Two-Way Split

by Guthrie, Allan

  The sitting room was long and high-ceilinged. An empty settee hugged the opposite wall and matching blue director's chairs sat at each end of an oriental rug. Towards the window, dark-stained floorboards shone under the glare of a pair of tasselled Art Deco table lamps. Flames from the gas fire flickered in the draught he created as he walked past.

  Carol had her back to him. She opened the heavy, green curtains and stared out the window, dragging for an insanely long time on her cigarette.

  His voice rose. "Hey, I'm talking to you."

  She turned slightly and raised her eyebrows. "It's going to rain." She picked a glass ashtray off the floor and placed it on the window ledge.

  "Carol, why's my gun here?"

  The hand holding the cigarette brushed at something on her skirt. When he moved towards her she blew an endless stream of blue-grey smoke at him. He said her name again and repeated the question.

  Her breasts swelled and lifted as she inhaled again. She tapped ash into the ashtray, exhaling curls of smoke through her nose.

  He strode up to her, grabbed her upper arm and aimed the gun at her head. "Why was this lying on the table?"

  Her eyes were cold as pebbles. "Let go of my arm, Eddie."

  "You think I won't use it?" He flicked off the safety. "Answer the question."

  "Have I been a naughty girl?" She tilted her head and gave him a wide-eyed innocent look.

  He dug his fingers further into her bicep. "Just tell me what you were doing with the gun."

  "Sticking it down my knickers," she said. "Isn't that what you'd like? Rubbing my crotch with it. Getting all hot and wet and turned on." She ran her tongue over her upper lip. "Feel," she said, prising his fingers from her arm and guiding his hand downwards.

  "We don't have time," he said. "Robin'll be here any minute."

  She kissed his throat as she slid his hand over her skirt. "He's not here now."

  "Hang on." He turned the weapon's safety back on. She kept a tight hold of his left hand, now high on her thigh under the skirt, while he reached over to place the gun next to the ashtray on the window ledge.

  At the outset she had said, "I'd be happy if I never had sex again." Eddie had dared presume that Robin was an inconsiderate lover. Later, she'd quashed that particular theory when she said, "When I orgasm, all I feel is rage."

  He looked at her now and wondered what had caused this change in her feelings. Was it when he squeezed her arm? Or when he pointed the gun at her? Was this her response to physical danger? To become aroused? It certainly looked that way. This was new to him. New and not altogether unpleasant.

  He hadn't imagined it would be like this. In fact, most of the time he believed it was never going to happen, and now that it was, he was having trouble accepting the evidence of his own senses. But yes, he was going to, they were going to…

  At first, he was aware of a prickling sensation. Then, a vague sense of heat, a burning pain which very quickly became intense. He cried out. The back of his hand was on fire. He tried to move it and her grip increased. He looked down between her legs. She'd hiked up her skirt. He watched in astonishment as she ground her cigarette out on his hand. She threw her head back and laughed. Yelling in her face, he wrenched his hand away and the dead cigarette butt fell on the floor. She reeled back a few steps.

  "Jesus." He was too puzzled to do anything but stare at her. His hand throbbed and shaking it didn't help. "Jesus." He turned and headed for the kitchen. In front of the door he turned round and walked back to her. "I don't get it," he said.

  She had her back to him again, forehead pressed against the windowpane.

  "What was that for?"

  She started swaying her hips, stretched her arms over her head and pressed her palms against the glass. Sinatra crooned along to an early-eighties guitar and synthesizer funk backing track.

  Eddie reached past her gyrating buttocks and snatched the gun off the ledge. He noticed her eyes were closed. Only Carol could look out of a window with her eyes shut. Not that there was anything to see. Directly opposite, empty flats. Below, empty yellow washing lines strung across four poles in an empty shared garden surrounded by tenements. In this flat, if you wanted a view, you looked out the bedroom window. He gave Carol a final glance, tucked the gun under his belt and went to the kitchen.

  The cold water eased the pain, but when he moved his hand away from the flow, the stinging heat returned almost immediately. He put his hand back under the tap and left it there while he decided what to do about Carol.

  She was unpredictable, hostile, violent. Which might be tolerable if he was getting a shag every now and then. But she wasn't giving out so much as a sniff. In bed, on that solitary occasion, she'd slept on her own side, not touching him, as if she was another bloke forced through circumstances to share his bed.

  He ought to tell her it was over. Soon. Come to think of it, why hang about? He'd tell her right now, right this minute, before he changed his mind. I'm not interested, Carol. You're bleeding mental.

  He turned off the tap and tried to dry his hand with the dishtowel. His scorched skin complained when he put pressure on it. He threw the towel on the counter and flexed his fingers. It's over. I've taken all the shit I can take from you. Look what you've done to my hand. Look at it. It's over. No, don't argue. It's over.

  "How's your hand?" She had crept up behind him. She wrapped her arms around his waist and her interlocked blue-nailed fingers hovered millimetres above his groin.

  "Hurts like a mother."

  "Let me put some cream on it."

  "There's something—"

  "The way I feel about you…" She unlocked her fingers and pulled on his arm. When he faced her he saw her eyes had misted over. "Sometimes it scares me." She held his wounded hand in hers. "Sometimes I lash out without thinking." She raised his hand to her lips and kissed the place where she'd burned him. "Forgive me?"

  Eddie blinked. The heat of her lips had intensified the ache in his hand. It was exquisite. He wrapped her in his arms and held her against his chest.

  She snuggled into his neck, lips brushing his throat. She said, "I think Robin knows about us."

  10:06 am

  Pearce said, "Well?"

  "Joe-Bob says it'll be no problem getting the ammo. Unless he phones back to say otherwise, we're meeting him at lunchtime."

  "We?"

  "He knows me. He wants me to go along."

  "Fair enough. But why does it have to be Joe-Bob?" Pearce said. "What about Ben?"

  "You got a problem with Joe-Bob?"

  "I've always had a problem with drug dealers."

  "Tough. Ben can't make it." Ailsa studied the back of her hand. "He's not feeling so good. Last night somebody decided to bounce his head off a metal pipe." She turned her hand over and examined the lines on her palm. "So it's Joe-Bob or nobody."

  10:18 am

  Pearce was about to head for Cooper's flat when his mobile rang. Instinctively he thought, Mum. Then he remembered she was gone, stabbed by the fuck in the balaclava. He squeezed his fist, felt her blood running through his fingers and propped his elbows on the kitchen table, trying to stop shaking inside.

  Ailsa passed the phone to him.

  He clutched it too hard. "Hello."

  Silence.

  "Hello". No answer. He didn't play this game. He hung up. Ailsa was looking at him. He shrugged. The phone rang again. "Speak," he said.

  "Don't hang up."

  Something sharp and thin and white-hot stabbed his gut.

  "It's me. Julie."

  The bitch who had set him up. The bitch who had walked away with an engagement ring worth a grand. More than that, though. She'd walked away with his pride. He said nothing. The searing pain in his stomach was incredible.

  "Pearce? You there?" She sighed. "Look, I just wanted to, um… Look, I heard on the radio, you know, about your mum. I just kind of, well, in the circumstances—"

  Ailsa mouthed, "Who?"

  He breathed throug
h pursed lips. "Little bitch who robbed me," he said.

  "Why did she do that?"

  He breathed in. "She's a worthless piece of shit."

  "Pearce, you arsehole, I'm trying to—"

  "Shut your mouth."

  "Who are you talking to?"

  "Not you, Ailsa, sorry."

  "Who's Ailsa?"

  "A friend. You want to speak to her?"

  He handed Ailsa the phone, then paced up and down the kitchen while Ailsa and Julie introduced themselves to each other. Gradually his stomach settled. Ailsa wasn't saying much, just listening, occasionally frowning, nodding, shaking her head. He stopped at the table and held his hand out for the phone. Without a word, Ailsa handed the phone back to him.

  Julie was saying, "—'cos, as I said, I doubt if the dumb bastard could get it up anyway."

  "Stop it," he said. "Don't you ever—"

  "Oh, you again. Limp dick."

  "Fuck you."

  "You wish."

  "Where's my money?"

  "For God's sake, Pearce, give it a rest. You'll never see your money again. I've got it. Well, actually, I've spent most of it already. You gave me the receipt, Dickhead. You want to know what I've bought?"

  "You didn't have to do that."

  "Do you? Huh? Want to know what pressies I've bought myself?"

  The pain lanced his gut once again. He screamed into the phone, "My mother is dead and you're still alive, you fucking bitch, you fucking crap fucking piece of shit. It can't be like this. It can not be like this."

  "I didn't kill her. Don't blame me."

  Ailsa plucked the phone out of his hand and spoke into the mouthpiece. "Leave him alone." She turned the phone off and laid it on the table. "Pearce?"

  "Shit." He rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand.

  She waited a moment before asking, "Who was that piece of bitch-piss-fuck-crap-shit, or whatever it was you called her?"

  He shook his head. "A mistake."

  "There been many of them?"

  He said, "Not recently," and sank into the nearest chair. He let his head drop. A slow throb had replaced the jabbing pain in his stomach. "Mum was fond of reminding me I was a useless great pillock." His eyes stung and his head pounded and he needed some rest. He massaged his temples. "Where Julie was concerned, Mum was absolutely right."

  He felt Ailsa's warm hand on his arm, just below his wrist. "You want to go to bed?" she asked him.

  His throat was dry and his voice cracked when he said, "There's no time."

  She stared at him. After a while she moved her hand from his wrist. She crossed her arms, resting her hands on her biceps. "I meant—"

  "I know what you meant." He pushed the base of his mobile with his finger. It swivelled. He pushed harder and the phone turned full circle. He rotated it the other way. When he looked up she was still staring at him. He glanced back at the phone and traced the crack in the case with his fingernail. "There's a lot to do," he added.

  "Sure."

  "I've got to get Cooper's money to him."

  "Yeah."

  "Before our lunch appointment with Joe-Bob."

  "Aha." She placed her elbows on the table and leaned forward, supporting her chin in her cupped hands. "You should have a nap. You look exhausted."

  "I don't nap."

  She sat up. "Sleep, then."

  "When I'm asleep," he said, "I stay asleep. Nothing wakes me."

  "I'll wake you."

  He looked at his watch. "I've got to get moving." He made for the door.

  "You want to take the gun?"

  He turned. "No point. Got no bullets until this afternoon. You keep it safe for me." He took another couple of steps towards the door.

  "Pearce?"

  He stopped. This time he stayed facing the doorway, one hand resting on the handle. "What?"

  "Do you think Pete Thompson's really gone for good?"

  He took his hand off the handle. "You still worried?"

  "When you're here I feel okay. But I know the minute you walk out the door I'll begin to have doubts."

  "I'm pretty sure he got the message," Pearce said. "But I'll go see him again if you want. Just to make sure."

  10:36 am

  He ambled down the path towards the red door, hands thrust in his coat pockets, looking, to any casual observer, perfectly relaxed.

  The entry buzzers were arranged in two rows of six. Taking his right hand out of his pocket, he pressed the buzzer that said SOUTAR.

  "Is that you?" The voice sounded familiar, but it was badly distorted by the phone speaker. He waited. After a while the buzzer sounded and he pushed the door open. He stepped inside and watched the door swing shut behind him.

  The walls in the communal staircase were shit-brown in the dim light. An overpowering smell of ammonia hung in the air. He started up the stone steps. They were damp. A mop in a bucket rested against the wall on the first floor landing. A bike was chained to the railing. On the second floor the light was a little better. Looking at the roof he could just make out a small oval skylight. The smell didn't seem so strong now. Or maybe he'd just grown used to it.

  He stopped outside E. Soutar's door. The brass nameplate gleamed in a rare shaft of sunlight. Anticipation made him bite his lip. He slipped off his gloves and crammed them in his pocket. He rang the bell.

  Seconds later the door opened.

  "Where's the money?" The man who asked the question was blonde, in his late twenties. The collar of his white shirt was open and his sleeves were rolled up. His left hand was bandaged. His mouth stayed open after he'd finished speaking.

  "Mr Soutar?" There was something familiar about him. "Is – I've come about – is, is Robin here?"

  "Robin?" She appeared behind Soutar.

  "I'm looking for Robin Greaves."

  "Don't piss about. Where's the money?"

  He looked at Soutar. He looked five or six years older when he narrowed his pale blue eyes. "What money?"

  "Oh, shit," the girl said. "What's your name?"

  "Don," he said and smiled.

  "Oh, Jesus Christ! This is just what we need."

  "Shut up, Eddie."

  "What are we going to do now?"

  "Shut up, Eddie. I'm trying to think."

  "He's flipped again, Carol, hasn't he?"

  "Shut the fuck up, will you? You're not helping."

  "You want me to go?" Don asked. "If now isn't a convenient time…"

  Carol shook her head. "Where's the money, Don?"

  He shrugged. This persistent questioning was becoming irritating. "I don't want to answer any more questions. I'll leave now."

  "Stay."

  "Maybe another time."

  She said, "Don't let him go, Eddie."

  It happened so quickly Don didn't have time to react. Somehow Eddie was behind him, arm around his throat, and Don's wrist was locked behind his back. The door slammed shut. Carol ran ahead into the sitting room. Don flapped his free hand at the forearm slowly choking him. Eddie pushed Don's arm further up his back. The bandaged hand didn't seem to be much of an impediment to him. Eddie's hot breath tickled the back of Don's neck.

  "This is seriously bad timing", Eddie said, leaning against him.

  Through the open door Don could see that Carol was now posing by the window, hands on hips, face expressionless as Eddie escorted him towards her. Casually she tapped a cigarette out of a packet on the window ledge. She lit it and sucked in the escaping cloud of smoke as it was about to drift out of her mouth.

  She was small and pale-skinned and the way she smoked excited him. He knew just by looking at her that she was someone he could fall in love with.

  Eddie shoved him. He fell, landing at her feet.

  "What are we going to do with you?" she said.

  "You know how to handle this?" Eddie said. "I certainly don't."

  Don raised himself into a seating position. "I don't know anything about any money."

  "Shut up."

  "
Yeah, shut up."

  Don rubbed his wrist. "Whatever you say, guys."

  She took a step away from him into the centre of the room. She bent down, picked up a dark blue handbag off the floor and set it on the coffee table. "You're Donald, huh?"

  "You can call me Don if you like."

  Eddie stuck his hands behind his back and wriggled like a man with a terrible itch. His face contorted. His teeth were crooked and he had a slight overbite. When his hands reappeared one of them was holding a gun. He pointed it at Don. "Your name's Robin, you raving lunatic." The gun shook dangerously.

  Sweat trickled down Don's back, irritating his skin. This Eddie character had problems.

  Carol said, "You can put your hands down."

  Don put his hands palm down on the floor on either side of him.

  "Ask him about the money, Eddie?"

  "Why me?"

  "Give you something to focus on. Keep your finger off the trigger."

  "Don't tempt me," Eddie said. "Where's the money, Don?"

  "I don't know anything about any money. How many times do I have to tell you?"

  Carol said, "Of course you know where the money is. Think. Where did Robin put the money?"

  Don said, "For heaven's sake—"

  Eddie waved the gun at him and yelled, "Where is it?"

  "I don't know." And suddenly he remembered why he was here. "I came to ask Ms Wren here about her experiences with certain prescribed pharmaceuticals."

  "Is that right?" Eddie said. "I thought you were looking for Robin."

  "I was. They're married, aren't they?"

  "Don't get smart. Can't you do anything, Carol?"

  "It's hopeless," she told Eddie.

  "Try. Maybe you can find a crack."

  She asked Don, "Why me? Why Robin?"

  "You're on our company's list."

  "How did you get our names?"

  "Royal Midlothian Hospital. From the time you were admitted for treatment. Don't worry. The information's confidential."