Can’t feel a thing, Harry thought, and swore as the blood that had covered his hand like a red washing-up glove caused him to lose his grip. He angled his right foot onto the rung and pushed off, climbed onto the next one and pushed off again. Better now. So long as he didn’t pass out. He looked down. Ten meters? He’d definitely better not pass out. Onward and upward. Everything went dark. At first he thought it was his eyes and stopped, but when he looked down he could see cars below and hear a police siren cutting through the air like a saw blade. He looked up again. The opening at the top of the ladder was black; he couldn’t see the moon anymore. Had the sky clouded over? A drop splashed onto the gun barrel. Another mango shower? Harry went for the next rung, his heart throbbed, missed a couple of beats and then continued, it was doing the best it could.
What’s the point? he thought, looking down. Soon the first police car would be there. Jens had probably run down the ghost road howling with laughter, already down a ladder two blocks away and then, hey presto, lost in the crowds. The fucking Wizard of Oz.
The drop ran down the handle and into Harry’s clenched teeth.
Three thoughts struck him at once. The first was that if Jens had seen him coming out of Millie’s Karaoke alive he probably wouldn’t run off. He had no choice; he would have to finish the job.
The second was that raindrops don’t taste sweet and metallic.
The third was that it hadn’t clouded over, someone was blocking the opening, someone who was bleeding.
Then things began to happen very fast again.
He hoped there were still enough nerves in his left hand to keep it wrapped around the rung. Harry grabbed the gun from his mouth with his right, saw sparks flying off the rung above and heard the hiss of the ricochet, felt something catch his trouser leg before he aimed the gun at the black circle and felt the recoil in his damaged jaw as he fired. A muzzle flared and Harry emptied the magazine. Kept pressing. Click, click, click. Bloody amateur.
He could see the moon again, dropped the gun and before it hit the ground he was already climbing the ladder. Then he was up. The road, toolboxes and heavy construction equipment were bathed in the yellow light from a ridiculously big balloon someone had tied above them. Jens was sitting on a pile of sand, arms crossed over his stomach, rocking backward and forward, roaring with laughter.
“Shit, Harry, you’ve really messed things up. Look.”
He unfolded his arms. Blood bubbled out, thick and gleaming.
“Black blood. That means you hit the liver, Harry. There’s a chance my doctor is going to impose an alcohol ban on me. Not good.”
The police sirens had grown louder and louder. Harry tried to control his breathing.
“I wouldn’t take it to heart, Jens. I’ve heard the brandy they serve in Thai prisons is terrible.”
He limped toward Jens, who was pointing a gun at him.
“Now, now, Harry, don’t overdo it, it just hurts a bit. Nothing that can’t be fixed for money.”
“You’ve run out of bullets,” Harry said, continuing to walk.
Jens laughed and coughed. “Good try, Harry, but you’re the one who’s run out of bullets, I’m afraid. You see, I can count.”
“Can you?”
“Ha ha. I thought I’d told you. Numbers. Knowing that kind of thing is how I make my living.”
He showed Harry with the fingers of his free hand.
“Two at you and the dyke in the karaoke dive and three at the ladder. That’s one left for you, Harry. Worth putting a bit aside for a rainy day, you know.”
Harry was only two steps away.
“You’ve been watching too many shit action movies, Jens.”
“Famous last words.”
Jens sat up with an apologetic expression on his face and pulled the trigger. The click was deafening. Jens’s moue was replaced with disbelief.
“It’s only in shit action movies that all the guns have six bullets, Jens. That one’s a Ruger SP101. Five.”
“Five?” Jens glared at the gun. “Five? How do you know?”
“Knowing that kind of thing is how I make my living.”
Harry could see the blue lights on the road beneath them. “Best if you give it to me, Jens. The police have a tendency to shoot on sight if they see a gun.”
Confusion was written all over Jens’s face as he passed the gun to Harry, who stuffed it into his waistband. Perhaps it was because the belt wasn’t there and the gun fell down his trouser leg, perhaps it was because he was tired, perhaps it was because he relaxed when he saw what he thought was capitulation in Jens’s eyes. He lurched backward as the punch struck him, caught unawares by how fast Jens moved. He felt his left leg buckle beneath him, then his head hit the concrete with a crunch.