My Brother

- 6 -

“He’s awake. Go get the boss on the phone.”

He wasn’t, though. Not if they were talking about me. He was half-asleep, with the worst hangover ever, and unable to open his eyes to face that light directly above.

Not above, I realized after a while; in front, that’s where it was, and I wasn’t lying down. I was sitting in a chair. There was no danger that I would fall out of it. My wrists were bound to the chair arms, and there was something murderously tight around my knees and ankles. I felt as sick as a dog. I turned my head away from the bright wall lamp and panted hard as waves of nausea ran through me.

“Here.” A big hand held a cup to my mouth. “You’re not as bad as you think. Drink this down an’ you’ll feel a sight different.”

I swallowed as he tilted the cup. My mouth puckered at the bitter taste, and there was a moment when I thought it would come right back up. Then I suddenly was a lot better, improved enough physically to feel a sharp panic when I at last understood what had happened. I was completely helpless, unable to move hand or foot. Apprehension turned my mouth dry and left me unable to swallow.

I opened my eyes and peered up. The man holding the cup was tall, about my height. He was heavily built, in his early twenties at the latest. With his fresh, round face and no sign of lines or wrinkles, he could have passed as a teenager if he had been smaller. His expression as he looked at me was a mixture of wariness and curiosity.

“They’re coming right over,” said another voice from behind me. A second man walked forward into my field of view. “Did he drink it?"’

The newcomer was on the short side, very lightly built and dapperly dressed. His hair was greased and parted in the middle in a style that had gone out fifty years ago. I concentrated hard on their faces, looking for anything that might reassure me as to my own position. They were both unreadable.

“He drank it,” said the first man. He turned the empty cup upside down. “All gone. How long before they get here?”

“Three-quarters of an hour. Zan’s over in the shop, and he has to go and pick her up.” He turned to look at me directly for the first time. “He’d better stay as he is — no point in taking chances.”

Now that I was fully awake, I could feel the ropes around my legs cutting hard into the flesh. Already my hands were puffed and swollen, and my ankles felt numb. The idea of being tied up for another hour like this filled me with horror.

“You’re bastards, both of you,” I said. “Untie me. These ropes are killing me, look at my hands.”

The shorter man came forward and looked calmly down at my bonds. “Now then, mind your ma

“Bugger Pudd’n, and bugger you too,” I said. I was terrified, but somewhere underneath I was also furious. “You have to do something about these ropes.”

The big youth came forward and bent to look at my hands. “He’s right, Dixie ,” he said, “You’ve done ’em too tight, they’re cutting off his circulation.”

“So who cares?” Dixie looked down at me with vicious satisfaction. “He’s earned it. You saw what he did to Jack an’ Des. Let him hurt a bit.”

“Well, yeah.” Pudd’n stood there, his round face furrowed in thought. “But I think we’d better make ’em a bit looser anyway. You know the boss. You know what he’ll say if there’s damage before ’e gets here.”

“Sod the boss. I’m not worried about him, bloody little Arab,” said Dixie . But he moved forward quickly and began to loosen the knots with deft, well-kept hands. I realized that he was much older than the first impression had suggested, probably in his early sixties. It hurt when he loosened the knots, but in another thirty seconds it hurt a good deal worse. I grunted and swore as the blood began to flow back into my hands and feet.

“You’re still bastards,” I said shakily, when the pain was at its peak. “I’ve done nothing to you. What do you want?”

“You’ll find out,” said Dixie . They must have taken my jacket before they tied me, and now he was going through the pockets in a systematic and leisurely way. “If you’ve done nothing to us, then you’ve nothing to worry about, do you? Here, Pudd’n, take a look at this. I

He had found the pillbox Sir Westcott gave me in the hospital. Now he rolled two of the blue capsules onto the palm of his hand and held them out towards Pudd’n. The big man whistled when he saw them.

“Nymphs?” he said.

“Looks like it to me,” replied Dixie . He turned back to where I was sitting. “You dirty old man, you.”

The pain in my hands was lessening, and I was doing my best to speed up the returning circulation by clenching and unclenching my fists.

“That’s medicine,” I said. “I have to have it — I only just got out of the hospital.”

“I know,” said Dixie . He guffawed. “Medicine, eh? That’s a good ’un. You tell that to the judge, an’ he’ll have you back in hospital sharpish. There’s only one thing that Nymphs do, an’ I don’t think you’re a candidate for it.” He had become a lot more sure of himself.

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” I said. But I couldn’t help wondering if there was more to the drug than Sir Westcott had bothered to tell me.

“Very good,” said Dixie . His tone was sarcastic. “You’ve no idea, eh? So you can tell that to Zan and the boss when they get here. See if they believe it.” He glanced at his watch, then at Pudd’n. “They’ll be another half hour yet, you know Zan’s always late. How about one more session before they get here?”

Pudd’n shrugged. “If you want to. But what about ’im? We ’ave to watch ’im.”

“That’s no problem. We can take him through with us.”

“All right.” Pudd’n came forward to stand in front of me. “Grab the back end of the chair.”

I couldn’t help or hinder. A bag of groceries had as much freedom of choice. The room we were in was maybe twenty feet long by fourteen across, with the windows hidden by floor-length green drapes and with a polished hardwood floor. The furniture — as much as I could see of it — was expensive and carefully matched to the wallpaper and the drapes. Pudd’n opened a pair of double doors, then I was carried, chair and all, backwards into a bigger room. This one had an open Steinway over by one wall and an old Broadwood box piano — in excellent condition, to judge from its exterior — along the wall opposite. Between the two was twenty-five feet of polished floor.

I was placed by the Steinway. Dixie remained standing in the middle of the room, and Pudd’n sat down on the piano stool.

“Ready?” he said.

Dixie nodded. “Any time.”

Pudd’n began to play a Scott Joplin piece that I occasionally used as a pop encore — “Magnetic Rag.” His hands were very big — I estimated that he could span at least a twelfth — and he let his fingers do the work without much wrist movement. The tempo was a nice, medium one, just a little faster than I liked it.

“Right,” said Dixie . And while I gaped, he began to dance. His face was blank with concentration as he warmed up from a delicate soft-shoe to a more complicated pattern of double-time steps. He took no more notice of me than he did of the rest of the room’s furniture.

I looked back at Pudd’n. He played easily and accurately, not looking at his hands. He even seemed bored, and the second time through he added a whole series of grace notes to the right-hand melody, an acciaccatura to every second beat. At the end he closed with a strange anharmonic cadence that I liked rather better than the Joplin original.

“One more time,” said Dixie . He was panting a little. “Take it faster.”

“You start, an’ I’ll pick it up,” said Pudd’n. He had become aware that I was watching him closely as he played. This time he showed off for my benefit, taking passages in octaves, sixths, and thirds, and adding to the chords in the bass. Like most amateurs, his right hand was better than his left, but he was pretty good. Even in my situation, I couldn’t help listening critically. There were no wrong notes or fluffed chords, and the scales were nicely balanced. I didn’t like his pedal timing, but he wasn’t using it to cover anything, and he played with a sense of leisure, with speed to spare.