It only partly muffled the shotgun’s blast, transforming it from a bang into a loud clap, as if someone had cupped their hands and suddenly brought them together right next to my ear drums. Gerry tumbled backwards, hitting the wall. His left hand spasmed upwards then fell away. In the centre of his chest, an area on his shirt the size of a saucer simply melted into his body, and then turned dark red. He slid down the wall, his eyes wide open and his lips moving. Max slowly uncurled his finger from the first trigger and transferred it to the second one. The gun stayed tucked into his shoulder, its barrels tracking Gerry as he slid down the wall, the charred remains of the silencer emitting a trail of smoke that rose to the ceiling. Unable to move, I waited for Max to administer a coup de grace with the second barrel. Instead, he slid the safety catch back before carefully placing the gun on the floor, his eyes never leaving Gerry for an instant. He walked over to Gerry’s slumped body, knelt down and cradled Gerry’s head in his hands, as if he was going to administer some medical treatment.
