donât.â
Donât destroy yourself for me, Joe.
Destroy myself? Of course I fucking would. Iâd destroy myself and everything else for her. She was gone. I hadnât saved her. But I could give her justice. I was her justice. My vengeance was justice. Iâd destroy the world. What else could I do?
I donât know if I said anything out loud, but Browne looked at me with an odd expression and said, âYou know what I think? I think you want to destroy yourself. I think you donât know anything else but destruction, violence, rage. I used to think youâd destroy yourself in the process of destroying everything else, that when there was nothing left for you to wreak your vengeance upon, youâd turn it on yourself.â
He mightâve been right. Iâd thought about it myself. He was getting close to the mark, and I didnât like it. But then he said, âNow, I think differently. Now I think you were the target from the word go and all these others out there, all the ones you think you need to kill are just an excuse, just a means for you to kill yourself. Theyâre your weapon, Joe. Thatâs all.â
We sat in silence for a while, then I drank the rest of my tea and reached over and lifted his mug. I took them over to the sink, washed them up.
âBrenda,â I said.
âWhat, son?â
âHer name was Brenda.â
âYes,â he said. âBrenda.â
There was a knock at the door. In that quiet it sounded like gunshots. Browne jumped out of his seat. Christ, he was jittery. I wasnât much better. I felt coldness crawl over my skin. Browneâs fear was infecting me.
âDonât panic,â I said. âTheyâre not likely to knock.â
âWho is it?â
That was a dumb question.
âGo see.â
âYou go.â
âItâs your house. Itâd look strange if I went.â
Neither of us moved. We waited for the silence to come back. It was easier in the silence. We didnât have to do any-thing except listen to it as it sunk through us and hollowed us with our own thoughts.
But the knocking came back. In a way, it was the fact that it was now louder that set us both at ease. Maybe silence wouldâve been worse after all. Then we wouldâve turned to the back door and waited for someone to start smashing down our defences.
Browne stood unwillingly and doddered out of the room and up the hallway. He opened the front door. I moved out of sight and heard a posh blokeâs voice.
âWhatâs going on here?â
âWilliam,â Browne said, in a loud, friendly way. Too loud, I thought. Too friendly. âHow nice of you to visit.â
âI donât like whatâs happening here,â the posh voice said. âItâs bloody funny.â
âFunny?â I could hear the slyness in Browneâs voice. The old bastard was enjoying himself, relieved, probably, that it was just some old wanker, relieved that he wasnât going to get a round in the head.
âBoarding up the windows, throwing rocks around. What the bloody hell are you doing?â
âWe,â Browne said, âare preparing for an invasion.â
âWhat are you talking about? Are you drunk?â
âYes.â
âI mightâve known. And who is that ape living here? He looks like a criminal. Is he a criminal?â
âJoe? Oh, yes, he is a criminal. Heâs alright, though. Heâs a one-man war, to be sure, but heâs alright.â
I cursed his fucking tongue. I wanted to go and haul him off by his neck, but that wouldâve made it all worse. Browne hated these posh tossers who wanted England to look like something from a Wodehouse novel, as if thereâd once been a time without poverty and suffering and hate. I didnât blame him for that, but I didnât need any grief. And now, because Browne was drunk, he was baiting the bloke, telling him my
Learning to Kill: Stories