Amphetamines and Pearls by John Harvey Page A

turn.
    My gun in my right hand, I stepped across the face of the door and yanked it open—fast. Falling from the dying light of the room, something collapsed into the space directly in front of my feet. Something large, something that might have been a bundle of old clothes and sacking: but for the remains of a human head which landed nearest to my toe. Something that was Maxie—or what was left of Maxie.
    I knelt among the unswept grime and cradled that mewling thing in my arms. The already swollen leprous face was now a morass of congealed blood and opened flesh. I knelt and held him because he was still human and because that made him more important to me than the cat which moved silently behind me.
    Maybe.
    Or maybe it was because there was life somewhere within his beaten form and I wanted to get the information that I needed as long as there was the slightest chance.
    I lifted the body and carried it into the room, banging the door closed with my foot. I laid him on the table and fetched water from the filthy sink in the corner: I took out my handkerchief and began to clean away his face.
    When I had done what I could I went out of the arcade and walked back to the car. From the compartment under the dashboard I took the half-bottle of scotch I had bought to keep me company on the cold journey home. There was enough left—I hoped. I took the bottle back and started to force the contents down Maxie’s throat through the torn purse of his lips. After a while he began to cough and splutter and hold his body against the racking pain.
    I leant my head close to his face and had to inwardly clench myself to keep it there.
    â€˜Maxie. Can you hear what I’m saying? Can you see who it is?’
    His eyes showed nothing at the back of their slits but he managed to nod his head. I went on.
    â€˜You had something for me. Tell me what it was?’
    No movement of the head this time: no acknowledgement.
    I shook him not too roughly by the shoulder nearest to me.
    â€˜Maxie! The information! I need to know. Now.’
    His head rolled away from mine and I pulled it round again to face me. There was a cut below his left eye which was like an over-ripe plum that has been bitten into by the sharp beak of a bird. I closed my eyes for a second and put my mouth closer to his ear.
    â€˜Look, Maxie. The drugs. Where would I get a nice steady supply of drugs; all clean and without danger? Where, Maxie? Come on, you know where, Maxie.’
    Once more the rolling away of the head: once more the pulling back. Each time more desperate: each time fiercer. Knowing that time was running out—Maxie’s time. My time. Time.
    â€˜Maxie! For Christ’s sake!’
    I raised him from the surface of the table and supported him with one arm, while I tried to get more whisky into him. He gulped and choked and most of it slobbered back down his face, stinging him as it ran through his sores.
    Then the puffed balls that were his eyes seemed to grow more aware. The hold I had on him tightened; the hole beneath his nose tried desperately to form words. I put the side of my head to his face and listened.
    â€˜Scott … you … you’ve got to get me to … doctor … too late oth … erwise … there’s no ch—’ He broke off as a pain cut through the length of his body: his hands went to his chest and the hole that was his mouth opened wide. I held him to me: I was sure he was dying and so was he.
    But it passed this time and he made another effort to speak.
    â€˜Doctor … now … now Scott … dying.’
    â€˜Okay, Maxie, I’ll take you to the doctor. But first tell me about the drugs. The drugs, Maxie! You just tell me and then I’ll put you in the motor and we’ll go to the doctor.’
    He said nothing, whispered nothing. I just prayed he was still listening.
    â€˜You said it was getting more difficult. You said that someone else was moving in. Someone