Part 14 (1/2)

”You're the boss,” he said again.

We took up our positions once more. Inside the phone box this time I examined every surface it had to present. My man, the victim, would have taken all these in-but then his brain would have edited most of them back out again, dismissed them as mundane, irrelevant. A mistake: perhaps if he'd paid more attention to the environment around him some a.s.sociation might have warned him of what was about to happen, even saved his life. He must have done something wrong, crossed someone, broken some code of the underworld. So if he'd looked more carefully at the cabin's metal wall and taken in the fact that the dull red BMW was pa.s.sing slowly by, too slowly perhaps, and connected this with the last time he'd seen that car or its reflection, who he'd been with then...who knows? The stencilled figure on the window, the messenger, knew something was up and was trying to announce this with his horn-to blare it out, a warning; his free hand, the one not holding the instrument, was raised in alarm. And then the silence, like the silence in a forest when a predator is on the prowl and every other creature's gone to ground except his prey, too tied up in his own concerns, in sniffing roots or chewing gra.s.s or daydreaming to read the glaring signs...

I stood with the receiver in my hand. The digital display strip said Insert Coins. Insert Coins. Outside, from beneath their grid, the windows of Movement Cars promised wide-open s.p.a.ces opening to even wider distances-airports, stations and removals, light. An empty green beer bottle sat directly beneath the hanging plastic-wrapped flowers; it seemed to be offering itself to them as a vase if only they'd abandon their position in the grid, come down and turn the right way round again. The pavement, when I stepped out onto it this time, seemed even more richly patterned than it had before. Its stained flagstones ran past the phone cabin and Movement Cars to three or so feet before Belinda Road, then gave over to short, staccato brickwork before melting, as the pavement dipped onto the road itself, into poured tarmac. It was like a quilt, a handmade, patterned quilt laid out for this man to take his final steps across and then lie down and die on: a quilted deathbed. It struck me that the world, or chance, or maybe death itself if you can speak of such a thing, must have loved this man in some way to prepare for him such a richly textured fabric to gather and wrap him up in. Outside, from beneath their grid, the windows of Movement Cars promised wide-open s.p.a.ces opening to even wider distances-airports, stations and removals, light. An empty green beer bottle sat directly beneath the hanging plastic-wrapped flowers; it seemed to be offering itself to them as a vase if only they'd abandon their position in the grid, come down and turn the right way round again. The pavement, when I stepped out onto it this time, seemed even more richly patterned than it had before. Its stained flagstones ran past the phone cabin and Movement Cars to three or so feet before Belinda Road, then gave over to short, staccato brickwork before melting, as the pavement dipped onto the road itself, into poured tarmac. It was like a quilt, a handmade, patterned quilt laid out for this man to take his final steps across and then lie down and die on: a quilted deathbed. It struck me that the world, or chance, or maybe death itself if you can speak of such a thing, must have loved this man in some way to prepare for him such a richly textured fabric to gather and wrap him up in.

The killers had parked and were leaving their car. Behind them the windows of the Green Man rose up, impa.s.sive. When my man, the dead man, saw the two men heading for him with their guns out, just as his first apprehension that there was malice in the air-finally gleaned from the arrangement of bodies and objects, from the grimace on the face of one man and the cold, neutral expression of the other-developed into full-blown understanding that they'd come to kill him: in this instant, this sub-instant, he would have searched the s.p.a.ce around him for an exit, for somewhere to go, to hide. He would have pictured the s.p.a.ce behind the windows, a s.p.a.ce he'd seen before: the pub's lounge with its stools and pool table, the toilets behind this with their window leading to the yard beyond. His mind would have asked this s.p.a.ce to take him in, to shelter him-and been told: No, you can't get there without being shot; it's just not possible. No, you can't get there without being shot; it's just not possible. It would have asked the same question of Movement Cars' window, and been told: It would have asked the same question of Movement Cars' window, and been told: No, there's a grill here, and you couldn't pa.s.s through gla.s.s even if there weren't. No, there's a grill here, and you couldn't pa.s.s through gla.s.s even if there weren't. It might even have looked to the holes plumbed into the street's surface: the water outlet and the London Transport one and the ones with strings of letters and even the one with just the It might even have looked to the holes plumbed into the street's surface: the water outlet and the London Transport one and the ones with strings of letters and even the one with just the C C-and been told, by each one: No, you can't enter here; you'll have to find another exit. No, you can't enter here; you'll have to find another exit.

The two men had brought their guns out again and were raising them to point at me. I was swinging my right leg over the saddle of my bicycle, looking at them and the s.p.a.ce around us. There was only one way out: the strip of pavement on the far side of Belinda Road. It led past the black bar with no name to the bridge and then away along Coldharbour Lane. Separated from the road by a line of bollards, it looked like a sluice, a ramp, a runnel-one that opened to another place where there were no men with guns pointing at me. That's why my man had chosen that direction. By the time he'd reached the dip into Belinda Road, pa.s.sing the puddle into which his blood would soon flow, he'd have realized that he'd never make it out that way. That's why he changed direction. I went over the bike's handlebars this time serenely, calmly, taking time to greet the now familiar moments of landscape that came at me.

The sky, this time round, had become totally consistent, clouds running together into an unbunched white continuum. The black bar's outer wall was detailed with reliefs and ridges and long lines of painted gold. The grill over the window of Movement Cars, reflected in the puddle and viewed from this angle, looked like the gridded ceiling of a dodgem ring. The letters were behind it. They weren't Greek or Russian at all: they were the A A and and r r of of Airports Airports reversed by the water's surface. To the puddle's left two bottle tops lay on the ground. I lay there looking at them. My man would have seen these too. They were beer bottle tops. He would have looked at them and thought about the men who'd drunk the beers and wondered why it couldn't be him drinking them right now, these beers, off in some other place, around a table with friends perhaps, or at home with his family, instead of lying here being killed. Beyond these was a plastic shopping bag. On the bag's side were printed the words reversed by the water's surface. To the puddle's left two bottle tops lay on the ground. I lay there looking at them. My man would have seen these too. They were beer bottle tops. He would have looked at them and thought about the men who'd drunk the beers and wondered why it couldn't be him drinking them right now, these beers, off in some other place, around a table with friends perhaps, or at home with his family, instead of lying here being killed. Beyond these was a plastic shopping bag. On the bag's side were printed the words Got yours? Got yours? Just before I stood up for the last time I murmured, to the puddle, the white sky, the black bar and the pockmarked, littered road surface around me: Just before I stood up for the last time I murmured, to the puddle, the white sky, the black bar and the pockmarked, littered road surface around me: ”Yes, I got mine.”

My two a.s.sa.s.sins took their time in killing me. The slowed-down pace at which they raised and fired their guns, the lack of concern or interest this seemed to imply, the total absence on my part of any attempt to escape although I had plenty of time to do so-all these made our actions pa.s.sive. We weren't doing them: they were being done. The guns were being fired, I was being hit, being returned to the ground. The ground's surface was neutral-neither warm nor cold. Lying on it once more, I looked over at the phone box. It was horizontal now; the stencilled messenger was on his side, his arms spread out, a forensic outline just like I would be within an hour or so. I turned my head the other way. Everything was tilted: bollards leant away from me as they rose like plinths, like columns of temples or Acropolises. The black bar's exterior ran diagonally down the street, the golden markings on it forming dots and dashes. Its fire doors were closed; two blue-and-white signs on them bore the words Fire Escape Keep Clear- Fire Escape Keep Clear-two times, repeated. When I let my head roll slightly back, a bollard hid all these words except for one of the two Escape Escapes. Would my man have seen this, just before the life dribbled out of him towards the puddle? Escape? Escape?

Above the word Escape, Escape, cloud, white and unbroken. There was no movement anywhere. I lay there doing nothing, staring. I lay there for so long that I wasn't even staring any more-just lying there with my eyes open while nothing happened. Shadows became longer, deeper; the sky grew slightly darker, more entrenched. There was no noise anywhere, no noise at all-just the ma.s.sed silence of whole scores of people waiting, like me, infinitely patient. cloud, white and unbroken. There was no movement anywhere. I lay there doing nothing, staring. I lay there for so long that I wasn't even staring any more-just lying there with my eyes open while nothing happened. Shadows became longer, deeper; the sky grew slightly darker, more entrenched. There was no noise anywhere, no noise at all-just the ma.s.sed silence of whole scores of people waiting, like me, infinitely patient.

I never left. Not actively, at least. I have vague memories of being lifted, held above a bed of some sort, handled tenderly and delicately, but I can't really trust these. All I can report with any degree of authority is that I found myself back in my living room some time later, and that that same doctor, or perhaps another one, was s.h.i.+ning his little torch into my eyes.

13.

I SPENT THE NEXT THREE DAYS drifting into and out of trances. They were like waking comas: I wouldn't move for long stretches of time, or register any stimuli around me-sound, light, anything-and yet I'd be fully conscious: my eyes would be wide open and I'd seem to be engrossed in something. I'd remain in this state for several hours on end.

I know about these trances because Naz and Doctor Trevellian described them to me. Trevellian was the name of the doctor with the leather suitcase and the little torch-one of them at least. Perhaps they've run together, all these doctors, in my mind. At any rate, a Doctor Trevellian, who had a little torch and various other accessories which he kept in a battered leather suitcase, was often in my flat, observing me. I couldn't do much about it: I was too weak to throw him out and so p.r.o.ne to lapses back into my trance that I couldn't even issue orders properly. The funny thing is, though, that I didn't mind his presence. He kept very still. He didn't flap around, pace up and down or even move his arms much when examining me. He stood still observing me from a few feet away, as pa.s.sive as a statue-or closer, frozen above me with his torch held steady in his right hand, casting down a beam of yellow light. He would talk about me to Naz, describing my condition: ”He's manifesting,” I heard him explain, ”the autonomic symptoms of trauma: masked facies, decreased eye blink, cogwheel rigidity, postural flexion, mydriasis...”

”Mydriasis?” Naz asked.

”Dilation of the pupil. All these suggest catecholamine depletion in the central nervous system. Plus a high level of opioids.”

”Opioids?” Naz repeated. ”He's certainly not taking drugs. I'd know if he were.”

”I'm not suggesting he's been taking drugs,” Trevellian answered. ”But response to trauma is often mediated by endogenous opioids. That is to say, the body administers its own painkillers-hefty ones. The problem is, these can be rather pleasant-so pleasant, in fact, that the system goes looking for more of them. The stronger the trauma, the stronger the dose, and hence the stronger the compulsion to trigger new releases. Reasonably intelligent laboratory animals will return again and again to the source of their trauma, the electrified b.u.t.ton or whatever it is, although they know they'll get the shock again. They do it just to get that fix: the buzzing, the serenity...”

”You think he's doing the same?” Naz asked.

”He wasn't shot, was he?” I heard Trevellian counter. ”In real life, I mean?”

”I don't think so,” Naz replied.

I sat there without speaking or moving, listening to them discussing me. I liked being discussed: not because it made me seem interesting or important, but because it made me pa.s.sive. I listened to them for a while; then their conversation faded as I drifted back into a trance.

Things carried on like that for three days, as I mentioned earlier-although it didn't seem like three days then. It didn't seem like any period. Each time I pa.s.sed the edges of a new trance time became irrelevant, suspended, each instant widening right out into a huge warm yellow pool I could just lie in, pa.s.sive, without end. What happened further in, towards the trance's centre, I can't say. I know I experienced it, but I have no memory of it: no imprint, nothing.

On the fourth day, when I was strong enough to move around my flat again, I had the papers brought to me. Two of them carried reports of another shooting. It had taken place in Brixton on the day we'd done our re-enactment, not half a mile away. Two men on foot had shot another in a car. They'd walked up to the window, raised their guns and shot him through the gla.s.s while he waited in traffic. He'd died instantly, his head all blown across the seats and dashboard. It was connected to the first shooting, apparently: revenge, a countermove, something like that.

I phoned Naz: ”Have you heard about the second shooting?” I asked him.

”Yes,” he said. ”Strange, huh?”

”I should like you to repeat the procedure you went through last week and set up a re-enactment of this one, too.”

”I thought you might,” Naz said. ”I'll get on to it.”

I walked out to the corner shop to buy more papers. It was mid-afternoon. The evening paper, stacked up on the counter, carried the headline: Brixton: Third Man Shot as Turf Wars Escalate.

I was confused. As far as I knew only two men had been shot: my guy on his red bicycle and then this other man in his car. Perhaps there'd been two men in the car and both had been shot. But then why say ”third man”? Surely ”second and third men” would make more sense. Besides, it was today's paper. Feeling a tinge of dizziness, I bought it.

All soon became clear: it turned out that yet another shooting had happened, just off Brixton Hill. The killers had used a motorbike this time. The victim had been returning to his flat, and they'd ridden up to him and shot him without taking off their helmets or dismounting, then sped off again. I liked that: a motorbike, its weaving movements as it cut past cars and posts onto the pavement where the man would have been fumbling with his keys outside his building. Then the way he'd have seen his own face reflected fish-eye in the visors of his killers, like a funfair's hall of mirrors. The attack had been revenge for the revenge, another countermove. Turf Wars. Turf Wars. I thought of those patches in garden centres, piled up in squares, then of squares of a chessboard, then of a forensic grid. I walked back to my flat and phoned Naz again: I thought of those patches in garden centres, piled up in squares, then of squares of a chessboard, then of a forensic grid. I walked back to my flat and phoned Naz again: ”Did you know there's been another one?” I said.

”I do,” said Naz. ”We just spoke. You've asked me to set up a re-enactment of it.”

”No,” I said. ”I know that-but there's been another other one.”

There was a silence at Naz's end.

”h.e.l.lo?” I said.

”Yes,” said Naz. ”Well, shall we...”

”Absolutely,” I told him. ”We'll re-enact it too. And Naz?”

”Yes?”

”Could you get Roger to...”

”Of course,” said Naz. ”I'd thought of that already. He's delivering the second one to me tonight. I'll get him to model the third one too.”

An hour later I switched my building into on on mode. Before we started, I held a meeting in the lobby. All the re-enactors were there-plus Frank, Annie and their people, and these people's back-up with their radios and clipboards. I stood on the second step, addressing them. mode. Before we started, I held a meeting in the lobby. All the re-enactors were there-plus Frank, Annie and their people, and these people's back-up with their radios and clipboards. I stood on the second step, addressing them.

”I want to slow it down,” I told them. ”Everything slower-much, much slower. As slow as it can be. In fact, you should hardly move at all. That doesn't mean you shouldn't do your things, perform your actions. I want you to be performing them, but to be performing them so slowly that each instant...that each instant...as though it could expand-you understand?-and be...if each instant was-well, that bit doesn't matter; you don't have to know that. But the point is that you have to be doing your actions very slowly, but still doing them. Is that clear?”

People looked around at one another and then back towards me, vaguely nodding.

”So with you, for example,” I continued, pointing at my pianist, ”you need to hold each note, each chord, for as long as possible. You have a pedal for that, right?”

The bald pate of my pianist's head went white and he raised his eyes from the floor to my feet.

”A pedal?” he repeated glumly.

”Yes, a pedal,” I said. ”You have two: one that m.u.f.fles the sound and another that extends it, don't you?”

He thought about this for a while; then his head went even whiter as he nodded sadly.

”Good,” I said. ”Start out at normal-no, at half speed-and when you slow down, when you're in the most slowed-down bit of all, just hold the chord for as long as you can. Hit the keys again if you need to. Understood?”

My pianist looked down at the floor and nodded again. Then he started shuffling back towards the staircase.

”Wait!” I said.