He sprinted down the corridor, and as he rounded the corner he saw the door to their room was open. He didn’t think anymore, didn’t fear, didn’t hope, just ran, knowing he had crossed the reluctant-to-kill boundary. It wasn’t like a bad dream anymore, it wasn’t like running through water up to your waist. He burst through the door and saw Liz huddled up behind the sofa. He swung his gun around, but too late. Something hit him under the kidneys, knocked the air out of him, and the next moment he felt a grip tightening around his neck, and glimpsed a coiled microphone cable, and the smell of his breath was overwhelming.
Harry thrust his elbow backward; it met something and he heard a groan.
“Tay,” a voice said, and a fist came from behind and struck him under the ear, making him go dizzy. He felt something serious had happened to his jaw. Then the cable around his neck tightened again. He tried to insert a finger, but it was no use. His tongue, inert, was being squeezed out of his mouth as though someone was kissing him from inside. Perhaps he wouldn’t have to pay his dentist’s bill, everything was already going black.
Harry’s brain was fizzing. He couldn’t take any more, he tried to make up his mind to die, but his body wouldn’t obey. He instinctively thrust an arm in the air, but there was no pool net to save him now. There was only prayer, as if he were standing on the bridge in Siam Square begging for eternal life.
“Stop!”
The cable around his neck slackened and oxygen cascaded into his lungs. More, he had to have more! There didn’t seem to be enough air in the room, and his lungs felt as if they were going to explode out of his chest.
“Let him go!” Liz had struggled to her knees and was pointing her Smith & Wesson 650 at Harry.
Harry could feel Woo crouching behind him as he tightened the cable again, but now Harry had his left hand between the cable and his neck.
“Shoot him,” Harry croaked in a Donald Duck voice.
“Let go! Now!” Liz’s pupils were black with fear and anger. A line of blood ran from her ear, over a collarbone and into her neckline.
“He won’t let go. You’ll have to shoot him,” Harry whispered hoarsely.
“Now!” Liz shouted.
“Shoot!” Harry yelled.
“Shut up!” Liz’s gun hand wavered as she tried to keep her balance.
Harry leaned back toward Woo. It was like propping yourself up against a wall. Liz had tears in her eyes, and her head was tipped forward. Harry had seen it before. She had serious concussion, and they had very little time.
“Liz, listen to me now!”
The cable was tightened, and Harry heard the skin on the edge of his hand split.
“Your pupils are wide open, you’re about to go into shock, Liz! Listen! You have to shoot now before it’s too late! You’ll lose consciousness soon, Liz!”
A sob emerged from her lips. “Fuck you, Harry! I can’t. I …”
The cable was cutting through his flesh as if it were butter. He tried to clench his fist, but some nerves must have been torn.
“Liz! Look at me, Liz!”
Liz blinked and blinked again and looked at him through blurry eyes.
“That’s great, Liz. If you can manage to miss me you’re bloody bound to hit him!”
She watched him open-mouthed, then she lowered the gun and burst into laughter. Harry tried to hold Woo back, he had started moving forward, but it was like standing in front of a locomotive. They were above her when something exploded in Harry’s face. A smarting pain traveled through his nerve channels, a new pain, burning this time. He smelled her perfume, he felt her body give way under the weight of Woo pinning all three of them to the floor. The echo of thunder rolled out through the open door and down the corridor. Then there was silence.
Harry was breathing. He lay trapped between Liz and Woo, but his chest was rising and falling. That could only mean he was alive. Something kept dripping. He tried to repress the memory; there was no time for it now, the wet rope, the cold, salty drops on the deck. This wasn’t Sydney. They fell on Liz’s forehead, her eyelids. Then he heard her laughter again. Her eyes opened and were two black windows with white frames in a red wall. Grandad was wielding his ax, dull, muffled blows, the thud as the wood landed on the hard, stamped earth. The sky was blue, the grass tickled his ears, a seagull flew in and out of his vision. He wanted to sleep, but his face was ablaze, he could smell his own flesh from the gunpowder that had burned his pores.
With a groan he rolled out from inside the human sandwich. Liz was still laughing, her eyes were wide open, and he let her continue.
He rolled Woo onto his back. His face had frozen in a surprised expression; his jaw hung open in protest against the black entry wound in his forehead. He had moved Woo, but he could still hear the dripping. He turned to the wall behind them and saw that it wasn’t his imagination. Madonna had changed hair color again. Woo’s plait had attached itself to the top of the picture frame and given her a black, punky hairstyle, dripping something that looked like a mixture of eggnog and red fruit juice. It fell onto the thick carpet with a soft splash.