He caterpillar-crawled over as fast as he could.
The legs belonged to Is. She was lying supine, with her head turned. Her eyes were glazed. A large red welt had formed on her left cheek. The swelling was spreading to her lower left eyelid.
'Is?'
Her eyes flicked, a minuscule movement, the irises shifting a degree or so.
'Is, it's Provender. I'm here. Are you all right?'
What an absurd question! Of course she wasn't all right. What was he thinking?
'Listen, I don't know what to do. I can't do anything. I'm still tied up. You've got shock or concussion or something, I don't know what. You're the one with the medical training, not me. But you've got to come round. You've got to help me. Then I can help you. Is! Please!'
Her eyes moved again.
'He could be coming back any minute, couldn't he. This is our chance. Come on!'
Her head rolled. She let out a murmur. Provender thought what she said was water.
He crossed the floor to the kitchen in his ungainly caterpillar style. Rising to his knees, he planted his elbows on the worktop and hauled himself to standing. He took a glass tumbler from the sink draining basket, filled it at the tap, then made his way back to Is in a series of small hops, cradling the tumbler in both hands. By the time he got to her at least half the water had slopped out over his fingers. More was lost as he lowered himself thumpingly down into sitting position. Still, there was some left. He brought the tumbler to Is's lips and tipped it carefully. A dribble went into her mouth, while the rest splashed onto the carpet. It wasn't the water itself that counted so much as the act of drinking. Slowly Is's eyes gained focus. She stirred, moving her arms, shifting her legs. Her hand went to her injured cheek and explored the swelling there. She was as gentle and tentative as she could be but still made herself hiss a few times. Finally, she made to sit up. Provender did what he could to assist, propping his hands beneath her back and lifting. Is, though, did most of the work. She moaned as her head came up. The colour drained from her face and she looked, to Provender, as though she might pass out. A clenching of teeth, a furrowing of brow, sheer willpower, kept her conscious.
'More water?' Provender asked.
'No,' she said, thickly. 'Just give me a second. Wait for... I just need to...'
Deep breaths. A gingerly turning of the head to one side then the other. A flexing of the fingers. Little by little she steadied herself, re-establishing her equilibrium.
'OK,' she said at last. 'Now.' She looked at the knots that bound Provender. 'In the kitchen. Drawer by the hob. Big carving knife.'
Provender found the knife and hopped back with it, holding it out at arm's length in case he stumbled. Is took it from him, he knelt down beside her, she told him to stick out his wrists, he did so, and she inserted the knife blade between his forearms and began sawing at the innermost loop of the electrical flex.
Provender thought about telling her to be careful but then thought it was better to say nothing. Time was of the essence, and he would rather she worked swiftly and he received the odd nick than she sacrificed speed for precision.
The rubber insulation on the flex parted easily. The copper wire inside put up more resistance. Is worked the knife up and down, and Provender did his bit by keeping his arms rigid so that the flex was taut against the blade's cutting edge. He wondered if Is had any idea how long her accomplice was going to be absent. He was reluctant to ask. He wasn't sure he wanted to know.
The blade was through the copper wire. The last bit of insulation split apart. The loop of flex sprang open, and rapidly the other loops loosened and unspooled. Provender parted his hands. Never had such a straightforward action brought such joy. He felt like waving his arms around all over the place, just because he could. He managed to refrain from doing so, and instead kept himself perfectly still as Is set to work on the flex at his ankles. The knife cleaved. His feet were free. Kicking off the sundered flex, Provender extended each leg in turn and rotated each foot. His hands and feet tingled as full circulation returned to them. Provender felt, for the first time in two days, whole.
He flipped the blindfold off his head, stood shakily, then reached down and helped Is up.
'Thank you,' he said, simply and, he hoped, humbly.
'Welcome,' said Is.
'I take it the, er...' He gestured at her cheek. 'The romance is over.'
'Don't push it,' she shot back.
'Sorry.'
'But I suppose I have been put straight on a couple of things.'
Provender was indignant. '"Put straight"! Like a woman needs the sense knocked into her from time to time.'
'Not what I meant. I meant I don't have any illusions about Damien any more.'
'Damien.'
'No call for secrecy now. Yes. Damien Scrase is his name. And this is Needle Grove. And we're getting the hell out of here while we can.'
'I like the sound of that.' Provender didn't know much about Needle Grove and what little he did know hardly filled him with delight. Getting out of there seemed, on every level, a good idea. 'Oh, and by the way, Is? Today's my birthday. Were you aware of that? My twenty-fifth. And I have to say you've just given me the best present I've ever received.'
'Happy birthday, Provender,' Is said tightly. 'But how about you save the gratitude till we're far away and out of trouble?'
36
The trust between her and Damien was well and truly breached. As if the throbbing great haematoma on her cheek wasn't already enough of an indication, Is quickly discovered that Damien now regarded her as no less of a prisoner than Provender. The front door was locked, and her own door key was gone - Damien had pilfered it from her shoulder-bag. The emergency spare key Damien kept in a drawer in the kitchen was also gone. The door itself was sturdy, a common feature of Needle Grove flats. The original doors on the estate had been thin and skimpy, little better than sheets of plywood, easy to break down. Rather than keep replacing them all the time, the Risen London Authority had seen the economic advantage in installing heavier, more solider versions so that would-be thieves could not simply barge their way in. The corollary of this, unfortunate in the present circumstances, was that would-be escapees could not simply barge their way out.
Damien had also taken the precaution of rendering the telephone inoperable. He had removed the coiled cable which connected the receiver to the body of the phone. Is and Provender could not summon help.
'What about that way?' Provender pointed towards the windows, squinting.
'We're forty-five storeys up.'
'Even so. Isn't there a balcony out there?'
'Yeah. So what?' Is thought for a moment. 'Hang on, you might have something.'
'I might?'
Is grappled with the sliding window and managed to haul it open. The exertion brought on a wave of light-headedness, which she did her best to ignore. She stepped out onto the balcony and looked left.
Each flat in each block had one of these balconies, a little square protrusion of outdoor space. Each flat was also a mirror image of its next-door neighbour, an architectural feature intended to make the residents feel marginally less like convicts in identical cells or battery hens in matching cages. This meant that the balconies were positioned alternately close together and far apart. The balcony to the right of the one Is was on was a good thirty feet away. The balcony to the left, however, was much nearer, no more than six feet.
Provender appeared behind her, shielding his eyes against the daylight.
'Who lives there?' he asked, nodding to the left-hand balcony.
'Mrs Philcox. Those are her pot-plants, or the dead remains of.' There was a range of clay pots on the balcony in which nothing sprouted except clumps of moss. 'She's getting on a bit, and not quite all there any more. The good news is, she'll definitely be in. Housebound, pretty much.'
'But do you think you can jump that far?'
Is studied the gap. 'Maybe, with a run-up, but not from a standing start. And not w
ith that kind of drop below. You think you can?'
Provender took a look over the balcony parapet and jerked back. 'Even if I thought I could, I wouldn't want to try.'
Is's shoulders sagged. 'Then it's hopeless.'
Provender seemed to agree. He looked indoors, surveying the layout of the flat. 'How about if we ambush him - Damien - when he returns? We could lie in wait behind the door, in the kitchen bit, leap out, bring him down. There's two of us and only one of him.'
'Have you seen him, Provender?'
'Rhetorical question, right?'
'Right.'
'I got a glimpse of him, before you stuck that needle in me, but...'
'He's more than a match for both of us. Trust me.'
'Even with the element of surprise?'
'Even with.'
'There's that carving knife.'
'Have you ever stabbed anyone?'
'No, but if I was ever going to, it'd be him.'
'Big talk, but it's far easier said than done. Besides, Damien carries a knife. Sheath knife. Big one. Nine-inch blade. And he knows how to use it, and would, too.'
'On me? His precious ransom cheque?'
'He doesn't have to kill you with it. He could do worse than simply kill you.'
'Good point. Or he could use it on you.' Provender frowned unhappily, then brightened. 'I don't suppose you've any of that stuff left?'
'Stuff?'
'What you injected me with.'
'As a matter of fact I do. There's an extra dose lying around somewhere. I kept it ready as a precaution.'
'We could inject Damien, couldn't we, then. I grab him, hold him, you shoot him full of sedative or whatever.'
'Well, it's a nice idea, but again we have the problem - don't take this the wrong way, Provender, but he's twice your size and you're hardly the big bad fighting type, are you? You could grab him but I don't think you could hold him. Not even for a moment.'
She could see Provender trying hard not to look crestfallen. She hated to be the one to prick the bubble of his male pride, but it was best to be honest. Physically, in terms of sheer aptitude for violence, Damien was several leagues above Provender. In a straight contest between the two of them, Provender would not have a prayer.
'So we're stuck.' He let out an angry gasp. 'Unless we can somehow find something to bridge a six-foot gap between -- Hold on.'
Is had the idea almost at the same time he did.
'The table.'
They manhandled the table out through the window, which was just wide enough to accommodate it sideways, legs horizontal; they manoeuvred the table onto its back; they manipulated it onto the balcony parapet. Then they had to shove it straight out, swing it around and slide it across to the other balcony. All this they accomplished with much effort and grunting and the occasional curse. They were hurrying and at the same time trying not to hurry, a recipe for grazed knuckles and squashed fingers if ever there was one.
The table, as its leading edge neared the lip of the other balcony, became increasingly heavy and difficult to control. It dipped down and wanted to slip out of their grasp and fall. Is and Provender hauled on a leg each, using it like a lever. Both heard ominous creaks coming from where the legs were screwed into place.
'Don't break,' Is begged.
'Cheap piece of mierda,' Provender muttered under his breath.
Finally, with a thumping scrape of wood on concrete, the far end of the table made contact with the side of Mrs Philcox's balcony. With a little further straining, Is and Provender got the table surface to overlap the parapet. They let go of the legs. The table stayed put. They had done it. The gap was bridged.
'Only one problem,' Provender observed.
Is nodded. The overlap at either end was barely an inch. Not, under the circumstances, much of a margin for error.
Provender peered out over the edge of the balcony again. 'Look on the bright side. You might not fall all the way.'
'No?'
'No, there's an overpass about halfway down. You'd hit that first, most likely.'
His bravado would have been more convincing if his face hadn't been so pale.
'Is,' he said. 'You don't have to do this. I do. You can stay. Tell Damien I got away. Pretend I overpowered you or something.'
Is snorted. 'He's really going to believe that!'
Again, that crestfallen expression, badly disguised.
'The point is, Provender,' she went on, apologetically, 'this whole thing has been a mistake. I should never have got involved in the first place. Somehow I've got to make amends.'
'You already have.'
'Then, also, I've no great urge to be here when Damien gets back.'
'Fair enough.' Provender surveyed the table, precariously poised, a slender traverse, all that stood between the person crossing it and a drop of several hundred feet. Just a few thin planks. Certain death below.
He turned to Is. 'Ladies first?'
37
Gratitude Gleed went in search of her father and found him where he had been all morning, in the television room, sitting on a sofa, transfixed by the images being projected over his head via a system of magnifying lenses onto the bare white wall in front of him. A Phone was waiting in a corner of the room - there, clearly, for when the Kuczinskis rang to talk terms.
Hearing his daughter enter, Prosper Gleed patted the space next to him on the sofa. Gratitude declined the invitation.
'I just came to say we're about to have lunch, Dad. In the solarium.'
'Have someone bring something through for me.'
'Also, Arthur's dropped by. What are we supposed to tell him? About Provender.'
'Tell him whatever you like. Might as well tell him the truth. He is Family.'
Not exactly, Gratitude thought. Step-Family perhaps. If you wanted to be totally, brutally accurate: halfling bastard.
'If you say so,' she said. 'Dad?'
She waited for him to look round.
On the wall, a reporter with an enormous microphone was addressing the camera from beside a road. Lower Saxony read the caption below him. Behind him, a convoy of armoured personnel carriers was rolling past, against a background of flat green plains. Dust clouds and engine thunder were making it difficult for the reporter to do his job. He kept half ducking and swatting the air in front of his nose. About one in every three words he said was intelligible.
The glow of the epidiascoped image on the wall lit up Prosper Gleed's face. It flickered and moved there, throwing his features into shifting relief. His expression, though, beneath the changing light, stayed firm. Resolute. His eyes, bright-wide, drank in all they were seeing.
'Dad?'
Again he did not look round, and Gratitude wondered if he realised she was still there. All she wanted from him was a word of reassurance. All he had to do was turn and say, This will get your brother back.
He continued to gaze straight ahead.
Silently, Gratitude slipped out of the room.
Uncle Fortune was in the solarium, as were Extravagance, Arthur, Great and Carver. They were ranged around the circular glass table with glass flatware and glass-handled cutlery set before them, all of them in glass chairs except Great who was in his wheelchair. Sunshine drenched the room and permeated its many transparent surfaces, some of which refracted the light prismatically and sent lozenges of rainbow-pattern brilliance scattering in a dozen different directions.
Gratitude arrived just as the first course, gazpacho soup, was being served. Everyone tucked in apart from Arthur, who was halfway through a thespian anecdote and would not be diverted from finishing it. When he was done with his tale of a faulty camera and the perfect take that was never captured on film, he paused and looked around, expecting some display of appreciation from his audience. He was taken aback when none came.
'I'm sorry, am I missing something here?'
The others exchanged glances.
'Only, I've played to livelier crowds of old-age pensioners.' He bowed to Gre
at. 'Begging your pardon, of course, Coriander.'
Great glared glitteringly back at him, as if to say, Why are you using my first name? Why are you even here?
'Good soup,' said Fortune, slurping. 'Prosp not joining us, Gratitude?'
'Busy.'
'And Cynthia?'
'Still up at the Chapel, I think,' said Extravagance.
Gratitude shot her sister a look.
'What?' Extravagance demanded.
In spite of her father's edict, Gratitude was loath to let Arthur in on the situation. It was none of his business. He took liberties as it was - for instance, turning up at Dashlands whenever he felt like it, uninvited. He behaved like he was one of the Family, this cuckoo-cousin, and he wasn't, not really, and Gratitude, whenever she could, did what she could to remind him of that fact.
'The Chapel, eh?' Arthur said. 'So what's wrong?'
'Nothing,' Gratitude replied, quickly. Too quickly.
'Oh, come off it. Aunt Cynth retreating to the Chapel? That's a sure sign all's not well. Has your dad made another conquest? Carved another notch on someone else's bedpost?'
'No.'
'What, then?'
'Perhaps,' said Carver, turning round from feeding Great, 'Mrs Gleed is simply concerned about the rather tense state of affairs in Europe.'
'Yeah, could be,' Arthur said. 'Bad business, that. You know, my director actually phoned me this morning, wondering if we shouldn't cancel tonight's performance because of it. I told him, "Never." I said, "In troubled times, people need the solace of art more, not less." I said, "Even if only one ticket-holder turns up tonight and all the rest stay home, frightened, we will play to that person as if to a full house. We will bring that courageous soul the Shakespearian consolation he is seeking." That pretty much settled it. Anyway, I'm sure it'll all blow over. I imagine that's what Uncle Prosper is busy doing right now. Trying to calm things down. Smoothing ruffled feathers. What else is a Family head for? Correct?'
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