Cockroaches(113)

Liz was still laughing.

“Having a party?” he heard a voice say from the doorway. “And you haven’t invited Jens? And there was me thinking we were friends …”

Harry didn’t turn; his eyes ransacked the floor in a desperate search for the gun. It must have fallen under the table or behind the chair when Woo punched him in the back.

“Is this what you’re looking for, Harry?”

Of course. He turned slowly and stared down the muzzle of his own Ruger SP101. He was about to open his mouth and utter something when he saw Jens was about to shoot. He was holding the gun with both hands and had already leaned forward a fraction to absorb the recoil.

Harry saw the police officer who had rocked back on the chair at Schrøder’s, his moist lips, the scornful smile he didn’t smile, but it was there anyway. The same invisible smile when the Police Commissioner would ask for a moment’s silence.

“The game’s up, Jens,” he heard himself say. “You won’t get away with this.”

“The game’s up? Who actually says that?” Jens sighed and shook his head. “You’ve been watching too many shit action movies, Harry.”

His finger curled around the trigger.

“But, well, OK, this is over now. You’ve just made this look even better than I’d planned. Who do you think will get the blame when they find a mafia henchman and two police officers killed by one another’s bullets?”

Jens squeezed one eye shut, hardly necessary at a distance of three meters. Not a gambler, Harry thought, closing his eyes and subconsciously breathing in, ready to be on the receiving end.

His eardrums were shattered. Three times. Not a gambler. Harry felt his back hit the wall, the floor, he didn’t know what, and the smell of cordite stung his nostrils. The smell of cordite. He understood nothing. Hadn’t Jens fired three times? Shouldn’t he have stopped smelling?

“Shit!” It sounded like someone shouting from under a duvet.

The smoke drifted away and he saw Liz, sitting with her back to the wall, one hand gripping a smoking gun, the other holding her stomach.

“Jesus, he hit me! Are you there, Harry?”

Am I? Harry wondered. He vaguely remembered the kick to the hip that had half spun him around.

“What happened?” Harry shouted, still deaf.

“I fired first. I hit him. I know I hit him, Harry. How did he get away?”

Harry got up, knocked the cups off the table and finally steadied himself on his feet. His left leg had gone to sleep. Sleep? He put his hand on his hip and his trousers were drenched. He didn’t want to look. Stuck out a hand.

“Give me the gun, Liz.”

His eyes were fixed on the doorway. Blood. There was blood on the linoleum. That way. That way, Hole. Just follow the path that has been marked out for you. He looked at Liz. A red rose was growing between her fingers on her blue shirt. Fuck, fuck, fuck!

She groaned and passed him her Smith & Wesson 650.

“Bring him back, Harry.”

He hesitated.

“And that’s an order!”





50


Friday, January 24


Every time he took a step he thrust his leg forward, hoping it wouldn’t give way beneath him. Everything swam before his eyes and he knew it was his brain trying to flee the pain. He limped past the girl in reception, who seemed to be stuck in a pose for The Scream, not a sound passed her lips.

“Ring for an ambulance!” Harry yelled, and she woke up. “A doctor!”

Then he was outside. The wind had dropped; it was just hot, oppressively hot. A car had careered at an angle across the road, there were skid marks on the tarmac, the door was open and the driver was outside waving his arms. He pointed up in the air. Harry held up his arms and ran across the road without looking, knowing that if they saw that he couldn’t give a toss they might stop. There was a shriek of rubber. He stared up at where the man had pointed. A caravan of gray elephant silhouettes towered above him. His brain cut in and out like a badly functioning car radio, and a lone trumpet blast filled the night. To the brim. Harry felt the draft of the hooting juggernaut almost tear his shirt off as it thundered past his heels.

He was back again, his eyes searching up the concrete pillars. The elevated Yellow Brick Road. BERTS transport. Yes, why not? In a way it seemed logical.

An iron ladder led to an opening in the concrete directly above him, fifteen, twenty meters up. He could see a segment of the moon through the gap. He put the gun handle between his teeth, noticed that his belt was hanging down, tried not to think what a bullet that had sheared his belt could have done to his hip and hoisted himself up the ladder with his arms. The iron pressed into the cut he had received from the microphone cable.