on the table. When Hugh neither responds nor acknowledges the money, he rises to leave. “I’m really sorry, mate. I didn’t want to drop all this on you. But I swear I’ll deliver.” Then, before he steps away, he adds, “Also, my father promised to intervene with Propago when he gets back in town—so they won’t bother you anymore.”
Hugh doesn’t reply to this either.
Tommy remains standing by the booth, waiting for some kind of acknowledgment. Eventually, Hugh nods without making eye contact, then watches as Tommy makes his way to the entrance and out the door.
Chapter 30
The Hedgerow, November 2021
With Tommy gone, Hugh takes his time finishing his beer, to gather himself before he heads home. It is past nine now, and the pub is full. As he sits and stews, he can make out snatches of nearby conversations, all of them enviably mundane. She said that, yeah? and, Nah, nah. They can’t beat Toulouse. But he listens only distractedly. Mostly he watches the bar area, where the two bartenders are filling pints and pouring drinks as fast as their hands can move. Tommy’s 20-euro note sits on the table at Hugh’s elbow; and when Evie passes by, he gestures at the cash, then rises to leave. Evie shoots him a look as if to ask, why were you screaming at that gantling? He just shrugs and slings on his backpack.
After edging his way through the crowd, he pushes the pub door open and steps out onto the sidewalk. He pauses beneath the pig sign to light a Gauloises before starting home. Then, just as he steps around the corner toward Morton Mews, he glimpses a black Peugeot with silver-tinted windows moving away from him. Before he can make out the registration plate, the car turns the corner and disappears. The Peugeot would have passed the pub just as Hugh was lighting his cigarette. Anyone could have spotted him then.
He quickly crushes his cigarette in an ashtray and slips back inside. Moving once again through the crowd, he goes toward the bar, then around the corner to the men’s toilet. Once inside, he ducks into a stall, lowers the toilet lid, and sits down to collect himself. The music is quieter here; the air smells of urinal cakes and Polo cologne. The ceramic tiles beneath his feet are littered with butts-ends and scraps of toilet paper.
He bends over and peers under the stall beside him. Seeing nobody there, he sets his backpack on his lap, unzips it, and takes out the Glock. Remembering Dory’s instructions, he pulls the slide backward with his right hand until the hammer cocks, then presses the slide release to chamber a round. This done, he carefully decocks the hammer.
“That’s so you don’t have to rack the slide before you can shoot,” Dory told him.
Rack the slide.
Run and hide.
Stop.
Giving the pistol one final inspection, Hugh slips it into his jacket pocket. As he shoulders his backpack again, he feels his eyelid tightening and, with the back of his hand, rubs the sensation away.
When he leaves the pub for a second time, he looks carefully along Stanfield Street before heading around the corner to Morton Mews. There is no sound in the mews except for the distant barking of a dog. Halfway down, Mrs. Geedy’s little bungalow sits in shadow, surrounded by shrubbery and garden gnomes. As he passes, Hugh glances in the window and sees the old woman at her kitchen table, engrossed in some task. Fifty meters past Mrs. Geedy’s place he comes to his own building, the porchlight on, the upstairs windows dark. He moves quickly to the door, takes a last look down the mews and fits his key in the lock.
Just then, he hears a noise—to his left, in the narrow walkway where the rubbish bins are kept. It is a soft, muffled sound, like fabric tearing.
Instantly, Hugh thrusts his hand in his pocket, his fingers closing on the grip of the Glock.
Now he hears footsteps on the concrete walkway. He turns in that direction, his hand still in his coat pocket.
From around the corner a familiar voice whispers, “Fuck.”
“D? That you?” calls Hugh.
No answer.
Hugh steps cautiously toward the walkway.
“Dory?” he whispers.
At last a response comes from out of the darkness. “Hang on. I’m caught on this fuckin’ window.”
Hugh hears another ripping sound. A second later, Dory appears, dressed all in black—hoodie, joggers, skull cap—inspecting the front pocket of his sweatshirt.
“Fuck, D,” says Hugh. “What the hell?”
Still standing in the shadows, Dory shushes him, then gestures for Hugh to come closer.
“What’re you doing back there?” hisses Hugh.
“Been some jimmies ‘round your flat tonight.”
“Here? How do you know?”
Dory looks out along the mews, then to both sides of the house. “Me and Brucie been keepin’ an eye on things, yeah? Ever since Rint threatened you.”
Hugh exhales as if he hasn’t breathed in days. “Okay, yeah. I think I saw that Peugeot again—when I came outta The Pig.”
“You get a look at the driver?”
“Couldn’t see in.” He looks Dory over carefully and asks, “Where the hell have you been? You had me thinking you were dead…”
“Yeah, sorry ‘bout that,” replies Dory, his eyes roving the mews as he speaks. “It’s a B-Opp thing. Brucie thought I should get outta sight for a while. I didn’t know if being in touch was a good idea for either of us, yeah?”
“I almost pulled a gun on you,” sighs Hugh.
Dory eyes Hugh’s jacket. “You got it with you?”
“Yeah.”
“Good,” he says. “We should get outta here.”
“Right now?” asks Hugh.
“Unless you wanna get into it with those boys right here. They’ve been around your place a couple times already.”
“Yeah, alright,” replies Hugh, fighting an impulse to run upstairs and lock himself inside.
Dory leads him back down the passageway from where he emerged, past the window grate where he tore his sweatshirt, past the rubbish bins, through a wooden gate into the neighbor’s backyard. He glances back at Hugh every few steps, then continues moving, around the neighbor’s house onto Terrence Road, which runs parallel to the mews but has outlets on both ends of the block. Here Dory pauses to check their surroundings. “Brucie should be around here somewhere.” He pulls his mobile from his back pocket, glances at the screen, then resumes walking, Hugh following a few steps behind.
The houses on Terrence Road are all one-story red brick bungalows, nearly identical to each other, with tile roofs and small yards. The lights are on in several of the homes. On the left side of the street where Dory and Hugh are walking, a two-meter tall arborvitae hedge separates one of the yards from the sidewalk. As they are passing the hedge, Hugh feels his mobile vibrate in his hip pocket. He briefly stops to check the caller. It’s a spam call, though, which he quickly declines.
Seeing Hugh fall behind, Dory looks back and hisses. “Hurry up!”
Just as Hugh is returning the mobile to his back pocket, he hears a rustling behind in the hedgerow. Before he can react or even call out, he sees a figure dart out of the hedge and bring a metal rod crashing down on Dory’s shoulder.
The big man grunts in pain and doubles over.
Then comes a second blow—this time to Dory’s back, the weapon finding its mark with a sickening thud. The crushing blow lands Dory face-down on the sidewalk, his arms pinned beneath him.
Now Hugh lurches toward the attacker. Only then can he clearly see the man, shorter than Hugh but stocky, wearing a gray jacket and faded jeans. He is holding some kind of tactical baton and, seeing Hugh move toward him, raises it menacingly.
A long time ago, Hugh’s therapist explained the human fight-or-flight response and its role in anxiety disorders. He described how, when a person perceives an imminent threat, the nervous system stimulates the adrenal glands, flooding the body with adrenaline and noradrenaline. In response to this sudden burst of energy, blood pumps faster to the extremities, muscles tense, eyes grow wide and alert. Fine motor skills, meanwhile, deteriorate as the body directs its resources to fleeing, or striking out. It all sounded so implausible at the time, the idea of a human being reduced to a cornered animal.
When Dory’s attacker steps forward with his weapon raised, none of Dr. B’s explanation occurs to Hugh; there is no time for clinical clarity or even to think. Instead, without volition or reflection, he becomes the feral creature his doctor described—all fear and rage and adrenaline.
The stranger takes one, two steps toward him.
Hugh thrusts his hand in his pocket and withdraws the pistol, the hammer briefly catching on his coat. He does not, as Dory instructed, level the sights on the assailant. Instead, he thrusts the gun forward as if pointing a finger at the man.
But the stranger keeps coming, either unable to see the pistol or unafraid of it.
Hugh draws the hammer back with his thumb.
The next few seconds are hallucinogenic in their irreality: The stranger takes another step forward, and Hugh squeezes spasmodically on the trigger. There is an explosion of sound and light—a crack of thunder, a flash in the darkness. The pistol recoils violently in his hand; a spent shell casing leaps from the ejection port and lands on the sidewalk, tinkling like a brass bell. Then, as if Hugh’s entire universe has, in that instant, been obliterated, a millisecond of astonishing silence follows—a quiet so profound he can hear the blood coursing through the arteries in his brain. He no longer occupies his body now; he did not command his finger to pull the trigger—it did so automatically, directed by some internal force he never knew existed.
An infinity later, but not more than a second or two, reality reasserts itself with a tinny ringing in his ears, sulfurous-tasting air, a sinuous trace of smoke dancing at the pistol’s muzzle—and Hugh finds himself once again standing on a dark sidewalk on Terrence Road.
Through a haze of smoke, he sees the attacker stumble backward, clutching at his neck with a muffled groan. The man’s face, now more visible in the dim light, is acne-scarred and sparsely bearded, his expression one of mute astonishment. Where he holds a hand against his neck, blood begins to ooze between his fingers and onto his shirt.
Then, from out of the darkness comes the sound of footsteps—rubber on asphalt—and a second stranger appears at a sprint. In his feral state, Hugh sees only jeans and trainers moving toward him from across Terrence Road. He swings the pistol in the newcomer’s direction, and the attacker slides to a stop just before the curb. There he hesitates, looking from side to side, then turns and runs away.
The first attacker now turns and flees as well, his left hand against his neck, his right loosely holding the baton. Hugh watches him retreat into a neighbor’s yard, jogging a few steps after him to make sure both men are gone. As Hugh turns back toward Dory, he sees a porch light come on at a nearby house, then hears a window slide open. For an instant, he considers throwing the pistol into the bushes but decides he might still need it. He slips it back in his jacket and rushes to Dory.
His friend, meanwhile, is struggling back to his feet, mutering, “Bloody fucking hell.” When at last Dory is standing, he points at the sidewalk and hisses, “Get the shell.”
“What?”
“The shell casing,” he whispers, obviously in pain. “Find it so the Sikkies don’t.”
Clumsy and disoriented, Hugh retraces his steps to where he’d fired the gun. After a brief search, he locates the brass casing, still warm, lying in the grass by the sidewalk. He picks it up and places it in his pants pocket. As he returns to Dory, he sees dark drops of blood on the concrete where the attacker stood. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he whispers under his breath.
“Let’s go,” whispers Dory, the whites of his eyes moving from side to side. “Sikkies gonna be here soon.”
“Can you even walk?” asks Hugh, though he might have asked himself the same question. The shock of the attack has left his legs unsteady beneath him; and his head is swimming as if he’d had a concussion. But he is also filled with an extraordinary, buzzing energy, as if he could shed his body like a cicada shell and fly into the night.
“What, you gonna carry me?” asks Dory.
“Where do we go, then?”
Dory surveys the road then, listing badly to his right, leads the way slowly across Terrence Road. Eventually they come to a vacant lot overgrown with weeds; toward the rear sits a cinder block garage, its glass windows long since shattered. The two men move quickly through waist-high weeds, around the garage, into a larger adjacent lot where two delivery trucks are parked side by side. Dory stops between the vehicles and removes his mobile from his hip pocket.
“That safe to use?” asks Hugh.
“It’s a burner,” replies Dory. He dials a number, leans back against the truck, and waits for an answer. “Brucie,” he says after a moment. “Where are you?”
As Dory and Brucie discuss next steps, Hugh forces himself not to think about the gun in his pocket, or how he just shot a stranger in the neck.
4-7-8.
Slow it down.
“No, yeah,” continues Dory. “I found him at his flat, but they caught up with us the next block over…”
A pause.
“He’s okay,” he replies, then, “Motherfucker caught me pretty good, though. Mighta broke some ribs.”
Another pause.
“Two of ‘em. Hugh had his Glock with him. Shot the first teep in the face or some shit. Second one just ran off. Gotta go. I’m about to run out of battery.”
Hearing Dory’s remark about shooting the attacker brings on a wave of nausea.
More deep, slow breaths.
When Dory hangs up, Hugh asks, “You think I killed that jimmy?”
Dory thinks for a second then replies, “Nah. He couldn’t have run off like that if he got hit bad. You probably just grazed him.”
“You think?”
Dory reaches over and squeezes Hugh’s shoulder. Then, with a pained smile, he says, “He’s lucky you can’t aim for shit.”
As the two men turn to continue their retreat, the wail of a Sikstand car rises in the distance—at least a kilometer away but growing nearer.
“Fuck…” mutters Hugh.
“We’re alright,” says Dory. “But we should split up, yeah? We’ll meet at Brucie’s place, yeah? Maybe one and a half klicks from here—175 Moore Street. Know where that is? Go around to the back door and let yourself in. And turn off your phone so it can’t be traced.”
Hugh nods, then powers down his mobile, feeling all of the sudden naked without it.
“I’m gonna go through the park,” continues Dory. “‘Cause I need a short cut. You stay north of there.”
Hugh nods again.
With that, Dory gives him another squeeze on the shoulder and limps into the darkness.