Bad Actors полностью

The corridor was bustling. The fire exit was at the far end, and dressing gowned figures were shuffling that way, though two men had approached Shirley’s end and stood behind Parsons now, evidently expecting trouble. One was elderly; the other Shirley’s age. He had thinning blond hair, a wispy goatee, and a nervous twitch that pulled his face to one side at irregular intervals. And he carried a bedside lamp, its shade removed, its flex wrapped round his wrist.

Uomo Uno regarded them with amusement. “If you want a fight, I can spare a few seconds. Don’t think we’re all as easy as him.”

This with a gesture towards his broken-nosed companion, who chose that moment to groan.

The elder of the men behind Parsons said, “Naples? I’m hearing Naples.”

From downstairs came the sound of shattering glass.

Uomo Uno said, “One last time. Shirley Dander?”

“I’m Shirley Dander,” said Ellie Parsons.

“No, I’m Spartacus,” the nervous twitcher said, in a surprisingly deep voice.

“Okay, so one of you’s going to break a bone now,” said Uomo Uno. “You, I think.” He pointed at Spartacus.

To do them credit his back-up pair recognised their cue, but their execution lacked finesse and it all fell apart before it got going. When the first of them hard-shouldered Shirley aside she dropped to the floor, but grabbed him by the beard as she did so, pulling his head low and making it a simple target for Spartacus’s lamp. This caught him square in the mouth, not hard enough to satisfy Shirley, but she was aware she could be over-critical. His companion, meanwhile, reached for Spartacus just as Parsons kicked his kneecap: not a high-scoring move, but again best judged by results, because when he stumbled the elderly linguist put both hands to his chest and pushed him back into Uomo Uno, who caught him in an embrace at the top of the stairs. For a moment they were vulnerable, one good heave away from toppling down the staircase, and Shirley released the beard intent on precisely that, but someone grabbed her ankle: Man Two. She’d forgotten him. Too many people in not enough space was the problem: this needed a big finish if it wasn’t to end in farce. She collapsed onto all fours again, assuming the size and rough shape of an occasional table, while Bearded Man, now upright, spat a tooth and lunged for Ellie Parsons. This brought him square into the track of Spartacus’s lamp once more, which he was swinging as if creaming a full toss over the bowler’s head. The resulting crunch, with liquid notes, wasn’t quite drowned out by the alarm, and helped Shirley picture the impact later—at the time, she was preoccupied with stamping her heel into Man Two’s face. But she felt Bearded Man all the same, as he reeled backwards and tumbled over her as neatly as if the whole thing had been choreographed, with the big window waiting to welcome him. The noise he made passing through it had an orchestral quality: one big boom accompanied by a thousand tinkling minims. And then he was gone, and a cold wind was blowing into the corridor, while the wailing alarm slipped out through the wreckage and howled away into the night.

The man who’d been scaling the car’s bonnet was a bloody mess, his face mashed into the crumpled windscreen inches from Whelan’s own. He remained there while whoever had just landed on top of him slid sideways onto the gravel. Glass was falling from the sky, glistening like snowflakes, turning the scene into a zombie nativity, except that, instead of gathering round like adoring shepherds, the gobsmacked crew that had surrounded the car were fleeing like frightened sheep. Whelan’s hands were trembling; his whole body felt scraped to the bone. Dimly, through his now barely connected windscreen, he understood that a new noise had joined the raucous soundtrack: a bass-like whump-whump overhead that was possibly the wrath of God.

His soggy thoughts solidified. He was master of his car now, rattled as it was. He reached for the brake, forgetting he was in reverse, and the car shunted backwards, releasing its bloody cargo, which sprawled on the ground in the wash of his headlights. The shock caused Whelan to spasm: the car skewed slantways, and he felt the crunch of metal hitting stone. The whump-whump grew louder, and assorted marauders were looking skyward. Out of the San’s doorway tumbled another pair, and what had looked like an unstoppable invasion appeared to be becoming a rout. But there was no sign of Sophie de Greer. She might be lying dead in a room. The invaders might be on their way because their job was done.