by Toby Litt
‘Why?’
‘No idea. All these strange men started arriving. Then they just told me to go home.’
‘Look,’ I said, ‘I’m just in Soho. How about we go for a drink?’
‘Well,’ Michael said, ‘I guess I’m free.’
‘Why don’t I meet you at Le Corbusier, at the back door?’
‘Mmm, my favourite place,’ he said.
‘We can go somewhere and talk.’
‘Lovely.’
‘Five minutes?’
‘At least give me time to get changed. I’ve only just got in.’
‘Ten.’
‘See you.’
I put the phone down, guilty about using him this way.
Checking up and down the street for police, I stepped out of the phonebox.
Just then, I caught sight of the two thugs – they were trying (without much success) to shove my brand-new bike into the back of their Mercedes.
‘Come on,’ one of them said. Twist the handlebars round.’
They were right outside the window of Murder One, the specialist crime-and-mystery bookshop. I doubted that they’d have appreciated the irony.
I could easily walk from here to Le Corbusier in ten minutes. Should I just leave it alone? Let them keep the bike? Avoid any further trouble?
Something inside me said no. I’d been burgled twice, and was all for kneecapping the bastards. For once I was faced with the very people who had stolen something from me. I was armed, and I was fucking angry.
I ran towards them, reaching into my courier bag.
One of them spotted me and alerted the other.
I pulled out my Gruber & Litvak, cocked it.
‘Give me my bike back,’ I said.
They looked at each other. One of them had a gun, I knew – the gun with which they’d shot the albino. But that gun was currently in its owner’s pocket, where it was absolutely useless; mine was sweeping over them, deadly.
‘Okay,’ one of them said. ‘Okay.’
The other pulled my bike out of the back of the car, then let it fall on to the road.
I didn’t want to risk reaching down for it, taking my eyes off them, giving them a chance to attack.
Passers-by had stopped to stare, but not as many as I’d expected. There was an ambulance loudly arriving further down the street for the shot albino – most eyes were on that.
‘Pick the bike up,’ I said.
They did, together.
‘Give me your guns,’ I said.
They reached into their pockets, again together.
‘One at a time,’ I said. ‘You first.’
The thug flinched away as the gun chose him to aim at.
‘Okay,’ he said.
Gently, he took his gun out and dangled it.
The gun, I noticed, was an old service revolver: crude, black. Nowhere near as nice a gun as mine.
‘Drop it,’ I ordered.
The revolver hit the pavement.
I went through the same routine with the other thug.
His gun – also a revolver – was equally old, equally ugly.
‘Now get in your car and drive away,’ I said.
One of them looked like he was about to have a go.
I felt very calm.
Part of me was worrying that Michael wouldn’t wait, the rest knew that he would.
The two thugs got slowly into their Mercedes then drove quickly away.
I picked the revolvers up and put them in my bag, along with the Gruber & Litvak.
There was a small round of applause.
‘We’re just rehearsing for a film,’ I told the crowd.
The bike seemed okay when I picked it up. They hadn’t slashed the tyres or anything.
I mounted up and cycled back down Charing Cross Road, up Old Compton Street.
Picking up as much speed as I could, I cycled round on to Greek Street – where the fire escape to Le Corbusier emerged.
Michael was standing there, alone, smoking a cigarette, a little rucksack on his back, right beside a large pile of bin bags. He was wearing a tight baby-blue top and navy-blue combats. He smiled shyly as he saw me riding up.
‘Nice outfit,’ he said.
Just then a man stuck his head out the back door of Le Corbusier. It was James. I heard the crackle of his police radio.
‘Clear off, gayboy!’ he said to Michael, then he saw me. ‘Shit,’ he said.
I was off the bike by now, dumping it in the road.
I reached into my courier bag and pulled out a gun – the wrong gun. It was one of the dirty old revolvers that I’d stolen from the thugs. No time to worry about that now. I grabbed Michael round the neck and held the gun against his temple.
James was still looking at me.
‘Sorry about this,’ I said to Michael. ‘But you have to help me get inside.’
‘What’s going on?’ he said. ‘Is this some kind of joke?’
‘Do what I say, or I will shoot you.’
I wasn’t sure if this gun would work if I pulled the trigger. Because it was a revolver, it had a completely different mechanism to the Gruber & Litvak.
For all I knew, its safety was on. If James was a trained policeman, he might be able to spot that the gun was deactivated. If so, he’d he able to attack me with impunity.
I needed to know that the revolver was working. There was only one way to find out. I pointed it into the pile of black bin bags and pulled the trigger.
The bang terrified Michael, made James wince, made me smile.
‘Okay,’ Michael said. ‘Okay – okay.’
James was about to disappear inside.
‘What’s that?’ said his radio.
‘Out into the street,’ I ordered.
He came, slowly, hands behind his head, like he’d have made me come if he were arresting me.
‘Cross all the way over to the other side of the road,’ I said.
He did.
Michael and I backed in through the fire door.
There was no-one immediately inside.
When the door was safely closed behind us, I made Michael tie it shut with his belt.
‘Look,’ I said to him, ‘you’re not going to get hurt. I just need you to help me get through to the upstairs dining room. Take me there, and I’ll let you go.’
‘Are you going to shoot them?’
‘Who?’
‘The people you booked for. Are you going to shoot them?’
‘Are they here?’
‘Of course they are.’
‘I’ll shoot who I have to.’
‘The place is full of police.’
‘I know – why didn’t you tell me?’
‘They said not to tell anyone.’
‘I’m not just anyone.’
‘Shit,’ he said. ‘Shit shit shit. I’m so stupid.’
We walked up an industrial metal stairway, clanking. Another fire door at the top.
‘Hold on,’ I said, reaching into the bag and pulling out the Gruber & Litvak with my left hand.
I kept the revolver in my right hand, pointed at Michael.
‘They’ll be expecting us now,’ I said. ‘You first.’
Michael opened the door.
We walked into the kitchen, strip-lit steel. But there were no chefs or commis chefs. There was none of the usual culinary cacophony of plates and swearing. Instead, radios crisply fuzzing on and off. Instead, six policemen pointing guns of various calibre at my head.
‘Police,’ they all shouted. ‘Put the gun down!’
‘Shh,’ said one older than the others. ‘Conrad, put the gun down. We can sort this out.’
I pointed the revolver into Michael’s head, moving round to the right.
‘Let me through,’ I said.
‘The gun won’t work,’ the senior officer said. ‘It’s not live ammunition.’
I pointed the thug’s revolver at his grey-haired head.
‘Well,’ I said. ‘What about this o
ne? Does this one work? Shall we find out? Shall we?’
‘Christ,’ he said. ‘Where did you get that?’
‘You will all put your guns down,’ I said.
I was half-way round the room now. Immediately to my left was a large stainless-steel deep-fat fryer, full of dirty-golden oil.
‘You will put your guns in that.’ I pointed at the fryer with the barrel of the Gruber.
They looked at it with disbelief and distaste.
There was a big red button on the fryer’s control panel. I edged Michael round so that I was close enough to push it. Click. The oil began to heat. Then I backed away, keeping the gun always to Michael’s temple.
‘One by one,’ I said. ‘Or I demonstrate just how live this ammunition is.’
They lined up – each giving me a real I’m-going-to-fucking-get-you-for-this look.
‘First into the batter,’ I said.
Each of them dipped his weapon in the thick white liquid before dropping-plopping it into the now-warming oil.
As they did, the grey-haired one spoke: ‘Conrad, we know what you think – we know you think we’ve been doing nothing. But, really, we’ve been very busy – working on many levels. We’ve been trying to bring the right people to justice – all of them. And Dorothy Pale and Alun Grey aren’t the only right people. There are others. You don’t know the full story yet. If you put the guns down, I’m sure you’ll come to see it’s the right thing. Believe me. Trust me.’
‘I don’t even know you,’ I said.
‘I’m Chief Inspector –’ he started to say.
‘I don’t want to know you,’ I said.
‘– Hetherington,’ he said.
‘I want you to leave. Out the fire door. And I don’t want to see you again. Not until I’m done. Then you can arrest me.’
For a moment we all stood still. I could hear the guns, starting to deep-fry.
I pointed the revolver a few inches to the right of the Chief Inspector’s head and fired.
Everyone ducked, apart from me.
‘Now,’ I said. ‘Out’
They walked round the far wall, up to the fire door, opened it, filed quietly out.
I kept both guns pointed at Michael.
‘That dustbin,’ I said. ‘Move it so it blocks the door.’
He obeyed. His fear of death had matured. It had now become a kind of total listlessness. His skin had turned pale grey. His eyelids hung low. He hardly had the strength to move. (Don’t shoot me, I’m already dead.)
‘And the other,’ I said.
Zombie-like, he walked it over.
I grabbed him round the neck again.
‘We’re going into the upstairs dining room,’ I said, giving him a push to set him off.
Through the double swing-doors, emerging near the top of the stairs, beside the till – where the maître d’ usually stood.
At first I thought the only people in the room were armed policemen. Of these, there were about ten – all aiming their weapons directly at me. But then I saw the top of someone’s head sticking out over the curve of a table. And when I looked in the mirrors of the far wall, I saw a couple of dark shapes crouching behind chairs.
‘Everybody up,’ I said. ‘In my sight.’
More radios fuzzing.
The maître d’ appeared first, only a few paces away from me. He’d been hiding in front of his usual station at the till.
‘Get back,’ I said, letting him stare for a moment up through the gun barrel and into death.
He almost fell over as he stumbled, cowering, away, slamming against the wall.
I was pleased to see Alun and Dorothy getting into their chairs, over at the table I’d booked for them.
‘Conrad,’ said a familiar voice.
It was Vicky, seating herself at the table beside the table.
‘Will you listen to me?’ she asked.
‘You said he wasn’t going to get through,’ stage-whispered Dorothy. ‘You said we’d be completely safe.’
‘Now,’ I said, ‘I want all the police to throw their guns on to the floor – down there – in the middle – now.’
Guns were thrown, metal slamming on to wood.
‘And I want you all to sit down normally at the tables, as if you were just here for an evening meal.’
The policemen hesitated.
‘Do what he says,’ hissed Vicky.
In a moment or two, half the seats in the place were occupied by men in heavy black uniforms.
‘Now, pick up the knives and forks.’
Gingerly, they picked them up.
‘And now, pretend to be eating.’
I pushed Michael forwards until we were about ten feet away from Alun and Dorothy’s table.
‘Conrad,’ said Vicky.
‘Where is our son?’ said Alun, manfully.
‘Let me handle this,’ said Vicky to Alun.
I was getting very annoyed.
‘Alun, please change places with Dorothy. She must be sitting with her back to the mirror.’
They glared at each other.
‘Dorothy is going to be Lily and you are going to be me.’
‘Oh God,’ said Dorothy, starting to cry.
‘Do it!’ I screamed.
They moved round.
Wonderful.
I heard a giant imaginary click – this was it: everything was now in order.
All that remained…
‘Give me five minutes, Conrad,’ said Vicky. ‘No-one will move. The SO16 officers will stay exactly where they are. Is that clear?’
Someone mumbled their assent.
‘Conrad, I can explain. You see, Dorothy and Alun aren’t the ones you should be angry with.’
‘No?’ I said. ‘I can’t think of anyone better.’
‘Christ,’ said Alun, looking up the barrel of the revolver. ‘I think he’s really going to do it.’
My revenge was no longer going to be perfect: same time, same table, same weapon, same number of bullets. I still wanted to use the Gruber, but I was now almost certain that the bullets it contained wouldn’t be capable of the killing I intended. Plus, there was no food upon Alun and Dorothy’s table – despite the fact that earlier, on the phone, I’d dictated the exact order they were to make. (Chardonnay. Veal and asparagus. Plaice and puffball. I even got Dorothy to repeat it.) My revenge wasn’t going to be perfect, but it was going to be close enough.
I aimed for Dorothy’s heart, two inches beneath her left breast.
‘It was Lily,’ said Vicky. ‘Lily wanted you dead.’
‘It’s true,’ shrieked Dorothy. ‘It was her, not me.’
‘Shut up!’ said Vicky and I, at the same time – her whispering it aside, me screaming it: straight out.
‘I don’t want to hear,’ I said. ‘I know enough – I know who put me here.’
‘Who did?’ asked Vicky. ‘Go on – who?’
‘They did.’ My gun-sights waved over Alun and Dorothy’s faces – aghast.
‘No,’ said Vicky. ‘They had something to do with it, both of them. Dorothy hired the hitman but it was to –’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes. I know.’
Michael wriggled under my arm.
‘Stay still,’ I said.
‘But I can’t breathe,’ he wheezed.
I relaxed my grip on him, slightly. ‘Don’t put me off my aim,’ I said to Michael. ‘This is important.’
‘Dorothy confronted Alun,’ Vicky continued. ‘She told him about the hitman – that he’d die if –’
‘I know all that,’ I said. ‘It’s enough.’
‘Lily rearranged the hit. She called the hitman up, pretended to be Dorothy.’
‘Yes,’ shrieked Dorothy. ‘Listen to her.’
‘It was suicide, Conrad. Lily committed suicide. It was only murder if you’d died.’
‘No,’ I said.
‘She wanted you dead and she wanted herself dead.’
‘She didn’t.’
‘And she wanted Dorothy punished. And she wanted Alun to feel guilty.’
‘This is wrong,’ I said.
‘And she wanted the baby dead.’
‘No,’ I said.
‘The baby that she’d convinced herself was keeping her apart from Alun.’
I couldn’t speak any more.
‘Your baby,’ said Vicky.
My vision was blurring.
‘It was your baby, Conrad – your daughter.’
Unable to sob, I coughed.
‘Lily wasn’t well. She was ill.’
‘My baby,’ I managed to say.
‘Yes, Conrad,’ said Vicky.
‘It was yours,’ said Alun.
‘My daughter,’ I said.
‘And it died,’ said Dorothy. ‘She wanted it dead.’
‘No!’ shouted Vicky, knowing what was coming.
I knew what was coming, too – I knew it in my body.
‘You stupid woman,’ I said.
I aimed at Dorothy’s absent heart, two inches beneath her left breast.
I pulled the trigger – slowly, slowly, slowly.
Bullet #6
The sixth bullet is the one that does the most damage to me directly. By this time I am lying back – suspended on two chair-legs, reclining as if in a hammock – my feet are caught under the lip of the table – flying I am flying. The bullet, therefore, enters my belly at a very oblique angle. It penetrates my right side and rips through my lower intestine – going slightly front to back.
As it passes through, avoiding most large bones, it goes directly into the area where my womb would have been had I been a woman. If I’d been carrying a baby myself, I would have lost it.
My rectus abdominus muscle is split, rent up the middle like Velcro being pulled apart.
Mostly I encounter these things not as the drama of their happening but through the aches and pains of their aftermath: I am well acquainted now with the word chronic.
Adulthood, I realize, is a relationship with this word: coming to know first it and then, later, its younger brother terminal.
The sixth bullet, meeting mainly soft flesh, passes fairly cleanly through – compared to what it might have done. I am lucky. I am having a narrow escape. I should thank my lucky stars. It comes close to some important arteries (superior and inferior mesenteric) and nerves (lumbar plexus and superior gluteal).
I do lose some sensitivity around my midriff. Not much – not that I’ll really miss.
