Two-Way Split (32 page)

Robin's eyes watered briefly. When they'd cleared, he scanned the room. Eddie and Pearce lay where they'd fallen. Nothing had changed there. Robin's gaze returned to the young man, who was hopping from one foot to the other. Maybe he was about to dash back out the window. Maybe he needed the bathroom.

"Don't do it," the young man said. "Don't shoot yourself."

Don said, "I'll shoot whoever I want."

Robin breathed a sigh of relief. Don had spotted him too. The young man was real. Robin stared at his feet and said nothing further.

Don said, "Answer me or I'll blow your head off. What's your name?"

Robin felt the gun slide down his neck. It appeared over his shoulder, pointed at the stranger.

The stranger said, "Kennedy."

Don said, "What are you doing here?"

Kennedy shuffled his feet. "Nothing."

Don let go of Robin and stepped forward.

Robin said, "I need a smoke."

Don glowered at him. "So have one."

Robin's right hand was swollen, his wrist at least a third bigger than it should be. He reached into his shirt pocket with his left hand and took out a packet of cigarettes.

Bees swarmed in his skull.

Don walked towards Kennedy.

Robin flipped the lid open and, pulling out a cigarette, dropped the packet. He bent down to pick it up. Then flicked his lighter. The bastard was empty. "Anybody got a light?" Everybody ignored him. He tossed the useless lighter onto the floor. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Pearce's hand move. He held the black creature Eddie had brought with him. The creature was shaped a bit like a gun. Like the black Brocock they'd used in the robbery. Was he hallucinating? No, guns didn't writhe in your hand. This thing was pulsing. It had a heartbeat. Or was he imagining it? That was the worst thing about being ill. Not being able to trust what you saw. Almost as bad as not being able to trust what you heard. But he knew that, and he could compensate. Was it a gun, then? Had Eddie shot Pearce in the shoulder? That would explain the blood. And if so, that same gun was now pointing at Don.

Pearce's arm was far from steady.

Kennedy said, "Now would be a good time."

Don followed his gaze, turning his neck until he was looking over his shoulder.

Pearce pulled the trigger. The gun screamed and the bullet punched a hole in the wall about five feet to Don's left.

Don grinned and took a step towards Pearce. "Haven't I been careless?" he said, dropping the holdall.

Robin blocked his path. His left hand shot out and his heel struck Don on the nose. Something popped. Don's face registered shock and his nose splattered blood onto the carpet. As he lifted the gun, Kennedy grabbed his arm from behind and twisted it. The gun fired a bullet into the ceiling.

"Hold him," Robin said. With his good hand, he prised Don's fingers off the gun. Once he had it in his grasp, he pressed the muzzle into Don's crotch. "You can let go, Kennedy."

Kennedy said, "Let go of what?"

"Just move," Robin said. "Get out of the way."

Don tensed. He stood on tiptoe.

Robin's unlit cigarette still dangled from his lips. He pulled the trigger.

Don bounced backwards into the open window. He landed on his back against the windowsill and made gurgling noises. He looked like he was pissing blood. He probably was.

Robin walked over to him, seized hold of his legs and tipped him over the ledge. Robin climbed through the window after him.

Don lay on the plank flooring, the remnants of daylight dimly lighting his face. He spat a mouthful of blood. When Robin grabbed his coat, he didn't resist. Robin dragged him towards the edge of the platform. "Long way down," he said.

Don spat more blood. Turned his head towards Robin. "Can't feel my legs," he said, shivering.

"Good to know." Robin grabbed Don's ankle and lined his leg along the edge. He grabbed the other one and moved it alongside. "You killed my wife, right?"

A sudden grimace wiped the smile off Don's face.

"Sore?"

"Payback, baby brother," Don said. "But you know that, don't you? Same as you know I'm not here. All you've shot just now is a piece of your psychotic imagination. I'm not hurt. I'm not really bleeding. I have no flesh, no blood. I'm just your crazy creation. That's all I am, little brother. Shit. Nobody else sees me. It's just you and me. You want to know a little secret? I didn't kill your wife. You did. You just borrowed my personality to do it, cause yours doesn't have the balls."

Robin sensed the cigarette in his mouth. Still unlit. "Got a light?"

"Fuck you."

 Robin patted his empty pockets, then sat down under the window and stretched out his legs. He took the cigarette out of his mouth and threw it over the side. No flame, this time. No paraffin. He'd have to improvise. His feet touched Don's arm. Don grabbed hold of his trouser leg. Robin braced himself against the wall and pushed his legs straight. Don started to laugh. Robin pushed again. Don let go of his trousers and grabbed hold of a piece of scaffolding, knuckles whitening around the pole.

Robin got to his feet. He took a step towards Don and kicked his hand. His fingers stayed wrapped around the pole. Again, and they loosened, then tightened once more. Third time, Don screamed. But still he didn't let go. Robin kicked him again and at last Don's fingers fell away. Robin lay down beside him, trapping his arms at his side. For a moment they lay side by side. Immobile. Then, raising himself onto an elbow, Robin lowered himself on top of Don. Don tried to push him off, but Robin pressed his head into Don's chest, wrapping his arms around his back. He started to hum "Dido's Lament" from Purcell's only opera, rocking from side to side in time to the music.

He opened his lips and sang, "
No trouble, no trouble in my soul."
Stopped.  Spoke. "Sure you don't have a light, Don?" He didn't wait for an answer. He had built up enough momentum to roll onto his back. He flipped over and there was nothing but air underneath him. Don didn't exist? Not for much longer, he wouldn't. Robin gazed into Don's bloodied face. He stared into it all the way to the ground.

3:54 pm

Rubbish bins heaped on his left only a few feet away. The soft landing he never had. He turned his head. Stared at Robin. Landed on top of the suicidal bastard. Bounced off on impact. Probably broke every bone in Robin's crazy body.

And his own.

Don feels nothing from the waist down. His right arm is twisted under his back. When he tries to move his other hand, only his little finger twitches. Someone reaches inside his head and squeezes his brain. Steel fingers sink into his chest. Bright lights pop in his skull.

An odd thing happens: Don is unable to breathe.

A pair of birds circle overhead. One named Donald, one named Don.

Donald's in the garage messing with parfin and he knows Mummy doesn't like it. He did it one time before and she said it was very, very dangerous. She hit him with her hairbrush on the bare backside until her arm was sore and she had to stop.

Robin tugs Donald's arm and Donald says, "Go away."

Donald is eight years old. Robin is six. He pulls Donald's sleeve again and says, "What you doing Donald? Can I see?"

Donald sighs like it's a big deal and says, "Go away." He swings his elbow and catches Robin on the chin.

Robin says, "That hurt." If Mummy was around he'd cry. But he knows there's no point. Donald'll just laugh. Maybe even do it again.

Donald says, "Sorry," in the silly voice he uses that Mummy tells him off for. He pulls a face.

Robin peeps over Donald's shoulder and sees him soaking one of Mummy's old knickers that she uses for dusting. Donald's tongue's sticking out of his mouth like when he has a fit. Donald's pleptic, you know.

"Mummy's going to smack you if she finds out."

"Well, she won't, will she?"

"What you making with it, Donald?"

"A torch."

"You need batteries."

"Not that kind of torch, stupid. A fire torch."

"A fire torch? Wow. Can I have one?"

"You're too young."

"Show me how to do one."

Donald screams at him, "Leave me alone."

Robin waits until Donald's face has gone normal again and then he plucks at his jumper."Can I smell?"

With a sigh Donald lets him move closer and sniff the soaked rag.

"Can I smell the bottle now?"  The parfin is in a plastic water bottle that Mummy keeps hidden in a high cupboard in the kitchen. She doesn't know Donald can reach it by standing on top of the microwave.

"All right." Donald unscrews the top and Robin takes a deep breath. It makes him feel a bit dizzy. He takes another breath. Donald puts the top back on and sets the bottle on the bench next to the box of long matches.

Donald drops the rag. His eyes go funny.

"Stop it, Donald."

Donald falls on the floor and his legs start twitching.

"You having a pleptic fit?" Robin asks him. Donald carries on kicking. Robin knows he should get Mummy from Mrs McRobb's next door. But he wants another sniff of the parfin first. He grabs the bottle and takes the top off. It smells really nice and he thinks Donald might want to smell some too. But Donald can't smell anything at the moment. He's too busy twisting about on the garage floor.

Robin has an idea. He splashes some parfin on his big brother's face. He aims for his nose, but some gets in his mouth and mixes with the spit at the edges of his lips. Robin pours some in his hair. "Shampoo." He pours more. "For you." Mummy makes him laugh when she says that. He pours lots more. He bends over to sniff it. He rubs his fingers in Donald's hair. It doesn't foam up like shampoo. His fingers smell of parfin. He wipes his hand on his trousers. Shakes the bottle. There isn't much left, so he dribbles it over Donald's jumper and empties the rest on his jeans.  It looks like Donald's peed himself. Ha, ha.

He's lit matches before. These are easy. Big ones. He opens the box and takes one out. The end is red. Sometimes they're brown. And once he saw a blue one. He strikes it on the side of the box and nothing happens. He tries again and the flame goes whoosh. He lets it burn for a while and then holds it next to Donald's head. His brother's hair glows blue and goes flickery orange and starts to crackle. He drops the match and puts the parfin bottle and box of matches back on the bench.

Donald is screaming. He's dancing on his back like a beetle and screaming. His hair is a big flame and the skin on his cheek is on fire. One of his eyelids looks like it's melted. Robin claps his hands and giggles. He gets the matches off the bench and lights another one. He drops it on his brother's chest and watches the jumper catch fire. He lights another one and drops it. Then he drops the whole box.

He waits and watches. He gets scared. He says, "Donald. Stop it now." When everything apart from Donald's shoes is burning he starts yelling, "Mum." He runs outside and into next-door's garden and up the steps and bangs on the door so hard that his fist hurts. Tears stream down his cheeks. He keeps yelling, "Mum. Mum."

She comes to the door and sees his face and says, "What is it, love?"

He grabs her hand and drags her along the path, back through the garden and into the garage.