Injury Time - Beryl Bainbridge [48]
It took quite some time to wrench up the window. Holding a furled newspaper to his mouth and thrusting the broom into the night, Edward shouted: ‘This is a hostage speaking. I am a hostage.’ Behind him, Alma giggled. ‘The gun shot you heard was a misunderstanding. We are unhurt. Nobody has been shot. We are all well and cheerful.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ muttered Simpson, clutching his bandaged ear.
‘Mention your shirt,’ said Binny. ‘You’re covered in blood.’
‘My shirt,’ shouted Edward, ‘is not what it seems.’ He waited. There was no reply from the moonlit garden.
‘They’ll think you’re under duress,’ whispered Binny. ‘They probably think there’s a gun in your back.’
Ginger slammed down the window.
Edward wasn’t satisfied. He felt it wasn’t enough to say they were unhurt – they should be seen to be unharmed. He took Ginger to one side and told him it might be for the best if they were all observed together, chatting normally.
‘Chatting?’ said Ginger.
‘You know, informally. No sign of strain. What about upstairs?’
‘There’s no space,’ said Ginger. ‘You can’t go up there. We’ve put the table in front of the windows.’ He was overwhelmed by Edward. He didn’t know how to check him.
‘The table,’ cried Edward. ‘That’s perfect. Of course. It’s bound to put their minds at rest.’
Powerless to dampen his enthusiasm, the gunmen accompanied Edward as he cajoled his troupe up the stairs. Muriel stayed on the sofa.
They heaved the table on to its legs. Harry and Widnes watched from the doorway. Ginger sat on the stairs smoking a cigarette.
Edward urged Simpson to remove his bandage.
‘Leave me alone,’ shouted Simpson furiously. He lashed out at Edward with his fist.
Offended, Edward backed away. The man’s pain had turned him into an animal. ‘He’s got money troubles,’ he murmured to Binny. ‘He’s up to his eyes in debt.’ He supposed at a distance the blood on Simpson’s shirt might be taken for some kind of pattern.
‘We’ve got bats,’ said Binny, fetching them from under the bed. ‘But there isn’t a ball.’
‘Never mind,’ cried Edward. ‘It won’t be seen.’ Like an impresario he arranged the setting. ‘Lights,’ he called.
The gunmen shuffled backwards on to the landing. Alma, her arms about Simpson’s waist, supported him at the table. He blinked in the light. A green bat was shoved into his hand.
‘Laugh,’ ordered Edward. ‘Look as if you’re enjoying yourselves.’ He served an imaginary ball across the net. He ducked, slammed, made a little leap in the air.
‘He’s very good,’ observed Alma, watching the game from beneath Simpson’s armpit.
For almost a minute Simpson remained propped at the table, mesmerised by his opponent’s play. Then, stamping his foot in a tantrum, he tore free from Alma’s embrace and hurled his bat across the room.
‘What a bad sport!’ chided Alma, avoiding his flailing arms.
‘Lights off,’ shouted Edward. Exhausted, he led the way on to the landing.
‘You,’ said Ginger, tapping Binny on the shoulder, ‘I want a word.’
Going downstairs, Edward felt there was nothing more he could do. He hoped the newspaper reports wouldn’t distort the scene at the ping-pong table. He wanted Helen to read that he was alive and well, not having the time of his life. He wondered if he hadn’t overdone the laughter.
16
Preceding Ginger into the bedroom, Binny was already composing in her head sentences she would repeat later to Edward and the others. I don’t really know myself why he chose to confide his plans to me. Perhaps I remind him of someone . . . he has a sister, you know. Mind you, we hit it off right from the beginning. Perhaps it’s a little fanciful, but I had the feeling we were on the same wavelength. It happens sometimes—
‘Over there,’ said Ginger.
She looked across the room. He was staring at the divan bed shoved against the far wall.
‘Hurry up,’ he said.
She wasn’t sure if she’d understood him. They’d been such pals.
‘Get your drawers off,’ he