Sunday 17 February 2013

Dungannon Noir

Just something I've been messing around with, working on a minimalist writing style trying to say only what needs to be said. Can't see this ever having much of an audience though...

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Echo leaned on the bonnet of the red Lexus surrounded by a wall of broken cars, his breathing was tight, on his shirt was the growing stain of blood.
On the ground next to the car lay a body with no head, or little head, the rest of it had been scattered over the ten or so feet behind by the shotgun now lying across the bonnet behind Echo.
They had taken him here to kill him. This was where the money was, stashed in the back of a car waiting to go into the big crusher on the other side of the breakers yard.
They’d used him, and in doing so had tricked him into breaking his most inviolable rule: do not get involved with paramilitaries.
It was IRA money.
He was fucked.
They had been sloppy in what they were doing. Over-confident, thinking two shotguns made them immortal. The guy with no head, his first barrel had fired a hasty shot when Echo made his move and struck his companion dead centre of the chest, Echo had the gun turned on him and took his head off with the second barrel.
It was a lovely gun, Echo held it now, admiring the lines of the swan neck stock. It was something that you didn’t see often on over-under shotguns. It was elegant. It was a shame that it would have to go in the back of the car with the two bodies.
He knew the yard, outside the Moy on the way to Armagh. There weren’t too many neighbours, he could only hope that no one had heard the shots.
This area was in Armagh jurisdiction, they had tighter police coverage than Tyrone, if the police had been called they’d be here in five, maybe ten minutes tops.
He needed to get going.
He stashed the headless corpse in the boot of a broken Volvo and threw in the swan necked Browning.
The companion groaned as he was hoisted into the back of the car, blood gurgled from his mouth. Echo dumped him on the body of his friend, and then retrieving the other shotgun, a heavier Krieghoff affair, he emptied both barrels in quick succession into the body and dumped the gun.
He didn’t feel guilt, he didn’t feel anything. He pressed the green button and the heavy press began to crush down on the Volvo. By the time the police got here there wouldn’t be any evidence worth collecting.
He tossed the duffle bag of stolen money into the back of the Lexus, he couldn’t just give it back to the IRA, that was a death sentence for himself. His only option was to sort out the motherfucker who got him into this in the first place.
He gunned the Lexus through the gate, turning right for the Moy with the tail of the car swishing out behind him the engine roared.
In the rear view mirror he saw in the distance the flashing blue lights of the PSNI. He was out of sight by the time they got to the yard.
It was only a few miles to Dungannon.

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