Holloway Falls (30 page)

Dryden pursed his lips and exhaled.

He said: ‘Is this what you mean by radical semiotics?’ He sat back in his chair. His bristled double chin receded into his neck, revealing a fold of hairy flesh.

‘Because fucking hell,’ he said. ‘It’s really
good
.’

Lenny wiped his palms on his trousers.

He said: ‘I’d like you to meet someone.’

Holloway took a forward step.

Dryden’s line of vision was restricted by the high, curved back of his chair and he leaned ahead a notch. His eyes flicked up.

‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Are you with us?’

Holloway shifted his weight.

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Right,’ said Dryden. He stood and offered his hand. ‘Hello, there. Take a seat. The more the merrier.’

Holloway looked at the hand. He took it in his. Shook it.

‘Right,’ he said.

That was the moment when he admitted to himself that Lenny was completely wrong.

A hot flush rose from his sternum, spread to his neck and ears. His face reddened, but it was dark and he imagined Dryden couldn’t see. He pinched his nostrils and took a stealthy look round the bar. Nobody seemed to be paying them any attention.

‘Are you going to take a seat?’ Dryden asked him. ‘You’re welcome to. I don’t think Salvador Dalí here is finished yet.’

Holloway couldn’t meet Lenny’s eye. He cast around, looking for a chair.

‘Please do go on,’ said Dryden. ‘Don’t stop now, whatever you do.’

Lenny said: ‘Do you know who this man is?’

‘No,’ said Dryden. ‘But I expect you’re about to tell me. Is he a radical semiotician too?’

Holloway picked up a chair. It was unwieldy in his grip.

He was still trying to think of a reply when the door opened and a man entered the bar.

The man was perhaps fifty, with the bearing of a sitcom brigadeer. He was short, and wore his neat, dark hair—dyed? A wig?—in a precise side parting.

He walked quickly, unevenly, reaching inside his jacket with his right hand. In the other hand he carried a large petrol canister.

In a way, Shepherd had been expecting him.

He’d been prepared for the day when the dreams found him again.

He watched Lenny as he leaned over the kidney-shaped table, his hands clutching his knees, his face pale and his hair sticking up at all angles. He saw Rex Dryden perching like Buddha in his chair, laughing. Fiona Wright glancing from one to the other: William Holloway pausing in the act of lifting an absurd, overdesigned, high-backed chair with an awkward centre of gravity.

He knew the dreams had led them all to this moment.

He was content.

The man drew up to the table.

He was such an angry little man. He had a pale, moon face and his plump lips mashed venomously together. In his hand was a pistol.

Dryden looked up. His bright little eyes went briefly circular.

On a cracked, rising inflection, he said: ‘Henry?’

Holloway paused. He still held the chair.

He said: ‘Derek?’

Holloway and Dryden looked at each other, then back at the little man with the gun.

Dryden half laughed, half swallowed.

‘Henry,’ he said. ‘What are you
doing
?’

There was a long, still moment.

The hands of Lenny, Shepherd and Fiona fell to their laps. Their eyes were fixed on Henry. But his attention was monopolized by Dryden. He seemed hardly aware of their presence.

Henry kept the pistol at Dryden’s chest and looked round the bar. He ran his tongue over his upper teeth. Looked back to Dryden. He had yet to speak.

While Henry surveyed the room, Lenny reached for the half-smoked roll-up that smouldered in the corner of his mouth. Henry jerked as if prodded. He turned and brought the gun to bear on Lenny. Its muzzle drew figure eights in the air.

Lenny held his hands at shoulder height.

He said: ‘Steady on, Henry. Derek. Whatever.’

‘Please keep still,’ said Henry. He stared at Lenny. Then he said: ‘Right,’ and waved the gun between Lenny and Shepherd. ‘You and you. Block the doorway with that sofa.’

Lenny and Shepherd stood gradually and uncertainly, as if on arthritic limbs. After a confirmatory nod from Holloway, they went to the wall and lifted one of the opulent velvet sofas. They hoisted it awkwardly and carried it towards the doorway. Because Shepherd was taller and stronger than Lenny, they bore it at a steep angle.

‘Wedge it firmly,’ said Henry.

They dried their hands, then shoved and elbowed and heaved until the sofa was firmly wedged in the doorframe.

Then they took a step back and saw what they had done.

Because the door opened inwards, it would be necessary to remove the sofa before escaping from the room in that direction. And it was jammed in well. Two men would struggle to remove it. There were two further exits: one behind the bar, by which the barman and waiter entered and left, and a fire door in the dark, far corner. An EXIT sign glowed red in a box above it. But in order to reach either door, it would be necessary to cross the room without Henry noticing. That did not seem possible.

Henry scanned the bar. His tongue moistened his upper lip.

Holloway remained on his feet. He buttressed himself with the silly chair. Surprise and bewilderment had truncated his logical faculties. In those first seconds, he could not imagine how Derek Bliss had come to be there. Something was wrong: but for the moment Holloway was unable to articulate what it might be. He stared at Henry.

Then he turned. Keeping his weight on the chair, he reckoned the number of other people in the room. There were seven; six men and one woman, including the waiter and the barman. In the rich semi-darkness, their faces were blank with shock. They had watched in silent, passive disbelief as Lenny and Shepherd blocked the doorway.

Something in their helplessness galvanized him.

He said: ‘Derek?’

His arms were shaking.

Henry looked at him. He frowned.

He said: ‘Call me Henry. I’m not Derek any more.’

Holloway cupped his hands over his mouth. He could hear his breath, as through a respirator. He could not link the faint memory of a connection between the two names. Derek and Henry. But he knew he would. As soon as his mind cleared.

He said: ‘OK. Henry. Is that right? Henry.’

‘Yes. What do you want?’

‘Let me speak to them.’

Henry said nothing.

‘It’ll keep them calm,’ said Holloway. ‘If they know I’m a police officer. If I let them know you’re in absolute control.’

Henry’s grin touched the corner of his eyes.

He made an indulgent face.

‘Very well,’ he said.

Holloway turned. He cleared his throat. The sound rang out, absurdly loud. Everyone looked at him.

He spoke slowly and clearly. He hoped he was projecting more authority than he felt.

‘Everybody,’ he said. ‘Please listen. My name is Detective Sergeant William Holloway. I’m a police officer.’ For a second he fought an implausible smile and he looked down, privately, at his shoes. ‘Now,’ he said. ‘I know you’re alarmed. But I’m going to ask you to remain calm. This man has not come here to hurt anybody. He and I have known each other for a long time. So please: remain calm. Let’s all do as we’re told. I’m sure this situation will resolve itself.’

Henry’s smile seemed pinned to his eyes. He said: ‘Tell them to disable their telephones and leave them on the bar. Then they can go and sit in the corner.’

Holloway told them. He watched as the perplexed, scared patrons moved in exaggerated slow motion, like a modern dance company, removing mobile telephones from their pockets, their briefcases: unsnapping batteries from their housing, then filing to the bar to set them down. When they had done so, Holloway told them to move to the far corner. They ducked their heads and moved as if expecting sniper fire from every direction.

Holloway waited until they were in place. Then he said: ‘Now, I’m going to say it once more. It’s imperative that you all remain absolutely calm, and absolutely silent. Do you understand me?’

He caught the eye of the Australian barman. On their behalf he nodded once.

‘Right,’ said Holloway. He turned to Henry.

‘Derek,’ he said. ‘May I sit?’

‘Yes,’ said Henry. ‘And call me Henry.’

‘And will you join me? Henry.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘You’ll be more comfortable.’

‘No.’

‘Then at least put down the gun.’

‘I’ll put down the gun when I choose to. You’re not in command here.’

‘Henry,’ said Holloway, with empathic tenderness. He smiled like the Virgin Mary.

Henry’s face knotted with rage.

He screamed: ‘Shut up and sit down.’

Tiny beads of spittle left his lips and described falling-star parabolas.

Holloway shut up. He sat down. He pressed himself down on the sofa between Dryden and Fiona Wright. Their thighs nudged his. He drew consolation from their proximity. The feeling appeared to be reciprocated: when Holloway spoke, both Dryden and Wright encouragingly pressed their legs tighter to his.

Henry gestured to Lenny and Shepherd, propped up in the doorway, to join him. They sat on the floor and hugged their knees. They said nothing.

‘Derek,’ said Holloway. ‘This is between you and me. Why not let these people go? Then you and I can talk this whole thing through in private.’

Henry looked down on Holloway with a blank stare.

He said: ‘What do you mean?’

‘You know what I mean,’ said Holloway. ‘We’ve got unfinished business.’

Henry frowned.

‘We have nothing of the sort,’ he said. ‘This has nothing to do with you. I don’t even know why you came here. So sit still and shut up.’

Holloway sat heavily in his chair. He put his head to one side. He was about to speak: thought better of it. Sat back.

Henry said: ‘You’re not even a trained negotiator. You don’t know what you’re doing. You have no technique.’ He pointed the gun at Dryden. ‘Tell them what this is about,’ he said.

‘Henry,’ said Dryden. ‘I don’t
know
what this is about.’

Henry’s cheeks quivered.

‘It’s about
you
,’
he said. ‘You liar.’

Dryden sagged, as if punctured in the midriff. He rubbed a slow, broad palm over his bristling pate. He groaned. Then he put his head in his hands. He looked up. Spatulate fingers tugged at rheumy lower lids.

He said: ‘Henry. Please.’

Henry cut him off.

‘I won’t be laughed at,’ he said.

Dryden took this in.

He said: ‘I wasn’t laughing at you.’

‘Don’t open your mouth,’ said Henry. ‘The flies will escape.’

It seemed to Holloway that Henry was about to pull the trigger. He tensed. He clenched his teeth and buttocks and squeezed his fists. He tried to force himself to face the gun. But something inside him was stronger than his will, and he looked away.

There was a noise in his head.

‘I’m going to give you a chance,’ said Henry.

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Dryden. He looked at Henry, then shook his head once, very slowly. He said: ‘Please don’t do anything stupid.’

Henry seemed to enjoy the mystified glances. He smiled. This time there was humour in it.

‘It’s better to light a candle than curse the darkness,’ he said. He looked at Fiona and Holloway. ‘You and you,’ he said. ‘Move.’

They left Dryden alone in the chair.

Henry jammed the gun into the waistband of his jeans. The weapon dug visibly into his belly. Still nobody moved. With a grimace of exertion, Henry bent at the knees and, keeping his back straight, hoisted the eight-gallon container to his chest. He supported its weight with one hand and unscrewed the lid with the other. He slipped the lid into his pocket. He took a step forward and, posed like a chubby swordsman, he rained petrol on Rex Dryden.

Dryden bellowed. Blinded, he threw himself at Henry. Henry side-stepped. Dryden’s shin hit the table’s edge. He flailed, then toppled to his knees. The table went with him. Glasses fell but didn’t smash. They rolled around beneath Dryden as he crawled this way and that, apparently at random. He shouted that the petrol was burning his eyes.

Henry took advantage of Dryden’s helplessness. He poured more petrol over his broad, hog’s back.

Eventually, Dryden recovered some constraint. Still on his knees, he took a cotton handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his raw, cherry eyes. But by now Henry had drawn the pistol and retreated a few steps. Henry told Dryden to sit. Dryden stared at him for a long second. Then, with the stoic deliberation of a long-dominant silverback, he moved to the thronelike velvet chair.

Henry smiled at him.

‘Who’s laughing now?’ he said.

Henry set the jerry can on the floor alongside him. Keeping his eye and the pistol on Dryden he bent at the knee, reached down and screwed the lid back on. Then he straightened. With his free hand, he dug into the hip pocket of his jeans. Between index finger and thumb, he removed a battered, glossy white matchbook.

On the inside flap, Holloway knew, he would see today’s date inscribed in his own handwriting.

Holloway glanced at Lenny. He saw that Lenny too had recognized the matchbook.

Holloway rolled his eyes expressively. Lenny shrugged, as unsurprised as he was defeated.

Holloway looked behind him. The group of customers in the corner had drawn into a knot. They were still and watchful as birds on a wire.

Holloway looked away. He saw that he’d been spattered with petrol. He could feel it: cold, greasy, soaking into the weave of his jacket and trousers.

He noticed Fiona Wright examining her petrol-wet clothes. He caught her eye and tilted his jaw minutely upwards, a confected symbol of defiance. She answered with a tiny widening of the eyes.

Henry’s gun remained directed at Dryden’s head.

‘Henry,’ said Dryden. ‘Please.’

His hands lay useless and heavy in his lap. He shuddered with the cold of evaporation.

Henry ignored him. He looked to Holloway and the others. He nodded his head, once, business-like.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘Form a line.’

They hesitated. Exchanged glances. Henry hastened them with a wave of the pistol. With maladroit, crablike movements, they sidestepped and collided until they were roughly aligned: Holloway at one end, closest to Dryden. Then Lenny, Shepherd and Fiona.