Dead Man's Time

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    Pointing the gun at his son, Gavin Daly said, ‘Take the chart, we’re going.’ Then he turned back to Rosenblaum. ‘Julius, I’m sorry for the damage
I caused, and send me the bill for whatever it costs to fix. I’m also apologizing in advance for what’s about to happen, and any further damage.’ He reached forward, picked the
watch off the table and dropped it into his jacket pocket.
    Eamonn Pollock started to stand up.
    ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ Daly snapped, pointing the gun at him. ‘Sit down! You’re not going anywhere. I’m not done with you yet. You know how the
Irish punish people? A bullet in the kneecap. I should give you one in each knee – one for what your uncle did to my ma and one for what he did to my pop. Yes? That’s what I think I
should do.’
    Pollock, his eyes bulging in fear, was shaking his head frantically. ‘Please. I’ll tell you everything I know.’
    ‘Gavin,’ Rosenblaum cautioned.
    ‘Julius, this skunk’s uncle ruined my childhood. Now this skunk himself has ruined my old age. You think he deserves mercy? This fat, greedy vulture?’
    ‘Gavin, calm down, let’s hear him out.’
    He turned to Pollock. ‘I’m all ears, you piece of blubber.’
    ‘I lent Lucas money – he came to me and I helped him out.’
    ‘How nice of you. Then he didn’t pay you back? Did I get that one right?’
    ‘Yes, Dad, he has a moneylending business,’ Lucas interjected.
    ‘You’re a moneylender, are you?’ Gavin Daly’s finger was shaking on the trigger. ‘A proper little Shylock?’
    Julius Rosenblaum took a step towards his desk.
    ‘Don’t move another inch, Julius. You hit your panic button and I’ll shoot you too, God help me I will.’
    ‘Gavin, you have to calm down!’ Rosenblaum said.
    ‘No, I’m ninety-five years old; I don’t have to calm down.’ He looked back at Pollock. ‘You sent two pieces of shit – maybe three pieces of shit – to
rob a ninety-eight-year-old lady who’d done no harm to anyone in her life. They tortured the fuck out of my sister, and you want mercy from me? Yes?’
    ‘Those were never my instructions.’
    ‘Oh, really? You had the code to the safe from my piece-of-shit son, so why did they have to torture my sister? They stole ten million pounds’ worth of antiques, and they tortured
her to death for her credit card pin codes, for a few hundred lousy quid. Did they do it for fun, or is that because you were too greedy to pay them decently for doing your filthy work for
you?’
    Pollock was shaking. ‘I didn’t, no, that’s not right.’
    ‘Stand up!’
    Eamonn Pollock pushed himself upright and stood, cowed and quivering.
    Gavin Daly stared at the dark stain around his groin. ‘You’ve just pissed yourself. What kind of a man are you?’
    Pollock stared wildly around, as if looking for an escape route.
    ‘Dad, let’s be calm!’ Lucas said.
    ‘Calm? From a man who beats up his wife regularly, that’s rich!’ He turned to Julius Rosenblaum. ‘She’s a very pretty, very smart television presenter. When Lucas
hits her, he makes sure it is always below the neckline, so it doesn’t show in public, so it doesn’t hurt her ability to earn a high salary – for him to squander. He’s a
brave man, my son is. Know what I’ve always believed?’ He covered all three in turn with the gun. ‘You judge a man by the friends he keeps. Eamonn and Lucas, you deserve each
other.’
    ‘Hurting Aileen was never intended, please believe me,’ Eamonn Pollock whimpered. ‘Please believe me.’
    ‘You employed those men, Ken Barnes and Tony Macario. They’d worked for you for a long time. You must have known what they were like, what they would do when you set them loose on an
elderly, defenceless lady? What’s to believe?’
    ‘Please believe me.’
    Gavin Daly pulled the trigger. There was another thunderclap and an explosion of blood in Pollock’s right shoulder, sending him hurtling back onto the floor. His mouth was wide open, his
eyes looking like they were shorting out.
    ‘Oops, sorry, Eamonn, I didn’t mean to do that. Do you believe me?’
    ‘Gavin!’ Rosenblaum shouted, in shock.
    ‘Dad!’ Lucas shouted.
    ‘That was for my ma; this is for my pop!’ Gavin Daly fired again. Pollock jumped in the air, as if a defibrillator had gone off on his chest, and a crimson patch of blood began
spreading from his left shoulder.
    ‘No! No! No!’ Eamonn Pollock was thrashing on