Two-Way Split

by Guthrie, Allan

  Pearce said, "Who are you talking to?"

  Don said, "Me."

  Pearce said, "Stop this shit. Are you Robin Greaves or not?"

  "Why do you want to know?"

  "Because I don't want to kill the wrong person."

  3:18 pm

  Kennedy stood on the planks that formed the lowest level of the scaffolding outside Robin Greaves's tenement building. His head was spinning and he felt sick. Having managed to shimmy up a pole, swing his leg onto the flooring and drag himself onto the first platform, he now wished to pish that he hadn't. He sat down, back pressed against the tenement wall, knees drawn up to his chest, and took regular, deep, slow breaths. There was no safety mesh. Not even a series of planks lying lengthways along the edge. Which would have been a very false kind of security, anyway. He guessed scaffolders lined up planks like that to stop their tools rolling over the side, because an eight-inch high wall of end-to-end planks of wood certainly wasn't going to stop a body plummeting to the pavement. Okay, it was only a seven feet drop, but when he'd glanced over the side earlier, seven feet seemed a hell of a long way down. And he had to get higher. Much higher.

  He shouldn't be here. It was a bad idea. What was he thinking, climbing scaffolding outside a block of flats where someone was likely to be murdered? That was asking for shagging trouble. Jesus pish. Well, he'd handed in his notice, which was something to be positive about. Mind you, it was either resign or get fired. Immediately after the meeting with Pearce – where Kennedy had given the big tosser all the information he needed and got absolutely SFA in return – Kennedy turned to his boss and said, "I quit." It felt good, for all of a couple of seconds.

  His boss said, "See you."

  Kennedy couldn't leave it there. He had to have the last word. "I'll be in touch. About my wages."

  His boss had his hand over his nose. Well, to be accurate, his ex-boss had his hand over his nose. When he nodded, his eyes screwed shut and he shrieked in pain. After a moment he said, "I'll kill that bastard."

  Kennedy laughed in his face.

  He wasn't laughing now. He struggled to his feet, which was quite an achievement under the circumstances. Next task was to free the ladder, each leg of which was lashed to three separate upright poles. Only then could he risk climbing up to the next level. Trying not to look down, he started to work on the ropes.

  They had been tied with a special kind of knot and it took him a minute to discover how best to unravel it. It didn't help that his fingers were about as dextrous as frozen sausages. It was hard, painful work, but, eventually, he sussed it out. After the first one, the rest were relatively easy. Nonetheless, it took a couple of minutes to untie all six bindings.

  He dragged the ladder into position underneath the entry to the next level. Lifting the ladder, he pushed it until the top poked through the hole above him. Propped against the side, the ladder seemed steady enough. He let go and wasted a couple of minutes watching a young couple on the other side of the street. Eyes focussed on the pavement in front of them, they were lugging a dozen carrier bags homewards. They didn't take their eyes off their feet. Around here, to do so was to step in dogshit. They disappeared round a corner and Kennedy turned his attention to a Ford Escort van, back door tied shut with orange string. Well, it looked orange. Fifteen minutes ago, the sky had clouded over and the light wasn't too good. The colour had faded from everything and it looked like it was going to rain, maybe even snow.

  He had to do this. And he had to do it now. He couldn't postpone it any longer.

  The top of the ladder was solid enough. The foot of the ladder was a problem, though. There was nothing to stop it slipping when he put his weight on it and there was nobody around to ask to steady it. Here goes.

  When he set his foot on the bottom rung, the ladder tilted to the right. Instantly he withdrew his foot. He repositioned the ladder until it felt more secure and tried again. This time it didn't budge under his weight. He moved his other foot onto the rung above. He was breathing rapidly now and his fingers were gripping the ladder far too tightly. He told himself to calm down. He wasn't that high, yet. Even if he fell, which he wouldn't, he couldn't hurt himself. Not unless he fell awkwardly and landed on his head or something, in which case he'd probably break his neck or his skull or his spine and probably die or live the rest of his life in a wheelchair.

  He forced himself up onto the next rung. And then the next. A gust of wind lifted his hair off his forehead. It bounced back. Lifted. Bounced back. He no longer felt cold. Sweat was stinging his eyes. If anything, he was too hot and the wind helped cool him down. He leaned his head against the ladder. Two more steps and his head would break through to the next level. One. Yes. And two. Come on. He didn't look down. Why should it be such a struggle not to look? Yes. He'd done it. He was on the next level. Only from the neck up, admittedly.

  He wondered if his boss, shit, ex-boss, had gone to hospital this time. Kennedy hadn't hung around to find out. After his ex-boss – fuck it, call the man by his name – Gray's ridiculous threat on Pearce's life, Kennedy had laughed all the way downstairs and out the salmon pink main door. Out on the street he decided to give himself one more shot at the money.

  Which was why he was here, climbing a shaky ladder fifteen feet up in the air, with another twenty feet to go.

  Greaves's address was the only information Pearce had been given. There was no need to tail him, since he'd have to turn up here at some point. It was just a matter of waiting and Kennedy had lots of practice at that. Sure enough, Pearce had made an appearance shortly before two o'clock. He tried Greaves's buzzer and made a few phone calls. He hung around for a while, disappeared for twenty minutes and returned with a bunch of flowers. Then somebody let him into the building and he hadn't reappeared since. Greaves had got out of his Clio just a few minutes ago.

  This was Kennedy's big chance. He had to do it. He owed it to himself.

  He dragged himself up the last step and fell onto the wooden planks. This high up, he knew he'd never get back down. He had to carry on. If he didn't manage to get into Greaves's flat, he'd be stuck up here forever. He turned round, grabbed hold of the ladder and pulled it through the opening. He half-carried, half-dragged it towards the gap above his head. He turned the ladder upright and placed it in position. Only when he set foot on the bottom rung did he notice he was directly outside someone's window. Fortunately, the light wasn't on. But could he assume that no one was home? He started to climb, fast. He got to the top, dragged the ladder up after him and lay still, panting like a dog on a treadmill. He looked over the side and nearly fainted.

  He didn't remember those hardboiled private eyes ever having to climb scaffolding. But, in the hypothetical event of his fictional heroes having to do so, he was sure they'd do it gracefully and without any fuss. And, no doubt, without the aid of a ladder. Inspirational characters who met all challenges with a stubborn, arrogant self-confidence. Kennedy felt deflated and wholly incompetent in comparison. He thought he might just stay here for a while, at least until his bowels stopped feeling quite so loose.

  What spurred him on was the sound of gunfire. It came from above. At first he thought it was Pearce. After a while, he realised it was unlikely that, supposing Pearce had a gun, he would have quite that many bullets. And supposing he had, at some point he'd need to stop and reload. The shots were from a TV, of course, and it sounded like they were coming from a room on the second floor, which was where Greaves lived.

  One more flight. Quick sprint up the ladder and that was it. Easy.

  Once again he positioned the ladder. Again it tilted when he put his foot on it. He repositioned it. Still it tilted. He countered the imbalance by placing his weight on the left side of each rung. Five steps up, the ladder started to slide backwards. It only moved an inch or so. Hurriedly, he stepped onto the next rung. And the next. The ladder slid underneath him. His foot missed the rung. He looked up and watched in horror as the ladder scraped away from the edge where it had bee
n resting. He flung out a hand. His fingers grabbed cold metal as the ladder clattered to the floor below. He swung by one hand, slowly rotating. His legs kicked out in the hope of locating a solid surface with his feet, but all they hit was air. He launched his other hand upwards. Couldn't find the vertical pole his right hand clung to. He tried again. No joy. His wrist hurt. If he could hold on until he stopped spinning, he might be able to pull himself up, grab hold with his other hand, swing a leg up, maybe hook it over the pole. He just had to hold on. He kept spinning and his fingers were growing numb. He was slipping. Don't look down. He looked down. Fucking hell. He was dangling over the edge. There was nothing but space between him and the pavement. If he could just hold on a little bit longer.

  He swung his free hand one more time and at last caught the pole. He stopped spinning. Thank Christ. He hung there and started to laugh. He was scared shitless. The temptation to let go and get it over with was hard to resist. He closed his eyes and prayed, which was no help. He opened his eyes, gritted his teeth and with one last effort managed to manoeuvre his hands into position. He raised his knees and hooked one foot over the pole. The other foot followed. Then everything went out of focus and his mind blanked for a second. He dragged himself back from the brink of unconsciousness and snapped into an adrenalin-charged alertness. He let go of the pole with his right hand and grabbed hold of the vertical pole just behind him. He pulled, the muscles in his arm about to tear. He tensed his legs, twisted his body. He let go with his left hand and quickly clasped the bar underneath his stomach. Straightening his elbow, he fumbled with his other hand for the edge of the platform. When he found it he held on and dragged his leg across. After a moment he moved his hand along. Ignoring the sound of the blood pounding in his ears, he pulled his body further onto the planked flooring inch by inch.

  When only his left foot dangled over the edge, he lay still. After a while he turned on his back and wiped the sweat out of his eyes. He felt light headed. He'd done it, though. No bastard scaffolding would mess with him again. Maybe Max and Johnny weren't that special after all.

  3:19 pm

  Pearce examined the man who claimed to be Robin Greaves's brother. He was wiping his palms on his trousers, nervously. But Pearce expected that. If somebody waded into your home uninvited and stuck a gun in your face, you'd be nervous too. Nerves proved nothing.

  "I'm getting tired of waiting," Pearce said. Patches of dried blood matted the man's hair. Somebody had hit him hard. And fairly recently, by the look of it. He was a sorry state. "You going to answer my question?"

  "You've got it wrong. I'm not Robin. I'm his brother."

  "Right. Let's see your wallet and I'll tell you exactly who you are."

  Greaves's eyes darted all over the place. The rest of him didn't move. Not the tiniest bit.

  Pearce said, "Now." He didn't take his eyes off Greaves. "Wallet, please."

  Greaves put his hand in his pocket. "What's the point?" He removed his hand. It was empty. "You want to shoot me?" He thumped his fist against his chest. "Go ahead. Shoot me."

  Pearce said, "Okay." He stepped closer and aimed the gun at Robin Greaves. Pointed the gun at the man who killed his mother. Held the muzzle directly over his left eye.

  Greaves stared into the barrel, eyes wide. His moment of bravado had passed. He mumbled something as a stain spread on his crotch. Urine leaked out of his trouser leg. "My hands hurt," he said. "I've got sore hands." He sank to his knees. Pearce kept the gun pointed at his eye. Greaves clutched his hands together and started rubbing them gently, as if he was washing them. "Really bad." He unclasped them to show Pearce his palms. "They don't work, you know?"

  "I don't give a toss about your hands," Pearce told him. "Why are you telling me about your hands?"

  "They're everywhere, now," Greaves said.

  "What?" Pearce shook his head with impatience. "Who?"

  "They came from your mother."

  "What the hell are you talking about?"

  Greaves rolled forward onto the floor and adopted a foetal position with his hands tucked between his knees. "They're everywhere," he said. "Leeches. Crawling down my leg right this minute." He started humming. "Tell him, Don."

  Pearce said, "Stop it." Greaves didn't stop. The humming grew louder. Greaves opened his lips and started singing. No words. Something classical. Whatever it was, it sounded painful. His tenor voice drowned out the noise of next-door's television. Pearce didn't know what to do. He'd come here to kill a man, not fuck with this headcase who lay in a puddle of his own urine belting out some classical ditty and claiming that leeches were crawling down his leg and talking to somebody called Don who wasn't there. "Stop it." He shoved the gun into the flesh of Greaves's cheek. "Stop it." Greaves wailed all the louder.

  Pearce walked over to the piano stool and sat on it. This was complicated. He needed to think. He looked at Greaves.

  Greaves said, "I don't know what's happening any longer."

  "Which member of the Greaves family said that?"

  "Me. Don."

  "Well, Don. I thought that choirboy called Robin stabbed my mother in the neck. Now I'm not so sure. Was it you?"

  "Certainly not. And I find it hard to believe that Robin would do something like that."

  Pearce said, "So do I. If this is all an elaborate con…"

  "It's real."

  Pearce hesitated. He nodded. "I can see that. Has Robin gone?"

  "For the time being," Don said. "Are you going to shoot me?"

  The door buzzer sounded before Pearce could reply.

  3:26 pm

  "Expecting somebody?"

  Robin's throat hurt. He stopped singing while he tried to sit up. He fell back and tried again. This time he succeeded. His eyes felt sore and puffy and strangely wet, as if he'd been crying. The buzzer sounded again. He blinked and wiped his eyes with the heels of his hands. Blinked again. His nemesis was sitting on the piano stool, a gun in his shovel-like hand. The buzzer sounded once more. The phone rang. Counterpoint. Bach.

  "Don't answer it," Pearce said.

  Something moved along Robin's thigh. He thought they'd all gone, but he could see its dark outline through his trousers. He slapped his leg as hard as he could. The thing stuck there. He pinched it between finger and thumb and squeezed. Pain sang in his fingers, creating harmonics. Perfect fifths and major thirds floated on top of the tide of sound. He pulled the damn thing off his leg, but it slipped through his fingers and he couldn't find it again. Maybe that was the last one. He hoped so. He stood and shook his trouser leg.

  Pearce said, "Leave it."

  Contrapuntal ostinatos. Robin remembered. They thought he wasn't paying attention. They thought he wasn't lucid. Ha! "The phone?" he said. "Or the door?"

  Pearce didn't reply.

  Robin said, "That'll be Eddie. I arranged to meet him at half three. He won't go away, you know." Robin took a step towards the door. He seemed to have wet himself. He felt himself blush.

  Pearce said, "Leave it."

  Robin stood still. His face was hot, but from the waist down, he was feeling very cold.

  After thirty seconds the phone stopped ringing. Ten seconds later Eddie, or whoever was downstairs, pressed the buzzer again and left his finger there. It emitted one long continuous buzzing sound. It went on. And on. And on. Then the phone joined in.

  Robin shivered. He wanted to play something. Something fast. Maybe a Chopin study. He looked at the piano keys and started to hum.

  Don said, "For heaven's sake."

  Pearce shouted, "Okay, answer the phone."

  Robin looked at him.

  "Go on."

  Robin hobbled towards the phone and picked up the receiver.

  Eddie said, "What're you playing at?"

  Robin put his hand over the mouthpiece. "It's Eddie, like I said," he said to Pearce. Eddie had killed Carol, hadn't he? Robin could imagine how she'd looked, blouse unbuttoned, stomach bared, a single letter cut in her skin. How could he do that? You
thought you knew someone and… Well, it just went to show. "He wants in."

  Pearce said, "Tell him it's not convenient. Come back tomorrow."

  Robin removed his hand from the speaker. "It's not convenient. Come back tomorrow."

  Eddie said, "Are the police there?"

  "No. It's just not convenient."

  Eddie said, "I've got your keys, remember? I'm coming in."

  Robin covered the mouthpiece again and passed on the message.

  Pearce said, "Shit."

  Robin told Eddie, "Shit."

  "Who's with you?"

  "Nobody."

  Eddie hung up.

  Robin stared at the receiver. Nothing crawled out of it. He set it on the cradle.

  They waited, listening to the cowboys on next-door's TV. Pearce got to his feet and started prowling. Don leaned against the wall, looking sick. His face had a greenish tinge. He kept swimming in and out of focus and at one point seemed to disappear completely for a split second.

  The doorbell rang.

  Pearce said, "You might as well answer it. He'll let himself in if you don't."

  Don said, "It's not a good idea for him to see me. He's already tried to kill me today."

  Pearce rubbed his forehead with the back of his wrist. "Answer the door."

  Robin started walking towards the door. Don crossed to the other side of the room.

  "One last attempt." Pearce closed the gap between himself and Robin and pressed the gun into the small of Robin's back. "Tell him you're ill."

  Robin stepped up to the door. "Eddie, can you hear me?"

  "Open up, will you? Carol's – look, just let me in."

  "I'm not feeling well. Go away."

  "Mother of frigging Christ. I'm coming in."

  Pearce whispered, "Just open the door."

  Eddie's lip was swollen. He had a dirty bandage on his hand and something long and black poked out of it. His cornflower blue eyes looked over Robin's shoulder. Without hesitation, he raised his arm and the thing in his hand spat. The noise it made was terrifying.