Falling Sideways

by Tom Holt

  ‘You’re sure about that?’

  ‘Absolutely. There was some — I mean, I spilled some ketchup and I got a bit on my hands, so I wiped it off on my trouser leg.’

  ‘Fine. It looks more like dried blood to me.’

  As the policeman said that, David suddenly remem­bered that there wasn’t any tomato ketchup left in his flat; he’d used up the last dregs of the bottle on Saturday’s chips. Nor had anything so mundane as ketchup featured on the list of stuff he’d been given to buy at Sainsbury’s. So, if the puddle on the table was ketchup, where had it come from?

  ‘Does it?’ he mumbled.

  The policeman inclined his head gravely. ‘And I know what dried blood looks like,’ he added. ‘It looks like that. As opposed to, say, tomato sauce, which doesn’t look like that at all.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘But we’ll soon know for sure once forensic’s taken a look. Could I trouble you to take off your trousers? I’ll get you a receipt for them from the desk sergeant.’

  Earlier, David would have defined abject misery as sitting in a police interview room being asked questions to which the only possible answer was yes. After he’d been debagged and issued with his receipt, he made a small but significant amendment to the definition. If ever they send an expedition to Hell, down in the nethermost circle they’ll find all the worst evildoers from history, sitting in a police interview room saying yes to awkward questions while wearing nothing below the waist except bright blue boxer shorts and paisley socks. And serve them right for doing all that bad stuff. What David had done to merit such treatment, on the other hand, he had no idea.

  ‘Maybe I forgot to mention,’ the policeman went on, ‘but about ten minutes after we arrested you, someone fished the dead body of William Van Oppen, alias all those other blokes, out of a skip in Hillingdon. Nasty bash on the head, loads of red stuff down his shirt front — haven’t heard back from forensic, but it’s probably not tomato ketchup — and a bit of paper in his top pocket with your phone number written on it. Not that I’m suggesting you had anything to do with it. Just making conversation, really.’

  Tellingly, the first mental image that flashed across David’s synapses when he heard this was the look of utter disdain and contempt on his mother’s face as she scowled at him through one of those plate-glass win­dows they have in prison visiting rooms. It only went to show what he’d always suspected. When the going gets really tough, a boy’s worst nightmare is his mother.

  ‘Excuse me,’ David said, in a very small voice, ‘but could I see my solicitor now, please?’

  The policeman shrugged. ‘Yeah, why not?’ he said. ‘I knew it couldn’t last. Give me his number and I’ll get someone to phone him for you.’

  But Alex Snaithe wasn’t there; he was out of the office, hadn’t said when he’d be back. Would it be all right if they sent his partner, Mr Yaxley, instead?

  David had never heard of him, but that was just fine; better, in fact, for obvious reasons. ‘That’s all right, is it?’ he asked. ‘You’re allowed to have someone who isn’t your usual solicitor?’

  That was clearly a stupid question, not meriting an answer. ‘Better wait till he gets here,’ the policeman sighed. ‘You stay there. I’m going to see if I can get Sky Sport on the TV upstairs.’

  Left alone with a uniformed bogey and his thoughts, David tried to doggy-paddle his way up the rapids of despair. True, the circumstantial evidence against him was so strong that even he was pretty sure he was guilty, but there had to be a simple, reasonable explanation for all this, one that would eventually burst into flower and fill this dismal place with its radiant sweetness. So what if that explanation must inevitably involve a seventeenth-century witch and a backstreet cloning operation in Ravenscourt Park? The truth shall set you free, and all that.

  Well, quite. Nothing to worry about, really.

  The door opened.

  ‘This is Mr Yaxley,’ said the policeman, his tone of voice suggesting that whoever was responsible, it wasn’t him. ‘He’s your solicitor.’

  ‘Hello,’ said Mr Yaxley.

  Unlike the other three, he had a proper patch over his missing eye; also, his hair was shorter and neater, and his fingernails were clean. Apart from that, he was identical in every respect.

  David made a tiny whimpering noise and sagged for­ward. No, it wasn’t polite, in fact it was downright rude; but he couldn’t help it. Tucked away in the cupboard under the stairs of his mind, the People’s Front for the Liberation of David Perkins asked some very pertinent questions about how come the policeman hadn’t noticed the similarity between this Mr Yaxley and the dead body in the skip with the shirt-frontful of not-ketchup, but nobody else seemed particularly interested.

  ‘If I could have five minutes or so alone with my client,’ Mr Yaxley was saying (and yes, the voice was a pretty good match, as well). The net result, after a short battle of wills, was that the policeman went away. David wasn’t sure this was a good thing.

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ he said. ‘You come from a large family.’

  Mr Yaxley nodded and smiled. ‘You’re obviously very perceptive,’ he said.

  David frowned. ‘Has Van Oppen really been mur­dered?’

  ‘I believe so,’ Mr Yaxley replied, opening his briefcase and taking out a large box file. ‘That’s what the inspec­tor told me, and I don’t think he was lying. Usually you can tell when they’re lying. Their ears twitch.’

  ‘And Van Oppen was your brother?’

  ‘Half-brother.’

  ‘Excuse me if this is personal, but you don’t seem very upset.’

  Mr Yaxley shrugged. ‘I’m not,’ he said. ‘Bill was a pain in the bum at all times, especially once he’d taken to stealing things. That’s the trouble with family, they always expect you to do work for them for free. Anyway, that’s enough about me. How about you?’

  David closed his eyes. ‘I don’t think he was your brother.’

  ‘Half-brother.’

  For the first time since he was a boy, David was get­ting angry enough to be rude to a stranger. ‘I don’t think he was your half-brother or your quarter-brother or your five-eighths brother or anything. I think you’re a clone.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Mr Yaxley. ‘You’re thinking of an insanity defence. Imaginative, but I wouldn’t advise it, much harder to establish in court than most laymen think. Proof of insanity is governed by what we lawyers call the McNaughten Rules—’

  ‘I think,’ David ground on, ‘that you’re all clones —well, maybe not Honest John, I think he cloned you from himself. Unless he’s just another clone and one of you’s the real one, I don’t know. I don’t care, either. I just want to go home.’

  ‘Now we’re getting somewhere,’ Mr Yaxley said. ‘You’d like to get out of here, yes?’

  David opened his eyes and nodded. ‘I think that would be very nice,’ he said.

  ‘Right, then,’ replied Mr Yaxley, ‘let’s have a look at where we are, shall we?’ He leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. ‘I’ve had a quick glance through the police bumf, and I’ve got to say, it’s not looking desper­ately wonderful. I mean, if I was on the jury, I’d convict you faster than a Sampras serve. Though, just as an interesting point of law, I could never be on a jury because lawyers aren’t allowed, which says something about our legal system, though I’m not entirely sure what. Sorry, where was I?’

  ‘You were saying you think I’m guilty,’ David mut­tered.

  ‘No, I never said that.’ Mr Yaxley shook his head. ‘Heaven forbid, after all, it’s none of my business whether you’re guilty or not, I’m only concerned with what the police can prove. And,’ he went on, ‘not want­ing to sound downbeat or anything, but I reckon your spot of bother here pretty well slots into that category. I mean, the blood on the trousers — They’ve tested it, by the way, and it’s definitely Bill’s.’

  David groaned.

  ‘Awkward,’ sighed Mr Yaxley, ‘definitely awkward. I’m sorry t
o say it more or less torpedoes any chance we might have had of getting you out of here by, let’s say, conventional means.’

  “So,’ David said quietly, ‘I’m screwed.’

  ‘In a sense,’ Mr Yaxley replied. ‘At least, that one avenue of approach is probably closed.’

  David looked up. ‘One avenue

  of approach,’ he repeated. ‘You make it sound like I’ve got another choice.’

  Mr Yaxley dipped his head in a neat little bow. ‘There are other options available.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘You could run away. In fact,’ Mr Yaxley went on, ‘as your legal adviser, that’s the strategy I’d be tempted to recommend.’

  ‘Run away?’

  ‘Figuratively speaking. In practice, of course, running down the corridors of police stations may tend to attract unwelcome attention, particularly if you aren’t wearing any trousers. I’d suggest something a bit less energetic; a brisk walk, say.’

  ‘Fine,’ David said bitterly, turning his head away. ‘And how exactly do you suggest I go about it?’

  ‘Easy,’ Mr Yaxley said.

  David turned back to stare at him, and saw that he was resting both hands on the box file he’d taken out of his briefcase. ‘If it’s all right with you,’ Mr Yaxley went on, ‘I’d prefer it if you didn’t make your move, so to speak, until I’ve gone. Otherwise it could be awkward for me. I’ll be waiting for you just round the corner in Acland Street

  . I’ll be in a lime-green Mercedes. Not the colour I’d have chosen,’ he added, ‘but it was that or a boring old BMW. Best of luck.’

  Before David could say anything, Mr Yaxley had opened the door and gone. The uniformed copper came in and sat down by the door.

  Well, David said to himself, if I’m going to prison anyway, why not? Very tentatively he opened the box file, expecting to find a gun or a knife, or maybe a can of Mace.

  Instead, the box contained a small, round Black Forest gateau.

  David snapped the lid shut, closed his eyes and swore softly. A file with a cake in it, he said to himself; sud­denly everybody’s a comedian.

  ‘Here,’ said the policeman, standing up, ‘what’ve you got there, then?’

  ‘Nothing,’ David replied automatically.

  ‘Yeah, right.’ The policeman was coming towards him. Without stopping to think, David ripped open the box file, snatched up the cake and threw it as hard as he could. Miraculously, it caught the policeman full in the face, with the result that he crashed into the table, fell over it, bumped his head and went to sleep.

  For a full five seconds, all David could do was stand very still with his mouth open, like a goldfish trapped in amber. Then, with considerable effort, he rolled the unconscious policeman over and (hoping very earnestly indeed that nobody would choose that moment to come into the room) set about removing the man’s trousers. It wasn’t nearly as easy as they made it look in the films, and the trousers, once acquired, turned out to be three inches too long and far too wide round the waist; never­theless, they had to be an improvement on nothing at all. As an afterthought, he hauled off the copper’s jacket and put that on as well. He didn’t expect it would fool anybody, but at least he’d shown willing and done his best.

  The corridor was empty. He took a deep breath and walked out, trying to remember which direction he’d come in.

  Although getting from the interview room to the street was the most terrifying thing he’d ever had to do in his life, he got through the ordeal with no difficulties at all. Two policemen he passed on the stairs said hello to him, and a clerk in one of the offices he went through looked twice at him (probably because, as he later dis­covered, his fly had come undone) but that was it. He lunged through the main door, trotted awkwardly down the front steps (stairs can be a problem when the bones in your legs have melted to the consistency of junket) and tottered round the corner. As promised, there was a lime-green Mercedes parked about twenty yards down.

  ‘What kept you?’ said Mr Yaxley, opening the passenger door for him.

  ‘Drive,’ he replied.

  So Mr Yaxley drove; and, since he seemed to know where he was going, David didn’t raise the subject. In any case, he was too busy trembling and hyperventilat­ing to give directions. Instead, he told Mr Yaxley what had happened.

  ‘I told you it wouldn’t be a problem,’ Mr Yaxley said.

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Piece of cake, in fact.’

  Not for the first time, David found himself wondering about Mr Yaxley; but wondering required thought, and his brains were too frazzled for that. He stuck a book­mark in the place, and got on with his backlog of post-traumatic shock. ‘That was your idea of an escape plan, was it?’ he asked shakily.

  ‘It worked, didn’t it? Yes, on balance an Uzi would’ve been preferable, but I’d never have got it past the metal detectors. And here you are, which is the main thing. Why the fancy dress, by the way? Going on somewhere afterwards?’

  Ah yes, David thought, that reminds me. ‘I need clothes,’ he mumbled. ‘Proper clothes, I mean, not these things. Oh God, now I’m an escaped murderer, what the hell—?’

  ‘Escaped murder suspect, please,’ Mr Yaxley pointed out, ‘though it must be said, assaulting a police officer and escaping from custody doesn’t really gel with the innocent-bystander, pure-as-the-driven-snow image you need to cultivate if you’re serious about being innocent. It’s all a matter of emphasis, really. Still, there’s one good thing. With all the trouble you’re in already, a little police-bashing and uniform-stealing’s really neither here nor there. Wonderfully liberating feeling, I should imagine, knowing that there isn’t really anything you could possibly do that’d make things worse than they already are.’

  For some reason, David didn’t feel inclined to reply to that. It was hard enough trying to keep his head above the. meniscus of the rising tide of terror with only the rubber ring of fortitude and the polystyrene float of hope to keep him from going under. So he wriggled his chin down into the collar of the policeman’s jacket, shut his eyes and tried very hard to think about nothing at all.

  ‘If I were in your shoes,’ said Mr Yaxley, ‘I’d want to know where we’re going.’

  David shrugged. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘where are we going?’

  Mr Yaxley changed gear abruptly and overtook a van. His driving would have interested Einstein, on the grounds that anybody who travelled that fast ought to arrive ten minutes before he left. ‘While I was waiting for you,’ he said, ‘I gave my brother a ring. He’ll put you up for a day or two, until things have settled down a bit.’

  ‘Your brother.’

  ‘My brother George.’

  Now that David came to think about it, he’d been quite happy and contented in his snug little interview room, with that nice policeman for company. ‘Which one is your brother George?’

  Mr Yaxley shrugged. ‘He’s my brother,’ he replied. ‘His name’s George. I don’t know what else you want me to tell you.’

  ‘You’re right,’ David murmured. ‘Best not to know, really.’

  ‘Sorry, what did you say?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  David looked out of the window, but he didn’t know where he was. He tried very hard not to let it bother him, and, inevitably, the harder he tried, the more impossible the task became. ‘All right,’ he said eventu­ally, ‘please tell me where we’re going.’

  ‘I just did,’ Mr Yaxley replied, braking sharply to avoid a lorry. ‘We’re going to George’s place.’

  ‘Yes, I got that part. ‘Where is George’s place?’

  ‘Where we ‘re going.’

  David gave up and leaned back against the headrest. Of course, sleep would be out of the question, with his mind churning away like it was, but closing his eyes might have a soothing effect— He woke up, and realised that the car had stopped. It was dark.

  ‘We’re here,’ said Mr Yaxley’s voice beside him. ‘Now then: no offence, but I’d rather not get ou
t here, just in case someone sees us together. I expect George’ll lend you some clothes if you ask him nicely.’

  That, apparently, was Mr Yaxley’s way of saying Get lost. David opened his door, then hesitated.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘For rescuing me, and arranging all this, and the lift.’

  ‘My pleasure. Any friend of my brother’s is a friend of mine.

  David closed the door and the car drove off, spraying his legs with gravel. He looked round and saw a light, a hundred yards or so away. There were no other signs of life, and it was as dark as the dreams of lawyers. It was also unnervingly quiet, no comforting growl of ambient traffic, implying he was in the country somewhere. He sighed, and started walking.

  He hadn’t gone more than five yards or so when he heard a noise, and thought: Yes, it’s about time one of them showed up. After all, every other horrible thing I could possibly think of has happened to me today, 50 it’s inevitable there’d have to be big dogs sooner or later. He held perfectly still and listened to the growling, trying to figure out where it was coming from.

  Although he tended to be open-minded on most issues (to the point where, if asked how many sugars he wanted in his tea, he’d reply that it was something of a grey area and called for a flexible, non-judgemental approach) he was absolutely certain about where he stood in relation to dogs, namely as far away from them as possible, preferably on a tall stepladder. The only good dog, in his view, was the long brown kind you find swamped in mustard inside a finger-roll, and even they gave him wind. On balance, he hated big, snarling dogs more than small, yapping dogs, but there wasn’t much in it either way. This one, as far as he could establish, was a big, snarling dog. Very big, now with twenty-five per cent added snarls.

  He stood still for a very long time and, as he had nothing else to do, he made use of the opportunity to reflect on the events of the last couple of days, focusing on how he’d managed to go from being a moderately happy computer wizard to a desperate dog-cornered fugitive without doing anything particularly bad. He didn’t dare move, and in any case his body appeared to have been frozen solid by fear, so he couldn’t get out a pencil and paper and formulate his data scientifically in a pie chart, graph or Venn diagram, but it was all quite straightforward to visualise: a straight line, representing his fortunes, slanting steeply downhill.