He toppled-but before he did, his upper body flew forwards above the carpet unsupported, carried by its own momentum. His arms were pulled back like the arms of a free-falling parachutist; his chest was pushed out like a swan’s chest. It reminded me of a ship’s figurehead I’d once seen-an old ship’s figurehead with lifted head and body thrust out to the waves. I could see that he was about to crash straight into Two. I thought of carrots, and of air traffic controllers, and watched the collision unfold.
It was his head that made first contact. It went into Two’s stomach, which gave in the same way the buffer on the end of a segment of train gives as a new segment is coupled with it. Five’s head drove into Two’s stomach, but his neck seemed to move the other way-to contraflow, its flesh wrinkling back in waves towards his shoulders. It looked like the crumple zones they build into the fronts of modern cars. Two let out a grunt as his own shoulders hunched forwards; his left hand released the barrel of the shotgun, rose into the air, then fell onto Five’s back, where it stayed, tenderly, holding Five’s body in place as the two of them started to go down.
Their fall was long and slow. Two’s left leg had risen from the ground as soon as Five crashed into him; his right leg, though, stayed planted, and for a while held up the whole tangled composition of two heads and torsos, four arms, three legs, a bag and a gun. It seemed to be willing itself to believe it could support the knotted constellation, all this levitated matter, keep it buoyant, carry it on into some imaginary future. It couldn’t, of course: gravity was against it. I watched it buckle like a giraffe’s legs do in old films when the giraffe has been shot by hunters, then give up, resigning itself to its inevitable impact on the ground.
Not all of Two gave up, though: as the rest of him, all his parts and the new parts he’d acquired, Five’s parts, landed over a large area of carpet-twisting and folding as they hit, compressing further in some cases and in others unlocking, breaking apart-his right hand remained raised. The gun was still held in it, the palm wrapped around the butt, the index finger hooked across the trigger. It must have been an instinct to tug back against the last solid thing there was that made him pull this. The gun went off. Four, just in front of me, crumpled and toppled too.
Now the whole scene went static, like it had been on my staircase when the liver lady and I had slowed down so much that we’d come to a standstill. Two and Five lay static on the floor, half joined and half unjoined, like acrobats frozen in mid-manoeuvre. Four lay fetal, curled up, still. I stood still on the floor behind him. The only thing that moved was a deep red flow coming from Four’s chest. It emerged from his chest and advanced onto the carpet.
“Beautiful!” I whispered.
Whines spread across the lobby, running in ripples from the staff and customers, a collective murmur in their sleep as the dream they were all dreaming hit this patch of turbulence. Robber Re-enactor One walked over from the doorway, slid his mask off, looked at Four and said:
“Oh my God!”
His face was white. He slipped Four’s mask off. Four’s face was white too. His eyes were empty. He was pretty dead. One looked up from him and announced in a loud voice:
“Stop the re-enactment!”
No one answered. One looked around him at the whining people. He took three steps in the direction of a corner where two customers were lying. Sensing him approach, they whined more, wriggling, burrowing into the ground. One leant down, placed his hand on one of their shoulders and said:
“He’s hurt. We’ve got to stop the re-enactment now!”
The customer let out a squeal and bucked with fear. One turned away from him and shouted to the staff behind the counters:
“It’s stopped! The re-enactment’s stopped! We have to stop it now!”
Nobody moved. Of course nobody moved. Stop what? This re-enactment was unstoppable. Even I couldn’t have stopped it. Not that I wanted to. Something miraculous was happening. I looked at Two and Five lying on the floor. They seemed now less like acrobats than sculptures. The bag that had slipped from Five’s hand and the gun that now lay beside Two’s looked to me like wedges of surplus matter stripped away to reveal them. Something else was being revealed too, something that had been there all along, present but hidden, now emerging, everywhere. It was palpable: I could sense this new emergence in the very air. The others could sense it too: Five, One and Two were looking around the bank, at the customers and staff and at each other, their eyes widening, their bodies growing more and more alert, inquisitive, aroused. Then One, his voice quivering with slow terror, said, so quietly it was almost to himself:
“They don’t know.”
“What?” said Five.
“They don’t know,” One repeated. “These people don’t know that it’s a re-enactment.”
There was silence for a moment while Five and Two digested what One had just said. One turned to me and, voice still quivering, whispered:
“It’s real!”
The tingling really burst its banks now; it flowed outwards from my spine’s base and flowed all around my body. Once more I was weightless; once again the moment spread its edges out, became a still, clear pool swallowing everything else up in its contentedness. I let my head fall back; my arms started rising outwards from my sides, the palms of my hands turning upwards. I felt I was being elevated, that my body had become unbearably light and unbearably dense at the same time. The intensity augmented until all my senses were going off at once. There was noise all around me, a chorus: screaming, shouting, banging, alarms ringing, people running around bumping into things and each other. I knelt down beside Four. The blood was advancing from his chest in a steady, broad column, marching on across the carpet’s plain, making its gold lines crinkle like flags in a breeze. His bag had slouched into the floor just like the liver lady’s bag had; its contents, no longer suspended in space by his arm, had rearranged themselves into a state of rest. The blood was flowing round it, dampening one of its edges, eddying into a pool behind a crinkle, as though the bag and not he had leaked.
Further on, the blood column had pulled to a halt and pitched camp in the formation of an elongated oval, a deep red patch. On its surface I could see the wall reflected-and the broken glass doors of the airlock, the counter’s edge, part of a poster on the wall, the ceiling. Four had opened himself up, become a diagram, a sketch, an imprint. I lay down flat so that my head was right beside this pool and followed the reflections. The objects-the doors’ stump, the edge, the poster’s corner-had become abstracted, separated from the space around them, freed from distances to float around together in this pool of reproductions, like my staff in their stained-glass window heaven.
“Speculation,” I said; “contemplation of the heavens. Money, blood and light. Removals. Any Distance.”
I moved my head over to Four’s body and poked my finger into the wound in his chest. The wound was raised, not sunk; parts of his flesh had broken through the skin and risen, like rising dough. The flesh was both firm and soft; it gave to the touch but kept its shape. When I brought my eyes right up to it, I saw that it was riddled with tiny holes-natural, pin-prick holes, like breathing holes. Much bigger, irregular cracks had opened among these where bits of shot had entered him. I could see some way into the tunnels that the cracks’ insides formed, but then they turned and narrowed as they disappeared deeper inside him.