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“Ah, the dead judge,” Brad says, and then he frowns. “Why’d they call him The Alligator?”
“He was known to snap.”
“What’s with all these fucking animal names?” I ask. “It’s like the set of fucking Sesame Street.” They think they’re animals? I laugh under my breath. They’ve not met me yet.
James smirks, and Brad coughs over his laughter. “So Vince Roake volunteered this information to you, did he?”
“No, his next-in-command did.”
“Why would he do that?”
James sweeps his arm out, all chivalrous, his smile sick. “After you, gentleman,” he says calmly, and I eye him, following his instruction, walking to his Range Rover. The boot starts opening before we make it there, and I round the car, finishing off my smoke and flicking it away.
We make it to the back of James’s vehicle, and I balk at what I see.
“You. Are. One. Sick. Motherfucker,” Brad breathes, taking the words right out of my mouth as we take in the sight, James leaning casually on the side of his car. I cock my head, nodding, counting the number of missing body parts. No fingers. No ears. Half a nose.
“Nice,” I muse.
James joins us, leaning into the car and pulling off the man’s blindfold. He’s hardly breathing, but his eyes work, and they widen when he cops a load of me. “Hi,” I say cheerfully, lifting my shades to my forehead. “Lost something?”
He garbles a load of fuck knows what, blood spraying from his mouth. No tongue. I look at James. “Well, he can’t fucking speak now, can he?” And he also won’t last much fucking longer.
James takes a leg and drags him out of the Range, and his body hits the gravel with a thud. “He’s got nothing more to tell.” Taking an ax from his car, James swings it casually as he stands over the half-dead guy. “Or have you?”
A moan. A weak cry.
“I think that’s a no,” Brad quips, flicking his cigarette at the man before stuffing his hands into his pockets.
“I got that too,” James says, cool as a fucking cucumber as he raises and swings the ax, taking off the guy’s right arm. I grimace and take a step back, but Brad virtually dives out of the way of the spraying blood.
“Fuck me, James,” he mutters, brushing down the jacket of his suit. “This is bespoke.”
“What am I missing?” Ringo appears between Brad and me, taking in the scene. His ugly face twists more, his huge nose wrinkling. Then Otto shows up too, circling the body like a vulture.
James steps over the guy, getting in position for his next hit. “What’s my name?” he asks, bending slightly, putting himself in the line of what is certainly blurred vision. “Tell me my name.”
A few garbles, but I definitely catch the tail end, deciphering it as “ma.” The Enigma.
“You say that to Beau when you’re fucking her?” Brad asks, as James raises his arms ready for his next strike.
“You’re next, Brad,” he grunts, and I chuckle, along with Ringo, Otto, and Brad himself. But we all shut up and flinch when the ax comes down again, taking the guy’s left arm. James exhales, looking up at us. “Don’t send me psycho.” He moves down to the guy’s legs.
“You’re not now?” Brad blurts, waving a hand dementedly at the mutilated body before us. “I think he’s dead, by the way.” There are no sounds now. But there’s plenty of spasms, the guy’s body jerking all over the dusty stones.
“As a dodo,” Ringo adds, his face still repulsed. “Definitely as dead as a dodo.”
But James isn’t done, and we stand there, quiet, as he proceeds to take his legs too, until all we’re looking at is a torso. Like one of those freakish dummies people practice CPR on. But messier. James, finished, stands back and dusts off his hands.
“You forgot his head,” Otto quips, and James immediately pulls his gun from the back of his jeans, aims, and fires, sending the bloke’s brain spraying far and wide. We all jump back again, out of the firing line of blood and gore.
“And what did they call this one?” I ask, frowning at the sleeve of my shirt, flicking off what I expect is a piece of brain tissue. “The Worm? The Jellyfish?”
“The Dodo,” James replies swiftly and coolly, and my eyes snap to his, along with everyone else’s. James shrugs. Is he fucking kidding me? “Straight up.” He points his ax at the remains. “They called him The Dodo.”
After a few stunned looks passed around us, we all fall apart laughing, and it’s the stomach-cramping kind. The bend-over, delirious, eye-watering, uncontrollable, body-jerking kind. “If you tell me there’s one called Rex, I’m quitting life.” I chuckle, struggling to catch my breath. “Get rid of him.”
“Oh fuck,” Brad whispers, and I turn, getting him in my sights. He looks stricken and confused, and I’m thrown by it.
