Eight Ball Boogie - Declan Burke [81]
“It would seem,” she said, moving to her right, behind Katie, “that we didn’t underestimate you after all.”
“You’ve seen too many Bond films. Move again and I’ll blow his fucking head off.”
She was gliding towards the far wall.
“I believe you, Mr Rigby. Really, I do.” She reached the wall, holding Katie by the elbow. I watched her from the corner of my eye, keeping the other on Tony Sheridan. He hadn’t moved. “In fact, I’m willing to offer you a deal. We’ll pay your price for the camera.”
I didn’t believe a word. I’d seen it too often in the movies, where the bad guy talks you into a corner and then, just when you’re least expecting it, he whips out a knife and takes an ear off. Or maybe it’s a gun, and you’re blown into the emergency ward, or the morgue. The Ice Queen was still moving, though, and there was nothing I could do about it. Either she reckoned I was bluffing about pulling the trigger on the pro, or she didn’t care about him either way. She was wrong about the first – I wasn’t sure when, but I’d crossed some line I hadn’t even known existed.
I was right about the second.
“How much?” I asked, buying time, still watching Tony Sheridan. Helen Conway I could deal with, even if she was now out of my field of vision, against the far wall. “That camera was worth a neat pile a couple of hours ago and inflation’s a bitch. Right now I’d say it’s worth –”
I’ve never been kicked in the ribs by a rogue elephant but I won’t have to go on safari to know how it feels. I took off like a burst balloon and hit the ground two seconds short of the land speed record, the pro sprawled across me.
I hadn’t bargained on Helen Conway carrying a gun. If I’d thought about it, maybe, I’d have considered it a possibility, but I hadn’t even thought about it, mainly because I need keyhole surgery to get ideas into my head. But she had a gun. Once she had a clear shot, a position where the danger to the pro was minimised, she’d let fly. Minimised, but not entirely neutralised. He’d taken the bullet. I’d taken everything it had left over, which was enough to save my life. The impact pitched us both across the room into the middle of the tea chests.
As soon as I hit the ground, the Ice Queen started snapping off shots. I scrabbled around, desperately trying to manoeuvre myself under the dead man. Splinters of wood, metal and celluloid flew as I tried to bury myself in the floor. The noise was deafening, so loud I couldn’t even hear myself scream. I was a dead man, as dead as the pro on my chest. I knew it – felt it – it was only a matter of time before a bullet finally found me.
Time comes in split seconds, infinitesimal moments. Somewhere, sometime, in a parallel universe, that split second arrived; the bullet found me and the cosmos ceased to be. Back on planet Rigby, another split second arrived. One of the tea chests toppled over, giving me a clear view of the Ice Queen along the barrel of the pro’s gun, her head suspended above the sight like a coconut at a shy. Never mind your Grand Canyons, your newborn babies or your tropical sunsets – the sight of the Ice Queen’s grim features resting on the barrel of the gun was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.
I squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened. I realised that I hadn’t flipped the safety catch off. Then I heard a twenty-one-gun salute and the Ice Queen buckled sideways, disappeared from sight.
I rolled to one side, aiming to get as far under the tea chests as possible. I had no idea where Helen Conway was or what she was doing, but I had a fair idea she wasn’t ringing out for wreaths. And then I heard, dimly, through the pealing bells, the voice of God.
“Son? You alright, son?”
I peered over the tea chest. Baluba Joe was standing in the doorway, taller than I remembered him. Shoulders back, still wearing the grimy greatcoat, the soiled pants, the black