Two-Way Split (30 page)

He swung his free hand one more time and at last caught the pole. He stopped spinning.
Thank Christ.
He hung there and started to laugh. He was scared shitless. The temptation to let go and get it over with was hard to resist. He closed his eyes and prayed, which was no help. He opened his eyes, gritted his teeth and with one last effort managed to manoeuvre his hands into position. He raised his knees and hooked one foot over the pole. The other foot followed. Then everything went out of focus and his mind blanked for a second. He dragged himself back from the brink of unconsciousness and snapped into an adrenalin-charged alertness. He let go of the pole with his right hand and grabbed hold of the vertical pole just behind him. He pulled, the muscles in his arm about to tear. He tensed his legs, twisted his body.  He let go with his left hand and quickly clasped the bar underneath his stomach. Straightening his elbow, he fumbled with his other hand for the edge of the platform. When he found it he held on and dragged his leg across. After a moment he moved his hand along. Ignoring the sound of the blood pounding in his ears, he pulled his body further onto the planked flooring inch by inch.

When only his left foot dangled over the edge, he lay still. After a while he turned on his back and wiped the sweat out of his eyes. He felt light headed. He'd done it, though. No bastard scaffolding would mess with him again. Maybe Max and Johnny weren't that special after all.

3:19 pm

Pearce examined the man who claimed to be Robin Greaves's brother. He was wiping his palms on his trousers, nervously. But Pearce expected that. If somebody waded into your home uninvited and stuck a gun in your face, you'd be nervous too. Nerves proved nothing.

"I'm getting tired of waiting," Pearce said. Patches of dried blood matted the man's hair. Somebody had hit him hard. And fairly recently, by the look of it. He was a sorry state. "You going to answer my question?"

"You've got it wrong. I'm not Robin. I'm his brother."

"Right. Let's see your wallet and I'll tell you exactly who you are."

Greaves's eyes darted all over the place. The rest of him didn't move. Not the tiniest bit.

Pearce said, "Now." He didn't take his eyes off Greaves. "Wallet, please."

Greaves put his hand in his pocket. "What's the point?" He removed his hand. It was empty. "You want to shoot me?" He thumped his fist against his chest. "Go ahead. Shoot me."

Pearce said, "Okay." He stepped closer and aimed the gun at Robin Greaves. Pointed the gun at the man who killed his mother. Held the muzzle directly over his left eye.

Greaves stared into the barrel, eyes wide. His moment of bravado had passed. He mumbled something as a stain spread on his crotch. Urine leaked out of his trouser leg. "My hands hurt," he said. "I've got sore hands." He sank to his knees. Pearce kept the gun pointed at his eye. Greaves clutched his hands together and started rubbing them gently, as if he was washing them. "Really bad." He unclasped them to show Pearce his palms. "They don't work, you know?"

"I don't give a toss about your hands," Pearce told him. "Why are you telling me about your hands?"

"They're everywhere, now," Greaves said.

"What?" Pearce shook his head with impatience. "Who?"

"They came from your mother."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Greaves rolled forward onto the floor and adopted a foetal position with his hands tucked between his knees. "They're everywhere," he said. "Leeches. Crawling down my leg right this minute." He started humming. "Tell him, Don."

Pearce said, "Stop it." Greaves didn't stop. The humming grew louder. Greaves opened his lips and started singing. No words. Something classical. Whatever it was, it sounded painful. His tenor voice drowned out the noise of next-door's television. Pearce didn't know what to do. He'd come here to kill a man, not fuck with this headcase who lay in a puddle of his own urine belting out some classical ditty and claiming that leeches were crawling down his leg and talking to somebody called Don who wasn't there. "Stop it." He shoved the gun into the flesh of Greaves's cheek. "Stop it." Greaves wailed all the louder.

Pearce walked over to the piano stool and sat on it. This was complicated. He needed to think. He looked at Greaves.

Greaves said, "I don't know what's happening any longer."

"Which member of the Greaves family said that?"

"Me. Don."

"Well, Don. I thought that choirboy called Robin stabbed my mother in the neck. Now I'm not so sure. Was it you?"

"Certainly not. And I find it hard to believe that Robin would do something like that."

Pearce said, "So do I. If this is all an elaborate con…"

"It's real."

Pearce hesitated. He nodded. "I can see that. Has Robin gone?"

"For the time being," Don said. "Are you going to shoot me?"

The door buzzer sounded before Pearce could reply.

3:26 pm

"Expecting somebody?"

Robin's throat hurt. He stopped singing while he tried to sit up. He fell back and tried again. This time he succeeded. His eyes felt sore and puffy and strangely wet, as if he'd been crying. The buzzer sounded again. He blinked and wiped his eyes with the heels of his hands. Blinked again. His nemesis was sitting on the piano stool, a gun in his shovel-like hand. The buzzer sounded once more. The phone rang. Counterpoint. Bach.

"Don't answer it," Pearce said.

Something moved along Robin's thigh. He thought they'd all gone, but he could see its dark outline through his trousers. He slapped his leg as hard as he could. The thing stuck there. He pinched it between finger and thumb and squeezed. Pain sang in his fingers, creating harmonics. Perfect fifths and major thirds floated on top of the tide of sound.  He pulled the damn thing off his leg, but it slipped through his fingers and he couldn't find it again. Maybe that was the last one. He hoped so. He stood and shook his trouser leg.

Pearce said, "Leave it."

Contrapuntal ostinatos. Robin remembered. They thought he wasn't paying attention. They thought he wasn't lucid. Ha! "The phone?" he said. "Or the door?"

Pearce didn't reply.

Robin said, "That'll be Eddie. I arranged to meet him at half three. He won't go away, you know." Robin took a step towards the door. He seemed to have wet himself. He felt himself blush.

Pearce said, "Leave it."

Robin stood still. His face was hot, but from the waist down, he was feeling very cold.

After thirty seconds the phone stopped ringing. Ten seconds later Eddie, or whoever was downstairs, pressed the buzzer again and left his finger there. It emitted one long continuous buzzing sound. It went on. And on. And on. Then the phone joined in.

Robin shivered. He wanted to play something. Something fast. Maybe a Chopin study. He looked at the piano keys and started to hum.

Don said, "For heaven's sake."

Pearce shouted, "Okay, answer the phone."

Robin looked at him.

"Go on."

Robin hobbled towards the phone and picked up the receiver.

Eddie said, "What're you playing at?"

Robin put his hand over the mouthpiece. "It's Eddie, like I said," he said to Pearce. Eddie had killed Carol, hadn't he? Robin could imagine how she'd looked, blouse unbuttoned, stomach bared, a single letter cut in her skin. How could he do that? You thought you knew someone and… Well, it just went to show. "He wants in."

Pearce said, "Tell him it's not convenient. Come back tomorrow."

Robin removed his hand from the speaker. "It's not convenient. Come back tomorrow."

Eddie said, "Are the police there?"

"No. It's just not convenient."

Eddie said, "I've got your keys, remember? I'm coming in."

Robin covered the mouthpiece again and passed on the message.

Pearce said, "Shit."

Robin told Eddie, "Shit."

"Who's with you?"

"Nobody."

Eddie hung up.

Robin stared at the receiver. Nothing crawled out of it. He set it on the cradle.

They waited, listening to the cowboys on next-door's TV. Pearce got to his feet and started prowling. Don leaned against the wall, looking sick. His face had a greenish tinge. He kept swimming in and out of focus and at one point seemed to disappear completely for a split second.

The doorbell rang.

Pearce said, "You might as well answer it. He'll let himself in if you don't."

Don said, "It's not a good idea for him to see me. He's already tried to kill me today."

Pearce rubbed his forehead with the back of his wrist. "Answer the door."

Robin started walking towards the door. Don crossed to the other side of the room.

"One last attempt." Pearce closed the gap between himself and Robin and pressed the gun into the small of Robin's back. "Tell him you're ill."

Robin stepped up to the door. "Eddie, can you hear me?"

"Open up, will you? Carol's – look, just let me in."

"I'm not feeling well. Go away."

"Mother of frigging Christ. I'm coming in."

Pearce whispered, "Just open the door."

Eddie's lip was swollen. He had a dirty bandage on his hand and something long and black poked out of it. His cornflower blue eyes looked over Robin's shoulder. Without hesitation, he raised his arm and the thing in his hand spat. The noise it made was terrifying.

The pressure of the gun against Robin's back disappeared. When he turned, Pearce had collapsed on the floor. Something had hit the man in the shoulder and the force of the impact had knocked the gun out of his hand. He was groaning. Robin stooped and picked up the gun.

He looked at Eddie. "Why did you do it?"

"That's the lunatic from the post office." Eddie stepped into the room and closed the door. "The one whose mother you stabbed. I just did you a favour, you mad twat. Probably saved your poxy life. You get the money?"

 "Why did you kill Carol?"

"Fuck you talking about?" Eddie glanced up, face twisted into crazy lines. He spoke through clenched teeth. Spit flecked his lower lip. He was staring through Robin, staring straight at Don.

Robin stood where he was and pointed Pearce's gun at Eddie. "Confess."

Without taking his eyes off Don, Eddie said, "What?"

"You killed Carol. Admit it."

"Just get the money, Loophead."

"Confess."

"Piss off and get the money."

He would never confess.

Robin fired. Eddie slumped against the door and slid to the floor. One cornflower blue eye stared into space and where the other one had been was now a bloody hole. The black thing slithered out of his hand and lay still.