Injury Time - Beryl Bainbridge [47]
‘Fetch him,’ hissed Ginger. ‘Get the bugger up here.’
Like an obliging dog retrieving a stick, Edward descended the steps. He was buffeted by the wind. Branches of trees rocked against the sky. The embedded glass on the back wall sparkled under a hurtling moon. I shall drown, Edward thought; I shall be dashed to pieces on the rocks. Simpson was lying at the foot of the steps, clutching the hose attachment of a hoover to his chest. He was swearing like a midshipman.
‘Get up,’ said Edward. ‘For Christ’s sake, get up.’ He gripped Simpson under the armpits and tried to lift him.
‘Piss off,’ cried Simpson.
‘Your wife,’ entreated Edward. ‘Think of your wife. Miriam needs you.’
‘Fuck Miriam,’ moaned Simpson.
They struggled over possession of the hoover. The rubber hose wrapped itself about Edward’s knees. Desperately he heaved Simpson on to his feet. He didn’t care if the man was bleeding to death and shouldn’t be moved; they were standing up there, the three gunmen, urging him to hurry. Half carrying, half dragging Simpson, Edward manhandled him up the steps and on to the veranda. Both men lay stranded on their bellies, gasping for breath. Roughly they were hauled inside the bathroom.
‘The back wall’s swarming with the bastards,’ panted Ginger.
Simpson struggled to his knees. He looked down appalled at the front of his shirt. An enormous red stain spread from his shoulder to his waist.
‘I never hit you,’ cried Widnes. ‘You weren’t even in sight.’ He bent over Simpson and examined his head. ‘It’s nothing,’ he said at last, reached for the T.C.P. bottle that still stood on the washstand. He had fired at the wall; a fragment of brick had ricocheted across the yard and sliced the lobe of Simpson’s ear.
Simpson bled like a pig. He hadn’t known his body could contain so much blood. He imagined he was growing paler with each drop that drained away.
‘It needs more than T.C.P.,’ said Edward. He himself felt he needed a heart transplant. More dead than alive, spattered with Simpson’s blood, he sat on the edge of the bath and fought for breath.
It was ten to four by his watch.
15
Everyone’s sympathy lay with the gunmen. They had intimated what might happen if anybody tried to escape. What were they supposed to do under the circumstances? They couldn’t let people run away in all directions. And Simpson hadn’t been shot, merely lacerated by a portion of flying brick.
‘Teddy did warn you,’ said Alma, winding a length of cotton sheeting about Simpson’s head. ‘But you wouldn’t be told.’
‘They’ll think he’s dead,’ Binny said. ‘They’ll have sent for reinforcements.’
Muriel sat passively on the sofa, staring at the shuttered windows. Apart from glancing at her husband and frowning at his discoloured shirt, she took no interest in his condition.
‘You said there was only a rabbit hutch,’ fumed Simpson. ‘Why do you keep a hoover in the garden?’
‘You are extravagant, darling,’ said Alma reproachfully. ‘There was no need to throw it out just because it hadn’t a plug.’
Edward was worried lest the police would misunderstand what had occurred in the yard. It was important for them all that the friendly relationship built up over the last few hours should be maintained. ‘Couldn’t I explain?’ he asked Ginger. ‘You know, call out to the police? Let them know the position?’
‘What good will it do?’ Ginger said.
‘Well, don’t you see, now that they think you’re dangerous men, their attitude will be different. They won’t trust you. They might even place sharp-shooters on the roof ready to pick you off when you pass the windows.’
‘They’re there already,’ said Harry.
‘This isn’t Chicago,’ protested Edward. ‘I do think you should follow my advice.’
After some discussion Edward tied his handkerchief to the head of the sweeping brush and approached