Extremities

by C A Devine

  He let out a howl as it popped from its socket. His grip slackened; I grabbed the gun and stuck it in the back of his head. And for a moment I just sat there on his back and breathed in and out, in and out.

  My eyes were finally adjusting to the gloom. A desk and six dust laden office chairs were stacked in the far corner. A metal filing cabinet sat less than a foot to the left with a stack of mouldy files on top. Dog-eared Port Authority information posters covered the walls. It had been a long time since any of this had been used.

  I dug in my heels and pushed up, dragging him with me. ‘I just had a good chat with your friend Weasel. Is this really all about your ego and your dick, Baron?’ He didn’t answer. ‘Was it all about her?’ I shoved him up against the wall and fished into my pocket, pulling out the cell phone. There was no coverage inside the concrete shell. I needed to get outside. I slid the handset back in and stuck the gun to the back of The Baron’s head. ‘You couldn’t have her because she was your niece.’ I looked around for the discarded guns as I tried to distract him with my sermon, ‘So you call her a whore, go to the Mosque, marry some poor kid who has no choice and up and move to Afghanistan.’ I crouched down and scooped up the gun at my feet, sticking it in my waistband. ‘I have to congratulate you.’ I couldn’t see the third piece. It was too much of a risk to search for it. ‘In my whole time trying to track you down, I never came across a follicle of evidence pointing to alcohol smuggling.’ I pushed him forward, ‘Move.’ The Baron stepped towards the door. ‘Open it and no fast moves.’ He stretched his hand out to the door knob, grasped it and turned. ‘Slowly.’ The Baron eased the door towards him. No sound came from the other side. ‘Okay, go.’ He stepped inside, no sudden movements, no moaning. So far he wasn’t putting a foot wrong. The new room was more of the same, a concrete shell with no windows, only another door at the other side. There were three more filing cabinets and another desk. A calendar on the wall showed us the cream of cars and ladies in 1992. It looked like Spiderman had paid a visit a while back.

  ‘Most of them hadn’t seen a drink in months and they were gagging for a pint. What was wrong wif it?’ The Baron asked. If I took the door I’d be heading more in the direction of midtown and, I presumed, outside to land. I tapped The Baron on the back with the gun and he moved forward, towards the exit.

  ‘You might have had some supporters if you hadn’t expanded into heroin. Did you really believe you’d get away with it? Were you that naïve, Baron?’ He didn’t reply. ‘Okay, open it.’

  He reached down again to grasp the handle. A clatter sounded in the room behind us. I fought against instinct to keep the gun in place. I felt The Baron flinch too. ‘How does it feel to kill women and children, Mr Van Hughs? Does it make you feel like a man?’

  ‘You should have thought about that before you got into it.’

  ‘I didn’t kill any women and children.’

  ‘What the fuck do you think heroin does?’

  A scream rang from the room behind us. Needles scurried over my feet, then again and again. I gave in to the violent urge to jump back, glancing down at the pack of rats making a dash for a hole in the wall. The Baron threw his weight back against me. I stumbled to the floor, losing my grip on the gun. He landed on my chest, scrambled to the left, scooped up the gun and jumped to his feet with the agility of a child. ‘Now, why don’t you get up and move, Mr Van Hughs.’ I stayed where I was, trying to pull air into my lungs, even though more rats advanced – five, six, seven, eight and many more behind them. ‘Now,’ he waved the gun. I jumped to my feet. He shoved me forward through the door and I stepped into a third concrete room, this one with grimed out windows. Fractured light crept through the glass. ‘They said they could make you suffer, like I was suffering, but I’m not feeling your pain.’ He pushed the gun into my skull again, ‘On your knees.’ I felt the sting of scraping skin. I dropped.

  ‘Let him go.’ The voice was calm, cool. The voice was behind us. The voice was Max.

  The barrel was still tight on my head, but I could feel him turn. ‘Lucky,’ he paused, ‘baby.’ His voice sounded pleased, delighted even.

  ‘Put the gun down, Mal.’

  ‘I don’t think so, Lucky. This man just attacked me.’

  ‘That man just tried to arrest you,’ Max huffed out a breath. ‘Now put the gun down.’

  ‘That’s not going to happen.’

  ‘What are you doing, Mal? Did you think the smuggling was all a bit of fun? A bit of excitement, get your old mate Weasel involved. Did you think they wouldn’t come after you? I thought you were smarter than that,’ Max snapped it out.

  ‘Business, Lucky. Purely business. These people have been trying to interfere with our business for years. Commies, Yanks, Brits – they’re all the same, taking what they want, destroying our country. But when we, the Afghan people, engage in free enterprise, they stomp all over us.’

  ‘I don’t think anyone in Afghanistan is going to have much time for the son of one of the Shah’s men smuggling in booze by the boatload. It’s me, Lucky, you’re talking to.’ She bounced her arms to her sides, then threw them back up, ‘You’re just plain full of it; just a wide boy from Bradford looking for a bit of excitement, wanting a bit of attention, wanting to feel like the big man.’ She shook her head, ‘Why couldn’t you just get yourself on reality television like all the other narcissists.’

  ‘My family were killed in their own beds, by foreign invaders. They were innocent. Innocent women and children killed by so-called capitalists trying to put a stop to free trade. What right do they have to come to our land and tell us what we can and can’t sell?’

  ‘Oh shut up, Mal. Your land is a council estate in Bradford. Your father made that decision in 1973. What age were you when you first set foot in Afghanistan? Twenty-five?’

  ‘He killed my family, your family. Lucky, our family.’ I raised my eyes as Max walked around in front of me. She still wore my cap although it was sitting back on her head. Her wet weather jacket hung open on her thin frame. Her pale face was bathed in sweat. ‘Two innocent little girls, my children,’ The Baron ploughed on. The Sig, from the first room, swung in her left hand. She didn’t look at me. ‘Your baby cousins. I went back to the house after things had calmed down, two months after the bomb, and I found this tiny finger in the rubble – Raqiba’s tiny finger. My baby’s in heaven without her finger,’ he leaned forward as if the weight of his own gun was dragging him down.

  ‘You were devastated, wanted revenge. I can get my head around all that, but blaming a New York cop for something that happened in Afghanistan? Are you really that stupid? And I really never thought you’d be capable of murdering four innocent women, some of whom he hadn’t seen in twenty years. What the fuck did they have to do with it?’

  ‘I didn’t murder anyone. That was …’

  ‘That was what?’

  ‘You don’t understand.’

  ‘Understand what? That you go back crying to Mummy and next thing she’s telling you, horror of all horrors, we’re not related. We could have been together all along. Is this what really messed things up in your head, Malak?’ She stared at him, tapping the gun in her palm. ‘He didn’t kill them, you know that,’ her voice dropped to eerily quiet.

  ‘What he represents killed them.’

  ‘Do you want to know the truth, Mal?’ Max began pacing. ‘You killed them.’ Five paces one direction. ‘You killed your wife.’ Turn. ‘You killed Safia and Raqiba.’ Five paces the opposite way. ‘You put them in the line of fire with your arrogance.’ Turn. ‘You killed them. How does that feel?’

  ‘You are a godless infidel WHORE,’ he screamed and the barrel dug in, burning the grazed skin. I gasped.

  ‘Malak’s great defence, call Lucky a whore. And when you saw me with him,’ she nodded at me, ‘you decide to torture me.’ She paused, a vein throbbed on her temple, and when she spoke again it was barely audible, ‘And rape me.’ She stopped then, turned to face him and for a moment just
stared. Then she lifted her left hand, stretching the Sig straight again and clicked off the safety. Again I sucked in a breath. The moment ran and ran and ran.

  She clicked the Sig back to neutral and resumed tapping it in the palm of her right hand. I exhaled. She began to pace again.

  ‘No, no, Lucky, I didn’t mean it, I didn’t want to. You have no idea how insanely jealous, mad with rage, you made me. You were with him. You should have been with me!’ he screamed. ‘How could you defend him? How could you be with him? You knew what he had done. You are my family. He works for child killers. He is nothing, less than nothing. And you let him screw you.’ I felt the gun shake and fought the urge to vomit.

  ‘Why would I be with a man who used me as an insurance policy against my own father? Or thought he could lift his hand to me? Or who calls me a whore? What exactly was in it for me?’ she stopped pacing, waved the gun at him, then slumped against the concrete wall, sighing. She closed her eyes and sucked in a deep breath, ‘Paris was all your idea, wasn’t it? You justified wanting me by knowing you could use me.

  ‘But I wasn’t fifteen-years-old anymore. I wasn’t the naïve girl who would say, yes, Malak, no, Malak,’ her head bobbed from side to side, ‘the innocent girl who idolised you. This time I saw you for what you really were. And you didn’t like that. The night by the pool when you had your little meltdown, I knew I had made a big mistake. I knew you were a big mistake.’ She lifted the gun and thumped it on her forehead.

  ‘Lucky, listen.’

  ‘Shut up, Malak.’ She pushed off the wall and stepped towards the outside door. She was toying with the handle when she started to speak again and this time she sounded calm, ‘You know Malak, the only person you ever loved was yourself, but I was in love with you. I’ve never managed to move my life forward because of you.’ She turned back from the door, ‘Well, I’ve had enough. You’re not going to ruin the rest of my life.’

  ‘I did love you; I do love you. You have no idea how much. And I didn’t murder anyone.’

  ‘You don’t know what love is, Malak. You didn’t even love your own children enough to keep them safe.’

  ‘Don’t you dare throw that in my face. Why do you think I got into that arranged marriage? I always loved you. I never thought I’d be able to love anyone else. It was the only way out. And maybe I didn’t love my wife, but she didn’t deserve to die.’

  ‘You killed them,’ Max’s voice was ice now.

  ‘He killed them,’ Malak screamed, pressing the barrel in further.

  ‘You killed them; you’re the murderer.’

  ‘He killed them.’ I felt spittle on my neck.

  ‘Does the truth hurt?’

  Loud snorting breaths echoed from Malak’s lungs. In, out. In, out. My neck muscles tensed to throbbing. My heart was pounding. ‘You know nothing,’ he roared. I wished she’d stop because this was not productive hostage negotiation.

  ‘This is the police,’ the sound reverberated around the room. ‘Malak Ariana, we know you are in there. Come out with your hands up.’ For some reason we all looked up in the air.

  No-one moved or spoke for two whole minutes.

  Finally the pressure released on the back of my skull. Malak sighed, ‘Well, I guess this is it.’

  I heard the safety click off. My stomach made a run for my throat.

  Bang!

  36

  The Big Apple

  I leapt away from Malak, hitting the floor. Who had fired? Had I been hit? Where was the pain? I was patting myself down looking for the hole. Was I dead? Was that why there was no pain? Malak thumped to the floor. I looked at my hands, they were still spattered with blood … and a more solid substance that I didn’t want to think about. I looked up; Max was still, her eyes fixed. I followed her stare down to the gun in her small grey hand.

  I pushed up onto my knees. ‘Max,’ my voice trembled. I needed to pull it together. ‘Max. They’re going to come in. Put the gun down.’ Her eyes floated back to Malak’s body, the gun still in her hand. They’d be storming in, any second. ‘Drop it, please, Max,’ I pleaded. ‘Max, drop it now!’ And still the gun hung in her hand. Crack! The metal door shook. ‘Max, it’s over now, please drop the gun.’

  She looked over at me, her eyes wide and glassy, ‘I killed him.’

  ‘I know baby, you had no choice,’ my heart was bounding out of my chest. If they came in and she was swinging the gun … I heard the strain of metal behind me. ‘He gave you no choice.’

  ‘I loved him, all my life. I loved him until …’

  ‘Please. Max. They’ll break through any second. You need to drop the gun.’ My chest tightened; I couldn’t breathe.

  Crack! Max glanced towards the door and I dived on top of her. The gun spun from her hand and flew across the floor, clattering off the opposite wall. She elbowed me in the stomach and I recoiled back up to my knees. ‘What the fuck?’ she sneered, crawling out from under me.

  The door gave. NYPD SWAT thundered in. ‘Down on the ground. Now!’

  ‘Now, Max,’ I snapped and dropped. My arms were hauled behind me and my wrists cuffed. I stumbled as they dragged me to my feet. An officer kicked the gun away from The Baron. He knelt down and checked for a pulse, trying to avoid the pool of blood and matter oozing from the body. He shook his head. Another two uniforms dragged Max up from her prostrate position.

  I was shoved out into a parking lot filled with NYPD. ‘LT?’ I turned to the voice behind me.

  ‘Murphy?’ Sergeant Don Murphy.

  ‘Uncuff the lieutenant before his mommy gets here,’ he snapped at the SWAT guy. They both laughed. When I laughed too, they loosened the cuff.

  I directed them to the boat, and Weasel and Bulldog – hopefully still tied up in their cabin. I rang my mom; both my parents were five minutes away. The ranking officer found me and wanted a full statement, but that would have taken too long. Instead I ducked the interrogation and went looking. I pushed through the mass of bodies to the back of the parking lot. There she was, crouched up against a squad car, losing all of that good stuff from her stomach.

  ‘Ick,’ her minder skipped back, avoiding the puddle.

  Max closed her eyes and pushed her forehead against the cold metal of the vehicle.

  ‘Take the cuffs off her,’ I snapped.

  ‘Who?’ the uniform frowned at me a moment, then recognition set in. Notoriety did have benefits.

  ‘Get me a blanket, and someone better locate my father’s antique Yankees cap or he will not be a happy man.’ She hesitated a moment, but then thought better of smart-mouthing. She clicked the cuffs off and shuffled away. I was left alone with Max.

  Well, alone as in no-one within 6 feet. Her dark eyes were sunken, glazed and unfocused. Goosebumps marked her ashen skin. She ran her freed hand across her face. Without the hat, her scrappy hair drew your eye and she looked fragile. I crouched down beside her. She retched again, but her stomach was empty.

  ‘Tell me that didn’t just happen,’ it was a hoarse whisper. I didn’t reply. ‘Wishful thinking,’ she huffed and ran the back of her hand across her mouth.

  ‘You saved my life,’ I leaned in and kissed her temple, then I pushed to my feet and pulled her with me.

  She stumbled, ‘Dock rock.’

  I nodded then leaned into her ear. ‘You don’t have to be okay with it for me,’ I whispered.

  The officer came back with my cap and I perched it on her head. ‘I just talked to my mom, they found Joe. He’s alive.’ She looked up at me with those big wide eyes. ‘He took a bullet, but he’s going to be okay.’ And suddenly her face broke into a big wide smile, her eyes filled and she grasped me in a hug.

  *

  Mom, aka Good Cop, stormed her way through the precinct of cops. They dutifully parted. She squeezed her small arms around me and dragged me down to kiss my cheek, in front of all the other cops. What the hell, I had no credibility left at this stage anyway. Dad, aka Bad Cop, hot on her tail, wasn’t so enthusiastic. ‘You
better start talking. Now, Junior. I got a drugs lord, slash terrorist, slash “body parts,”’ he finger quoted, ‘king, dead in my city and I got a top Brit cop in the hospital. I am not a happy man.’

  Max pushed up on her toes, ‘How’s the commissioner?’

  ‘Dad, Mom, this is Max,’ I made the formal introductions.

  ‘Oh, and not to mention, God knows how many OO3.5’s.’ Yeah, Dad was pissed.

  ‘Patrick Ryan, where are your manners?’ Mom scolded. ‘Very nice to meet you, my dear.’ Mom threw her hand out and grasped Max’s. ‘He’s fine,’ Mom said, laying a hand on her arm, ‘just a flesh wound; he’ll be released in a few hours. We’ll take you to him. Unfortunately his young friend Michael got away. Patrick?’

  ‘Don’t start on me, Kar, do you know how much damaged limitation I’m going to have to do on this little incident of Junior’s?’ He rubbed his hands together against the morning chill and gave me the death stare. I squirmed and fought the urge to go to my room.

  ‘That’s no excuse for bad manners, Patrick Ryan. Now, say hello to Mackenzie’s young lady.’

  ‘She’s right of course,’ he said, turning to Max with a sly smile, ‘always is.’ He winked. I rolled my eyes. ‘How do you do, Max?’ he took her hand in his. ‘You must be special, Mackenzie never brings his girlfriends home to meet us. You’d think he was ashamed of us.’

  This was why. ‘Dad,’ I said.

  ‘It’s nice to meet you both too,’ Max smiled at them.

  ‘And he’s letting you wear the Yankees cap. No-one gets to wear that damn thing; it must be love.’