My Brother

by Charles Sheffield

  “Mind his head,” said a voice from behind me. Arms came from nowhere to cushion my fall. Then I was gone, down deep below the velvet surface to a place where the sun never shone.

  - 6 -

  “He’s awake. Go get the boss on the phone.”

  He wasn’t, though. Not if they were talking about me. He was half-asleep, with the worst hangover ever, and unable to open his eyes to face that light directly above.

  Not above, I realized after a while; in front, that’s where it was, and I wasn’t lying down. I was sitting in a chair. There was no danger that I would fall out of it. My wrists were bound to the chair arms, and there was something murderously tight around my knees and ankles. I felt as sick as a dog. I turned my head away from the bright wall lamp and panted hard as waves of nausea ran through me.

  “Here.” A big hand held a cup to my mouth. “You’re not as bad as you think. Drink this down an’ you’ll feel a sight different.”

  I swallowed as he tilted the cup. My mouth puckered at the bitter taste, and there was a moment when I thought it would come right back up. Then I suddenly was a lot better, improved enough physically to feel a sharp panic when I at last understood what had happened. I was completely helpless, unable to move hand or foot. Apprehension turned my mouth dry and left me unable to swallow.

  I opened my eyes and peered up. The man holding the cup was tall, about my height. He was heavily built, in his early twenties at the latest. With his fresh, round face and no sign of lines or wrinkles, he could have passed as a teenager if he had been smaller. His expression as he looked at me was a mixture of wariness and curiosity.

  “They’re coming right over,” said another voice from behind me. A second man walked forward into my field of view. “Did he drink it?"’

  The newcomer was on the short side, very lightly built and dapperly dressed. His hair was greased and parted in the middle in a style that had gone out fifty years ago. I concentrated hard on their faces, looking for anything that might reassure me as to my own position. They were both unreadable.

  “He drank it,” said the first man. He turned the empty cup upside down. “All gone. How long before they get here?”

  “Three-quarters of an hour. Zan’s over in the shop, and he has to go and pick her up.” He turned to look at me directly for the first time. “He’d better stay as he is — no point in taking chances.”

  Now that I was fully awake, I could feel the ropes around my legs cutting hard into the flesh. Already my hands were puffed and swollen, and my ankles felt numb. The idea of being tied up for another hour like this filled me with horror.

  “You’re bastards, both of you,” I said. “Untie me. These ropes are killing me, look at my hands.”

  The shorter man came forward and looked calmly down at my bonds. “Now then, mind your manners, or I’ll have to ask Pudd’n here to teach you a bit more respect.”

  “Bugger Pudd’n, and bugger you too,” I said. I was terrified, but somewhere underneath I was also furious. “You have to do something about these ropes.”

  The big youth came forward and bent to look at my hands. “He’s right, Dixie ,” he said, “You’ve done ’em too tight, they’re cutting off his circulation.”

  “So who cares?” Dixie looked down at me with vicious satisfaction. “He’s earned it. You saw what he did to Jack an’ Des. Let him hurt a bit.”

  “Well, yeah.” Pudd’n stood there, his round face furrowed in thought. “But I think we’d better make ’em a bit looser anyway. You know the boss. You know what he’ll say if there’s damage before ’e gets here.”

  “Sod the boss. I’m not worried about him, bloody little Arab,” said Dixie . But he moved forward quickly and began to loosen the knots with deft, well-kept hands. I realized that he was much older than the first impression had suggested, probably in his early sixties. It hurt when he loosened the knots, but in another thirty seconds it hurt a good deal worse. I grunted and swore as the blood began to flow back into my hands and feet.

  “You’re still bastards,” I said shakily, when the pain was at its peak. “I’ve done nothing to you. What do you want?”

  “You’ll find out,” said Dixie . They must have taken my jacket before they tied me, and now he was going through the pockets in a systematic and leisurely way. “If you’ve done nothing to us, then you’ve nothing to worry about, do you? Here, Pudd’n, take a look at this. Innocent until proved guilty, eh? Bloody likely. I reckon this proves who he is.”

  He had found the pillbox Sir Westcott gave me in the hospital. Now he rolled two of the blue capsules onto the palm of his hand and held them out towards Pudd’n. The big man whistled when he saw them.

  “Nymphs?” he said.

  “Looks like it to me,” replied Dixie . He turned back to where I was sitting. “You dirty old man, you.”

  The pain in my hands was lessening, and I was doing my best to speed up the returning circulation by clenching and unclenching my fists.

  “That’s medicine,” I said. “I have to have it — I only just got out of the hospital.”

  “I know,” said Dixie . He guffawed. “Medicine, eh? That’s a good ’un. You tell that to the judge, an’ he’ll have you back in hospital sharpish. There’s only one thing that Nymphs do, an’ I don’t think you’re a candidate for it.” He had become a lot more sure of himself.

  “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” I said. But I couldn’t help wondering if there was more to the drug than Sir Westcott had bothered to tell me.

  “Very good,” said Dixie . His tone was sarcastic. “You’ve no idea, eh? So you can tell that to Zan and the boss when they get here. See if they believe it.” He glanced at his watch, then at Pudd’n. “They’ll be another half hour yet, you know Zan’s always late. How about one more session before they get here?”

  Pudd’n shrugged. “If you want to. But what about ’im? We ’ave to watch ’im.”

  “That’s no problem. We can take him through with us.”

  “All right.” Pudd’n came forward to stand in front of me. “Grab the back end of the chair.”

  I couldn’t help or hinder. A bag of groceries had as much freedom of choice. The room we were in was maybe twenty feet long by fourteen across, with the windows hidden by floor-length green drapes and with a polished hardwood floor. The furniture — as much as I could see of it — was expensive and carefully matched to the wallpaper and the drapes. Pudd’n opened a pair of double doors, then I was carried, chair and all, backwards into a bigger room. This one had an open Steinway over by one wall and an old Broadwood box piano — in excellent condition, to judge from its exterior — along the wall opposite. Between the two was twenty-five feet of polished floor.

  I was placed by the Steinway. Dixie remained standing in the middle of the room, and Pudd’n sat down on the piano stool.

  “Ready?” he said.

  Dixie nodded. “Any time.”

  Pudd’n began to play a Scott Joplin piece that I occasionally used as a pop encore — “Magnetic Rag.” His hands were very big — I estimated that he could span at least a twelfth — and he let his fingers do the work without much wrist movement. The tempo was a nice, medium one, just a little faster than I liked it.

  “Right,” said Dixie . And while I gaped, he began to dance. His face was blank with concentration as he warmed up from a delicate soft-shoe to a more complicated pattern of double-time steps. He took no more notice of me than he did of the rest of the room’s furniture.

  I looked back at Pudd’n. He played easily and accurately, not looking at his hands. He even seemed bored, and the second time through he added a whole series of grace notes to the right-hand melody, an acciaccatura to every second beat. At the end he closed with a strange anharmonic cadence that I liked rather better than the Joplin original.

  “One more time,” said Dixie . He was panting a little. “Take it faster.”

  “You start, an’ I’ll pick it up,” said Pudd’n. He had become a
ware that I was watching him closely as he played. This time he showed off for my benefit, taking passages in octaves, sixths, and thirds, and adding to the chords in the bass. Like most amateurs, his right hand was better than his left, but he was pretty good. Even in my situation, I couldn’t help listening critically. There were no wrong notes or fluffed chords, and the scales were nicely balanced. I didn’t like his pedal timing, but he wasn’t using it to cover anything, and he played with a sense of leisure, with speed to spare.

  He had been gradually increasing the tempo. When he finished, with a rapid octave run upwards, Dixie went over to one of the high-backed chairs and sat down on the edge of it. His lined face was beaded with sweat.

  “That’ll do,” he said. “Gawd, I’m done in — you pushed it at the end there. Let’s have a fag.”

  Pudd’n unexpectedly winked at me. “Nah, yer slowin’ down, Dixie . Getting old. Ain’t that right, Mister Foss?”

  “You’re bloody fools, both of you,” I said. “Get it into your heads. I’m not Leo Foss.”

  “You’ll have to argue that one out with the boss. Want a cigarette?”

  He didn’t seem nearly as unfriendly as Dixie . I shook my head, and he lit a cigarette for himself and turned back to the piano. “Like music, do you?”

  “Well enough.” I realized he had no idea who I was. “So do you, and you’re good. You’ve had good training.”

  He nodded, sucking in deep lungsful of smoke. “Too bleedin’ true. Twelve bleedin’ years of ’em, before I could get out an’ do my own thing.”

  “You ran away from home?”

  He shook his head. “Orphanage. Lessons every bleedin’ day except Christmas, then I had to play carols for everybody else.” His voice changed to falsetto. ” ‘Now, Thomas, the Good Lord God has given you a talent. It would be shameful and wrong for you to neglect it.’ They stuffed that into me with me breakfast every bleedin’ day since I was four, ’til I was sixteen an’ I could bugger off out of there.”

  A sound of a car door slamming came from outside the window. Dixie grunted and stood up. “They’re here, Pudd’n. So stow it — I don’t know why you waste your time talking to him anyway.”

  “Calm down, Dixie .” Pudd’n turned back to me. “Look, Foss, I’m goin’ to give you some good advice. You don’t know the boss, an’ I do. Answer his questions straight, an’ first time, an’ you’ll be glad of it in the long run. Ain’t that right, Dixie ?”

  “Let him do what he likes,” said Dixie sullenly. “I don’t give a shit if he gets his head blown off.” I could hear footsteps approaching in the other room. No matter what Sir Westcott wanted, I could feel my pulse beating faster and I wouldn’t like to have taken any bet on my blood pressure. Pudd’n and Dixie both rose to their feet and stood waiting.

  The man who entered was short, even shorter than Dixie . He was dark complexioned and swarthy, with black, straight hair and a prominent nose and chin. I placed him as Lebanese, or perhaps Egyptian. The woman who followed him was an inch or two taller, also dark haired and dark skinned, with a clear, olive complexion and fine eyes. She looked to be in her late twenties. Her nose was a classic Greek profile, well balanced by good cheekbones and a fine chin.

  As she came into the room she stared at me in a strangely intense way. She did not take her eyes off me, even to look at the others when they spoke to her. In other circumstances I would have found her strongly attractive. But now…

  The man came over and looked at me curiously. “Gave us a lot of trouble, you did. Messed up two of the boys real bad — we might have to pay yer back for that.”

  His voice was a surprise. It had a strong Liverpool accent — and I recognized it! He had been one of the two men in the helicopter; Scouse, the other one had called him. I took a quick look at their shoes, but — not too surprisingly — none of them wore the black leather, black-buckled footware that I could still see if I closed my eyes and thought about the crash.

  I stared up at Scouse. “You’ve got something all wrong. I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but I’m sure you’re making a mistake.”

  “D’yer think so?” He laughed, a deep chuckle of satisfaction. “No, you’re the one making the mistake, Foss.” He turned his head. “Did yer search him, Dixie ?”

  “Sure I did.” Dixie scowled at me, then held forward the pillbox to Scouse. “It’s not the thing we were looking for, but it proves he’s Foss all right. Take a look inside — nobody would be carryin’ Nymphs if he was just some ordinary person.”

  Scouse shot me a swift, intelligent look. “Naw — an’ nor would Foss, if he had to go through Customs to bring ’em into the country. It’d be too dangerous. Use yer head, Dixie , he’d be mad to be carryin’ Nymphs.” He took the lid off the box and rolled a capsule into his palm. “I dunno. They sure as hell look like ’em, I’ll give you that. But I’m not sure.”

  “They’re medicine,” I said. “I’m not Leo Foss, I’m Lionel Salkind, and I’ve just come out of hospital.”

  “We’ve heard all that,” said Scouse absently. He opened the capsule with his thumb nail and poured grey-green powder into his open palm. He sniffed at it cautiously. “Here, Zan, what do you think?”

  The woman took her eyes from me for a moment to take the capsule. She dipped her head and touched the tip of her tongue to the powder.

  “No,” she said after a few moments. Her voice was deep and musical, a fine contralto. “I do not know what this is, but I feel sure we are not dealing with Nymphs.” Her words were heavily accented, and seemed to confirm her Greek appearance. “Maybe they are really medicine?”

  “You’d be too old for them, anyway, Zan, if they were Nymphs,” said Dixie nastily. Then he saw her angry look and was silent.

  “Mebbe it is,” said Scouse thoughtfully. I noticed that when he spoke the rest became respectfully attentive. “Mebbe it’s medicine. But there’s no sign of what we really want, an’ that’s the important thing.” He leaned forward and slipped the pillbox into my shirt pocket. His eyes stared into mine, dark and unblinking. “You see the problem you’ve given me, do you? You might want to help me solve it. I’m sure you’ll try.”

  “I still have no idea what you’re talking about.” Those bright eyes made me more nervous than anything that had happened since I recovered consciousness.

  “Ah, but that’s just what you’d say anyway — that’s the whole trouble, isn’t it? You say you’re not Leo Foss, I know that. You’re the twin brother, Lionel, an’ it was Leo died in the crash. I know, we’ve heard all that.”

  He shot Dixie a quick look. “An’ the crash was bungled bad, so we didn’t have as much time as we needed there. Well, no matter, we took care of the lad who bungled that one, didn’t we, Dixie ? But we can’t afford another mess-up. Suppose you are Leo, now. Then you know where the Belur Package is. An’ I want to know that. An’ you have to tell me. Would yer like to do it right now, an’ save things getting messy?”

  “I’m Lionel. Lionel Salkind.” My throat was dry again. “I don’t know anything about a Belur package.”

  “I hear you.” His voice was still soft and thoughtful. ” Dixie , get his shirt off. Don’t untie him. Cut it away if yer have to.”

  Dixie took out a sheath knife. The blade was sharpened to a wicked tip, and it gleamed in the light. He cut my shirt and undershirt efficiently from top to bottom, laying the cold flat of the blade lovingly against my skin as he finished. Scouse whistled when he saw the pattern of scars on my chest and stomach.

  “Been through the wars, haven’t yer? Mebbe you need them pills after all. I’ve seen road maps with less lines on ’em than your belly. I bet you don’t want more there, do yer? I can understand that. But let’s do one little check before we start — just to make sure.”

  He nodded. Dixie took his cigarette out of his mouth and applied it without warning to my shoulder. I yelled at the pain and tried to writhe away from the red-hot ash. I couldn’t move more than a few inches in any direc
tion. Scouse nodded.

  “All right. Just checking. Wouldn’t be worth doing anything to yer, would it, if you’d already had a go with the Belur Package? All right, now let’s have a little chat.”

  He pulled a chair forward and sat down facing me. I noticed that the woman was standing absolutely motionless. Her cheeks were flushed, and she was biting her lip as though under some great tension.

  “Are you going to stand there and let them torture me?” I said desperately. “Can’t you see they have the wrong man?”

  Scouse turned to her as I spoke and saw the intense, rigid posture. He swore and stood up again. “Pudd’n, get Zan out of here and into another room. Take her downstairs.”

  She went without speaking, but at the door she turned and gave me a long, unfathomable look. I could tell that she didn’t want to go, but she would not argue with Scouse. As soon as she was gone, he took a black case from his pocket. He removed from it a small phial and a hypodermic, and laid them on the top of the piano stool.

  “That was crude with the cigarette, eh? I know.” He leaned forward to look again into my eyes. “An’ it left marks, an’ that’s never a good idea. I keep telling Dixie when he wants to have a go with the knife, there’s better ways. Let me tell you what we’ll be doin’ instead.”

  He picked up the hypodermic, plunged the needle through the rubber stopper of the phial, and drew about one c.c. of clear liquid into the syringe.

  “This won’t leave a mark — only the needle point. What it will do is set up a stimulation to the nerves round about where we make the injection. The pain nerves, mainly. Would yer like to negotiate with me for where we make the first puncture? Yer might not believe me, but I don’t get my kicks out of hurting people, not like some people here — providing I can get what I want some other way.”