Injury Time (14 page)

‘I wish he’d run off with some woman now,’ said Alma. ‘I’d be glad to get him off my hands. I hid the clock to annoy him before I came out. How’s the poor sod going to get up for work?’

‘Do you think the neighbours will take in the children?’ asked Binny.

‘Not if they’ve any sense, darling. I don’t suppose Victor will notice I’m not there. Not until the food runs out.’ Alma swung her feet on to the carpet and stood upright in the gloom. She fretted over the state of her dress and her hair. ‘I look as if I’ve been down a coal mine,’ she accused. ‘What on earth did you do to me when I was so ill?’

Binny ignored her and went through to make the pot of tea. She’d noticed there were splinters of light bulb among the bread crumbs on the table. She wondered if she dared make Widnes a cheese-and-glass sandwich. When she returned to the table, Alma was standing leaning against the wall talking to the wallpaper. ‘This is Alma Waterhouse calling, pet,’ she said. ‘Will you please tell Frank the alarm clock’s in the airing cupboard. Repeat . . . in the airing cupboard. Thank you very much.’ She looked defiantly at Binny. ‘Well, he’ll be looking all over for it, darling.’

Binny asked Alma to take the woman in the hall a cup of tea. She didn’t know what to do about the others. She stood at the open door and called brightly, ‘Tea up.’ Scuttling back into the room, fearful lest Harry should wake in alarm and point a gun at her, she sat down at the table. She waited. Alma came back holding a doll in her arms.

‘How does she seem?’ asked Binny.

‘She’s very butch, pet. She’s got hair on her knuckles.’ Alma looked at the disordered room. ‘Isn’t it funny, not having to do anything? We’re not expected to clear this up, there’s no meals to prepare, no beds to make. It’s hardly likely we’ll be asked to go shopping. People pay good money for this sort of life at holiday camps.’

‘I hate mess,’ said Binny. ‘It makes me sick.’

‘The children must feel like this all the time,’ Alma remarked. ‘Never expected to do anything, sitting in squalor, ordered about. It’s very restful.’ She gazed compassionately at the naked doll in her arms. ‘Poor wee thing,’ she crooned. ‘It’ll catch its death of cold. Did I ever tell you about my brother taking his trousers off in Marks and Spencers?’

‘Several times,’ said Binny. ‘Ginger’s got a brother, you know. He’s been in Walton gaol. But Ginger’s never been in prison. So he says.’

‘He’s been in a bank though, darling,’ Alma said. She rocked the ugly doll. ‘I peeped in the pram. It’s full of five pound notes wrapped in a woolly blanket.’

Muriel reared her head above the arm of the sofa. Neck wobbling, staring at Alma like a child waking from a bad dream, she opened her mouth and screamed.

W
hen Edward was brought into the kitchen he embraced Binny and kissed her hair. He didn’t care who was watching. ‘Little one,’ he murmured into her ear, stroking her back with the stem of his pipe. ‘I’m sorry.’ He meant all the times he’d not been able to be with her. Lying curled in the empty bath and hearing that animal shriek of terror in the room along the hall, he had felt his heart break into pieces. He couldn’t bear to think of her afraid and alone. She was his responsibility. Even though he now understood it was Simpson’s wife who had screamed, he clutched Binny’s hand and vowed not to leave her. He was strengthened in his resolve by the growing conviction that the gunmen were decent chaps after all. They had allowed him to wash and make himself more comfortable. Widnes had encouraged Simpson to dab T.C.P., found in the bathroom cupboard, on his damaged ankle bone. And now they were all gathered in the front room, candles lit in milk bottles, enjoying a cup of tea and slices of bread and cheese. Ginger even suggested it would be a pity not to finish the wine. He and his men wouldn’t themselves partake – a further point, Edward felt, in their favour – because they needed their wits about them for the morning siege. Only Alma Waterhouse took advantage of the offer. It was true Muriel sat shuddering over a measure of sherry, but that was medicinal and purely to calm her nerves. Simpson wasn’t awfully good at coping with his wife in her present state of mind. He spoke brusquely to her once or twice and told her to pull herself together. He made excuses to Edward. ‘She’s been overdoing it lately,’ he muttered. ‘Housework, that sort of thing. Mowing the lawn, shifting the furniture. Don’t know what’s got into her.’ Edward found her behaviour perfectly justifiable. In the same situation Helen would be lying on the floor crying, or else abusing him for their predicament. He couldn’t help admiring Alma, sitting there in her shiny red frock, tossing back the wine and smiling affectionately around the table. There was quite a festive atmosphere in the room, with the candles flickering and the shadow of the pink carnations frilly upon the wall. The barrels of guns leapt like spiked leaves among the flowers.

To everyone’s embarrassment Ginger brought up the fact that Edward was a married man. ‘I can’t hold myself responsible for your morals,’ he told him. ‘That’s your lark, not mine. I don’t hold with you deceiving your missus, but I’m sorry if we’ve added to your difficulties.’

‘My dear fellow,’ cried Edward, growing red in the face. ‘It couldn’t be helped. You weren’t to know.’

‘Nobody asked you to be here,’ flashed Binny.

‘Stop it,’ admonished Alma. She tapped Binny’s flushed face with her glass. ‘You’re at it again.’

Moved, Edward made a little speech. ‘I’m not saying my way of life isn’t despicable, but I mean it sincerely when I say how glad I am to be at Binny’s side during this ordeal.’ He glanced emotionally at her and cleared his throat. ‘I wouldn’t like you to be alone.’

He was astonished at his declaration in front of so many witnesses. Not that it mattered any longer, and even if it had Helen wasn’t in the habit of consorting with the criminal classes; but still his bravery and indiscretion cheered him. He said delightedly, ‘Not that it’s much of an ordeal at the moment. I think we all understand one another well enough.’

‘God Almighty,’ murmured Simpson.

The gunmen sipped their tea and said nothing.

‘The reason I’m alone, as you put it,’ remarked Binny resentfully, ‘is because society’s altered. If this was forty years ago, I’d have my husband by my side. He wouldn’t have run off with that woman from the telephone exchange. My mother and father stayed together, and they didn’t like each other. It’s only a question of fashions changing.’

Edward was sure Binny had told him her husband had deserted her for an actress or a model of some sort. Perhaps she had been the speaking clock at one time. ‘I’ve stayed with my family,’ he said gently. He was trying to give Binny hope, show her the world wasn’t all bad. ‘Some of us have retained the old standards.’

‘My dad didn’t have a woman on the side,’ said Binny.

‘What do you intend to do in the morning?’ asked Simpson. ‘How long do you think this can go on?’

‘That depends,’ said Ginger.

‘On what?’ demanded Simpson aggressively. ‘Famine, disease, sudden death? That woman in the hall needs a doctor. Ribs are tricky things. She could have perforated a lung.’

Widnes sniggered.

‘Why don’t you let all the women go?’ persisted Simpson. In the candlelight his round face was stern and resolute. Already the stubble of a beard was appearing along his cheek bones and his upper lip. ‘My wife’s in a pretty poor state. You’ll have to answer for the consequences.’

‘We’ll do that,’ said Ginger drily. ‘There’s things we’re not going to tell you, things they’re piecing together at the moment.’ He jerked his head in the direction of the shutters.

‘Are you trying to obtain money?’ asked Edward. ‘Ransom money?’

‘Not that,’ Ginger said. ‘We just need to get away.’

‘I’ve every sympathy,’ Edward told him. ‘It must be hell on earth. I don’t mind telling you I’d have gone under. One day confined to bed with a cold and I’m bored silly.’

‘Anybody mind if I have a slash?’ asked Simpson. He stood up and moved casually to the door, taking his cup with him.

‘You could tell them you wanted an aeroplane, pet,’ Alma said to Ginger. ‘They’d have to give you one. You could make for Rio.’

‘If I was you,’ advised Edward, ‘I’d behave with great diplomacy. You mustn’t antagonise the authorities. You should proceed with cunning. How would it be if I composed a letter for you, outlining your demands, etc? It would impress them, you know.’

‘He’s awfully good at writing letters,’ conceded Binny.

Widnes was turned toward the back window, listening.

‘Something along these lines,’ began Edward. ‘It is beneficial to all concerned that this—’

‘Belt up,’ cried Widnes violently.

Distinctly they heard the scrape of a bolt being drawn, the sound of a door banging against a distant wall.

The men stampeded from the room. There were shouts and the splintering of wood as a door was kicked inwards.

‘Oh God,’ moaned Binny.

‘Don’t worry, don’t worry,’ soothed Edward, unable to rise from his chair. ‘They won’t do anything. The guns aren’t loaded. Nothing will happen.’

He was still babbling in this demented fashion when a deafening report drowned his words. The ensuing silence lasted for several seconds. Then Harry was in the room, standing just inside the doorway of the kitchen.

‘Out,’ he ordered, speaking to Edward.

His heart leaping in his breast, Edward stumbled down the hall and into the bathroom. The jamb of the door hung askew from the wall. He was reminded of Binny’s description of middle age, of the second half of the match in progress. He imagined the whistle had already gone. God was waiting in the yard. Trembling in every limb, he was thrust through the garden door and on to the veranda.

‘Fetch him,’ hissed Ginger. ‘Get the bugger up here.’

Like an obliging dog retrieving a stick, Edward descended the steps. He was buffeted by the wind. Branches of trees rocked against the sky. The embedded glass on the back wall sparkled under a hurtling moon. I shall drown, Edward thought; I shall be dashed to pieces on the rocks. Simpson was lying at the foot of the steps, clutching the hose attachment of a hoover to his chest. He was swearing like a midshipman.

‘Get up,’ said Edward. ‘For Christ’s sake, get up.’ He gripped Simpson under the armpits and tried to lift him.

‘Piss off,’ cried Simpson.

‘Your wife,’ entreated Edward. ‘Think of your wife. Miriam needs you.’

‘Fuck Miriam,’ moaned Simpson.

They struggled over possession of the hoover. The rubber hose wrapped itself about Edward’s knees. Desperately he heaved Simpson on to his feet. He didn’t care if the man was bleeding to death and shouldn’t be moved; they were standing up there, the three gunmen, urging him to hurry. Half carrying, half dragging Simpson, Edward manhandled him up the steps and on to the veranda. Both men lay stranded on their bellies, gasping for breath. Roughly they were hauled inside the bathroom.

‘The back wall’s swarming with the bastards,’ panted Ginger.

Simpson struggled to his knees. He looked down appalled at the front of his shirt. An enormous red stain spread from his shoulder to his waist.

‘I never hit you,’ cried Widnes. ‘You weren’t even in sight.’ He bent over Simpson and examined his head. ‘It’s nothing,’ he said at last, reached for the T.C.P. bottle that still stood on the washstand. He had fired at the wall; a fragment of brick had ricocheted across the yard and sliced the lobe of Simpson’s ear.

Simpson bled like a pig. He hadn’t known his body could contain so much blood. He imagined he was growing paler with each drop that drained away.

‘It needs more than T.C.P.,’ said Edward. He himself felt he needed a heart transplant. More dead than alive, spattered with Simpson’s blood, he sat on the edge of the bath and fought for breath.

It was ten to four by his watch.

E
veryone’s sympathy lay with the gunmen. They had intimated what might happen if anybody tried to escape. What were they supposed to do under the circumstances? They couldn’t let people run away in all directions. And Simpson hadn’t been shot, merely lacerated by a portion of flying brick.

‘Teddy did warn you,’ said Alma, winding a length of cotton sheeting about Simpson’s head. ‘But you wouldn’t be told.’

‘They’ll think he’s dead,’ Binny said. ‘They’ll have sent for reinforcements.’

Muriel sat passively on the sofa, staring at the shuttered windows. Apart from glancing at her husband and frowning at his discoloured shirt, she took no interest in his condition.

‘You said there was only a rabbit hutch,’ fumed Simpson. ‘Why do you keep a hoover in the garden?’

‘You are extravagant, darling,’ said Alma reproachfully. ‘There was no need to throw it out just because it hadn’t a plug.’

Edward was worried lest the police would misunderstand what had occurred in the yard. It was important for them all that the friendly relationship built up over the last few hours should be maintained. ‘Couldn’t I explain?’ he asked Ginger. ‘You know, call out to the police? Let them know the position?’

‘What good will it do?’ Ginger said.

‘Well, don’t you see, now that they think you’re dangerous men, their attitude will be different. They won’t trust you. They might even place sharp-shooters on the roof ready to pick you off when you pass the windows.’

‘They’re there already,’ said Harry.

‘This isn’t Chicago,’ protested Edward. ‘I do think you should follow my advice.’

After some discussion Edward tied his handkerchief to the head of the sweeping brush and approached the back window. Binny had suggested he appear on the balcony, but he worried in case Helen might be out there in the street. The words would have died on his lips.

It took quite some time to wrench up the window. Holding a furled newspaper to his mouth and thrusting the broom into the night, Edward shouted: ‘This is a hostage speaking. I am a hostage.’ Behind him, Alma giggled. ‘The gun shot you heard was a misunderstanding. We are unhurt. Nobody has been shot. We are all well and cheerful.’