well that was part of his job and it would have to be done. So he feigned interest, counterbalancing it with admitted ignorance and apologetic incompetence, and got the damned papers stamped and delivered. Greyson had then presented him with this absurdly long shotgun. Harvey was unsure whether it was meant as a sincere gesture, a kind of ‘thank you for being a worse hunter than I’, or if it was a cruel joke along the lines of ‘see if you can miss with this!’ Apparently it was quite valuable, so in the cabinet it went, at the far end on the right, where if just about entered if placed diagonally.
Ambrose knew where the cabinet keys were kept. They were hanging on the back of the cabinet, about a foot up from the light switch, almost out of reach, but if he could just catch hold of the wire with his finger….Of course he could just smash the glass, it didn’t matter much now, but he was unable to destroy something so precious when there was no need. That would be vandalism. He unlocked the right hand door and gently eased out the weapon. Spotty had warned him – use your gloves, Bro, touch nothing, wipe it all down. If the forensics get a whiff of you they’ll have you back inside in a tick. They can fucking smell you. Forensic frenzy, right? Gloves, wipe, o.k.? Lately Ambrose wasn’t as obedient as he used to be, and anyway, he had his own ideas about how this should all work out. He held it in his bare hands. It was beautiful, sleek and powerful, and heavier than he had remembered. The mechanism was smooth but required strength. Ambrose practiced with the shotgun for a while, snapping it open and shut a number of times and lifting it up to shoulder height until it felt comfortable and natural, before loading it with the ammunition which was kept in the lower drawers of the arms cupboard. He caught his reflection in the glass door and liked what he saw. A man of action, prepared to do what only he could do. Now he was ready.
How Spotty loved that idea – killed with his own gun. As soon as Bro had informed him about the guns he knew that it had to be that way. It was poetic justice, he said. He then went on to explain to Ambrose that there were two types of justice. Normal, everyday, human justice, the one that had put them away for so long and that revolved around money and influence and corruption. It had nothing to do with truth or retribution and was much more prone to punishment and revenge. They called it justice because somebody had coined the phrase, but it was in reality no more than a complicated system designed to keep the rich and well-connected from losing the lifestyle to which they had become accustomed. The other one was called poetic justice, which meant true justice he supposed, and existed almost exclusively in books and films, old tales and people’s imagination. Though maybe some cynics were in for a surprise today, because Harvey would meet his maker not only via his intended victim but, irony of ironies, via his own fucking long-barreled shotgun! It was perfect. Ambrose didn’t follow his reasoning, he couldn’t grasp why there should be two justices, and what poetry, which to him meant rhymes, had to do with anything. But by now that didn’t bother him very much. He was learning to think for himself.
It was all going according to plan. He reckoned he had about half an hour at least before Harvey turned up, probably more like an hour. He took a deep breath, examined himself once more in the glass, and headed back towards the garages.
It had taken Spotty years to train Ambrose, to convince him, to overcome his reticence and doubts, to get into that thick skull of his not only the plan and all the minor details, but also, and this had been the hardest part, the reasons, the wheres and the whyfores, the underlying philosophy. He had soon realized that Ambrose did not so much as question what had happened to him. It was as if life was a film, and Bro was just sitting back in his seat with a coke and some popcorn watching it, his mouth half open, unable even to follow the plot yet alone understand it, or glean anything from it. So Spotty had had to prise it out of him, syllable by syllable, putting it all together until he had a clear idea of what had really taken place. That was how he learnt about Harvey and his scheming ways, how he had used poor Ambrose as a pawn in his game of self-important chess, how he had set it all up so perfectly. He was a cunning bastard, that Paulson, but he would not get away with it so easily, not if Spotty could help it.
Eventually, after hours and hours of painful explanation, he had managed to get Ambrose to see that he had been duped. To ‘see’, not to just say ‘o.k., I suppose you’re right Spotty’, but to actually believe the evidence, to understand it. Slowly, very slowly, it dawned on Ork the Dork that yes, he had been taken for a ride, blamed for something he had not done. Used, a scapegoat, the fall guy, toilet paper, call it what you will.
But that was just the first phase. Now that the fool realised he was exactly that, a fool, he now had to be turned, transformed from a passive, unobservant dimwit into the master of his own destiny. No simple task. But time was on their side.
Now then, Bro, if you have been mistreated, and the one that did that to you has got away with it and is now living the life while you rot away in here….? Gradually nudging the knucklehead in the right direction, planting ideas and watering them over the months, nursing and nurturing, eh, Bro? Talk of justice, of sweet revenge, of impunity and comeuppance, of inherent evil and social injustice, hours of talk, of persuasion, of education, in the common room, in the patio, in half whispers in the library, until at last the numbskull saw the light. Something had to be done, reparation, retribution, and it had to be done by Bro himself.
That was the most tortuous part. It was a path strewn with half understood morals picked up as a child, a vague fear of eternal damnation, the typical but deep-rooted qualms of a decent person faced with a terrible decision, an ugly truth. What a challenge! It was difficult enough under normal circumstances to make someone see that they must do their own dirty work or be crushed in the process, but Ambrose, Ambrose Ork. Daunting. Still it had to be done. Spotty had killed McCormack, but the insurance company had carried on as if nothing had happened. They were still screwing the poor, regardless, trading suffering for profits. Scavengers. Once more the mighty, the bright sparks, the powerful and wealthy, had got off scot free. Like Harvey. Only here was a way for Spotty to do justice, to strike back, to take at least one of them down.
Ambrose was a slow learner, excruciatingly so, but he got there in the end. Now he knew who his target was and why. The next step was the plan itself, the carefully constructed one he was at that very moment carrying out to the letter. As long as he stuck to what they had agreed on everything would work out just fine.
Was Spotty using Bro for his own revenge? Yes, in a way he supposed he was, but that was secondary. The main thing was to get Ambrose Ork to stand up for himself and cut down his oppressor. It was dangerous, admittedly, as Ork could blow it all so easily. Then maybe, though it was not very likely because Bro was to be trusted, of that he was certain, but there was a slight chance that a trail would lead back to Richard Dodd. Oh well, he could take care of himself. At the very least take the credit for having come up with the plan and trained someone like Ambrose to carry it out. Ah, nonsense, Bro would be fine; he had that damned plan burnt into his memory cells like a tattoo.
Ambrose headed back towards the garages. He had to get the electricity back on before Harvey arrived. The alarm had to be working again, and the automatic gates needed to be switched on or Harvey would smell a rat. Everything had to be running as normal with no surprises, nothing out of the ordinary, nothing that could raise suspicion. He worked his way back through the house to the forced kitchen door and walked out into the sunlight. One last cigarette. He propped the gun up against the kitchen wall and lit up.
The final phase was approaching, and he was starting to get a little nervous. It had seemed quite straightforward in theory, maybe a bit tricky to learn, what with all those sequences and warnings and minor details that Spotty had drummed into him. But that was really just memory. Once you had it, you had it, and it was just like wiring. Step one, step two, bit by bit till you reach the end. He had finally learnt his lesson and got Spotty’s approval. And now here he was, half an hour
away from revenge.
His hand shook as he drew deeply on his cigarette, like a blindfolded man before a firing squad. He was not usually prone to nervousness; his emotions, like his thoughts, ran slowly, as thick as syrup. Alright, he could sometimes snap if someone took his things without permission, or if he saw someone beating a dog, but they were unusual circumstances. He was definitely not a hothead, or a violent man, not at all. Quite the opposite; he saw himself rather as an emotional tortoise, mostly because he took so long to realize what was really going on. He remembered that his first feeling on hearing that mother had died was one of perplexity. What did they mean? That she wouldn’t be coming back? That was impossible, because his mother would always come back. She loved them, she had said so repeatedly all his life. Why would she not come back? His father’s death puzzled him in the same way. What happened to them to make them go away forever? It all seemed so mysterious. It was only later, watching Pet cry day in day out, that his underlying emotions began to surface.
He knew that behind the garages there was