Prove I was Lionel. My brain was refusing to function. We had always known the differences, known them exactly. But everybody else said we were the same—even people who knew us well. I'd never persuade Scouse with talk of a half-inch height difference, or a pound or two in weight.
My skin felt chilled, and I had broken out into a fine, all-over sweat. I thought desperately, closing my eyes to concentrate. And I saw, like a ghost image on the inner darkness, the regular lines of green marching beetles, as I had first seen them in the hospital basement. I gasped.
"How much do you know about Leo?" I burst out, straining forward in my chair.
"A fair bit—a lot less than we'd like to, obviously."
"You know his background?"
"Most of it." Scouse was frowning.
"Then I can prove to you that I'm Lionel."
"How?"
I laughed, high-pitched and nervous. "I'm a concert pianist. There's no way that Leo could fake that. Let me play that piano, and you'll see."
Scouse was frowning harder. "Foss never played the piano according to my file on him. But it could be wrong. He may have had lessons."
"Look, lessons wouldn't be enough. You have to understand the enormous difference between a good professional and an amateur. It's huge." Even as I spoke I worried about my own lack of recent practice. The restricted circulation in my hands for the past hour would make things worse. But I was itching to get at that piano more than I had ever wanted anything.
Scouse was shaking his head. "I don't know. I don't think I could tell the difference between a good pianist and an average one."
"Maybe you can't. But he can." I jerked my head towards Pudd'n, who had been standing there scowling.
"Nobody told me you were a concert pianist," he said accusingly. "You were just 'avin' me on when you said I was good, wasn't yer?"
"No, I wasn't—you are good, and you could be a lot better. You should take it more seriously."
"Never mind that," said Scouse. "Could you, Pudd'n? Could you really tell if he's a professional or an amateur?"
Pudd'n was nodding his head reluctantly, "Yeah. If he's that good, I'll know it. There's things he'll not be able to fake. Nobody could."
"But if he tries faking . . ." said Dixie. He made a little upwards motion with his cigarette.
"He'll wish he hadn't," Scouse said. He nodded to Pudd'n. "All right, untie him. An' keep an eye on 'im—don't forget what happened to Des an' Jack."
When the ropes were off I lurched to my feet, hardly able to stand. I had pins and needles in my forearms, and cramps in my calves and feet. The piano stool was the right height but I fussed with it anyway, chafing at my hands and trying to relax them to get some feeling into my fingertips. I was too cold, and I put my jacket on over the sweaty, ruined shirt.
"All right, no stallin'," said Scouse.
"I'm not. My hands don't feel right yet—I was tied too tight."
"Tough. Just get on with it."
I looked at Pudd'n, who was standing impassively beside the piano. Dixie was behind me, his sheath knife out and ready to be used if I made a wrong move.
So what should I play? It wouldn't do to handle a delicate piece that Pudd'n might play better than I would (I still suspected that all the emotion had gone from my playing). It had to be something where I could pull out all the stops and hit him with pyrotechnics. If the technical difficulties were hair-raising enough, he'd never notice that the playing was cold.
"Get going," breathed Scouse warningly. "Time's up."
I sighed, prayed that my fingers and memory wouldn't betray me, and got going. I began to play "Badinage," one of Godowsky's paraphrases of the Chopin études. All his material is horrendously difficult (the Apostle of the Left Hand, he was called a hundred years ago) and I had never dared to tackle one of his Chopin paraphrases in a public concert. But now I had to go for broke. My main worry was to get to the end without making a total hash of it. I drove along, all my attention in my fingertips.
After the final chords I took a deep breath and looked up at Pudd'n. His face was a picture.
"Well?" said Scouse. I could tell from his voice that he was impressed but not convinced. Pudd'n just stood there shaking his head. "Christ!" he said. "What was that?"
"A combination of two Chopin studies—the two in G Flat. Godowsky. He wrote fifty-three like that."
"Christ! I never heard anything like it." He shook his head again and turned to Scouse and Dixie. "There's no way he could play like that an' be just anybody. He's a pianist."
"Yeah. I thought so too." Scouse looked annoyed, but not with me. I breathed a little bit easier, even though my fate was anything but clear.
"That gives me somethin' to think about," went on Scouse. He was frowning. "Damn it." He turned abruptly and began to walk towards the door. "Look after him tonight," he said over his shoulder. "I'll be back in the morning. An' don't forget to tie him, unless you want to finish up like Jack and Des."
"What about the Nymphs?" called Dixie.
Scouse turned in the doorway. "They're not Nymphs, you daft bugger. Are you deaf? They're some kind of medicine. Let him have 'em if he needs 'em. I'm going to get Zan. We've some thinking to do."
I was still sitting on the piano stool. Dixie laid the tip of his knife on the nape of my neck, pricking it just a little to add to his point. "Come on," he said.
Pudd'n was standing back warily, out of my reach. I walked meekly back to the chair and sat down.
"Not so tight this time," I said, as Pudd'n began to tighten the ropes around my forearms and legs. He nodded, but he was too experienced to allow me to create any slack as he worked.
"There," he said, and stood back. "What are we goin' to do about food for 'im, Dix? He'll be 'ere all night."
"Let him bloody well starve," said Dixie. He looked disappointed, as though he had been hoping for some attempt at resistance. That knife of his looked well used, and not just on inanimate objects. He would like to have a go at more than my shirt.
"We can't starve 'im," said Pudd'n. "He's not Foss, he's 'is brother."
"He still did for Jack and Des, didn't he?"
"Well, yeah—but they'd have done for 'im if he 'adn't." Pudd'n looked at me. I had risen in his eyes since I sat down at the keyboard. "I could do yer eggs an' bacon. All right?"
I salivated at the thought. I was starving, and I nodded.
"Well, I'm not having anything to do with it," said Dixie. "Fuck him. He's all yours."
He strode out of the room, rapidly and light on his feet. Pudd'n hesitated, and I could see his problem. If he left me to get food, I'd be unguarded, and I had no doubt that Dixie would tell that to Scouse when he came back. I jerked my head down towards my wrists. "I can't get away, you know. You could leave me here."
He shook his head. "Not allowed to do that. If Dixie would come back . . ." He looked at the door for a second, then shrugged. "Well, only one thing for it. Hold tight."
He moved behind me, and the chair began to skate backwards over the polished floor. We went on past the room where I had awakened, and on to a long landing with deep carpeting. I heard a little grunt of effort, then I was carried, chair and all, on down the stairs. I made a mental note never to argue with Pudd'n. He was even stronger than his height and build suggested.
On the way downstairs and into the kitchen I was still trying to register everything that I saw. It seemed impossible to get away, but I couldn't afford to give up. Maybe it was Leo's influence, but my pulse was steady, my head was clear, and I have never felt more alert and sensitive.
There was little enough to see. We were in an old house, with eleven or twelve foot ceilings, thick and solid doors, and deep skirting-boards. I guessed it was late Victorian, and when we came to it the kitchen was enormous, with a great range all along one wall. The range had been converted from coal to gas, and Pudd'n set my chair next to it while he cooked about a pound of bacon and eight eggs.
"Bread an' tea?" he said. "I'
m going to feed both of us. I don't want you untied."
He gave me food skillfully and quickly, cutting up everything into the right bite-sized pieces. I shook my head after the third egg and he went on to finish everything and then washed up the pans and dishes. I had some vague hope that I might reach a knife and hold it under my forearm, but I couldn't stretch my hand that far and anyway Pudd'n was watching every move I made.
"Right," he said when he was finished. "Now back upstairs. That'll be the hard bit."
He didn't call on Dixie for assistance. I could guess what the answer to that request would have been, and anyway the less I saw of Dixie, the better.
"Why not leave me down here?" I asked.
He considered it for a moment. "Don't think so," he said at last. "There's a lock on the music room, and none on the kitchen 'ere. We'll get yer back up there in a couple of minutes. Sit still."
We retraced our steps to the stairs and on up, Pudd'n huffing a bit but not under any apparent strain. We were at the top when Dixie appeared. He was scowling.
"Scouse called while you were feeding your face down there," he said. "He wants you to go over there tonight."
"What for? An' what about 'im?" Pudd'n laid one big hand on the top of my head.
"Don't worry about that." Dixie smiled so wide I could see the top of his dentures. "You can leave him to me."
Pudd'n shrugged. "All right. I'll leave in an hour, an' I'll hand over to you when I go."
He dragged me back along the landing and on through into the music room. All the way there I looked for a sign of anything that might be useful later. There was nothing.
"It's a big house," I said to Pudd'n, after he had moved me over near the piano and seated himself on the stool. He grunted noncommittally.
"How many bedrooms?" I went on.
He swiveled round to face me. "Look here, mate, I'm younger than you but I wasn't born yesterday. Don't try an' pump me, all right? If you're relyin' on me to tell you, you already know all about this house that you're goin' to know. Talk about something else."
I shrugged and leaned back in the chair. "All right. I was just interested, that's all. I'm surprised that you don't take piano playing more seriously. I could tell that you didn't have any trouble playing for Dixie—it didn't stretch you at all."
"Ah, he just wants easy stuff—dance tunes, mostly." He sniffed. "Fancies himself as Fred Astaire, silly old fart. He's past it. I play anythin' he asks me to, but it's not real music."
"So why not play real music? How are you in sight-reading and improvising?"
"I'm good—'specially improvising." His expression was interested, and he was getting into the conversation more. I didn't see how it could lead anywhere useful, but I had nothing better to do.
"I'd like to hear you," I said.
"Pick a tune." He looked positively eager. So was I. It was one thing to meet a musical thug, but natural talent is hard to find anywhere and it's intriguing when you meet it.
"How about a contemporary work?" I said. "How many late twentieth century piano pieces do you know?"
"Damn few—an' that includes early twentieth century as well." He struck a few sparse and dissonant chords that sounded like an extract from Webern, but not one I could place. "Hear that?" he said. "That's not music."
"So what is music?"
He thought for a moment. "This is." He began to play a beautifully balanced piano transcription of the first movement of the Schubert String Quintet, nodding his head with the rhythm.
After about a minute he stopped.
"Go on," I said. I was ready to hear more. "Who did the piano arrangement?"
He looked sheepish. "I did it myself, from listening to records an' all that."
"I'd like to see a copy."
"Aw, I don't bother to write much stuff down." He sniffed. "If it's any good you remember it anyway."
"Could you improvise on part of that?"
He shrugged noncommittally, and began again. This time he took only the first subject and began to carry it through a series of variations and modulations. He was soon so far away from C Major that I wondered how he was proposing ever to get back. Finally he set up a mock fugato, in which successive voices began to move him elegantly through the different keys. When he finally landed back in the tonic he grinned at me in triumph, ran through a flashing display of double octaves, and added a jaunty little coda. I noticed that his left hand, in spite of its less smooth movement, was perfectly agile and made the wildest jumps accurately.
"You're damned good," I said when he paused. For a few minutes I had forgotten that I was tied to an uncomfortable chair, a prisoner in a strange house with an unknown tomorrow. No denying it: Pudd'n was a better improviser than I ever was or ever would be.
He was flushed with pleasure. "Bit of all right, that, eh? It had me really goin' for a while with that fugue, but it came out not bad."
"Better than not bad. Look, if you want to try and earn an honest living, come and see me." (As I said that, it occurred to me that I wasn't going any place. See me where?) "You need some advanced training on use of the pedals, and that left hand could use some special exercises. But if you want to work at it, you could be doing this professionally in six months."
"Nah." He closed the piano lid. "I'm better off this way. Twelve years of do-re-mi practice was enough. I'm goin' to try an' learn to play that thing you did, though—just to prove I can."
He stood up. "I'll have to be off. Dixie will be up here in a minute. Take my advice, try an' act polite to 'im, even if he does come in 'ere an' start dancin' about like a bleedin' pet monkey. He gets nasty if you rub him up the wrong way—too fond of that bleedin' knife, it's goin' to finish him off one of these days."
He scratched his head. "Well, see you tomorrer. Don't get into no trouble."
I was left tied solidly in the chair, contemplating the pleasures of the evening ahead with Dancing Dixie as my companion. It was hard to work up any enthusiasm, even if I followed Pudd'n's advice and didn't get into no trouble. And I was getting awfully itchy to leave that chair.
- 7 -
Dixie had his own ideas of a pleasant evening. First he left me with the door locked for about two hours, sitting in the dark. I had plenty of time to try straightening in my chair and testing the strength of the wood. I could get about an inch of play there, far too little to do me any good, and after a while my legs and wrists were giving me hell and no amount of bending could bring my head close to them. All the knots were tied on the underside.
When Dixie finally rolled in and switched on the light, he was carrying a loaded tray of food, a flat half bottle of whiskey, and one glass.
"Still here, are you?" he said. "It's amazing how you don't get bored."
He poured himself a sizable Scotch, added water from a little jug, and sat down on the piano stool with the tray on his knee.
"What about me?" I said. "I'm absolutely starving."
Dixie stopped with the fork halfway to his mouth. "What yer talking about? Pudd'n fed you."
"No he didn't. He took me downstairs, but when we got there I was too sick to eat. I felt bad."
"Well, that's your bloody funeral, in'it?" Dixie ate the forkful of potato. "If you think you're getting any of this you'd better have another think."
I leaned back in the chair and let my head loll over to the left. "You saw the operations I've had," I said, my voice all weak and throaty. "I can't eat much at a time, but if I don't eat anything at all I get really bad. I'm not supposed to go more than three or four hours without food."
"That's your problem, then," said Dixie. "You had your chance with Pudd'n." He went on eating and drinking, but every half minute he would give me a worried and annoyed glance. I lay back, eyes half closed. I let my breathing become slowly more hoarse and labored. When he was finished he sat and fidgeted for a moment, then at last drained his glass and stood up. He left the room without speaking. I heard him going downstairs, while I strained at the chair ag
ain with the usual negative results.
He was back in five minutes with a glass of milk and a plate that held a big lump of cheddar and a thick slice of buttered fruitcake.
"Here." He put it down on my lap. "Now you can stop yer bloody grumbling."
I nodded my head towards my bound hands. "You'll have to feed me. I can't move."
"Like hell." His face turned red with anger. "I'm not your bloody wet nurse. Hold still." He took out his knife and held it carefully in his teeth, while he worked the knots on my right arm loose enough to move freely. "Now, you can work that the rest of the way for yourself. Don't try anything, though, or you'll wish you hadn't."
He stood about two feet away from the chair, holding the knife lightly. I could sense from the look in his eye that he wished I would give him a reason to use it on me. I carefully worked at the loosened bonds until I had my hand free, then forced down the milk and the food. It was an effort—Pudd'n had fed me more than I really needed—but at last I was done.
"Right," Dixie said. "Sit still. I'm going to tie you up again."
"Wait a minute." I fished in my shirt pocket and took out the pillbox. "I have to take two of these."
"Well, get on an' do it."
"I have to have water," I said. He had used the last of the little jug of water in his whiskey.
"Yer bloody moron." I thought for a moment he was going to hit me, then he pulled back. "Why didn't you tell me that before I went downstairs? I'm not your bloody slave."
He stood furious for a moment, then turned and walked out. I estimated that I had thirty clear seconds. I took three capsules out of the box and tugged them apart with my teeth, holding each one in my right hand. My plan had been to drop the powder from them into his drink, but his glass was way out of reach, over on the piano. All I could do was tip the contents of each capsule into the open bottle of whiskey, then stuff the empty containers in my pocket and give the bottle a quick shake with my thumb over the open top.
I was just finished when Dixie came back with a cup of water. He didn't even watch me take my pills, which was just as well—I'm not the world's expert on palming things. He seemed much more interested in his drink, and as I watched he poured about another inch into the glass.
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