The One Safe Place (56 page)

"What for?"

"Never mind what fucking for, Mrs. F." Barry hooked at the air with his fingers as if that should bring the keys. "Give them here before I rip that rag off you to see where you've stuffed them."

"If you ruin my things you can buy me some more."

"I'll ruin your things for you all right," Barry said, and bore down on her. Marshall saw her face quiver as Barry turned his hooked hand over and fitted it to her left breast. "Last tart that said no to me couldn't bear anyone touching her for months."

Darren's mother managed to stiffen her face, unless fear was doing that. "Go on. I dare you. See what Phil does to you when he comes home."

"Fuck all at his age if he knows what's good for him. Maybe he won't be interested in you anymore. Depends who he's had up his arse, eh?" Barry was closing his fingers and thumb very slowly while he peered into her face, and Marshall saw her eyes begin to dart from side to side as if they were trying to escape what was being done to her. They found a stick lying on the floor of the front room—part of the banisters, it looked like. Barry glanced at it and gave her breast a vicious tweak before opening his hand. "Want a fight? Go on then, fetch. I'll even give you first crack, and then it'll be my turn."

Darren's mother clenched her fists in front of her breast, apparently rather than let him see her rubbing it, but didn't move otherwise. Barry pointed one shoulder at Marshall and gazed sidelong over it. "What do you reckon, lad? Think Mrs. F should have a go? Better make a run for it if you can't cope."

Of course he was mocking him—Marshall was only unsure how much. Nobody since George S. had treated him quite like that, and he felt his mind shrinking back to that last day in the woods behind the house in West Palm Beach. He'd run away then, but he wouldn't now, because his presence might inhibit Barry from doing anything too dreadful. "Don't keep calling her that," he blurted.

"Mrs. F, are we talking about? What's your problem with that, lad?"

His mockery infuriated Marshall. "I know what it's supposed to mean. You shouldn't call anyone that."

"Is that right. You know what F stands for, eh. Maybe you know where you are and all, do you?"

"In my friend's house."

"You reckon."

Marshall rummaged in his brain for something else to say, however outrageous, that would hold his attention, because Darren's mother had dodged aside behind Barry and was wincing, rubbing her breast. If he could distract Barry for just a few more seconds she'd have time to grab the piece of wood. "In Darren's mom's house," he said, but that certainly wasn't enough. "She isn't what you said, you are. You're Mr. Fuck."

He'd never said that word in his life. It felt even odder out of his mouth than in; it seemed to hover just before his face, an invisible lump which he hadn't known he had in him. He didn't care, because Darren's mother had managed to stoop. She straightened up, lifting not the pole from the banisters but her purse, which she snapped open to produce a bunch of keys. "Here, have them. Do what you want. Only don't go trying to make out it was anything to do with me."

Barry was grinning with wide-eyed delight at Marshall, but as he turned to her his face dulled as though he couldn't be bothered to maintain the expression. He snatched the keys and stalked to the back door, and stuck the largest key in it to confirm it was locked. At once he was returning, glaring along the hall to see that nobody had dared move, and his glare settled on Marshall. "Get in the front, you. Get your arse on a chair and shut your gob, and don't fucking move till I tell you. I'll give you Mr. Fuck."

Marshall seemed to have no choice but to obey, since the only adult there hadn't dared stand up to Barry. If he tried to run, Barry would be on him before he reached the door. Maybe nothing very bad would happen so long as he did as he was told, he thought; maybe Darren wouldn't be hurt worse—and then he saw he was abandoning his friend. "I'll go if Darren comes with me."

"I reckon I was right about these two, Marie. Do you want some of what I gave your boyfriend, lad?"

"Leave him alone." Marshall had said it aloud at last. "He didn't do anything to you. He's got to come in with me where you won't be able to touch him."

"You think I won't while you're watching? Watch this."

Darren had been gazing away from Marshall, but now he turned a look full of accusation and disgust on him. Marshall saw Barry lurching at the other boy, one hand swooping toward Darren's crotch. "Don't," he cried as Darren limped backward. "I'll go in. I'm going now. Please don't hurt him."

Darren's mother shoved him out of her way as he blundered into the front room. If anyone had been visible through the window he might have cried for help, but there was nothing to be seen beyond the wreck of a garden except the flayed van. At least Darren's mother was in the hall now, between Barry and her son, and Marshall was alone with the banister post. Couldn't he grab it while Barry wasn't looking? Mightn't one blow with all his strength to Barry's head at least disable the man for long enough to let them escape? Could he steel himself to injure Barry worse for Darren's sake—to smash the man's testicles or poke the wood into his eyes? He glanced at Darren while Barry couldn't see any communication that passed between them, but Darren was again not looking at him. He saw the boy and his mother retreat a step as Barry came to glare into the room, and then it was too late. "I fucking said sit down," Barry said, and watched Marshall have to do so, and jerked his head at the others. "You two can give me a hand in the back."

Marshall sprang out of the chair. Perhaps he could dodge around Barry while the man wasn't looking at him. But Barry's head swung like a snake's toward him, and Barry threw out his arms, clenching his hands on the doorframe so that Marshall wasn't sure if it was only leather he heard creaking or the frame as well. "I left something in there," he said almost faster than he could think. "Just let me get it, okay?"

Beyond Barry, Darren goggled at him as though he'd just said the stupidest thing possible. Didn't Darren realise that if Barry was first into the back room he might find the gun? That couldn't have occurred to him, or surely he would be taking the chance to head Barry off. "You know, Darren," Marshall pleaded. "What I left in there before. You know, what I left under—you know."

Darren's face withdrew its expression into itself. If he understood, he wasn't admitting it. Much worse, he was making no move. Perhaps he felt bound to side with his mother, who had started to protest in a voice that grew increasingly wheedling. "He's talking crap, Barry. I don't know what he's on about. He was never in the back. You know I'd never have let him."

Barry's head snaked to face her as he let go of the hinged side of the frame. There might just be space for Marshall to dart through unnoticed for at least a second, just a few seconds. He dropped into a crouch that would help him dart under the outstretched arm. The movement caught Barry's attention, and he grinned so fiercely his scar turned white. "Fair enough, lad," he said, moving toward the front door, out of Marshall's way. "Get whatever you're whining for."

"Honest, Barry, he never—"

"Shut the fuck up, Marie, or I'll rip both them lumps off you. You do like you're told, lad, before I fetch you one up the arse."

Marshall was already sidling out of the doorway. He looked at Darren, and the other boy met his gaze, but his eyes were as blank as his face. Marshall was certain they meant to tell him something, only what? Darren's mother threw up her hands, distorting them into claws as though she intended to scratch Marshall with them, then let them drop as he dodged past. Barry was striding after him, so that he would have at most a few seconds unobserved in the back room. He grabbed the doorknob with both slippery inflated hands and wrung it, and followed the door across the threshold, and halted in panic.

He didn't know whether the room had expanded in his first moment of seeing it or he himself had shrunk. Either way, his fever had been lying in wait for him. He seemed to be in a deserted barroom, or perhaps an attic in which a few shabby chairs had been stored together with a homemade bar and a low table preserving hands of cards beneath its surface. The side of the bar was covered with garish hula dancers, all of them twitching like a cartoon stuck in a projector and about to burst into movement when the film pulled free of the obstruction. Several boxing posters drooped on the wall next to the bar, and the name on each of them was trying to form into the name of the man who'd pulled a gun on his father. Not now, he pleaded with his uncontrollably alien mind, any time but now. The floor was growing shifty, shaken by the footsteps which were coming for him. He stared desperately around the room, unable to determine how much he was seeing was real.

Under the window grey as thick smoke was a wrinkle in the carpet where it might have been lifted; against the foot of the bar an edge of the carpet was turned back like the inside of an old man's eyelid. The quivering of the floor seized his body as a creaking of leather arrived behind him. "Grab your chance, lad," Barry said in his ear.

Marshall floundered forward through the dim stale light which smelled and felt like ash. He was aiming to kneel, but his momentum sent him sprawling against the bar in a helpless crouch. He dragged his knees backwards, one hand flattening a restless cartoon dancer, and peeled the edge of the carpet away from the floor. Beneath the carpet was ragged brown linoleum which splintered when he tried to pull it up, and beneath that was a board which was clearly not loose, since part of it was trapped under the bar. He retreated several inches on his knees to be able to reach the next board, his shoulders flinching from the possibility that Barry was behind him, poised to capture him. But when Barry spoke, his voice came from across the room. "This what you're after?"

He was in the corner farthest from the door. As Marshall swivelled on his aching knees, Barry brandished one hand at him to let him see it take hold of the corner of the carpet and lift a wide strip away from the wall, and dig its fingers under the end of the exposed floorboard. The board tilted up, and Barry's creaking arm thrust into the gap, and reappeared with the gun in his fist. "Want it, lad?"

Marshall couldn't speak, nor could he judge how visibly he was shaking his head. As he raised one knee and gripped it with both hands, Barry jabbed the revolver at him. "Here it comes," he said in delight as wild as his grin, and snatched a cushion from the nearest chair.

"Don't, Barry, Christ, not here," Darren's mother screamed. If that had any effect, it was to encourage him. He shoved the muzzle into the cushion and lined them up with Marshall's face less than a yard away, and pulled the trigger.

There was a muffled sound—a click. "Lucky twat," Barry muttered, "and now your luck's run out," and squeezed the trigger again. This click sounded yet more muffled, almost apologetic. He stared at the gun for a moment, then flung it and the cushion onto the chair. "Fucking useless," he snarled, kicking the loose carpet against the dislodged board, and turned on Darren's mother, who was loitering in the hall. "Right, so when was he in here?"

"I told you, Barry—"

"I'll tell you what you fucking tell me. You tell me the fucking truth." Barry crossed the room in three strides which vibrated boards against Marshall's knees. Darren's mother pivoted like a weathercock caught by a gale, then she dashed for the kitchen. "Stop your boyfriend going anywhere or you won't even be able to limp," Barry snarled at Darren, and stalked after her.

The moment Barry was through the door, Marshall lunged for the revolver. He bumped into the chair, and the gun slid off the cushion, onto the floor. He clutched at the barrel before it could fall, and swung the butt into his hand, and closed the other hand around it, and hooked the trigger with his finger. The gun felt lighter than he remembered, but surely there must still be a bullet in it. He tiptoed swiftly into the hall, just as Darren came to find him.

As Darren saw the revolver, what might have been a secret grin passed over his face before it reverted to blankness. His attention strayed along the hall, toward the source of a jangling crash. His mother had pulled out a kitchen drawer, presumably in search of a knife, so hastily that the broken drawer and all its knives were scattered across the linoleum. "Come ahead, Marie, give us a fight," Barry jeered as she tried to grab a knife but sent it skittering under the table. "Only if I get it off you, think where I'll be sticking it." Then his lowered head rose slowly, and turned even slower, and Marshall saw his own reflection which Barry had seen in the kitchen window. "Hey, look, Marie, you're rescued," Barry shouted. "Here's fucking Wyatt Twerp."

The old man upstairs had begun to groan at the fall of the drawer, and at last his complaint became words. "Was that a bomb?"

Barry's false geniality turned into contempt as he glanced upward before confronting Marshall. "Put it down, lad, or I'll bash your teeth out with it. Get in the front while you can."

Behind him Darren's mother had straightened up empty-handed to watch. Marshall stepped backward quickly, with a sureness which holding the weapon had lent him. As he came abreast of the front room Darren moved out of his way, then doubled up with pain and clawed at the banister. "Don't just wave it like your dick," he said through his teeth. "It's still loaded."

Barry jerked to a halt outside the kitchen. He looked as though a noose had been thrown over his head, pulling back the corners of his eyes as far as they would stretch. His mouth opened, displaying the wet insides of his lips, and teeth which looked eager to bite. He saw Marshall almost at the front door, and tramped toward him as if trying to crush insects underfoot. "Here I am. Bang fucking bang. I'll be shot, and you'll be locked up, and nobody to guard your arse."

Marshall let go of the revolver with his left hand and groped behind him for the latch. His right hand began to shake with the weight of the gun. The shivering ran up his arm into his body, and he couldn't find the latch. Struggling to keep the gun pointed along the hall, he glanced at the door and closed his free hand around the metal knob. A cramp seized that hand, twisting it off the latch.