Two-Way Split

by Guthrie, Allan

  The pressure of the gun against Robin's back disappeared. When he turned, Pearce had collapsed on the floor. Something had hit the man in the shoulder and the force of the impact had knocked the gun out of his hand. He was groaning. Robin stooped and picked up the gun.

  He looked at Eddie. "Why did you do it?"

  "That's the lunatic from the post office." Eddie stepped into the room and closed the door. "The one whose mother you stabbed. I just did you a favour, you mad twat. Probably saved your poxy life. You get the money?"

  "Why did you kill Carol?"

  "Fuck you talking about?" Eddie glanced up, face twisted into crazy lines. He spoke through clenched teeth. Spit flecked his lower lip. He was staring through Robin, staring straight at Don.

  Robin stood where he was and pointed Pearce's gun at Eddie. "Confess."

  Without taking his eyes off Don, Eddie said, "What?"

  "You killed Carol. Admit it."

  "Just get the money, Loophead."

  "Confess."

  "Piss off and get the money."

  He would never confess.

  Robin fired. Eddie slumped against the door and slid to the floor. One cornflower blue eye stared into space and where the other one had been was now a bloody hole. The black thing slithered out of his hand and lay still.

  Don said, "Robin, give me the gun."

  Robin grinned at him. "Just a minute." He turned round and bent over Pearce. "How's the shoulder?" he said.

  Pearce flashed out a hand and grabbed Robin's wrist. Robin yelled as Pearce's fingers tightened. The man's strength was awesome. Robin was going to have to drop the gun. He couldn't hold on any longer. If he could only squeeze the trigger. He felt faint with the pain shooting through his wrist.

  If…he…could…just…squeeze…the…

  Pearce bucked and let go. A second red spot stained his t-shirt. Lower down. Central.

  Robin let the gun fall and nursed his crushed wrist.

  Don picked up the gun. "Where's the money?"

  Robin couldn't move his hand. It had seized up. Maybe Pearce had broken it. Well, he'd sorted him out, hadn't he? Given him an extra bellybutton. The bastard was bleeding almost as much as his mum had and making just as much noise about it, too. Don was saying something.

  "What did you say?"

  "Where's the money you stole?"

  Before Robin could answer, Eddie fell sideways. His head struck the wall. His neck bent and his ear stuck to the floral wallpaper. He looked like he was listening to next-door's TV.

  Don walked over to Eddie and started rummaging in his pockets.

  Robin said, "I think I've broken my wrist."

  Don said, "One more time, you fucking hypochondriac. Where's the money?"

  Robin glanced at Don. He was easing a wallet out of Eddie's trouser pocket. His face was an unusual colour. He looked a lot like Dad.

  "You don't look well," Robin said. Don found a bunch of keys and slipped them into his pocket. "You should sit down."

  Don said, "Last chance."

  Robin turned away. He watched a bubble of blood pop on Pearce's lips. He faced Don again. "Why do you want my money? I thought we were in this together. I thought we were helping each other."

  Don switched the gun from one hand to the other and back again. He scratched his chin with the muzzle. "You're too trusting, Robin. I need the money to get away."

  "He's dead." Robin gestured towards Eddie. "You can tell the police how it happened. He killed Carol. You're safe now."

  "But he didn't."

  "I can back you up."

  "You're not listening, Robin. Eddie didn't kill Carol."

  Robin hesitated. He heard the words repeating in his head. Eddie didn't kill Carol. Not possible. "You're confusing me. You said that Eddie killed her."

  "I lied."

  The room grew dark. In the silence, Apache war cries whooped through the wall from next door. Robin smelled piss wafting up from his crotch. He looked around him. A dead body sprawled in front of the door, one of its eyes missing. His wife's lover, Eddie. Another body lay at his feet, hands pressed to its bleeding stomach. Robin looked up at the man who had lied to him. Don had the face of a ghost.

  Robin spoke quietly. "If Eddie didn't kill her, then it must have been me. Like I thought in the first place. Isn't that right, Don?" He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. "I came to believe I'd imagined it. It looked like she took a breath, just before I left." He turned his head sharply and opened his eyes. They probed Don's. "I wanted her dead for a while. Now I wish she wasn't. We were married, you know. We made vows to each other." He turned his head away. "Thing is, our marriage was never consummated." He flexed his fingers. Some feeling was gradually returning to his hand. "Yeah. We never fucked, me and my wife." He chuckled. "She couldn't bear to be touched. She couldn't bear for anyone to touch her." He paused. "I know what you're thinking." He shook his head. "One time we were visiting her mum," he said. "Her mum had M.S. Had it for a while. Her eyesight was deteriorating." Robin rubbed his wrist. "She lived with her boyfriend in one of those new houses. Wimpy or Barretts. One of those soulless places. Anyway, the point is, it had stairs, which she found hard to cope with. On this occasion, she got stuck. Scared, I suppose. Scared of falling. If she'd been on her own, she'd no doubt have overcome the fear. Or waited until her boyfriend came home from work. But we were there, so she asked Carol to help. Carol climbed halfway to meet her, then just stood there and called my name. She couldn't do it. Her physical revulsion was so powerful she couldn't bring herself to touch her own mother just to help her get down the stairs. Isn't that messed up?"

  "Sounds like my kind of woman," Don said. "I should have talked to her before I strangled her."

  Robin's stomach shrank. "For a moment, I thought I was lucid. Are you real? I find it hard to tell."

  "I'm as real as you," Don said. "How much money do you have?"

  "About thirty grand."

  "Lovely," Don said. "Go get it."

  "Tell me again," Robin said. He cradled his sore hand in the palm of the other. "About Carol. Then I'll get the money."

  Don sighed. "There's nothing to it," he said. "You thought you'd killed her. You hadn't. After you disappeared, she came round. I finished off what you started. That's it."

  "You strangled her?"

  "Yeah. And I carved LOVE on her stomach."

  "But why?"

  "It's what I do."

  "You?" Robin stared at him. "You don't look like a killer."

  "I do. I look exactly like one."

  "Why Carol?"

  "I wanted to help my little brother. He's a fuck-up, you see. Can't do anything on his own. Listen, you wanted her dead. You tried to kill her. You thought she was dead anyway. What the hell are you complaining about?"

  Robin said, "Had you planned on killing her?"

  "To be honest, you put the idea in my head. I was actually trying to contact you."

  "You mean, I could have stopped you?" Robin paused. "I could have stopped you." He stared at Pearce. His hand rested on his stomach, dripping blood. His eyes were open and he looked confused. "Carol would still be alive and she'd have me to thank," Robin said. "She'd owe me her life. Don't you know what that would have meant?"

  "That's not what happened."

  "It was a possibility."

  "Not in this lifetime." Don grabbed Robin's elbow. "Enough chitchat. I'm a fugitive and I need cash. Fetch the money."

  3:42 pm

  Pearce read a lot in prison. He read all sorts of rubbish. For instance, he remembered reading somewhere that it was impossible to experience pain in two parts of your body simultaneously. Well, that was bollocks. Right this minute he had proof, if ever it was needed, that you should never believe what you read. The pain in his shoulder was the lesser of the two pains he very definitely felt, but it was still pretty bloody bad. It was as if someone had taken a knitting needle and pushed it all the way through the top of his arm. The pain in his stomach was in a diffe
rent league. It felt as if he'd swallowed a hot coal, which lay in his gut burning like a bastard.

  What bothered him most was the taste of blood in his mouth.

  If he didn't get to a hospital soon, he would die.

  If he did get to a hospital soon, he might still die. Like Mum.

  When Greaves or Don or whoever the crazy bastard was who was talking to himself left the room, Pearce tried to sit up. The pain in his stomach kicked him back. He swallowed his scream enough for it to come out of his lips as a whimper. Okay. Sitting up wasn't an option. He stretched his arm out towards the body by the door. The gun that had shot him in the shoulder lay by the dead man's feet. Pearce's reach fell about three feet short. He fumbled for his mobile, thinking that as a last resort, he could phone the police. He heard a noise from across the room and raised his head. It hurt to hold it there. He let it drop. One, two, three. Lifted it once more.

  That noise again. Yeah. Someone was opening the window. It slid up with a choked rattle. A leg poked through. A body. A white face.

  Pearce recognised him. Kennedy. The kid from Eye Witness. He looked like he wished he was somewhere else.

  He crept over to Pearce and whispered, "You okay? You don't look so good."

  "Neither do you," Pearce said. "I'm dying. What's your excuse?"

  The boy looked shaken. "I've got a problem with heights."

  "You're here now," Pearce said. "You going to help me or what?"

  "I'm here for the money."

  "By the door," Pearce said, ignoring him, "there's a gun. Take it and shoot him."

  "I'm here for the money."

  "Greaves is a psycho and he's very fucking dangerous. I underestimated just how much. If you don't kill him, he'll kill you."

  Kennedy stepped over Pearce and picked up the gun. "I've never used one of these before," he said.

  "Neither have I. My advice, get as close as you can before you pull the trigger."

  "I told you, I'm here for the money. I'm not shooting anybody."

  Pearce licked his lips and tasted blood again. "Give me the gun, then. I'll shoot him."

  "I'm here for the money."

  "Everybody wants the money." Pearce raised his voice. "Have it. Just give me the gun."

  3:45 pm

  Don said, "What was that?"

  Robin handed him the leather holdall he'd buried under a pile of jumpers behind one of the sliding mirrored wardrobe doors. "I didn't hear anything."

  "Shhh. Listen."

  Photographs of Carol lay on the floor among broken glass and picture frames. Robin bent down and picked one up. He said, "You killed her." It was a statement, not a question.

  "Shut up."

  "You had no right to kill her."

  "And you did?"

  Robin said, "I need a smoke."

  3:45 pm

  "I – I don't think so," Kennedy said. "Nobody has to die."

  "You can't be as naïve as you look," Pearce said.

  3:46 pm

  Don said, "Shhh." He shoved the gun into the flesh at the side of Robin's neck and held it there.

  Robin moved forward. As quietly as could, he led the way back to the sitting room. Don followed, one hand jamming the gun into Robin's neck, the other gripping the holdall.

  The room was freezing. Robin glanced over at the window. It was wide open and a young man stood in front of it.

  Robin thought he'd keep his mouth shut. If Don saw the stranger, fair enough. When Robin turned his head, the muzzle of Don's gun scratched his neck. Robin swore.

  Don said, "Shut it," and jabbed the gun upwards.

  Robin's eyes watered briefly. When they'd cleared, he scanned the room. Eddie and Pearce lay where they'd fallen. Nothing had changed there. Robin's gaze returned to the young man, who was hopping from one foot to the other. Maybe he was about to dash back out the window. Maybe he needed the bathroom.

  "Don't do it," the young man said. "Don't shoot yourself."

  Don said, "I'll shoot whoever I want."

  Robin breathed a sigh of relief. Don had spotted him too. The young man was real. Robin stared at his feet and said nothing further.

  Don said, "Answer me or I'll blow your head off. What's your name?"

  Robin felt the gun slide down his neck. It appeared over his shoulder, pointed at the stranger.

  The stranger said, "Kennedy."

  Don said, "What are you doing here?"

  Kennedy shuffled his feet. "Nothing."

  Don let go of Robin and stepped forward.

  Robin said, "I need a smoke."

  Don glowered at him. "So have one."

  Robin's right hand was swollen, his wrist at least a third bigger than it should be. He reached into his shirt pocket with his left hand and took out a packet of cigarettes.

  Bees swarmed in his skull.

  Don walked towards Kennedy.

  Robin flipped the lid open and, pulling out a cigarette, dropped the packet. He bent down to pick it up. Then flicked his lighter. The bastard was empty. "Anybody got a light?" Everybody ignored him. He tossed the useless lighter onto the floor. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Pearce's hand move. He held the black creature Eddie had brought with him. The creature was shaped a bit like a gun. Like the black Brocock they'd used in the robbery. Was he hallucinating? No, guns didn't writhe in your hand. This thing was pulsing. It had a heartbeat. Or was he imagining it? That was the worst thing about being ill. Not being able to trust what you saw. Almost as bad as not being able to trust what you heard. But he knew that, and he could compensate. Was it a gun, then? Had Eddie shot Pearce in the shoulder? That would explain the blood. And if so, that same gun was now pointing at Don.

  Pearce's arm was far from steady.

  Kennedy said, "Now would be a good time."

  Don followed his gaze, turning his neck until he was looking over his shoulder.

  Pearce pulled the trigger. The gun screamed and the bullet punched a hole in the wall about five feet to Don's left.

  Don grinned and took a step towards Pearce. "Haven't I been careless?" he said, dropping the holdall.

  Robin blocked his path. His left hand shot out and his heel struck Don on the nose. Something popped. Don's face registered shock and his nose splattered blood onto the carpet. As he lifted the gun, Kennedy grabbed his arm from behind and twisted it. The gun fired a bullet into the ceiling.

  "Hold him," Robin said. With his good hand, he prised Don's fingers off the gun. Once he had it in his grasp, he pressed the muzzle into Don's crotch. "You can let go, Kennedy."

  Kennedy said, "Let go of what?"

  "Just move," Robin said. "Get out of the way."

  Don tensed. He stood on tiptoe.

  Robin's unlit cigarette still dangled from his lips. He pulled the trigger.

  Don bounced backwards into the open window. He landed on his back against the windowsill and made gurgling noises. He looked like he was pissing blood. He probably was.

  Robin walked over to him, seized hold of his legs and tipped him over the ledge. Robin climbed through the window after him.

  Don lay on the plank flooring, the remnants of daylight dimly lighting his face. He spat a mouthful of blood. When Robin grabbed his coat, he didn't resist. Robin dragged him towards the edge of the platform. "Long way down," he said.

  Don spat more blood. Turned his head towards Robin. "Can't feel my legs," he said, shivering.

  "Good to know." Robin grabbed Don's ankle and lined his leg along the edge. He grabbed the other one and moved it alongside. "You killed my wife, right?"

  A sudden grimace wiped the smile off Don's face.

  "Sore?"

  "Payback, baby brother," Don said. "But you know that, don't you? Same as you know I'm not here. All you've shot just now is a piece of your psychotic imagination. I'm not hurt. I'm not really bleeding. I have no flesh, no blood. I'm just your crazy creation. That's all I am, little brother. Shit. Nobody else sees me. It's just you and me. You want to know a little secret? I did
n't kill your wife. You did. You just borrowed my personality to do it, cause yours doesn't have the balls."

  Robin sensed the cigarette in his mouth. Still unlit. "Got a light?"

  "Fuck you."

  Robin patted his empty pockets, then sat down under the window and stretched out his legs. He took the cigarette out of his mouth and threw it over the side. No flame, this time. No paraffin. He'd have to improvise. His feet touched Don's arm. Don grabbed hold of his trouser leg. Robin braced himself against the wall and pushed his legs straight. Don started to laugh. Robin pushed again. Don let go of his trousers and grabbed hold of a piece of scaffolding, knuckles whitening around the pole.

  Robin got to his feet. He took a step towards Don and kicked his hand. His fingers stayed wrapped around the pole. Again, and they loosened, then tightened once more. Third time, Don screamed. But still he didn't let go. Robin kicked him again and at last Don's fingers fell away. Robin lay down beside him, trapping his arms at his side. For a moment they lay side by side. Immobile. Then, raising himself onto an elbow, Robin lowered himself on top of Don. Don tried to push him off, but Robin pressed his head into Don's chest, wrapping his arms around his back. He started to hum "Dido's Lament" from Purcell's only opera, rocking from side to side in time to the music.

  He opened his lips and sang, "No trouble, no trouble in my soul." Stopped. Spoke. "Sure you don't have a light, Don?" He didn't wait for an answer. He had built up enough momentum to roll onto his back. He flipped over and there was nothing but air underneath him. Don didn't exist? Not for much longer, he wouldn't. Robin gazed into Don's bloodied face. He stared into it all the way to the ground.

  3:54 pm

  Rubbish bins heaped on his left only a few feet away. The soft landing he never had. He turned his head. Stared at Robin. Landed on top of the suicidal bastard. Bounced off on impact. Probably broke every bone in Robin's crazy body.

  And his own.

  Don feels nothing from the waist down. His right arm is twisted under his back. When he tries to move his other hand, only his little finger twitches. Someone reaches inside his head and squeezes his brain. Steel fingers sink into his chest. Bright lights pop in his skull.