Sixty Seconds by Claire Farrell

Sixty Seconds
     
    “ Pull the fucking trigger, Jamie.”
    My
fingers tighten but the gun feels slippery in my hands – like it’s
going to melt into my skin, bullets and all.
    I sense
Graeme behind me. Hot breath on the back of my neck. Thick
fingertips digging into my shoulders. His mates laugh and sneer but
they’re just glad they aren’t in the spotlight tonight. Mark stays
silent and just watches me. He’s the one to be scared off, the one
who doesn’t warn you.
    “ Do it, I said.” Graeme’s voice is an angry whisper but the
unspoken words are the ones I’m afraid of.
    The man
I’m aiming a gun at raises his hands up to me, every inch of his
naked body trembling. He’s covered in snot and sweat; his body
stinks with his own piss and shit. He lost his dignity half an hour
ago, when they started cutting away his tattoos. That’s when he
realised this wasn’t a warning.
    “ Please, Jamie,” he says, spluttering, his eyes wide with the
kind of terror that makes me want to look away. “Please, you know
me. You know me, Jamie, just look at me, look! Help me! Help me,
Jamie, help me. Jamie! Jamie!”
    If he’d
just stop saying my fucking name it wouldn’t be too bad. I’d aim,
close my eyes, pull the trigger and pretend his brains weren’t
splattered all over the place. I barely know him, and what the fuck
could I do for him anyway? God help us both.
    “ What would your ma say, Jamie? What would she say?” He grabs
at my leg; his hand is a curling, bloody mess that reminds me of a
horror film. I need to throw up but instead, I kick him
away.
    “ I reckon she’d rather you than me,” I say, looking at the
others with a fake smile plastered on my face. They laugh, more at
the man’s face than my words, and I laugh along with them. I wonder
how it managed to get this far, how I deteriorated so badly in such
a small space of time. I just wanted to fit in, to make a little
money, to enjoy life. I never wanted to be a murderer.
    Graeme’s
eager, he shoves me a little. “I swear to fucking God, you have
sixty seconds to do that rat in or you’re taking his fucking place.
D’ya hear me, young fella?” He means it. He doesn’t care who dies,
as long as he gets to watch. That’s Graeme’s thing. Especially when
he’s coked up. Somebody isn’t going home tonight. I’ll do anything
for it not to be me.
    I close my eyes. Take a breath. Think .
    Sixty
seconds.
    Me ma’s
face, lined with worries. Money. Me. The mess I’m making of my
life. Would she want a murderer or a dead son?
    Forty
seconds.
    Gemma.
The smell of her skin and the dimples in her back that I kiss just
to feel her squirm beneath me. The baby in her belly, the kid I may
never see, hidden under the hard curve that has replaced her once
soft stomach.
    Jesus, I
haven’t told her I love her since the positive pregnancy test. I’ve
left her thinking I blame her. Would she want to hear it again?
Even if it came from a murderer’s lips?
    Ten
seconds.
    Can I
live with myself? Can I lie down and die?
    I open
my eyes and look right at the man I’m about to kill. I owe him that
much, the poor bastard. The gun is heavier than it looks now.
Clammy hands. Sweaty face. I need to throw up.
    He
shakes his head, silently pleading with me. Too late. A second
later he’s on the ground with a hole in his head and I’m deaf.
Except for his last cry. I hear him call my name over and over,
despite his mouth no longer being capable of making a
sound.
    Someone
takes the gun from my hand, claps me on the back. I can’t stop
looking at dead eyes, still wide open with fear. Graeme ruffles my
hair, high on something other than the cocaine he
snorted.
    “ Great show, son,” he says. “You’re in.”
    I don’t
throw up.
     

 
Hero

    Eamon
Davis looked at the huge digital numbers on his watch and tried to
figure out how late it was. He was the only one standing outside
school, waiting to be collected. He wasn’t sure how long to stick
around for – it