Take My Breath Away

by Martin Edwards

  After taking the train home, she unpacked her new dress and laid it out on the bed. The handcuffs she put in the top drawer of her bedside cabinet. She had the key to the downstairs flat while Dee the happiness researcher was away. Her neighbour had once invited her round for coffee and proudly pointed out the storage area under the floor of the utility room. The butcher who’d kept shop here had used it as an additional storage space for keeping meat fresh. No one would guess it was there without being told, but close inspection revealed a small ring set into the stone tiles under the cupboards that ran along the wall. By pulling the ring, it was possible to lever up a cover four feet by five.

  At first she wasn’t able to move the cover at all. It was stiff from lack of use and her first abortive effort left her sweating and swearing. She was frail from lack of food. After downing a Diet Coke, she tried again. Still nothing. She was panting hard and felt her heart thumping inside her chest walls. Wouldn’t it be ironic if her heart failed while she was trying to lift up the floor? After sitting down for a couple of minutes to summon up her last reserves of strength, she took hold of the ring and heaved again. This time she felt it give. Slowly, she raised the cover, groaning aloud with the effort. The butcher must have been built like a circus strongman. Perhaps it was natural, after years spent cutting up joints.

  The cavity under the floor was six feet deep. Its white tiles were dirty and cobwebbed. Twenty years might have passed since food had last been kept down there. But it didn’t matter. She swung her legs over the side and jumped down into the hole. The air inside felt chill, but to her surprise it was not damp. Airtight, then. She was peeping over the edge, along the surface of the dusty stone tiles. For a few scary moments she wondered if she would be able to get out. The sides of the hole were sheer, lacking holds for either hands or feet. Standing on tiptoe and stretching, she managed to grasp the edge of the floor and haul herself up and out. Muscles hurting, she replaced the cover. The stone tiles fitted together perfectly. They hardly looked as though they had been disturbed.

  She squatted on the floor for a few minutes, staring at the tiles and picturing the hole beneath them. Imagine being entombed down there. No way out. No oxygen to breathe. Impossible to conceive the horror of realising that one would never escape, the dread certainty that one was going to die there through lack of air and that, chances were, one’s body would never be found.

  This wasn’t like last time. Perhaps she would wake up and find that this had all been a bad dream. But, she reminded herself, there had been moments after the death of Grant Dennis when she had taken refuge in much the same fantasy. It hadn’t come true.

  Chloe was right. Nic Gabriel had nothing to lose by exposing her and plenty to gain. It was Nic or her. The choice was so simple.

  Back upstairs in her own flat, she swigged from a second can while hunting around in the kitchen. She wiped the foam from her mouth and checked that the matchbox she was putting in the bedside cabinet was full, just like the bottle of Glenfiddich she had hidden next to the bed.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  ‘I wasn’t sure you would come,’ Nic said as the waiter folded napkins over their laps..

  She meant to keep cool. Give nothing away. ‘How could I say no?’

  ‘I suppose you’ve guessed why I wanted to meet you.’

  ‘I have no idea, Mr Gabriel.’

  The meal passed in a blur. The sight of the food made her gorge rise and she had to pretend to pick at her spaghetti, pushing it around on her plate, occasionally taking the smallest nibble, afraid to swallow in case she was sick. She’d intended to avoid wine, but found she couldn’t say no. She needed an anaesthetic.

  He was nothing like Grant Dennis, yet there were moments when he reminded her of her dead lover. When she was looking down at the food and pretending to eat, he would steal a glance which she caught out of the corner of her eye. The look in his eyes was almost proprietorial. He fancied her, she was sure of it. For an instant she was reminded of Grant.

  I don’t think I can do this.

  She gulped in air.

  I must. It’s the only way.

  He put down his glass and leaned over the table. ‘So tell me. How did the woman who killed Grant Dennis manage to end up in Creed’s flagship department? A tribute to your ability to reinvent yourself, but…’

  ‘I told them what they needed to know. They appointed me on merit.’

  ‘Sure, but would the partners at Creed take kindly to having the wool pulled over their eyes? What’s the good of being liberal and caring if you don’t get a photo-opportunity out of it? A bit late now to hold a press conference to announce your arrival.’

  ‘They can say they didn’t want to exploit me,’ she said. ‘That they wanted me to settle in without being bothered by the media.’

  Nic laughed. ‘Sure, but they won’t mean it. If the story comes to light, they will hate it. And they will hate you, for having caught them out.’

  ‘You make me feel so good.’

  ‘I’m telling it as it is.’

  ‘Don’t only the lousiest journalists say that?’

  He poured again for both of them. She watched him drink the wine, then gave a so-what movement of the shoulders and had some herself.

  ‘So what do you want?’

  ‘To find out some more. About what you did and how you came to join Creed. And how you find the firm, now that you are a part of it.’

  ‘How does that song go?’ She murmured: ‘“Someday you’re gonna write the story of my life”?’

  ‘In case you’re wondering, I don’t have tape recorders up my sleeve. No hidden microphones strapped to my chest.’

  ‘How do I know that?’

  He grinned and said, ‘If you want, I’ll rip my shirt open for you.’

  ‘Don’t make me swoon.’

  ‘The night’s young.’

  ‘Should I be flattered?’ She gritted her teeth. ‘Things could be worse, I suppose. At least I can expect the stuff you write about me to be elegantly phrased.’

  ‘Who said I want to write about you? And if I did, would it be such a disaster? By the time a book came out, we’d all be two years down the line. You’d have carved a niche in the law for yourself by then. You’d survive.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘Survival is one thing I know about. Even if Creed sacked me, I should be able to find something else. That isn’t the point.’

  ‘What is?’

  She picked up her handbag and pulled out her copy of The Innocence of Doctor Crippen. ‘I’ve read this. You walked through Crippen’s mind, trespassed on his thoughts. You imagined what he felt when he was fucking first Belle, then Ethel, and when he lied to Scotland Yard about what had happened to his wife. It’s full of those telling little details which seem so authentic, even if we’ll never really know how near to the truth you came. Or how far out your guesses were.’

  ‘You’re not Crippen.’

  ‘And I don’t want the same treatment, I don’t want someone else to trample through my brain, rooting around for a nice form of words to convey my emotions when I killed the man I used to fuck. Crippen is dead, but I’m alive, that’s the difference.’

  ‘You don’t have anything to fear.’

  ‘Is that so? Even if you don’t write a book, you can pay the rent for a few weeks by phoning up Wapping to tip off some hack. The red-tops will love it.’ She put on an excited, breathy voice. ‘Murderer Goes Into The Law, Makes Another Killing. But the way I see it, there’s more to it than that. It’s the partners at Creed. You want to dish the dirt about them.’

  ‘I’ve found you.’

  ‘If you want me to give you a juicy inside story, forget it. I’ve enough skeletons in my cupboard without looking for any more at work. Sorry to disappoint.’

  ‘One thing you don’t do,’ he said, ‘is disappoint.’

  She flashed a bleak smile. ‘The wine is starting to talk, I think. I’m right, though, aren’t I? You’ve stumbled across me, but th
at wasn’t what brought you to Creed. By crucifying me, you can have a go at Will and Fergus and Uncle Ben Yarrow and all.’

  Nick shook his head, as if in a vain effort to sober up. ‘What makes you think I want to crucify you?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing personal. You’ll regard it as a necessary evil. All the same, I’m puzzled. Paying off an old grudge, are you? Did you cross swords with Will Janus when you were in practice?’

  ‘No grudges, Roxanne.’

  ‘So you just like knocking down people in the public eye. Is it a bit like the reason people climb mountains – because they are there?’ She finished the wine. When she spoke again, the venom hit him like a slap across the cheek. ‘Will Janus and his partners are successful, so they are to be shat upon? The British disease. You couldn’t hack it as a lawyer, it’s been a few years since you wrote your book. It’s easier to destroy than create.’

  The waiter arrived with their espressos. Nic took a sip of the scalding liquid, then leaned back in his chair and said, ‘You’re the one who knows all about destroying, Roxanne.’

  She tapped her spoon against the saucer, as if it were an aid to thought. Finally she said in a sub-zero tone, ‘You’ve forgotten something. You’re not talking to Cassandra Lee.’

  ‘Different person?’

  She gave an elaborate yawn. ‘Let’s not go on, shall we? You know everything and still…’

  ‘Not everything, not by a long, long way.’

  ‘Everything you need to know,’ she said obstinately. ‘My only question now is – what comes next?’

  For perhaps half a minute they looked at each other without a word. Finally he said, ‘What comes next is, I call a cab to take you home.’

  ‘No alternative?’ She lifted her head, face stripped of all expression. ‘Why don’t you come home with me?’

  The car was airless, like a tomb. She was in the back, not the boot, but somehow it reminded her of the journey home, the night Grant Dennis had died. She and Nic sat in silence on opposite ends of the back seat, no parts of their bodies touching. It was dark now and she stared out of the window, as though mesmerised by the lights of the clubs and bars. She might have been a French aristocrat, destined for the guillotine. Their driver, a ringer for the late Richard Nixon, kept glancing in his mirror at the stranger in the skimpy dress.

  ‘Is this it?’ the driver asked as they arrived outside the old butcher’s shop.

  ‘Yes,’ Roxanne said, ‘this is it.’

  ‘What else?’ she asked.

  She was straddling him on the floor of the bedroom in her flat. They were both naked and panting. Hearts pumping. The carpet was thin and the floor hard. She had nibbled him all over before first pulling him on to her, meticulous in her attention to detail. Finally she had let go, biting and gouging, screaming her commands. His dignified dining companion had become a wild animal, knowing no restraint.

  He opened his eyes again and considered her. Hair in a mess, lipstick gone. If she was exhausted, she gave no sign of it. She was surveying him, as a sea captain in colonial days might have looked over a small island, newly conquered. Since leaving the restaurant, she had scarely uttered a word, except to urge him on.

  He shook his head and gasped, ‘Nothing else. Not for now. Enough.’

  ‘It’s not enough,’ she hissed. ‘Not for me. Not nearly enough.’

  He grinned, exhausted. ‘You’ve taken my breath away.’

  She rolled off him and padded away to the bathroom. He hauled himself up off the floor and collapsed on to the bed. He closed his eyes again. He hadn’t meant this to happen – or had he? Better leave worrying about payback until the morning. The morning, when their bruises would begin to show.

  She came back into the room and fiddled in a drawer of the cabinet by the bedside. ‘Sleepy?’

  ‘Mmmmm.’

  She climbed back on top of him, breasts brushing against his chest. He groaned with boozy contentment. She took his right hand in hers and he was aware that she was putting something on his wrist. It felt cold. He heard two clicks. He blinked. She had taken his left hand now and had slipped a handcuff on it. She snapped it shut and then linked him to the metal rail that held the headboard. He was manacled to the bed.

  ‘Well, well,’ he murmured. His words were slightly slurred. ‘So that’s your game.’

  ‘You like this?’

  For the first time, she smiled at him. He grinned back dozily. ‘I’m at your mercy.’

  ‘True.’

  He opened his eyes wider. She was staring down at him. The smile had vanished.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘You should have signed your name when you wrote to me,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, it doesn’t matter. Water under the bridge.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’ He flexed his wrists, experimentally. The cuffs cut into his skin. No chance of freeing himself. ‘What are you..?’

  ‘Let’s not talk,’ she whispered. ‘It’s too late for words.’

  She climbed off the bed, keeping her eyes on him all the time. She picked up the bottle of Glenfiddich she had crammed between the bed and the floor, unscrewed the cap. With infinite care, she opened the drawer of the bedside cabinet, took out the little oblong box and dropped half a dozen matches, one by one, into her hand.

  She tipped the bottle and let a little amber liquid trickle on to his belly. A tremor ran through him and she saw his Adam’s apple move. As if he were finding it difficult to swallow. Tension constricting the throat, she guessed.

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  He muttered, ‘Tell me.’

  She supposed it was a mistake to talk. But she had said so little for so long. If Cassandra was to come back to life, even for a little while, she ought to find her voice. She was entitled to be heard.

  ‘Well,’ she said gently, ‘you know what happened to Grant Dennis.’

  ‘I’m not Grant Dennis.’

  You can change your name, but you can’t change who you are.

  ‘But to you, I am Cassandra Lee.’

  Her mouth was dry. He was not the only one who was afraid. There was a clawing in her stomach. Was she drunk, and if so, with wine or power? Her thoughts seemed to have become disconnected. One moment the man on the bed wore the furious face of Grant Dennis, the next he became Nic Gabriel again. If he felt anger, he was choking it back. Perhaps he was desperate not to provoke her. Grant had never scrupled about that. The two men were so different. Their bodies, for example. She could never forget how Grant had looked on that last night. Six feet three, with the beginnings of a beer belly. Nic’s stomach was flat, his skin pale and covered in bite marks. Her doing.

  ‘Penny for your thoughts,’ he said. He wasn’t slurring now. Fear must have sobered him.

  She poured a little more whisky on to his chest. It dribbled down his body, dampening the bed. ‘Not worth it.’

  ‘Cassandra Lee didn’t kill in cold blood.’

  ‘She killed to save herself.’

  ‘You don’t need saving. Not from me.’ His chest rose as he sucked in air. ‘Cassandra lost control for a few short minutes. Shouldn’t have done it, but anyone could understand. Anyone who had a glimpse into the life she’d been through.’

  She lifted the bottle over him and poured again. ‘I’ve got news for you. When I lit that match – I had a sense of power. Absolute power.’

  He exhaled. ‘So that’s your guilty secret, is it? The rush you had, when you killed him? You hate yourself, because of the triumph you felt? Doesn’t make you a monster, Roxanne. Just a woman who once lost control.’

  She put down the bottle and picked up the box of matches. ‘That’s enough, Nic.’

  ‘I got it wrong,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, I think you did.’

  ‘My fault. I really believed I was in charge this evening. When all the time someone else was pulling the strings.’

  ‘
Silly you.’

  ‘I’m simply wondering – just who is pulling the strings?’ he said. ‘Have you figured it out?’

  She took a single match out of the box. ‘You’re shit scared, aren’t you?’

  ‘Someone’s been talking to you, haven’t they? Not encouraging you to murder me, nothing so crude. But dropping hints that add up to a message loud and clear. Making you understand that I’m the one who stands between you and your freedom.’

  ‘You think someone’s manipulating me? Wrong, Nic. This is Cassandra Lee you’re talking to.’

  ‘It’s not true and you know it. There’s someone you trust and they’ve eaten away at you. Talk about the worm in the bud. They want you to kill me.’

  ‘I’ve good cause to want you dead, haven’t I? You shouldn’t have stalked me, sent me that anonymous note. It wasn’t kind.’

  ‘I didn’t send any note. Whatever it said, I didn’t write it.’

  Her palms were moist and her hands were starting to shake. She struck the match. At the second attempt, it lit up.

  ‘Who did you let into your secret?’ Nic asked. ‘Who has been egging you on?’

  ‘What makes you think someone egged me on?’

  ‘You’re not the first, Roxanne, I promise you. This has happened before. It’s why so many people have died. Matt Creed, Bradley Hurst, others you haven’t even heard of. Someone at Creed has found the Holy Grail. Absolute power coupled with a perfect alibi. How to commit murder for pleasure, and get away with it, time and again.’

  She stared at him, still holding the lighted match. ‘You’re crazy.’

  ‘I’m not crazy, Roxanne. Neither are you. It isn’t me you have to fear, it’s someone else. Isn’t it?’