Dark Times in the City (37 page)
He was bigger than Karl and stronger, but his body had taken two draining blows. The first from the baseball bat that had shattered his wrist, the second from the bullet wound that was now leaking blood from his side. The pain and the shock were sapping his strength. Callaghan could feel his hand waver. It was as though an invisible weight had suddenly been subtracted from his side of the scales, and Karl had acquired an extra unit of power. The gunman made a
Ya!
noise and made a small jerking movement that brought the muzzle of the gun closer to Callaghan.
Again, Karl’s free fist slammed into Callaghan’s side.
Callaghan’s drained body told him that it didn’t have the reserves to regain lost power. It was a matter of time, of distance, angles and waning strength, before the muzzle of the gun would tilt sufficiently to allow the gunman to fire into Callaghan’s face.
Callaghan let go of Karl’s hand.
The unexpected lapse in pressure stole Karl’s balance. Callaghan’s foot on the floor and his angled knee gave his upper body the leverage to jerk up and forward, his shoulder smashing into Karl’s upper body and pitching him backward. Callaghan, screaming from the pain in his wrist, landed on Karl, slamming him onto the floor.
As Karl’s back hit the floor he grunted and Callaghan heard the gun fall and tumble on the concrete.
Callaghan used his right shoulder to pin Karl to the floor. His face was now crushed into Karl’s chest. He could smell his sweat.
His right hand useless, Callaghan’s free left hand grasped blindly for the gun. He had no idea where it had gone.
He refused to acknowledge the hope that now raged in his skull.
No hope
.
Struggle
.
When Callaghan had turned from the sink, after Novak was shot, when he’d lurched at Karl, he had already accepted death.
Hope is dangerous.
No hope, no fear. Just struggle.
Callaghan moaned as Karl’s punch connected with the wound on his hip.
The gunman’s other hand found Callaghan’s throat.
Another punch to the wound.
And again.
The hand tightening on his throat.
Callaghan’s lungs strain for air, but nothing comes.
No air feeding his voice, no oxygen coming through to his blood, his heart hammering, his flailing hand weakening, his brain racing, his head filling with noise and pressure, a sparking light shooting across his consciousness – behind it everything fading, light seeping away, the stretched muscles in his face relaxing.
‘Shit.’
Karl Prowse sounds more contemptuous than angry. He keeps the pressure on Callaghan’s throat.
He’s looking beyond Callaghan, at the bloody presence two feet away.
There’s blood on Novak’s face and on his hands, a quiver in his barely audible voice. ‘Let him go.’
Novak’s extended hand awkwardly holding Karl Prowse’s gun, the muzzle just inches away from Karl’s forehead.
Karl punches Callaghan again on the wound. And again.
Novak’s voice is a whisper.
‘Let him
go
.’
Karl makes a scornful noise and his hand tightens on Callaghan’s throat. His other hand stops punching and reaches towards Novak, trying for the gun.
‘
Arogancki
. . .’
Novak’s voice, soft with regret and pity, is so low that he might be speaking to himself as he closes his eyes, squeezes the trigger.
‘
. . . bestie
. . .’
Novak was still and white, his eyes closed. Danny Callaghan was leaning across him. He said into Karl’s mobile, ‘Hurry.’ Then he ended the call. He was angry with himself for having no idea what to do. To put pressure on either of Novak’s wounds might help him or damage him further. The stomach wound was still bleeding, but there was no great flow from the wound in his chest, which might mean that the bullet hadn’t hit anything important. Or it might mean the opposite.
Callaghan’s left side was on fire, his broken wrist throbbed. The wounds and the fight and the effort to find Karl’s mobile and make the call had drained his strength. He lay on the floor on his back, beside Novak. A few feet away, Karl Prowse was lying on his side, his eyes open and unseeing.
The floor beneath Danny Callaghan was cold, but that was okay – it
was soothing, given the blaze of pain that burned through his body. He realised he was looking for patterns in the years of dirt that streaked the inside of the corrugated roof.
Stay awake
.
The quiet was intense. He was sure that if he sat up he’d hear the usual distant sounds of city life. He remembered when he was a kid, when his dad took him to the Phoenix Park racecourse, he used to lie flat on the grass and marvel at how the noise of the thousands of racegoers had all but disappeared. Then he’d suddenly sit up and the babble of the crowds was loud again. Down, up, down, up, again and again. He had the urge now to lever his body up, just to prove that his memory of Phoenix Park was real. He knew that if he did the effort would make him vomit.
‘You call an ambulance?’
Novak’s voice, to Callaghan’s left.
‘You’re awake?’
‘You call an ambulance?’
‘On the way.’
Novak grunted.
Callaghan turned to his left, saw Novak, his grey shirt bloody in two places.
‘How you doing?’
‘It’s about – taking a breath.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Long as you can take—’ Novak coughed. ‘My dad, long time ago.’
‘Take it easy, man—’
‘Unbore yourself, he used to say.’
Novak went silent. Callaghan thought he might have lost consciousness again. Then Novak said, ‘Some day, my dad said, all that time you kill being bored, some day you’ll—’
After a few moments of silence, Callaghan said, ‘Novak?’
Nothing.
‘
Novak?
’
Novak made a long, low noise – a soft groan that eventually turned into words. ‘How long does it take an ambulance to – where are we?’
‘They’ll get here. You’ll be okay.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Really.’
After a long silence, Novak said, ‘Won’t be cooking, though.’
‘What?’
‘No Christmas dinner. We’ll have to skip it.’
Callaghan shook his head. ‘Not important.’
‘Jane, she’ll be disappointed.’
‘Don’t be daft.’
Novak made a sudden wordless noise and said, ‘
Jesus
, it hurts.’
Callaghan turned his head towards his friend. He couldn’t tell if the patches of blood on the shirt had spread.
Callaghan said, ‘From what I hear, Christmas in hospital’s kind of cool. They make a special effort, the nurses. They make a big deal of it.’
After a moment, Novak grunted something that might have been half a sentence. Callaghan was about to ask him what he’d said, then he looked across and saw that Novak’s eyes were closed.
Leave it. Let him save his strength
.
Then, his eyes still closed, Novak said it again, louder. ‘Next year.’ He took a deep breath and let it out. ‘Okay?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Next Christmas – I’ll do the turkey, right?’
Danny Callaghan laughed, and the laughter made his wound hurt. He said, ‘Next year, sure. I’m counting on it.’
From outside, he could hear the urgent rise and fall of a siren.
Acknowledgements
Many thanks to the publishers for permission to quote from Martin Carter,
The University of Hunger: Collected Poems & Selected Prose
, ed. Gemma Robinson (Bloodaxe Books, 2006).
The quotes from
The Art of War
, by Sun Tzu, are from the 1910 translation by Lionel Giles.
Once again, I’m indebted to Evelyn Bracken, Pat Brennan, Tom Daly, Cathleen Kerrigan and Julie Lordan for advice and support.
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Epub ISBN 9781409016519
Published by Vintage 2010
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Copyright © Gene Kerrigan 2009
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First published in Great Britain in 2009 by Harvill Secker
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