William Boyd - Stars and bars

Freeborn grabbed Henderson’s throat and tried to push the blunt barrel of the gun up his left nostril.

“ Lying . Lying, you bastard!”

His big face and his glistening cusped and trefoiled beard was very close.

“It’s true,” Henderson croaked. “Last night. I saw him. I caught him at it. He said your father ordered him. Before he died. Last words.”

Freeborn stepped back, ran his fingers through his springy black hair. He looked over his shoulder, then aimed the gun at Henderson’s groin.

“It’s true,” Henderson wept softly. “How could I have stolen the paintings? Think about it. Duane burnt them. Ask anyone to check at the bottom of the back garden.”

Freeborn was prodding and tugging at his plump cheeks, as if trying to force his features to change from increasingly troubled credulity.

“Say you’re lying, Dores.”

“It’s the truth. I swear.”

“Oh Jesus, no . That dumb…that iron-brain, that fuckin’ air-head moron…” The gun dropped. Freeborn began visibly to tremble. “Oh Jesus.” He sank down on his haunches. Henderson told him the story again, in great and convincing detail, Freeborn’s terror relaxing him somewhat.

“I gotta check it out.” He stood up again. “You could be lying, Dores. Shittin’ me.” Doubt registered in his voice and eyes. “I gotta be careful. Very careful.”

He approached Henderson again. “I don’t know if you’re telling the truth, but, whatever you do don’t tell Sereno or Gint, man, or we’re dead. Both dead. D, E, D, you know?”

“I don’t see why I—”

“They’ll kill me, boy. They’ll kill you too, sure as shit.”

Freeborn paced around the room. “I’m gonna check this out. If you’re right, if you’re right, then I’ve got to fix up some way…” He paused. “I need some time.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “Time,” he repeated. “Look, I know, we’ll say you hid them in Luxora someplace. Yeah. Let’s say, uh, you rented a garage off of…of, um, Ed Beak, yeah. And—”

“Just a second. Why the hell should I go along with you, for God’s sake?”

“‘Cause those mean mothers’ll blow us both away for sure, numbnuts!” he shouted in shrill panic. “I’m tryin’ to save your ass as well as my own!” He paced around some more.

Henderson kept quiet, though he sensed profound unease at being inveigled into this alliance.

“OK,” Freeborn said. “We go back to Luxora. That’ll take time. Good, good.” He stopped. He seemed suddenly on the verge of tears. He clenched his fist, and pounded it on his hip. “That pea-brain! That asshole! Why did he do that? I’m gonna kill him! I’m gonna roast his balls!” Henderson assumed Duane was the object of his venom. “Stay cool,” Freeborn advised himself. “Stay calm. Take it easy.”

“Listen, you’re not going to leave me here like this?” Henderson spread his arms.

“Got to, man. No other way. It’s got to look right. Can’t you see? If they suspect…” He focused blankly on the middle distance rubbing his beard. Henderson sensed his terror, like a gas; blood turned to soda in his veins.

“What have those two guys got on you?” Henderson asked.

“I owe them, man,” Freeborn said in a small voice. “ Owe . You know? I owe them all kinds of shit. From way back, for a long time.” His face slumped. “It would’ve been all right. ‘Cept you came along.” He paused, then his voice became a harsh whisper. “They got me by the balls. One in each hand.” He held his hands out in illustration. He came over. “Play along with me, Henderson. We’ll get out of this. But don’t say nothing about that fuckwit Duane. That’s all.”

Henderson smelt his antiseptic breath.

“Yeah, and where’s Shanda?” Freeborn asked. “She’s with you, right?”

“At my apartment. Look, she asked. I didn’t—”

“Hey, that’s cool. No sweat. Done me a favour there, boy.” He raised his eyebrows. “Sorry. But I gotta do this.”

Freeborn punched Henderson in the nose, quite hard. Henderson heard a noise in his head like a walnut being crushed and everything went white and calm for a moment. When he opened his eyes it was as though he were swimming under water. He was on his knees. Blood surged steadily from his nose, splashing over his chest and belly.

“Sorry, Henderson. Had to do it. Wow, it looks bad.”

Henderson spat gouts of salty blood out of his mouth.

“Ben! Peter!” Freeborn called.

“Clodes,” Henderson said, a knuckle up each oozing nostril.

“Sorry.” Freeborn went out, returned with Henderson’s shoes. “Best I can do.”

Sereno and Gint came in.

“What you do?” Sereno said, wrinkling his nose at the blood-boltered sight.

“Says they’re in a garage in Luxora. I’ll check it out.”

“We’ll check it out,” Sereno said.

Gint still had the pliers in his hand. “Shit. I was going to tear his nipples off. Always works.”

Henderson, who was getting up, slumped back at this. His nipples throbbed spontaneously.

“Let him sweat it out,” Freeborn said. “Case he ain’t telling the truth.”

“I’ll be back,” Gint said, clicking his pliers.

They left. Henderson heard the bolt being slid to.

He sat on the chair while the last drops of blood plopped from his nose. Judging from the puddle on the floor and his encarnadined torso he must have lost a couple of pints. He stretched his legs out, let his head hang over the back of the chair. Gently, he touched his nose. It had sounded as if every bone and cartilage had been pulverized. He sat up and put on his shoes, his old black Oxfords, with shiny toe-caps. He looked around the room. There was nothing he could use to cover his nudity. It was completely empty. He crossed his legs. His hands were covered in blood and left palm prints all over his body. The blood on his chest and belly was beginning to dry, matting the hairs. He wondered what he looked like: some pallid aborigine involved in an unspeakable rite or ritual. Except the black shoes rather spoilt the image.

He thought about Freeborn, his new-found friend. The man had even called him ‘Henderson’. As he had suspected, Gage’s paintings had been mortgaged to provide his son with funds and favours. And Sereno and Gint were the brokers finally coming to collect, pick up the markers. Duane’s obedient act of destruction was likely to have further fatal side-effects. He wondered what Freeborn would do. Stall them? Go back to Luxora, ‘check out’ the garage, find it empty and return to New York to extract the truth from an anipplate Henderson…? The more he thought, the more perilous his position seemed, the more temporary his release. The time bought by his complicity allowed Freeborn the chance to extricate himself in some way or other — and he wouldn’t be overconcerned about Henderson’s fate.

He prowled round the room. Its sole window was a small casement, with four lights, about three feet by two. There was no catch. It appeared to be nailed shut. From it he could look down into a sodden litter-strewn alleyway that ran between his building and the blank brick rear of the one opposite. Craning his neck he could see grey matt clouds above but nothing else. The rain came down remorselessly. He still had his watch on, he realized. It was four o’clock, and prematurely dark. He felt hungry, thirsty and his bladder was achingly distended. He had to escape, that was all there was to it.

♦

Five hours later one of his problems had been steamily resolved in a dark corner, and he had narrowed down his escape options to one: the casement window. The door, the walls, the interior window had not yielded to the battering he had visited on them. He had grazed his knuckles vainly plucking at the wire grille over the window and had bruised his shoulder and hip hurling himself at the door. In films these things gave way with laughable ease, but he felt he had been charging at a concrete wall. This necessary reduction in escape routes was further disheartening: not only did safety lie beyond the door but so did his clothes. If he were somehow going to effect an exit via the casement window he was going to have to do it buck naked…Maybe he should just wait it out — tell Sereno and Gint the truth. But he had a suspicion that might not save his life, let alone his nipples. No, he concluded, it had to be escape, naked or not.