Tim Stevens - Delivering Caliban

‘Giordano.’

The man didn’t reply.

Pope heard the echo of his last words.

Take a step back.

In the instant it took him to grasp the meaning — it was not a vague piece of advice but a literal warning — Pope felt the rush of air and the blow to his head.

10.00 am

A hands-free earpiece would have allowed Berg to guide Purkiss in real time, but on the other hand it would have been a distraction. So he said, simply, ‘I’m going down,’ and rang off.

The balcony ended in a low wall, reaching up to Purkiss’s knees, which was topped by glass panels surmounted by a horizontal steel rail at chest height. Purkiss stowed the phone in his pocket and gripped the rail and swung himself over. For a heart-stopping moment he was suspended over the chasm below, and although his instinct told him not to look down, he needed something to aim at. Twisting himself so that his front was against the balcony wall, he felt his feet probe the air above the balcony on the floor below.

By flexing his hips he developed a forward-and-backward swinging motion. On the forward movement he lunged forward with his legs and let go of the railing. He dropped on to the balcony below and for a moment thought he’d misjudged it, that his head was going to hit the railing. But he landed, half on his backside, crouching, jarred by the impact.

The sky was filled with noise — helicopter rotors, sirens, shouting — and although he’d landed with a thump, he didn’t think it would have been audible on the balcony below. Nonetheless he paused for a few seconds, holding his breath, listening. Distantly he heard a low voice, a man’s. Pope’s? He couldn’t be certain.

He took out his phone and typed a rapid text message to Berg: I’m on the balcony above Pope now. I’m standing up so you can see me. Is he directly below?

The reply came back in an instant. A couple of steps to your right .

It would be harder, this drop. He didn’t have the luxury of dangling his legs over the balcony below and developing the swinging movement to gain the momentum necessary to land him on the right side of the railing. He was going to have to do it in a single action.

Purkiss closed his eyes, drew a long breath, and vaulted the railing, turning like a gymnast and jacknifing downwards.

*

This time the landing was awkward. He felt one flailing foot connect with something yielding — Pope’s head — and the other strike the railing so that his leg was bent backwards. Purkiss flung himself forward and hit the stone floor of the balcony, his outstretched arms absorbing most of the force.

Pope had reeled back but was already reacting, lashing out with a kick that missed but made Purkiss scramble towards the glass doors, unable yet to regain his footing. The woman, Ramirez, had backed against the railing, hand to her mouth.

Pope came on fast, lunging at Purkiss and getting a hand across his throat. Purkiss, on his back, rolled and brought his knees up so that Pope arced over his head, the momentum carrying him full-tilt into the glass doors.

The crash was colossal, the glass showering down, and this time Ramirez screamed. Pope sprawled halfway through the ruined door, momentarily dazed. Purkiss clambered to his feet and groped at his waistband for the Glock, but the impact of the railing against his foot had hurt more than he’d realised and he staggered on that leg.

Pope was up again and diving for Purkiss, his head butting into Purkiss’s face before Purkiss could bring his hands up. White flashes erupted in Purkiss’s vision and he felt the blood gout from his nose. He stabbed blindly with a half fist and felt Pope’s breath gasp against his ear. Dimly Purkiss realised he’d dropped the Glock, but there was no time to worry about that now. He punched again, and a third time, his fists connecting with the springiness of ribcage. Pope pressed against him the way exhausted prizefighters did. Purkiss got a hand up and aimed a hook at the side of Pope’s head. He felt it glance off solid bone. Pope stumbled backwards towards the shattered door.

‘Stop.’

They faced one another across the breadth of the balcony, a distance of perhaps twenty feet. Pope leant forward, gulping, trying to drag in air. Purkiss clenched his teeth against the nausea he felt, the blurring of his vision.

The voice had been Ramirez’s.

Purkiss glanced to the right, even the eye movement sending his head reeling again. She was pressed against the full-length wall separating the balcony from the one next door.

In her hands, pointed at Purkiss’s chest, she held the Glock.

*

‘Please.’

Purkiss took the first sideways step towards her, extending his right arm to reduce the gap further.

Her eyes were white and wide. She lifted the gun jerkily, finding its weight unexpected, as was the case with most people who held a gun for the first time.

He was fifteen feet from her, Purkiss estimated.

In front of him Pope was beginning to breathe less raggedly, to straighten up. Purkiss saw his hand move inside his jacket.

‘No.’ The woman swung the gun across, again jerkily. Pope stopped moving but kept his hand in his jacket.

‘Nina,’ he said.

‘Take your hand away. Don’t take your gun out.’

Pope lowered his hand. He said, ‘Nina. Thank you.’

‘Don’t speak.’ Her eyes darted from Pope to Purkiss.

Purkiss edged another step closer. Once more she brought the gun across. Pope’s arm moved and she swung the gun back yet again to cover him.

‘Nina.’ Purkiss was closer and could afford to speak more quietly. ‘He’s going to let you die. He’s going to blow up the building opposite and it’s going to collapse. You’ll die, and so will lots of other innocent people. They haven’t finished evacuating yet.’

‘You know that’s not true.’ Pope’s voice too was calm. ‘You’ve trusted me. And I’ve shown that I deserve that trust.’

Ten feet between Purkiss and Ramirez now. The next time Pope goes for his gun , Purkiss thought. That’s when I move.

‘Step back,’ she said to Purkiss, the gun still aimed in Pope’s direction.

‘Nina — ’

‘Back.’

Purkiss watched her lips moving even after she’d said the word. Her eyes flicked up and to the side, as though she was listening.

‘Go away,’ she said, glancing to her left.

‘Nina,’ said Pope. ‘Shoot him.’

Pope’s arm moved.

Purkiss hurled himself at Ramirez, his hand grasping for her wrist.

She stepped back, brought the gun across to bear on him, and fired.

‘She’s confused.’

The snide man’s voice.

‘She doesn’t know why Daddy warned her.’

The hateful, hateful woman’s.

‘Did he want to protect her from the man from above?’

‘Or did he want her to get out the way so the man could kill Pope?’

‘She doesn’t know if any of them are on her side.’

‘She thinks they might all be against her.’

The gun was cold and huge and heavy in her grip. She needed both hands even to raise it to shoulder height. She’d had to let go of the violin, which was propped against the wall beside her.

Both men were hurt. Over to the right, Pope was breathing with difficulty. His hair and his face and hands were speckled and streaked with blood from the tiny cuts he’d suffered going through the glass door.

In front of her along the balcony wall, the other man, the tall one with dark hair — yes, the one from the gas station earlier, who’d tried to take her away — had a broken nose and blood all over his face and front.

Nina was aware of the men saying things to her, their voices overlapping; and of herself replying, though she didn’t know what her words meant.