by Roberta Kray
Accordingly, I ask: ‘So, do you have any family, Johnny?’
He continues to look straight at me, holding my gaze as if it’s a sign of weakness to look away first. That odd, rather chilly smile, is hovering on his lips again.
‘No,’ he eventually replies. ‘Of course I did, but . . .’ He lets the sentence dissolve into a shrug.
‘Ah, I’m sorry.’ I’m the first to lower my eyes. Curiosity got the better of me and perhaps it was an indiscreet enquiry. Eighteen years inside probably depletes the relations somewhat.
‘And you?’ he asks surprisingly, as if the Buckleys don’t count.
A difficult question to answer as I don’t wish to offend anyone. In fact I have only a few distant cousins I neither see nor hear from. No mother or father or siblings. So I say diplomatically, if a little cheesily: ‘I guess this is my family now.’
Which provokes a thin and possibly pitying smile from Mr Frank. ‘I see.’
And I realize with a shock that in less than an hour he’s already started to unravel my precarious position within this house. He knows about Marc, about me. He knows that I intend to leave. I give myself a mental shake. No, he can’t. That’s ridiculous. I’m reading more into his look than is actually there. It’s just my guilty conscience playing tricks.
But something else peculiar gradually sinks into my consciousness. I wonder why I didn’t notice it before. Unlike all the others, Johnny isn’t drunk. In fact – and I’m sure he would appreciate the simile – he’s as sober as a judge. On the table beside him sits an untouched glass of whisky. Although he’s the one with most reason to celebrate, he’s chosen to forgo the pleasure of the bottle.
Why is that?
I’m about to say, You’re not drinking, Johnny, when, glancing slowly up from the glass, I meet his gaze again and instantly think better of it. His frown is not exactly threatening but it isn’t friendly either. Promptly, I close my mouth.
He sits back in his chair, relaxes, and with his long thin fingers steepled on his chest stares out of the window. There’s an unnatural stillness about him, like the calm before the storm.
And that unpleasant word springs into my mind again – murderer.
Chapter Four
Johnny
So this is the house that Jim built. And off my bloody back I might add, because if I hadn’t gone down when I did he’d never have been able to buy The Palace at such a discount. And that’s what made his fortune. Of course it was a decent place then, not the squalid dump he’s turned it into. I built that club up with my own sweat and tears and that bastard reaped the rewards. Although, in one of those fitting twists of fate, he’s managed to squander most of the profits. He never did have the brains for business.
Yes, it’s a nice house. Very clean. Very comfortable. Good security too – just to make me feel at home – with a hi-tech alarm system, electric gates and a nice high wall. You don’t want just anyone wandering in. I’ve been given a double bedroom on the second floor with en suite bathroom and a view over the garden. There’s food on the table and a regular laundry service. It’s almost as good as a hotel. I’m sure I’ll enjoy my stay.
Dee welcomed me with a peck on the cheek. ‘Johnny, darling! How lovely to see you again.’
Almost casual, as if I’d been on holiday for a few weeks rather than banged up for the last eighteen years. She stank of booze. Dutch courage, I imagine. If there’s one thing she must have hoped for it was to have me disappear – permanently.
‘You haven’t changed a bit,’ I replied. Which I’m sure is true. At least on the inside. On the outside, well, she’s not wearing badly for fifty-three but she’s hardly the sex kitten she was.
And she knows it.
She flashed me a look, trying to keep the rage out of her eyes. That’s what happens with women. They start off loving and end up hating. And it’s always in direct proportion. The more they love the more they hate, as if there’s some natural balance to be preserved.
But I’ll get round her. I always could. A few weeks together, a few trips down memory lane, and she’ll be eating out of my hand. Somewhere deep down, in that dank dark place she doesn’t want to visit, lie the roots of her old feelings.
No need to rush it though.
First there’s the rest of the family to investigate: strengths, weaknesses, motivation. It’s the detail that matters, the accumulation of data. Watch and listen. Know your enemy. Fortunately, there was a welcoming committee so I could get started straight away. The Buckley clan had gathered to pay homage to the prison freak.
‘Take a seat, Johnny. No, that chair’s more comfortable, the one by the window.’
‘Have a drink. Scotch okay?’
‘Are you hungry?’
And Jim was still burbling away as if he could vanquish his demons by talking over them. ‘All those years. It’s a disgrace, Johnny, a fucking disgrace. There was no need for it, no need at all. Haven’t I always said: It was a travesty of justice.’
Although he was still finding it hard to look me in the eye.
And the sons. Shit, they were a shock. Kids when I went inside and now both grown men. Makes me feel bloody old. Lucky enough to inherit Dee’s physical genes but as to their characters it’s too soon to say. I suspect there’s weakness there, a less fortunate legacy from Jim. The older one’s already done two stretches for fraud. The younger one, Carl, was all over me like a rash; yes, he’s going to be useful.
From time to time I sneaked a glance at the luscious Melanie. She’s got the face of an angel and the body of a whore, all wide-eyed innocence, jutting tits and wriggling arse – a living breathing fantasy. Best not to get distracted but I could look, couldn’t I? And she knew I was looking. She fluttered her lashes, threw back her long blonde hair and offered me the occasional provocative smile. A few sweet crumbs for the starving man.
God, this house, these people; they still seem unreal. Like an actor on a stage, I’m going through the motions, speaking my lines, and following a plot that was written years ago. Should I be excited, thrilled? Isn’t that how you’re supposed to feel when your dreams are coming true? I wouldn’t know. Bitterness has hollowed me out and left me empty of all but the most base of emotions.
I may have taken three hours to begin mentally undressing Melanie but it took Jim even longer to find the courage to begin his surreptitious examination of me. His piggy eyes cautiously scanned my face. I knew what he was searching for. The damage. Because there’s always damage. You just have to know where to look for it. For some long-term cons it shows on the outside, a blatant physical fading. In others it’s more insidious, a slow internal destruction like some fucking creeping cancer. How long does it take? Fifteen years? Twenty? And then there’s no going back. It’s in the bones, in the flesh. It’s final. And what is lost is irretrievable.
So Jim was right to be hopeful.
But too drunk and too stupid to find what he was seeking.
Tongues had started to loosen as the alcohol kicked in. For which I was grateful. All that conversation was a strain. I’m hardly attuned to the niceties of social interaction. Easier to sit back, to watch and to listen. One thing’s clear as crystal though, there’s tension in the Buckley family – and only a part of it is down to me. The cracks are already there. Just add a little gunpowder to the mix and . . .
But it doesn’t do to get over-confident. I realized that when she asked about my family. Simone, the one with the long legs and the cool supercilious gaze, had suspicion in her eyes. And what she was really asking was: What the hell are you doing here? She doesn’t trust me. She doesn’t like me either. But then I get the impression she doesn’t like anyone that much so I’ll try not to take it too personally.
She had the good grace to look vaguely abashed when I laid on the guilt trip: What a poor guy am I, no family to turn to and just out of prison. It threw her but she wasn’t fooled for long. She was watching me as closely as I was watching everyone else. And she picked up on the fact
I wasn’t drinking.
I wonder what she sees when she looks at me: just a killer perhaps, just an undesirable con sitting quietly in a chair, a user, a loser, a leech come to take advantage of the Buckley hospitality? No, she’s smarter than that. I could have read her once, known exactly what she was thinking, but I’ve lost the touch. I’ve spent too many years apart from women. Their more serious looks are like a foreign language now, confusing and mysterious.
But then it was time for us all to raise our glasses and drink another toast to the liberty of Johnny Frank.
Chink, chink.
‘Congratulations!’
‘Here’s to the future!’
And if nothing else, I could drink to that.
Chapter Five
Simone
It’s Christmas Eve and the good news is that I’ve seen hardly anything of Johnny since he arrived. He’s been keeping himself to himself. To the best of my knowledge he hasn’t even gone out – well, at least no further than the garden, which he regularly prowls like a cat establishing its territory.
The bad news is that Carl, after a few days’ absence, has returned to the fold. Home from work, late in the afternoon, I come through the door to find his cases stacked untidily in the hall.
‘Hi,’ he says, emerging from the kitchen with a cigarette in one hand and a beer in the other. ‘Glad to have me back?’
‘Thrilled,’ I reply with a sinking heart.
‘I thought you might be.’
I don’t stop to chat. Our dislike is mutual and our attempts to disguise it border on the negligible. He suspects, quite rightly, that Gena has talked, that she has told me things he doesn’t want anyone to know. Like how he gets his kicks, for example, about how he likes to hurt. And with Christmas so close it’s pretty hard to forget what I witnessed last year.
It still makes my stomach turn over.
Walking quickly enough to get away, but not so fast as to let him think he’s intimidated me, I’ve just reached the first-floor landing when he calls up: ‘Johnny’s been asking about you.’
Which stops me dead in my tracks.
‘Don’t you want to know why?’
The question leaves me with the choice of submitting to a fearful curiosity – and facing Carl’s smug self-satisfied expression – or just ignoring him. After a brief struggle I choose the latter. He’s probably lying anyway. Why would Johnny have any interest in me?
‘Suit yourself.’
His mocking laughter follows me up the stairs.
As I step inside the flat, Marc’s emerging from the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist. In an uncharacteristically romantic gesture, he’s booked a table for two at Luigi’s for this evening. It’s either a sign of a guilty conscience or some kind of recompense for having to endure another Christmas with the Buckleys. Maybe a combination of both.
‘Hi, love.’
He comes over and gives me a kiss. Over the past few days, he’s been more attentive than usual but quieter too, as if he’s got something on his mind. There’s worry in his eyes and the frown lines on his forehead have become a permanent fixture. Instead of moving away he wraps his arms gently around me and pulls me closer.
‘I’ve missed you.’
Like a child seeking comfort, he buries his face in my hair and sighs. I can smell the lemony scent of the soap on his warm damp skin and feel the steady beating of his heart. Stroking his back, I murmur those sounds that are not so much words as primitive whisperings of reassurance. At times like these, when he seems more vulnerable than arrogant, I can remember why I fell in love. Aside from the fact he was the sexiest man I’d ever met, his occasional flashes of a tender, almost desperate need rocked my heart.
Will I ever make sense of him?
For a second, as he lifts his head, I think he’s about to tell me something, to confide, perhaps even to take my face in his hands and kiss me again – but the moment is broken by a loud crash from downstairs. Startled, we jump apart.
Carl’s vicious tones rise through two floors of plaster and cement. ‘I know your fucking game and I’m not going to stand around while—’
‘You think you can just walk back in here with your pile-of-crap lies, upsetting your mother and—’
‘Me upsetting her! Shit, that’s a joke. You’re the one who’s—’
‘I’m the one who hasn’t done anything except fucking feed you and clothe you and put a roof over your fucking head for the last twenty-six years. Not that I’ve ever got any thanks for it. Not that I’ve ever got—’
Another loud crash reverberates through the house.
‘And don’t even—’
‘And don’t even think about telling me what to fucking do!’
It’s all vaguely reminiscent of every other Buckley argument. The characters might change, the dialogue vary slightly, but the song remains the same – rage runs through this family like a seam of poisonous lead. Only Marc refuses to participate, channelling his frustrations in a different but perhaps no less destructive direction.
Before I can find out exactly what Jim is being accused of, Marc strides over to the radio, stabs at the start button and turns up the volume. A stream of heavy rock shakes the room. We both flinch. It’s not the kind of music either of us likes but I guess it’s the lesser of two evils and has the effect of drowning out the more dramatic downstairs acoustics.
To be heard, I have to raise my voice. ‘So what’s all that about?’
But he only shrugs, turning away. ‘Nothing. Let’s get out of here.’ Glancing at his watch he notes with a grimace that we’re still a few hours adrift from dinner. ‘We can get a drink first. I wouldn’t mind trying that new bar on the High Street.’
‘Okay, but . . .’
But already it’s too late. Conversation over. He’s disappeared into the bedroom to get dressed. That rare moment of intimacy has dissolved as rapidly as it arrived. I go to the bathroom to take a shower and, quickly stripping off my clothes, step frowning under the hot spray. If we could talk more often our relationship mightn’t be so fragile – but we can’t, and there’s no point dwelling on it. Instead, I find myself wondering what Carl was accusing Jim of, not to mention what he meant earlier about Johnny. He’s only been back five minutes and already the house is in turmoil.
Has Johnny been listening to this latest example of familial love and togetherness? He’s in the room directly underneath so unless he’s wearing earplugs he couldn’t fail to overhear. I still can’t figure out why he’s chosen to come here, just as I still haven’t figured out what he did that was so terrible all those years ago, the episode for which Dee has clearly never forgiven him. I’m pretty sure it’s not to do with the killing. It’s something that happened before that. And if there’s so much bad feeling, why in God’s name has he decided to plant himself right back in the middle of it? If he’s not searching for company then what exactly is he looking for?
But they’re the kind of questions guaranteed to destroy your peace of mind.
By the time we arrive at Indigo, Marc has sufficiently recovered his humour to crack a smile or two. Public appearances always cheer him up and tonight he’s looking particularly stunning. Dressed in a dark blue tailored suit and a shirt that matches his eyes, he’s the most elegant man in the bar; heads, both male and female, turn as he flows gracefully through the room. In his wake he leaves a flutter of undisguised admiration.
Even after we have sat down, greedy glances continue to seek him out. Although he appears oblivious, neither acknowledging nor returning the looks, the attention, as if by a process of osmosis, seems to sink into his subconscious producing a kind of radiance, a glow from within. Perhaps it is only at moments like this that Marc is truly content: a distant object of desire, with nothing more required of him.
And yet he isn’t vain. There’s a streak of arrogance to be sure, an over-developed self-confidence that has brought him to his knees on more than one occasion, but it is less to do with conceit than with
some deeper need, a yearning for respect or approbation. Where he has so patently failed in other areas of his life, here, in the arena of physical beauty, he can reign supreme.
We order cold beers and sip them for a while in silence. I don’t press him to talk. If he has something to tell me he will do it when he’s good and ready. In the meantime I entertain myself by staring down a predatory vamp or two; it’s a skill I’ve had plenty of practice in and have now honed to a bitchy perfection.
When he does eventually speak, he surprises me. Leaning across the table, he lowers his voice. ‘Sims, could I ask you something?’ He pauses for a second as if he’s not sure whether to go on and then takes a deep breath. ‘I know this is going to sound crazy but do you think Dad could be having an affair?’
I’m so astounded I laugh out loud – but seeing his expression quickly stifle it. ‘Jim? God, whatever makes you say that? I’ve never even seen him look at another woman.’ Which is true. Despite its volatility, his marriage to Dee has always seemed rooted in solid ground, as secure and eternal as a grand old oak.
The frown deepens on his forehead. ‘Well, okay, maybe not an affair then but . . . I don’t know . . . some sort of mid-life crisis? You don’t think he’s been behaving strangely?’
When it comes to the Buckleys I’m not sure what constitutes ‘strangely’ but I shake my head anyway. ‘A bit on edge perhaps but . . .’
‘I mean, you say he never looks at other women but haven’t you noticed the way he stares at Melanie?’
‘Oh, come on – that’s different. All men gawp at Melanie,’ I insist, ‘unless they’re gay. She’s pretty hard to ignore. But that doesn’t mean he’d ever do anything or want to do anything about it. Not your dad. He’s not the type.’
Marc takes another sip of his beer. ‘It’s not just her. There’s another girl at the club. Aimee, she’s a dancer there. A redhead. He’s been paying her a lot of attention, you know, like too much attention. He’s always hanging round. Every time I look over my shoulder he’s got his face in her tits.’