Sucker Punch (22 page)

“Not a problem,” I say.

Munroe pulls up a chair and sits opposite me; Wallace closes the door and leans against it, his arms crossed.

“You're not going to sit?” I say.

“No, thanks,” says Wallace.

“If we could go through your story one more time,” says Munroe. “Just a few things I want to get absolutely clear.”

“That's fine.”

“Just to nail the facts down,” he says.

“Yeah.”

Munroe laces his fingers together, looks down at my statement so far. “You were in the car with Mr Byrne, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“And you were heading where?”

“I don't know. He didn't tell me.”

“But he was giving you directions,” says Wallace. Obviously got this committed to memory.

“Yes.”

“Did you ask him where you were going?” says Munroe.

“A couple of times, yeah.”

“And what did he say?”

“He didn't answer me.”

“How was Mr Byrne's mood?” says Wallace.

“Homicidal,” I say.

Wallace smiles and nods; Munroe's mouth twitches as he says, “You knew he was going to shoot you.”

“I take that back.” I shift position again, wonder what the hell these chairs are made out of. “I didn't know he was going to shoot me. He was edgy, though. Something was bothering him.”

“Did he tell you what that was?” says Munroe.

“Before he shot me, yes.”

“And what was bothering him?”

“He thought I'd taken a bribe.”

“A bribe.”

“Yes.”

“What kind of bribe?”

“The money kind.”

“What was the bribe for?” says Wallace.

“I had a fighter in an amateur competition. The bribe was supposed to make him lose.”

“This would be… Liam Wooley?” says Munroe.

“That's him.”

“And the… Alvarez competition.”

“Yeah.”

“You a coach?” says Wallace.

“No.”

“But you've got a fighter,” he says.

“What did you tell Mr Byrne?” says Munroe.

“I was chaperone to Liam.” Wallace nods, scratches his chin. “And I told Nelson he was out of his mind.”

“And what happened then?” says Munroe.

“He pulled the gun and fired it.”

Munroe waits for me to continue. I don't.

“You're saying he shot you,” he says.

I point to the side of my head. “I'd say that was a pretty solid description.”

“But that was… the
second
shot?”

“Yeah.”

I dropped my hands from the steering wheel after the first shot. Couldn't hear anything, blinded by smoke and fear. I lunged at Nelson, felt my open palms connect with something solid, the seatbelt lock. The only thing I could do, instinct taking over. Then Nelson pulled the trigger again, took me out, threw my head back.

But before I tapped out, there was something. Nelson grew smaller all at once, sucked out of the car like it was a plane and I was flying low. As he dropped out of sight, the rest of the world followed suit.

And then it was a dull, aching grey. I don't know how long.

I heard something.

Someone telling me that
blue skies
were smiling at me…

It was Ella Fitzgerald.

…telling me I couldn't see anything but
blue
skies…

It was that bloke who did the theme tune to
Moonlighting
.

…and those bluebirds were singing a song…

And it was Willie Nelson. He caught the tune, stayed with it, pulled me out a little so I could feel my heart beating again, thumping hard against my ribs. Good job your parents called you Nelson, Nelson. Can't imagine how tough your life would've been with a name like Willie Byrne. There were worse folks to be named after, too. At least Willie had the soft, lilting voice, as if he didn't really care about the song, but he made
you
care with his braids and his shining perfect teeth. Another job to get the IRS off his arse, but to me, right then, it was like the heavens fucking well opened wide.

…and there were nothing but blue skies from now on…

Out of the murk, the song continued, dropped in volume and the sound of bubbling, hissing, like water running over the music.

Yeah, water in the middle of the fucking desert. Give your head a shake, Cal.

Then the voices. More than Willie Nelson. One male, one female, both American. Muffled at first. Became clearer as the temperature dropped.

“You think he's really dead?” said the female.

“I don't know. Leave him,” said the male.

“We can't leave him.”

“Leave him. Get to town, we'll call the police.”

“We can't leave him here, Ed. What if he's still alive?”

“Then he'll still be alive when the cops come.”

“You have your cell?”

“I can't get a signal out here. I tried already. We can't get a signal out here, and there's nothing here, it makes me wonder why we got the thing.”

“For emergencies,” she said.

“Yeah, like this one?”

“You really think he's dead?”

“I think it's hotter'n Hades out here and there's nothing we can do for him. We'll call the cops in town.”

“I don't know…”

“Marie, I'm not discussing this anymore. You want to stay, stay here with your new boyfriend.”

“Ed.”

“You want to get out of the sun before your brains fry, you get in the vehicle and we head into town.”

And I tapped out again.

I came back like a match struck behind my eyelids, light flaring. The pain flared at the same time, made sure I was back and stayed back. I couldn't move my head. Didn't know of any way to do it without hurting myself. Opening my eyes was a struggle — they felt stuck together. I pulled out eyelashes as I pulled myself back to reality. My head was glued to the seat. The passenger door to the Metro hung open, the car leaning to one side and down. I tried to move my head, heard a wet sound as I peeled my face from the head rest.

The air conditioning was still on in the car, cool air digging into my cheek. It hurt my lungs as I took as big a breath as I could manage. Felt like someone gone to work on my chest like Liam and his heavy bag. I tugged at the seat belt, but it wouldn't budge.

Telling myself, don't pass out again. If it wasn't for the air conditioning, you'd be dead by now.

There had to be a limit on how long the battery in this shitpot Metro could last.

That shitpot Metro just saved your fucking life.

I remembered the way Nelson dropped out of sight, the passenger door swinging wild. That one snapshot of his face, pure panic.

But I needed to get out of the car, assess the damage. I touched the side of my face; my fingers came away bloody. I pulled the rear view mirror towards me. My face was wrecked, a deep gash in the left side of my head, digging under my cheek and leading to one tattered ear. Behind me, I could see what was left of my earlobe stuck white and speckled reddish-brown to the driver's door.

One inch further, and I wouldn't have been looking at anything.

I fumbled with my seat belt, managed to click it open. Felt the belt dig in as it crossed my chest, like it had dug deep there. Better that than ending up on the road somewhere. I gave it a few minutes, let my lungs take in more air.

One hand on the driver's door, pushing it open, and I threw my arm out onto a pile of dirt. Sunlight burned my eyes. I dragged myself out of the car, dropped facedown. Rolled over, planted one foot against the side of the car and pushed myself towards the road.

Forget the fucking car, eh?

And that's where it got me, tumbled and torn in a ditch. It could have been worse. Yeah, it could have been a lot worse.

Shooting someone because you thought they'd taken a bribe. That was fucking harsh. Not letting them explain or at least try to lie their way out of it. To be that solid in your convictions that you'd play judge, jury and executioner. Jesus, for a guy who
looked
centred, Nelson had a lot of pent-up aggression.

I didn't need to check my watch to know that Liam was out of the comp. Hours had flown by. Shapiro would've called it. So it didn't matter if I managed to get the Metro out of the ditch, got the engine running and started driving, because it was all over already. One bullet and my low threshold for pain just sealed the deal.

I tried to think of something good about my situation. I was alive. Tick that box. And that was it.

I could walk back to Los Angeles, or I could keep walking somewhere else. That was if I knew which way Los Angeles was. And if whatever brain damage I'd suffered didn't cut me down, the heat and blood loss would. After all, it was hot-hot-hot and the weatherman was wearing a suit. They'd find me roasted by the side of the road, pity the poor wee Brit who went out for an afternoon stroll.

“Didn't he know the meaning of desert?”

“Nah, man, they don't have deserts in Britain. It's all fields and shit.”

“But it's hot out there. He should've stayed in the damn car.”

That's what I intended to do. But then thought twice about it. I'd have the air conditioning, maybe a bottle of water, but I'd be sitting there waiting for help that might not come. And I'd be tortured with day dreams of beating the everloving shit out of Nelson bastard Byrne.

And where
was
Nelson?

Somewhere in the wilderness, vultures were circling. I couldn't see them or hear them, but I could sure as fuck feel them.

C'mon,
move
.

You fucking lazy bastard coward. Get moving. Get up. Get walking. Do something.

Get the fuck
up
.

I twisted round, dug my hands into the dirt and pushed myself up to my hands and knees. Stuck there in the middle of a girly push-up until I caught my breath. Then I tried to stand up. It was all baby steps, took far longer than it should have, but then baby steps were still steps forward. No sense in rushing it.

I stood by the side of the road on watery legs. Shielding my eyes from the glare, I could just about make out the scarred asphalt. Black streaks gleaming where the tyres tried to grab before I careened off the road. It looked like it had been a short drive to the ditch. I didn't have the momentum to go through the windscreen, just enough for my seat belt to lock and slam me across the chest.

Squinted up the road, thought I should've seen something other than brush and desert. Nelson should have been visible. Twisted in a heap somewhere. I hoped to Christ the fall from the car hadn't killed him, because I didn't need that on my conscience. I was a lot of things, but I wasn't a murderer.

So I started walking. Followed the ditch. My right leg gypped me worse than the left, and my back kicked in with every step.

Just like the old days.

Wishing I had the codeine.

Wishing I had the prozac, the diazepam.

Knowing they were all back at the hotel.

Wishing I had a beer.

Wishing I had…

I stopped, pulled out the battered pack of Marlboros and slipped a bent cigarette into my mouth, fumbled some more for my Bic. I didn't care about dehydration, didn't care that smoke scratched at my throat. Nicotine was the closest thing I had to a painkiller. And I was hell bent on smoking the rest of the pack just to see how far it got me.

A hundred yards, and the energy slipped away.

A hundred and fifty, and I saw where Nelson had hit the road. A fine spray of blood.

Two hundred and Nelson was still nowhere to be seen.

He was gone. The bastard had had a back-up plan. He hadn't acted spur of the moment, he'd had it all worked out. Nelson Byrne really wanted to kill me.

Realising something like that, it can take the wind out of your sails in an instant.

I had one more glance up and down the road. Nothing. Dropped to the ground and plucked the cigarette from my lips, held it out in front of me. The smoke plumed straight up.

No breeze.

Dead.

“So you just laid down?” says Wallace.

“I just laid down,” I say.

“Why?” says Munroe.

“I was waiting around to die. Not a lot else I could've done. I was miles outside of the city.”

“But you didn't die,” says Wallace.

I look at the big guy for a long time, then smile.

“No, that's right,” I say. “I didn't die.”

I woke up freezing, drowning and grabbing at air.

“There you are, son. Coughing and choking just like the rest of us.”

I knew that voice.

“Don't be mean, Ed.”

And that one.

I tried to pull myself to a sitting position, my face stinging and wet. Wiped at my eyes, water caught in my nose. I coughed up something solid. Red, stringy phlegm hung from the back of my hand.

“I told you he wasn't dead.”

“Guy manages to get himself out of the car, sure he's not dead. I got eyes, Marie. I got a brain. I can use the two of 'em in tandem, y'know.”

I squinted at the new arrivals. My saviours were a couple in their early sixties. Ed was tall, looked even taller. One of the reasons I was feeling the cold was that his shadows fell directly over me. He wore a crumpled sun hat, had a cigarette in his mouth that was either menthol or filterless. From the gravel in his throat and the deep rattle of his breath, I guessed it wasn't a menthol.

“Ed thought you were dead,” said Marie.

“I didn't say that.”

“You said that.”

“I said he was
probably
dead. Probably.”

Marie was a plump woman, short. A patterned blue dress filled to the brim. She looked like a grandmother, and a good one at that. The kind of face you see smiling at you above a selection of baked goods at a church market.

“You okay?” she said.

“Yeah, he's fine. Look at him.”

I wanted to say something, but my throat felt like it'd been scraped raw. I waved my hand at them instead.

“You caught the sun, kid,” said Ed.

Marie pressed a bottle of water into my hand, closed her cold fingers over mine to make sure I held onto it. I nodded at Ed, brought the bottle to my mouth and guzzled the water. It hurt going down.

And it hurt even more coming back up.