lose his way. Or he’d bungle the burglar alarm. Or Harvey would have new dogs that would chase him away. Who knows, maybe the guns would not be there anymore, or maybe there’d be no ammunition. Harvey could call it all off, or enter the house and smell a rat. Christ, he might even have suddenly lurched at Bro and wrestled the weapon from his grip. It could have been Ambrose Ork lying there up against that wheel. But no, it had all gone according to plan. He had comfortably and competently accomplished what he had set out to do. Now all that remained was to put into action his own part of the plan, his individual addition, his personal creation. And ironically Harvey was going to help him.
He was satisfied. The twin barrels sank into his neck just above his Adam’s apple, the other end was firmly wedged below Harvey’s expensive belt. He tried to shift it, shaking it with both hands on the long barrels. It was firm enough. He reached for the trigger. The gun cut into his neck as he tried to stretch his hands and his fingers to their utmost, straining to feel the trigger unit. He pulled away and checked the situation. Maybe he needed to try just a bit harder. Or perhaps he needed to shift his position, try with the other hand. Once more he jammed the gun under his chin and stretched out for the trigger mechanism. It was no good. Try as he might he could not reach. With dismay he realised that his arms were too short. Harvey’s fucking special. There had to be another way.
He was beginning to panic now. The police would surely be there at any minute, and he could not let himself be caught alive. He fell to the ground. Maybe if he took his boots off he would be able to use his toes to fire the damn thing. He ripped them off, grabbed the shotgun, and started rolling over in the gravel, trying to find a plausible position. This time he stuffed the butt under Harvey’s legs. Lying on his side he manoeuvred until he felt his toe on the trigger. But now the barrels pointed more at his nose than under his chin. His chest seemed to push the barrels up and away from him. If he wasn’t careful he’d blow away the best part of his face but nothing else.
He sat up again and examined the scene. There was nothing he could do. Either he sawed off the shotgun or he made his arms grow. How could he have been so foolish? It was simply something he had not taken into account. He thought now that if he had gone over this with Spotty first... But it had to be a secret or Spotty would not have wanted to be a part of it. So there he was, sitting on the forecourt next to Harvey’s dead body, clutching a ridiculously long-barrelled shotgun which he could not figure out how to turn on himself. He could shoot himself in the foot, but there was no way he could take his own life.
Unsure what to do next, he leant back against the four wheel drive next to Harvey and waited patiently for the police to arrive. They’d know what to do. What a mess. For once he had decided to think for himself and make his own decisions, and look where it had led him.
He should have known better.
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