‘Marcus.’ He says it softly, but his voice carries in the preternatural quiet between shotbursts. ‘This isn’t knock-knock at the pub, mate. This is real.’
‘Don’t you think I know that?’ Ando yells, his words choked. Through the shattered window, I see him stagger away from the Holden. His face is tear-streaked, almost human-looking. ‘You fucking snake, Harris. You fucking double-crossing bastard –’
‘Don’t make me do this,’ Harris says. ‘C’mon, Marcus. Snowie was your mate –’
‘Fucking Snowie!’ Ando’s laugh is gasping, desperate. ‘And his fucking jokes! D’you remember?’ He raises his arm.
‘Marcus,don’t.’ Harris braces the shotgun. He’s fully exposed now, over the boot of the squaddie.
‘What’s a redneck’s last words, Harris?’ Ando looks and sounds like he’s in the grip of some hysteria. ‘What’s a redneck’s last words?’
The gun in his hand goes off. I flinch hard as the boom of Harris’s shotgun explodes into the night, as Marcus Anderson is thrown back like he’s been punched with a wrecking ball, as Harris slumps, exhausted, sliding down the rear panel of the car until his butt hits the dirt.
He tosses the shotgun aside, covers his face with his hands.
‘“Hold my beer”,’ he whispers. ‘“Hold my beer, and watch this”.’
