by Glynn, Alan
I looked at him, starting to feel a little thwarted myself.
‘Or about your history of substance abuse. Wouldn’t play too well in the press either.’
My history of substance abuse? That was history. How could he know anything about that?
‘It’s incredible what you can find out about someone’s past, isn’t it?’ he said, as though reading my thoughts. ‘Employment records, credit history – even personal stuff.’
‘Fuck you.’
‘Oh, I don’t think so.’
As he said this, he turned and walked quickly back to where I was standing. He held the knife up near my nose and waved it from side to side.
‘I could re-arrange the elements of your face, Eddie, nicely, creatively, but I’d still want the answer to my question.’ He stared into my eyes, and repeated it, this time in a whisper, ‘When am I going to meet this dealer of yours?’
I had nowhere to go, and very little to lose. I whispered back, ‘You’re not.’
There was a brief pause, and then he punched me in the stomach with his left hand—just as swiftly and efficiently as he’d done once before in my old apartment. I doubled up and fell back on to some boxes, wheezing and clutching myself with both arms.
Gennady then took off again, pacing back and forth across the room.
‘You didn’t think I was going to start with the face, did you?’ The pain was simultaneously awful and something I felt at a curious remove from. I think I was too concerned about how my privacy had been invaded, about how Gennady had managed to dig up my past.
‘I’ve got a whole file on you. This thick. It’s all out there, Eddie, information – for the taking, detail like you wouldn’t believe.’
I looked up. He had his back to me now and was waving his hands about. Just then something caught my eye – something sticking out of the smashed box of kitchen implements in front of me.
‘So what I want to know, Eddie, is this: how do you propose to explain all those years of mediocrity to your new friends at the top? Eh? Writing that turgid shit for K & D? Teaching English in Italy without a work permit? Fucking up the colour separations at Chrome magazine?’
As he was speaking, I reached over to the box. Sticking out of it was the wooden handle of a long, steel carving knife. I took hold of it and eased it out of the box, my head pounding from the effort of trying to control the shake in my hand – to say nothing of having to lean across in the first place. I then struggled up on to my feet, being careful to keep the knife behind my back.
Gennady turned around.
‘And you were married once, as well, weren’t you?’
He came across the room towards me. I was dizzy now, seeing him in double as he approached, the background white and pulsating. But despite this unsteadiness, I seemed to know what I was doing – everything was clear and in place, anger, humiliation, fear. There was a logic to it all, an inevitability. Was this how it had been up on the fifteenth floor? I didn’t see how it could have been, but I also knew that I would never find out.
‘But that didn’t work out either, did it?’
He stopped for a moment, and then came a few steps closer.
‘What was her name again?’
He held the knife up and waved it in my face. I could smell his breath. My heart and head were pounding in unison now.
‘Melissa.’
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Melissa … and she’s got, what, two kids?’
I widened my eyes suddenly and looked over his shoulder. When he turned to see what I was looking at, I took a deep breath and brought the carving knife around. In a single, swift movement, I drove the point of it into his belly and grabbed the back of his neck with my other hand for leverage. I pushed the knife in as hard as I could, trying to direct it upwards. I heard a deep, gurgling sound and felt his arms flailing up and down, helplessly, as though they’d been cut adrift from the rest of his body. I gave a final shove to the knife and then had to let go. It had taken a huge effort to do this much and I just staggered backwards, trying to catch my breath. Then I leant against one of the windows and watched as Gennady stood in the same position, swaying, staring at me. His mouth was open and both his hands were clasping the wooden handle of the knife – the only part of it that was still visible.
The pounding in my head was so intense now that it short-circuited any sense of moral horror I might have felt at what I was watching, or at what I had done. I was also concerned about what was going to happen next.
Gennady took a couple of steps towards me. The look on his face was one of mingled incredulity and fury. I thought I was going to have to move aside to avoid him, but almost immediately he tripped on a torn box and came crashing forward on to a pile of large format art and photography books. The impact of this must have driven the knife in a little deeper – and fatally – because after he had fallen, he remained completely still.
I waited for a few minutes, watching and listening – but he didn’t move or make any sound at all.
Eventually – and very slowly — I went over to where he had come down. I bent over him and felt for a pulse on the side of his neck. There was nothing. Then something occurred to me, and drawing on a final reserve of adrenalin I took him by the arm and rolled him over on to his back. The knife was lodged at a skewed angle in his stomach and his black shirt was now sodden with blood. I took a couple of deep breaths, and tried not to look at his face.
I lifted the right side of his jacket with one hand, raised it, and tentatively put my other hand into his inside breast pocket. I fished around for a moment, thinking I wasn’t going to find anything – but then, folded in a flap of material I felt something hard. I got hold of it with the tips of my fingers and drew it out. I held it still for a moment – my heart thumping against the walls of my chest – and then shook it. The little silver pillbox made a small but very welcome rattling sound.
I got up and went back over to the window. I stood still for a few seconds in a vain attempt to ease the pounding in my head. Then I leant back against the window and slid down into a sitting position. My hands were still shaking, so in order to keep the pillbox steady I placed it on the floor between my legs. Concentrating really hard, I screwed the top off the box, put it aside and then peered down. There were five pills in the box. Again, working very carefully, I managed to get three of them out of it and on to the palm of my hand.
I paused, closed my eyes and involuntarily relived the previous couple of minutes in my mind — kaleidoscopically, luridly, but accurately . When I opened my eyes again, the first thing I saw — a few feet in front of me, like an old leather football – was Gennady’s shaved head, and then the rest of him, splayed out on the flattened pile of books.
I raised my hand, took the three tablets into my mouth and swallowed them.
I sat there for the next twenty minutes, staring out across the room – during which time, like a cloudy, overcast sky breaking up and clearing to blue, the pain in my head slowly lifted. The shake in my hands faded, too, and I felt a gradual return – at least within the parameters of MDT — to some kind of normality. This was borrowed time, and I knew it. I also knew that Gennady’s entourage was probably downstairs waiting for him, and that if much more time elapsed, they might get curious, or concerned even – and things might then get complicated.
I screwed the top back on to the pillbox and slipped it into the pocket of my trousers. When I stood up, I noticed the stains on my shirt again – as well as a couple of other signs of the general state of degradation I’d fallen into. I went over towards the bathroom, unbuttoning my shirt on the way. I took off the rest of my clothes and had a quick shower. Then I changed into some fresh clothes, jeans and a white shirt – making sure to transfer the pillbox into my jeans pocket. I went over to the telephone on the floor, called information and got the number of a local car-service. I then called the number and ordered a car for as soon as possible – instructing them to have me picked up at the back entrance to the buil
ding. After that, I gathered a few things into the holdall, including my laptop computer. I picked up the briefcase full of cash and closed it up. Then I carried both the briefcase and the holdall to the door, and opened it.
I stood there for a moment, looking back into the room. Gennady was almost lost from view in the general mess of things, my things – boxes, books, clothes, saucepans, album covers. But then I saw a small trickle of blood making its way out on to a clear part of the floor. When I saw another one, I was overcome with a feeling of nausea and had to lean against the side of the door to keep my balance. As I was doing this, a sudden squeal sounded from the centre of the room. My heart jumped, but as the high-pitched, slightly muffled tone settled into an electronic rendition of the main theme from Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto Number 1, I realized that it had to be Gennady’s cellphone. The zhuliks downstairs were obviously getting restless, and would doubtless be on their way up soon. With no choice but to keep moving, therefore, I turned around and closed the door behind me.
I took the elevator down to the basement car park and walked the length of this huge interior space, past rows and rows of concrete pillars and parked cars. I made my way up a winding ramp to the concourse at the rear of the building. Fifty yards to the left of where I came out, a couple of trucks were making deliveries at a loading dock – probably to one or other of the Celestial’s several restaurants. I waited around for about five minutes, staying out of view, until a black, unmarked car arrived. I signalled to the driver and he stopped. I got into the back, with the briefcase and the holdall, and paused for a moment. After I’d taken a couple of deep breaths, I told the driver to get on to the Henry Hudson Parkway, going north. He pulled around by the side of the building and then turned left. The traffic lights at the next block were red, and when the car stopped I turned around to look back. There was a Mercedes parked at the kerb of the plaza. A few guys in leather jackets were standing next to it on the sidewalk, smoking. One of them was looking up at the building.
The lights changed, and as we were pulling away – suddenly – three police cars appeared out of nowhere. They pulled up at the kerb of the plaza and within seconds – the last thing I could make out – five or six uniformed cops were running over towards the main entrance to the Celestial.
I turned back around. I didn’t understand it. Since I’d left the apartment, there couldn’t have been enough time for anyone to get up to it, get into it … call the cops and then for the cops to arrive …
It didn’t make sense.
I caught the driver’s eye in the rearview mirror. He held my gaze for a couple of seconds.
Then we both looked away.
[ 28 ]
WE CONTINUED NORTH.
As soon as we got on to Interstate 87, I felt a little less tense. I sat back in the car and stared out of the window, stared at the miles of highway flitting by and blending, slowly, into a continuous, hypnotic stream — a process which allowed me to smother any thoughts I was having about the last couple of days, the last couple of hours, and especially about what I had just done to Gennady. But after nearly forty minutes of this, I couldn’t help turning my mind to what I had decided to do next, to the immediate future – the only kind of future I seemed to have left.
I told the driver to cut over and drop me off in someplace like Scarsdale or White Plains. He considered this for a couple of minutes, looked around at his options, and eventually took me into the centre of White Plains. I paid him – and in the vague hope that he might keep his mouth shut, I gave him a hundred-dollar tip.
Carrying the holdall and the briefcase – one in either hand — I wandered around for a while until I found a taxi on Westchester Avenue, which I then took to the nearest car-rental outlet. Using my credit card, I rented a Pathfinder. Then I immediately got out of White Plains and continued north on Interstate 684.
I passed Katonah and took a left at Croton Falls for Mahopac. Off the highway now and driving through this quiet, hilly, woodland area, I felt displaced, but at the same time strangely serene – as though I had already passed over into some other dimension. Shifts in perspective and velocity intensified my growing sense of unreality. I hadn’t been behind the wheel of a car for ages – and not, in any case, out of the city, and at such speed, and never high up like this in one of these SUVs …
As I approached Mahopac itself, I had to slow down. I had to make an effort to refocus on what I was doing, and on what I was about to do. It took me a while to remember the address that Melissa had written down for me in the bar on Spring Street. It eventually came to me, and when I got into town, I stopped at a gas station to buy a map of the area so I could work out how to get to where she lived.
Ten minutes later I’d found it.
I cruised right on to Milford Drive and pulled up at the kerb in front of the third house on the left. The street was quiet and canopied with trees. I reached over to the back seat, where I’d put the holdall. I opened a side pocket of the bag and pulled out a small notebook and a pen. Then I took the briefcase from the passenger seat and placed it on my lap. I tore a page out of the notebook and wrote a few quick lines. I opened the briefcase, stared at the money for a moment and then secured the note inside so that it was clearly visible.
I got out of the car, pulling the briefcase after me and started walking along the narrow pathway towards the house. There was an area of grass on either side of the pathway and on one of them there was a small bicycle lying on its side. It was a single-storey, grey clapboard house, with steps leading up to it and a porch at the front. It looked like it could do with a lick of paint, and maybe a new roof.
I went up the steps and stood on the porch for a moment. I tried to peer inside, but there was a screen on the door and I couldn’t see properly. I crooked my index finger and rapped it on the frame of the door.
My heart was thumping.
After a moment, the door opened and standing before me was a spindly little girl of about seven or eight. She had long, dark, straight hair and deep brown eyes. I must have shown how surprised I was because she furrowed her eyebrows and said, officiously, ‘Yes?’
‘You must be Ally,’ I said.
She considered this for a moment and then decided to nod in the affirmative. She was wearing a red cardigan and pink leggings.
‘I’m an old friend of your mother’s.’
This didn’t seem to impress her much.
‘My name’s Eddie.’
‘You want to speak to my mom?’
I detected a slight impatience in her tone and in her body language, as though she wanted me to get on with it – to get to the point so she could get back to whatever it was she’d been doing before I came along to disturb her.
From somewhere in the background a voice said, ‘Ally, who is it?’
It was Melissa. All of a sudden this began to seem a lot more difficult than I had anticipated.
‘It’s a … man.’
‘I’ll …’ — there was a pause here, pregnant with momentary indecision, and maybe even a hint of exasperation – ‘ … I’ll be there in a minute. Tell him … to wait.’
Ally said, informatively, ‘My mom’s washing my kid sister’s hair.’
‘That’d be Jane, wouldn’t it?’
‘Yeah. She can’t do it herself. And it takes ages.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Because it’s so long.’
‘Longer than yours?’
She made a puffing sound, as if to say, Whoa, mister, you’re nowhere near as informed as you think.
‘Well, listen,’ I said, ‘you’re obviously all busy here.’ I paused, and looked directly into her eyes, experiencing something like vertigo, but with both feet on the ground. ‘So why don’t I just leave this with you … and you can tell your mom I was here … and that I left this for her.’
Being careful not to seem in any way pushy, I leant forward a little and placed the briefcase on a rug just inside the door.
She didn’t mo
ve as I did this. Then she looked down suspiciously at the briefcase. I took a couple of steps back. She glanced up at me again.
‘My mom said you were to wait.’
‘I know, but I’m in a hurry.’
She assessed this for plausibility, intrigued now – whatever she’d been doing before I arrived apparently forgotten.
‘Ally, I’m coming.’
The urgency in Melissa’s voice cut into me and I knew I had to get away before she appeared. I’d been going to tell her not to open the suitcase until I left. Now it would make no difference.
I backed down the steps.
‘I’ve got to go, Ally. It was nice meeting you.’
She furrowed her eyebrows again, altogether unsure about what was going on now. In a small voice, she said, ‘My mom’s just coming.’
Stepping backwards, I said, ‘Will you remember my name?’
In an even smaller voice, she said, ‘Eddie.’
I smiled.
I could have stared at her for hours, but I had to break away and turn around. I got back to the car and climbed in. I started the engine.
Out of the corner of my eye, as I was pulling away, I was aware of a sudden movement at the door of the house. When I got to the first junction, and was about to turn left, I glanced into my rearview mirror. Melissa and Ally were standing – holding hands – in the middle of the street.
I made my way over towards Newburgh and then got back on to Interstate 87, heading north. I decided I would keep going until I got to Albany and then take it from there.
It was early afternoon as I arrived in the outskirts of the city. I drove around for a bit and then parked in a side street off Central Avenue. I sat in the car for twenty minutes, staring at the wheel.
But take what from here?
I got out and started walking, briskly, and not in any particular direction. As I moved, I replayed the scene with Ally over and over in my mind. Her resemblance to Melissa was uncanny and the whole experience had left me stunned – blinking at infinity, shuddering in sudden, unexpected spasms of benevolence and hope.
