Chapter Twenty-Five

Singin' In The Rain.

The car was relatively silent. The driver had still not moved. The only noise came from the flinging of an angry bird, the smashing of glass and wood, and the snorting of egg-stealing pigs. Liz had taken Sebastian’s phone further into angry birds than he ever would have dreamed. She’d lost count of how many levels she’d won, but she was doing so well she was beginning to wish Sandra would take longer so she could keep playing and not call the cops.

Oh shit, the cops. How long had it been?

She checked her watch. Twenty-five minutes. Just five minutes more. If she heard nothing in five minutes then… But why not now? Why not call them now? Jesus, if everything was fine then she would have sent a message already. Don’t call the cops, all is well, we’re just having some tea. Five minutes could save her life. Or maybe it will jump the gun, and that five minutes could be why she dies because the cops turn up at the wrong time.

It’s okay – this is why there is a set time. Thirty minutes. If she was to stray, either way, then there could well be trouble, and that would be her fault. No trouble. If she calls at thirty minutes and it all goes to shit, she still stuck to the plan.

She got a hell of a shock when, four minutes later, a body fell from a great height and crashed into the bonnet of the car. There was a part of Liz that was a bit relieved the decision was taken out of her hands. There was another part astonished that the fucking driver still barely moved. The rest of her almost had a heart attack.

It was still raining.

It was still raining on the balcony as Sandra watched Blonde dropped the limp body of Stephen against the window again, jump to his feet and swing the balcony door open.

“Sandra!”

Before he could move further or say anything more, Sandra was up, had her hand on the railing and was leaping across to the next balcony. It would have been one, slick getaway, from apartment 305 to 306, but for one split second when she remembered how she’d made the same leap before, and afterwards realised how terrifying it actually was. That moment of doubt was enough for the forces of the Universe to react; and her hand slipped.

She felt momentarily weightless. Her hair was floating, despite the wetness. She was touching nothing, there was no contact beyond her clothes. The rain felt fresh and clean as it pushed her down towards the ground. But her other hand was too fast, and grabbed hold of the railing for 306 as it passed. It jarred her arm, and she hit her head on the side, momentarily breaking her awareness of the danger she was in, but her hand knew what to do, and didn’t let go.

“Sandra!” came that voice again, and Blonde was on the edge of the balcony as the rain darkened his clothes that were quickly clinging to his body.

“Give me your hand!” he shouted, and reached out. She snapped back to reality. Without answering him, but giving him a glare that would kill a moose at 100 paces, she swung her free hand up to join her other hand on the balcony railing. Adrenaline kept her afloat as she hauled herself up, slipped one elbow, then the other over the edge and clung on.

“Stay there”, he shouted at her. “I’m coming around”, and he ran inside the apartment, leaving the door open. She realised she was clinging onto the balcony for his apartment, and he was running around from the art studio to where she was. Not wanting his help, not trusting him for a second, she removed one elbow from the edge of Blonde’s balcony and grabbed hold of the studio balcony. Her arms ached and the rain suddenly seemed to make her weigh twice as much as she normally did. God, why was it raining so much, why now?? Momentarily she imaged her idiot flatmate’s party being flooded in the front yard, backyard and the various downpipes that blocked when it did anything more than drizzle.

She heard Blonde’s door being unlocked, and deciding to chance the laws of physics over anyone embroiled in the family saga, she let go of his balcony and grabbed hold of the studio balcony. He appeared on his, clearly baffled as to how they managed to be in exactly the same situation as before only reversed. And he had an umbrella now. It was large and yellow, and stood out dramatically in the dull light.

“What are you doing?” he called out as he came to the edge. She was slowly hauling herself up. “Are you trying to kill yourself?”

She dragged her elbows, then shoulders over the edge, and then slid her whole body over the railing. As she lay on the floor of the balcony, so soaked she didn’t even notice the one inch of water, she kept one hand over the edge, with her index finger raised at Blonde, signalling him to wait. She caught her breath, dragged herself up, and saw him still standing there, waiting like she asked. Obedient little puppy.

“Who are you?” she asked, still catching her breath.

“Richard Pohler was a good friend of mine you know”, he shouted back. “He never should have died that way.”

Breath. Breath. Breath. Get some oxygen back into your system. Ignore the fact that you feel like you’re 20,000 leagues under the sea.

“What are you talking about?”

“You don’t remember me at all”, he shouted over the rain. “It’s amazing. You really don’t. We met at The Four Legs the night Richard died. He and I went there together. You were leaving as we arrived. You’d had a few drinks, bumped into Richard and dropped your bag. Stuff went everywhere. We helped you pick it all up, you bought us a drink to say thankyou.”

She listened, and tried to remember. It was vaguely familiar, in a déjà vu kind of way. But none of it really came back to her. It could be true. It might not be.

“How can I believe you? You said nothing the last time I was here.”

“You didn’t recognise me!” he cried. “What was I supposed to do? I was amazed you didn’t recognise me! You were knocking on my studio door, I had shown you my work only a few nights before and you didn’t recognise me. I thought I was going mad!”

She laughed, unamused.

“Bullshit!” she cried out. “Prove it! You prove that shit.”

He paused, then shouted “I will! I have photos on my phone! We took photos – don’t go anywhere, I’m coming around with my phone. I promise, just my phone. Just wait.”

He turned, opened the door and was about to go inside when she called out to him.

“What’s your name?”

He turned his head, smiled a genuine smile as if amused that she’d forgotten, and said:

“Daniel Cameron.”

And then he was gone inside, and his door slid shut. She didn’t hear it lock, but she was surprised she could hear the door shut. She stood still in the rain, processing what she’d heard. If that really was his name, and he wasn’t lying, what was Stephen Pohler on about? Was he lying about his fake name, and does that then make it a real name, or was there a link somewhere? She turned her head to the window as she thought of Stephen – but he was gone. There was some blood on the window where his head had lay, broken glass on the floor, but Stephen was not there. She’d thought he was dead. She’d thought Blonde – Daniel – had killed him.

She took a sharp intake of breath, and a step backwards. She felt herself bump into another person. Dammit Sandra, never take a step backwards in a tense situation, you know that. Fuck. She went to turn around, but before she could they grabbed her hair and yanked her face backwards, and twisted one of her arms around behind her back. It was excruciatingly painful. She could feel her upper arm attempt to bend where there was no joint. For the first time in her life she was conscious of her humerus, and she sincerely hoped she never would be again.

She let out a scream of pain, and the arm grip relaxed just a pinch, enough for her to breath again. She felt a man’s lips on the edge of her ear, so close she could almost smell his cheesy teeth.

“I’m going to snap your arm Sandra”, he said, then twisted again. She screamed, louder and harder than before. “How good is this rain?” he shouted into her ear, then relaxed the pressure on her arm once more.

She cried as she tried to breath again, and her anger rose to the surface. Survival, not emotion Richard had said. She looked into the apartment, and saw no one inside. Where was Blonde?

“Tell you what Sandra”, he shouted again. “You tell me where it is, and I’ll let you go.”

She tried to nod her head, and he obviously felt it, because he threw her to the floor of the balcony. Sandra hit the floor hard. She felt the skin on her arm tear, and her head, her poor beaten head, hit the tiles. The water stopped her from lying there, but it was tempting. She tried to get to her feet.

“Tell me where it is and you can go through the door. Otherwise it’s over the edge.”

She looked up and saw the man from the house, the same man who had been talking to Richard. He didn’t seem even remotely concerned about the rain. His suit was so expensive the water seemed to just glide around it.

“Where’s Richard?” she shouted at him. He held out a hand to help her up. She refused it, so he yanked her to her feet by her shoulders, and stood her steady. She swayed, but refused to give in, and made herself stand up straight.

She’d never been punched in the face before – not properly, not a real punch. She’d gotten into a fight with a bully in year 8, a girl who constantly provoked her, and one day at the lockers Sandra tried to stand up for herself and the girl had punched her. But it was an adolescent punch, a high school bully punch. It was like an electric shock, it woke the beast inside and for the first time in her life Sandra lost her temper completely. It was years before they stopped talking about how the nerd had bashed the locker door into Fat Dawson’s face. No one ever talked about the scars on Kathy Dawson’s face, the scars shaped like the vents on a steel locker door, the scars that never went away. Sandra had always felt guilty about that, but she knew if Kathy hadn’t have punched her, it would never had happened.

But that was an adolescent punch. A real punch hurts. A real punch jars the bone, it thumps right through the skull. She felt it whiplash her neck. She felt the mark of every knuckle on her cheek, and the fold of every finger on her jawbone. She felt her brain shake and momentarily shut down in a flash of white, and her body falling in a terrifying loss of control. She felt him catch her by the arm, his fingers instantly bruising with their grip, and yanking her up again. Her spine in her neck cracked. It actually felt good, sending endorphins into her head and waking her up again. Chiropractor – Fight Club Style. He slapped her across the opposite cheek, hard enough to bring her back to reality, and soft enough to not hurt like the punch. The endorphins passed as she remembered the punch, and the instant ache right through her head.

“Tell me where it is Sandra”, he said, and grabbed her by both arms and looked directly at her. She could see the desperation in his eyes. She looked at him closely. He seemed vaguely familiar. But didn’t everybody these days?

“Your guy at the restaurant has it”, she shouted. “He took it from Stephen. I don’t have it anymore.”

“It’s not in the fucking phone, where is it?” he cried out, shaking her. She knew that the first time he’d punched her, he’d held back. And as she saw him raise his hand again, she knew that this time he wouldn’t. But before his hand could come down again, a blur of a Blonde person hurled itself from the opposite balcony and the two crashed down onto the floor, leaving her standing exactly in the same spot, unmoved.

The two struggled in the water. Few punches were thrown, and a lot of wrestling went on. It was impossible to tell who was winning but Sandra wasn’t getting involved without a weapon. She snapped back to the situation, and ran inside to look for one. Paint brush. Paint brush. Canvas. Frame. Yes, frame. She grabbed a frame but it was cheap, light and flimsy and fell apart in her hands. Then she remembered, and went to grab a piece of the frame he’d used to wack Stephen, when she saw next to it a familiar painting done on a plank of wood – it was thick, solid, and about the size of a locker door. She grabbed it and ran onto the balcony.

The man was standing, leaning backwards and holding blonde in a choker hold, his feet barely touching the ground. She could see him struggling unsuccessfully, his feet flailing.

“Oi” She shouted, and the man’s head turned to cop a wack straight in the face. He let go of Blonde, who fell to the ground, trying to breath again. But Sandra wasn’t paying him attention. She slammed the man in the face again, then across the side, and then the other side. She stopped herself before she completely lost control. He wavered on his feet, but was still conscious.

He tilted his head up to look at her. There was blood coming from wounds on both sides of his forehead. His nose was smashed across his face. But despite all of this she could see the hate in his sunken eyes. She recognised that. She’d seen that look before, that look of the killer. Last time she saw that Stephen had saved her.

“I’m going to kill you”, he said, looking her straight in the eyes. She looked back, defiant, and swung the board into his face once again. There was a resounding smack, and he straightened up and then tilted backwards. His feet had no grip on the wet surface of the balcony, his body went limp onto the edge of the railing, then physics did the rest and dragged him over the side.

Sandra watched his body vanish, and heard only rain as a substitute for the silence in her head, and then a resounding crash.

She dropped the board. It clattered on the floor. She ran to the edge and looked over. There was the car, parked in the alley where it had been for the last 29 minutes. The light from the street cast dim shadows and reflections on the crinkles in the bonnet where the man lay crumpled and broken.

Liz got out of the car and stood in the rain, staring in shock at the man on the bonnet, a man that she instantly recognised. She looked up, and though the rain was heavy she could see Sandra peering over the edge of a balcony on the third floor, and then another man appeared next to her. She looked from Sandra to the body and then back again.

“Best not to call the cops then eh?” she shouted, then realised that a) Sandra probably couldn’t hear her, and b) it was a really stupid thing to shout out in an alley when there’s a dead body on your bonnet. The driver was still in the car. Amazing.

Sandra turned and looked at Daniel, who was nursing his throat. She’d forgotten all about her aches. But her brain was firing, and it had taken over. He looked at her, concerned that she’d just killed a man.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“I need to get to The Four Legs”, she shouted back. “I know what’s going on.”

He looked from her, and then back to the body.

“That your car?” he asked.

“I was Richard Pohler Seniors”, she replied.

He nodded, not understanding but not wanting to.

“I guess we’d better take my car then.”