freeze.
‘But then,’ said Aden, ‘he turned.’
They were standing, yelling at him to put the fucking gun down
now
. And then there’s movement. A pause as the world draws a breath. Then sound, so much sound that it seems like the world will end in it. Later, he would try to remember the shots, but no matter how hard he tried, he would only ever remember the one – that first crack, the sound wave racing through the air, burning against his eardrums. It would later turn out that there were three shots. Two from Tony. One from Rhys. From himself, none.
And Aden, finger on the trigger, willing it to move, willing it, but it won’t, and it’s like the finger doesn’t belong to him.
Then it is over.
‘I keep playing it, over and over again. What’s wrong with me? Why couldn’t I pull the trigger?’
He was stuck there, gun still pointed, only now it was pointed at nothing because the boy had slumped to the ground, a motionless pile in a yawning puddle. The air thick, dense, like a sudden fog had descended, the smell of cordite burning his throat.
‘Why do you assume that something is wrong with you?’ asked Imogen, forehead wrinkled into a small frown.
‘What the fuck is wrong with you?’ Tony’s voice had come from a long way away. Aden had felt Rhys, the new boy, his pupil, darting past him, felt the cold water splash from the puddles, saw him dropping to his knees beside the figure. If you looked hard enough, really squinted, you could see the blood beginning to pool. Had stood there and watched, useless, as Rhys began to give CPR.
‘I just stood there, staring at the boy.’ Aden had leaned back again, was staring up at the ceiling. ‘At Dylan. I couldn’t . . . I mean, it took me for ever to lower the gun. Seemed like my arms were stuck. I just couldn’t move. Rhys, I mean, he’s little more than a kid himself, and he was giving first aid. God, there was blood everywhere.’
Tony had moved forward, Glock still raised, kicking away the dark-grey gun that Aden could see now, because lights were flicking on in the surrounding houses, people awoken by the noise, so that now the gun was surrounded by a patch of light, almost like a spotlight on a stage. Aden forcing his arms down, Tony shouting at him, eyes glaringly large, flecks of white spittle flying from his mouth. Aden would not remember what it was Tony had said, just the thick rolling vowels, the accent so Welsh it had seemed that he was speaking a different language, the fury in him. Aden’s hands were shaking, could barely force the gun into its holster. There were noises coming from the body on the ground, sounded like coughing, but like no coughing Aden had ever heard before. Rhys looking up at him, wild-eyed, blood dripping from his chin, in some macabre vampiric tableau. Sirens, sirens, coming from everywhere. Aden knew there were things he should be doing, a list of tasks to be completed, but for the moment he just couldn’t think of them.
The boy had been shot in the torso, the bullets – three of them in all – landing exactly where they were supposed to land. It would later transpire that he hadn’t been standing on the ground, that the darkness had concealed a low wall, that Dylan had stood on that, so when he was hit with the force of three bullets in his chest he was flung backwards, his head impacting the ground with bone-crushing force, the blow to his brain causing contusions, bleeding. The ambulance had arrived quickly, the speed of the medical intervention saving his life. Too late for his mental faculties, though, the damage there proving irreparable.
‘I didn’t do it, see.’ Aden followed the thread of the Artexing, the peaks and troughs, knew in his conscious mind that it was white. Also knew why it appeared red to him. ‘That’s the thing that I just can’t shake. I mean, I knew the job so well. I’d been doing it for five years. I was . . .’
‘What?’
‘I was one of the best. I know that
‘But then,’ said Aden, ‘he turned.’
They were standing, yelling at him to put the fucking gun down
now
. And then there’s movement. A pause as the world draws a breath. Then sound, so much sound that it seems like the world will end in it. Later, he would try to remember the shots, but no matter how hard he tried, he would only ever remember the one – that first crack, the sound wave racing through the air, burning against his eardrums. It would later turn out that there were three shots. Two from Tony. One from Rhys. From himself, none.
And Aden, finger on the trigger, willing it to move, willing it, but it won’t, and it’s like the finger doesn’t belong to him.
Then it is over.
‘I keep playing it, over and over again. What’s wrong with me? Why couldn’t I pull the trigger?’
He was stuck there, gun still pointed, only now it was pointed at nothing because the boy had slumped to the ground, a motionless pile in a yawning puddle. The air thick, dense, like a sudden fog had descended, the smell of cordite burning his throat.
‘Why do you assume that something is wrong with you?’ asked Imogen, forehead wrinkled into a small frown.
‘What the fuck is wrong with you?’ Tony’s voice had come from a long way away. Aden had felt Rhys, the new boy, his pupil, darting past him, felt the cold water splash from the puddles, saw him dropping to his knees beside the figure. If you looked hard enough, really squinted, you could see the blood beginning to pool. Had stood there and watched, useless, as Rhys began to give CPR.
‘I just stood there, staring at the boy.’ Aden had leaned back again, was staring up at the ceiling. ‘At Dylan. I couldn’t . . . I mean, it took me for ever to lower the gun. Seemed like my arms were stuck. I just couldn’t move. Rhys, I mean, he’s little more than a kid himself, and he was giving first aid. God, there was blood everywhere.’
Tony had moved forward, Glock still raised, kicking away the dark-grey gun that Aden could see now, because lights were flicking on in the surrounding houses, people awoken by the noise, so that now the gun was surrounded by a patch of light, almost like a spotlight on a stage. Aden forcing his arms down, Tony shouting at him, eyes glaringly large, flecks of white spittle flying from his mouth. Aden would not remember what it was Tony had said, just the thick rolling vowels, the accent so Welsh it had seemed that he was speaking a different language, the fury in him. Aden’s hands were shaking, could barely force the gun into its holster. There were noises coming from the body on the ground, sounded like coughing, but like no coughing Aden had ever heard before. Rhys looking up at him, wild-eyed, blood dripping from his chin, in some macabre vampiric tableau. Sirens, sirens, coming from everywhere. Aden knew there were things he should be doing, a list of tasks to be completed, but for the moment he just couldn’t think of them.
The boy had been shot in the torso, the bullets – three of them in all – landing exactly where they were supposed to land. It would later transpire that he hadn’t been standing on the ground, that the darkness had concealed a low wall, that Dylan had stood on that, so when he was hit with the force of three bullets in his chest he was flung backwards, his head impacting the ground with bone-crushing force, the blow to his brain causing contusions, bleeding. The ambulance had arrived quickly, the speed of the medical intervention saving his life. Too late for his mental faculties, though, the damage there proving irreparable.
‘I didn’t do it, see.’ Aden followed the thread of the Artexing, the peaks and troughs, knew in his conscious mind that it was white. Also knew why it appeared red to him. ‘That’s the thing that I just can’t shake. I mean, I knew the job so well. I’d been doing it for five years. I was . . .’
‘What?’
‘I was one of the best. I know that
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