Maid of the Mist (23 page)

The pizza girl's face was a mask of blood.

Madeline stepped out of the crowd and said: 'I think she's had enough.'

Cheng Chui-Ping turned on her heel and chopped Madeline across the throat. She was unconscious before she hit the ground.

Corrigan was clawing back towards consciousness, trying to figure out what time it was, and then how to read a clock. It involved a big hand and a little . . . finger.

Fuck.

And only then did he feel the pain. He opened his eyes very slightly. He had already lost one finger thanks to Popov shooting him; now, clearly, he had lost another. There was a different bandage on his hand, made of a different material – patterned and thick like a curtain – but the blood had soaked through it as well. If he did not die from losing fingers at a steady rate, he would die from lack of blood. Where was Doc and his black mush when he needed him?

Popov's boys had returned and now sat rolling joints. The place stank of greasy chicken and burped beer. He felt sick. His head pounded. Popov was at a table, counting money. Lelewala remained motionless on the sofa. He watched her chest for several moments, mostly to check that she was still breathing. He closed his eyes again. Dizzy. The room was starting to revolve.

There was a voice from the window and: 'Someone's coming.'

The hoods crowded around it. Popov continued to count. Corrigan just turned in time to see Lelewala's eyes close again. Sweat dripped off his brow.

'Limo. Stretch. White.' Then an anxious pause, it's Pongo. He's alone.'

Corrigan pulled deftly at the rope that secured him to the chair. It was tight and it bit into his arm and he fought manfully to suppress a yelp.

There came the sound of rapid footsteps on the stairs, and then a light tapping on the door. The boys drew their guns. Popov finished counting then slipped the money inside a battered holdall and placed it under the table. He placed a discarded KFC box on top of it.

One of the boys opened the door carefully, made double extra sure that Pongo was alone, then ushered him in. Pongo was wearing a white suit with large lapels and flares. He was
way
ahead of fashion. As he was frisked he nodded at Popov, then gave Corrigan and his bandages a cursory glance before fixing his attention on Lelewala. He was holding a small suitcase in his hand. It was leather and shiny and didn't look as if it had ever been down an airport conveyor belt. He held it up.

'I brought two million.'

'Ah now,' said Popov, 'like milk to my ears. Your father, he a generous man.'

'One million to pay off my debts, one million for your wife.'

A look of surprise crossed Popov's face. 'For
my wife
? I think the wires are cross. I send Old Cripple a finger, warn him to pay up for sick cop or I'll spill the tin of beans on his convention, you arrive with too much money and want to buy my wife. You've been at the marching powder again.'

'I'm quite serious,' Pongo said. He set the suitcase on the table before Pongo and unlocked it. He lifted the lid up, then let it drop back. Popov and his boys clustered around. Corrigan couldn't see what was inside, but from the impressed whistles coming from the boys he guessed the money was all present and correct. 'The cop's got nothing to do with us. He isn't on the payroll. Chuck him in the river for all we care; you seem to specialize in that. I want to buy your wife. What difference does it make to you? I've been renting her this last six months.'

Popov pulled the lid closed, nearly trapping one of his boys' fingers. A glint of teeth appeared wide across his face, but if it was a smile it was an evil one. 'You pretty damn funny, Pongo. The Old Cripple must be plenty upset, yeah?'

'Yeah, plenty upset. I had to talk him out of sending half a fucking regiment down here to blow your heads off. He doesn't like being blackmailed.'

'Well maybe next time he send me an invite to his party, not keep me locked in the coal shed.' He turned and looked at Lelewala. Her eyes were open now, and looking distastefully at Pongo. 'You really serious? Why buy when you can rent? Change the model every few weeks, eh?'

'I have my reasons.'

'How about you tell me those reasons, eh, Pongo boy? What, you going to make beautiful music together, eh? It would be a first.' Popov cackled. Then he stopped abruptly and his eyes narrowed. 'What the Old Cripple want my wife for?'

It's nothing to do with him.
I
want her.'

'She's a pain in the vertebra.' Pongo shrugged. 'You're not in love with her, Pongo boy?'

Pongo shrugged again.

'That is so sweet,' said Popov. His hoods nodded in agreement. 'How can I resist? OK. I give her to you for one million. You're a good customer. What they call a wanker.'

'Banker,' said one of the boys.

'So you take her with you. You tell Cripple Features, thanks for the cash. I tell you what, you take Mr Policeman with you too. Two for the price of one. Then you come back and see me when you need some dust, yeah?'

Pongo nodded.

Lelewala looked on, aghast.

Pongo drove with his face pressed against the windscreen, trying to keep them on the road as the limo battled against the torrential rain. A corker of a thunderstorm had blown up while he was in captivity. Every few seconds lightning snaked out of the sky, throwing bursts of electricity into the country and western music that eased out of the radio, as if the fiddlers had suddenly discovered feedback.

Corrigan's fever was eating him up. When they'd untied him he'd tried to say something smart, but instead of wit there was bullshit, and not even as witty as that. Gabble. Babble. Something, at least, that Popov could relate to.

His legs would hardly support him. The hoods had to carry him down and throw him in the back of the limo. Lelewala had helped him sit up, and now he lay slumped against her shoulders, his good arm thrown round her and his bad arm throbbing in his lap. She touched his face. 'We have to get him to a hospital,' she said.

'Hospital,'
Pongo muttered.

'I used to have some of your records,' Corrigan said, head lolling. 'But then I grew up.'

'Shhhhh,' Lelewala said.

'Actually,' Corrigan continued, 'that's a lie. I haven't grown up.' He started to laugh, and then he started to retch.

Pongo tutted. Lelewala stroked Corrigan's brow. His eyes rolled back towards her, struggling to focus. 'You've bought her,' he said. 'If I'd that kind of money I'd buy one too. . .' Corrigan smiled. 'You're free of him now . . .'

Pongo signalled and turned right. Corrigan groaned at the movement. A hospital. It would just be nice to sleep. Sleep for a long time, maybe just wake up once in a while to see if any more fingers had been lopped off. He closed his eyes.

Nicola. He wondered if they'd buried her yet.

If somebody had told Aimie.

If Aimie thought she'd been deserted by everyone.

She was only small, but she wasn't stupid.

Aimie.

Aimie.

'I killed them,' Corrigan said.

'What?' said Lelewala.

'But there's been no violence since.'

'He's delirious,' said Lelewala.

'So am I,' said Pongo.

'So am I,' said Corrigan.

'Are we nearly there?' Lelewala asked.

'I'm nearly there,' said Corrigan. 'I shot them in the back.'

'You shot who in the back?'

'Them. The IRA. Shot them in the back. Getting our own back. But you can't say that in court.'

'Shhhhh,' said Lelewala.

'Nearly there,' said Pongo, peering ahead.

But they nearly weren't. Lelewala rubbed at a misted window. Pongo had turned off the highway and now they were starting to bump along an unlit and neglected stretch of road. Soon the car began to slip and slide and she knew that the road had descended into a dirt track. She could see nothing but black and raindrops, but Lelewala knew it, she sensed it. She shivered. It wasn't the massed evil of her fits and furies, but there was a hint of it.

Pongo stopped the car.

Corrigan said:
'Je ne regrette rien.'

Pongo got out. He pulled Corrigan's door open and dragged him out by his shot arm. Corrigan yelled. Lelewala yelled too and scrambled after him. Corrigan landed in the mud, soaked already. Lelewala crouched by him. They were in a field. It was pitch-black save for the car's lights, pointing away into the darkness.

Lelewala screamed: 'What are you doing?'

'Throwing out the garbage,' Pongo said, calmly. He produced a gun. Corrigan was shaking his head, shaking his fevered brain about, trying to calm it. The cold. The damp. What was he doing in a . . .

He looked at the barrel of the gun and Pongo's tear-stained face. No, not tears, raindrops.

Raindrops keep falling on my head. Butch Cassidy and the Sun . . .

'No!' Lelewala yelled. She stepped in front of Corrigan.

'Get out of the way!'

'No!'

'Get out of the fucking way!'

'No!'

He stepped closer, then moved to the side, trying to get a clear line of fire, but she moved with him.

'You can't do this, Pongo.'

'Get out of the fucking way!'

'No!'

Pongo shot wide. Lelewala jumped, but stayed in place.

'Move out of the fucking way, Gretchin!'

'No!'

They stormed at each other in the rain. Lightning lit the scene. Corrigan began to lose focus again. Pongo turned suddenly away. 'Fuck you then,' he said.

Lelewala let out a big whoosh of air and knelt beside a fading Corrigan. Pongo swivelled back, deceptively quick for a cokehead, and slapped her hard. She went tumbling into the sludge. Pongo raised his gun and aimed. She threw herself back at Pongo, knocking him sideways just as he pulled the trigger, and the bullet zipped just to the right of Corrigan's ear.

He threw her off again. Raised the gun. He was about to fire, then hesitated because she hadn't attacked again. He turned slightly. 'What?' he said.

'Let him live,' she said, 'and I will stay with you for ever.'

'You
are
staying with me for ever.'

'But I will sleep with you and love you and make you the happiest man ever. Not just fucking.'

'It's the just fucking I'm interested in.'

'And we will make beautiful music. Isn't that what you want?'

Pongo raised the gun again. Paused. He looked at her, beautiful and bedraggled and angry and full of love for someone else. That didn't matter. 'Can you sing?'

'Like a bird.'

'What sort of a bird? If it's a seagull, you're no fucking use to me.'

'My people say that I sing like . . .'

'What people?'

'The village. My father . . .'

Pongo laughed. 'You're really serious about all that Indian shit! I love it!' He waved the gun at her. He was dying for another blast of coke. The realization of where he was and what he was doing suddenly dawned on him. He was getting soaked and there was no one to hold an umbrella over him. There was
mud
on his shoes. 'Get in the car, Gretchin!'

'Not until you promise . . .'

'OK, OK! I fucking promise. Now get in the car!' She hesitated. Pongo looked at Corrigan flailing helplessly in the mud. He shook his head. He pocketed the pistol. 'Get in the car,' he said.

Lelewala hesitated. 'You'll shoot him.'

'I won't touch him.'

She took a deep breath, looked despairingly at Corrigan, then turned away. Pongo knelt down beside Corrigan. 'I told you about the fucking convention,' he hissed, 'and you fucked it up.' He stood up, glanced back at Lelewala, climbing into the car with her back to him for the moment, then kicked Corrigan hard in the stomach. As he turned to leave he stamped Corrigan's hand down into the mud, then tutted as it oozed up over his sole. And soul.

In a few moments Corrigan heard the engine. He could barely move his head in time to see the tail-lights disappear into the rain-swept darkness. For some reason he was wondering how he could ever manage to scramble eggs with one arm.

He staggered and he fell, he staggered and he fell. He got dirt in his nose and eyes and shoes and it seeped through his bandages into his bullet hole and no-fingers. He ached and sweated and bled and puffed and ran and cried.

The country lane seemed never ending, but it could only have been a few miles – long miles of rain and lightning and exhaustion – and by the time he stumbled out on to the highway and began waving his one good arm about like a madman and his other painful arm like a fool, he was as near to dropping down dead as a reasonably sane man at the end of his tether can be without actually dropping down dead. It was at this point that a cattle truck came thundering out of the storm like Noah's Ark with a very strict door policy. It stopped. Just. There were some moos from the rear.

As he climbed up into the cab and shut the door, the driver took a long look at him and said: 'What the freakin' hell happened to you?'

Corrigan slumped gratefully down into the seat. Between deep breaths he squeezed out: 'I got kidnapped by a Russian gangster who shot one finger off then cut off another and posted it to the Old Cripple. Then the Artist Formerly Known as Pongo came and bought the Russian's wife, the Indian Princess Lelewala, for a million dollars and got me as a free gift. Then he dumped me in a field and shouted at me for not doing something about the horticultural convention.'

The driver nodded. 'Where can I drop you?"

Stirling lived on the edge of town. Corrigan fell out of the lorry a couple of blocks away and thanked the driver profusely. He'd given him a cup of coffee and a cigarette, and the combination of caffeine and good healthy smoke made him feel ten times better. Maybe not ten. Three. Possibly two. But better.

The rain was still pouring out of the heavens, and it was the saving of him. He was five houses down from Stirling's when he saw the car sitting across the road from the house, two guys inside, both of them smoking. He checked the number plate. It was one of
his
unmarked vehicles. Corrigan pulled the collar of his mud-caked jacket up and walked on, and with the battering of the raindrops and the misted breath inside the car they either didn't see him or dismissed him as a local hurrying home. When he'd continued up the block a hundred yards he chanced glancing back, but there was no movement from the car. He turned the corner then slipped up the first driveway he came to and began to double back along the back gardens.