A Spoonful of Luger (51 page)

I
jumped
for
him.
The
first
thought
was
to
relieve
the
pressure.
I
tried
to
catch
his
legs
and
lift
him,
but
they
flew
wildly
in
all
directions.
He
kicked
me
in
the
face.

“Randall!”
I
bellowed.
“Keep
still.”
As
though
he
could!

I
grappled
for
him,
got
my
arms
round
his
legs,
but
terror
was
giving
him
a
strength
I
couldn’t
control.
Far
from
being
able
to
support
him,
I
was
swung
off
my
feet.
And
for
one
appalling
second,
before
I
let
go,
he
suffered
the
weight
of
both
of
us
in
the
compressing
noose.
I
sprang
up,
jumping
high,
with
some
stupid
idea
of
seeing
the
short
length
of
taut
rope
above
his
head
and
perhaps
snapping
it,
but
though
my
fingers
caught
it
the
rope
was
too
thin
and
shiny,
and
my
grip
burned
down
until
my
hands rested
on
his
head.
For
one
moment
my
face
touched
his,
his
insane
eyes
bulged
into
mine,
and
I
felt
the
silent
scream
from
his
gaping
throat.

I
fell
down
again
to
the
floor.
The
drum,
I
thought,
dear
God
the
drum.
I
fumbled
for
it,
and
found
it,
and
erected
it
under
his
feet.

“Stand!”
I
shouted.
“For
Christ’s
sake
stand.”

But
though
I
caught
his
flying
legs
again
and
forced
them
down
onto
the
surface
he
was
too
far
gone
to
understand.
I
had
to
release
them
to
find
my
penknife,
get
up
there
somehow
and
slash
him
loose.
But
as
soon
as
I
opened
my
arms
the
drum
went
flying
again.

He
was
weaker.
The
tearing
fingers
were
slowing
with
despair.
I
tried
standing
on
the
drum
myself,
but
there
was
sufficient
panic
strength
still
in
his
body
to
throw
me
over
onto
my
back,
cursing.
I
scrambled
up.

“I’ll
be
back,”
I
shouted.
“I’ll
be
back.”
For
some
reason
it
seemed important
for
him
to
know
that,
to
understand
that
when
I
turned
to
run
it
was
not
because
I
could
not
watch
him
die.
For
me
to
know,
too.

I
ran
for
the
car,
jumped
in,
started
it
with
clutch
and
gear
in,
and
threw
it
across
the
yard,
the
door
swinging
open.
I
slewed
into
the
shed.
He
was
nearly
finished.
I
edged
the
bonnet
beneath
him
and
pressed
the
car
forward,
bumping
his
legs
and
body
up
and
over
the
wind-screen,
until
he
was
sprawling,
still
wriggling,
on
the
roof.
Then
I
plunged
out
and
clambered
up,
and
as
he
slid
once
more
to
the
extent
of
the
rope,
I
managed
to
slash
it
through,
just
before
the
weight
of
his
body,
from
that
height,
would
probably
have
broken
his
neck.

He
fell
to
the
floor.
What
I
had
to
do
then
was
nauseating.
He
had
already
torn
bleeding
strips
from
his
neck,
but
the
whole
of
the
rope
was
impressed
into
his
flesh.
I
inserted
the
penknife,
deep
in,
pressing
down,
then
sliced
upwards.
Blood
covered
my
hands, but
the
noose
peeled
away.
I
rolled
him
onto
his
back.

For
a
moment
I
thought
I
was
too
late.
There
was
no
movement.
Sightless
eyes
stared
up
at
me.
I
was
about
to
fall
on
him
to
try
artificial
respiration
when
his
chest
shuddered
and
he
drew
in
one
terrible
breath.
Then
another.

“I’ll
be
back,”
I
said
again.
“Do
you
hear
me?”

Then
I
ran
across
the
yard.
The
door
that
Bycroft
had
sealed
so
carefully
collapsed
as
I
ran
through
it,
and
I
pounced
on
the
phone.
“Ambulance,”
I
said,
and
when
I
got
through
told
them
to
make
it
fast,
real
fast.

I
ran
back
to
the
shed.
Randall’s
mouth
was
rasping
as
he
drew
in
breaths,
his
heels
hammering
on
the
floor.
I
turned
round
and
ran
back
again,
and
dialled
the
same
number.
Police
this
time.
Bycroft
was
out,
but
they’d
radio
him.

“The
yard,”
I
said.
“Randall’s
tried
to
hang
himself.
Tell
him
to
get
here
fast.”

Then
I
went
back.
There
wasn’t
much
I
could
do
apart
from
covering
him.
I
found
I
was
talking
to
him,
though
whether
it
penetrated
his
private
hell
I
don’t
know.
Some
rubbish
about
it
being
all
right.
What
was
the
use
of
saying
that?
How
could
it
possibly
be
all
right?
But
it
was
only
a
matter
of
his
knowing
there
was
somebody
there.