by Roberta Kray
No, it’s better in the shop even if we are suffering from the post-Christmas lull. It’s only the dead keeping us occupied at the moment, January’s cold weather claiming its seasonal tally. The table in the back room is strewn with the remnants of white lilies and chrysanthemums. I take my time over these wreaths, carefully arranging the blooms, sympathetic to the finality of the gesture but struck too by a creeping awareness of my own mortality. What am I doing? Life is passing me by and I still haven’t made any definite plans.
Dee came in earlier but has since left us to it. There’s no point in the three of us being here and her mind’s not exactly on the job. She’s been the same since Johnny arrived, tetchy one moment and effervescent the next. I saw her coming out of his room last night, a little dishevelled, a little the worse for wear, and there was something about the way she glanced cautiously along the landing that made me wonder if . . . but no, that’s just crazy, she wouldn’t, she couldn’t possibly. Jim’s supposed to be the partner with the straying hands. And come on – Johnny? How could anyone consider touching, never mind sleeping with, that cold grey creature . . .
But I didn’t mention what I’d seen to Marc. Why not?
I must be scowling because Kerry Anne suddenly asks, ‘Hey, what’s the matter?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Have you had a row with Marc?’ There’s as much hope as curiosity in the question. Perhaps we’ll get a divorce and she can step into the breach.
‘Of course not,’ I reply. And her face instantly falls. It’s a slightly different face to before Christmas, more subtly made-up and curtained with a freshly cut-and-coloured bob of fine blonde hair. Although she will never be a Melanie she has the softer, more innocent look of a plump and affectionate cherub. ‘What makes you ask that?’
Kerry Anne shrugs. ‘Nothing,’ she replies in an echo of my own response. Her mouth aims for a smile but purses instead into a tiny Cupid’s bow of disappointment.
I spend most of the afternoon searching for things to do. The shop has never been so clean; swept, mopped, polished and dusted, every surface gleams. It has rarely been so empty either. I sort and re-sort the flowers, creating ever more alluring displays for the forecourt. Surely something must attract a customer – the delicate arrangement of pink and white roses, the lilac-blue sprays of iris, the velvety rows of winter pansies?
It’s almost four when the man wanders in off the street. It’s been so quiet he has my undivided attention. I watch as he meanders through the shop, glancing to left and right, before proceeding slowly to the counter. He’s a small sullen-faced male, over fifty, skinny and pale. His skin has the colour and texture of old parchment. A pair of bright red ears, chilled by the wind, stick incongruously out from the side of his head. As his cunning eyes skim the flowers I know – even before he reaches me – that he hasn’t come to buy anything.
He slows to a stop, plants his legs apart and folds his arms. It’s an intimidating stance despite his stature. There’s a ring on his little finger, an ugly gold sovereign that looks too heavy for his hand. I stare at it. He stares at me. ‘Simone?’ he asks in a thin reedy voice.
I raise my eyes as he says my name. I jump too. I can’t help it. Who is he? How does he know my name? There’s something dark about him, something malevolent.
‘Simone Buckley?’
He has the officious tone of a low-level bureaucrat, of a man who wants more power than he has. But he’s not that and he’s not a copper either – no cop is this badly dressed. Five years ago I would have just said yes – but I’ve changed since then. I’ve learned the advantages of silence. And I’ve also learned how to recognize a villain when I see one. Admitting to nothing, I merely make a small upward shift of my eyebrows.
The corners of his mouth turn down. He shifts his feet and grunts. It’s clear I’ve annoyed him, that his scenario hasn’t gone to plan, but he can always fall back on that ancient art of the well-worn threat. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he sneers, ‘I know who you are.’
We glare at each other across the counter.
‘Okay,’ he says bitterly. ‘If that’s how you want to play it.’
I don’t want to play anything. What the hell is going on? Is this something to do with Marc, with one of his crimes, with one of his frauds? I glance over my shoulder, glad that Kerry Anne is around but equally relieved that she’s out of the way, employed in her usual fifteen-minute routine of making a basic cup of coffee.
‘I’ve got a message,’ he drawls, lowering his voice into Hollywood gangster mode. ‘For Mr Frank.’ He pulls an envelope from his pocket and throws it down in front of me.
Suddenly it all becomes clear. Johnny! God, I should have guessed. My breath rushes out in a gush of relief.
‘Make sure he gets it.’
But even as I begin to reach out, thankful this is not personal, I remember the promise I made on Christmas Eve. No one is supposed to know where Johnny Frank is living. Quickly I withdraw my hand. ‘Who?’
‘Best if you just do as you’re told, sweetheart.’
Sweetheart?
But before I can think of a suitable retort he’s swaggered out of the shop.
‘Who was that?’ Kerry Anne asks, making me jump again.
I wonder how long she’s been there, how much she’s heard. ‘No one,’ I reply, slipping the envelope into the pocket of my apron. Turning, I take the mug of coffee from her. ‘Just some bloke trying to find Bishop Street.’
She looks at me, wide-eyed and unconvinced. ‘You’ve gone all white, Simone. Did he . . .?’ But unsure as to what perversity he might be guilty of, she leaves the question hanging.
Lord, the last thing I need now is an interrogation from Kerry Anne. In fact the sooner I get out of here the better. ‘You know what?’ I reply, with what I hope sounds like brisk indifference. ‘I think we should call it a day and shut up early. It’s dead in here.’
‘But won’t Dee—’
‘Don’t worry about Dee. I’ll sort it with her later.’
And Kerry Anne, smiling now and forgetting all about the scruffy stranger, rushes to bring in the displays.
Soon I’m out of the door and heading down the High Street. Typically, there’s a bus pulling in across the road. I skilfully jaywalk through the traffic, getting honked at by irate drivers, but still find myself stranded on the island in the middle. Despondently I watch as the bus disappears into the distance. Damn and blast!
I’m too angry to wait around for the next one. I need to get home now and confront Johnny Frank. Whatever’s going on, I don’t want to be a part of it. As soon as a taxi appears I flag it down and spend the rest of the journey quietly seething in the back seat. I knew he was trouble – but whatever he’s involved in, he’s not using me as his message-taker.
I take out some of my frustration on the gravel as I stomp up the drive. I haven’t really thought about what I’m going to say; the rage is welling inside me like a volcano about to blow. How dare he? How dare he try and drag me into his grubby little world! I’ve had enough of crime and criminals to last me a lifetime.
I slam the door shut and storm into the kitchen. It was a good guess. He’s sitting there, Mr I’m-so-cool-and-collected, having a cup of coffee with Dee. I get the impression she isn’t too pleased to see me – that I’ve interrupted a cosy tete-a-tete – but her feelings are the last thing on my mind. He smiles faintly. ‘Simone.’
Just hearing him speak my name inflames my anger. Resisting the urge to slap his smug grey face, I throw the envelope down on the table. ‘I’m not the bloody messenger. Tell your mates to use the post in future.’
If Johnny’s surprised by my tone he doesn’t show it. He slowly looks down at the envelope and then back up. Even that simple gesture reminds me of his creepy friend.
Only Dee gives a tiny flinch, her eyes narrowing as she stares at me. Then she glances pointedly at her watch. It’s barely four thirty and the shop usually stays open until six. I mentally dare her to say somet
hing – one snide comment and I’ll tell her where to shove her job. And her flat. And come to that, her lying cheating son too. I’ve had enough of the whole damn lot of them.
But wisely she holds her tongue.
As we watch, Johnny slides a finger under the flap and tears the letter open. He removes the single sheet of paper, scans it quickly and throws it back down. ‘Eddie Tate,’ he says, glancing at Dee.
‘What does he want?’
Johnny shrugs. ‘What do you think?’
As if she’s warning him not to say too much, her gaze swivels briefly in my direction. It’s a gesture guaranteed to infuriate me even more. Lies, secrets, and more bloody lies. That’s all this family consists of.
Suddenly he laughs.
It was about the worst thing he could have done. ‘I’m glad you find it funny,’ I snarl, feeling the blood rush into my cheeks. How enraging can any one man be?
‘Look,’ he says, lifting his hands in a supplicatory fashion, ‘I’m sorry if he frightened you but—’
‘He didn’t frighten me,’ I almost shout back, conveniently dismissing those slim shivers of dread. In front of him, I’m not about to admit to any form of weakness. ‘He made presumptions. He presumed I knew you. He knew my name. He seemed to think it was okay to use me as his personal postman.’ I take another deep breath. ‘Well, it isn’t okay. Is that clear? I don’t appreciate attempts at intimidation from ageing low-life bits of flotsam.’
I’m about to turn tail and dramatically reverse my entrance, when Johnny says, ‘Perfectly. As I said before, I’m sorry. Before you jump to any more conclusions, why don’t you sit down and let me explain?’
He gestures towards a chair.
I raise my eyes to the ceiling. Why does everyone keep assuming I’ll do whatever they ask? As if I want to listen to his feeble excuses, never mind spend a second more than I need to in his company. ‘No thanks.’
And I would have left there and then if Dee hadn’t stuck her oar in. ‘I’m sure Simone’s got things she needs to do.’
What?
It’s the sight of her sour and disapproving mouth, as much as her words, that makes me instantly change my mind. I’ve been bossed around enough today. And if something’s going on, and I’m damn sure it is, then maybe I should try to find out what.
‘You’ve got five minutes,’ I announce, plonking myself down with the minimum of grace.
Dee says to him, ‘Are you sure—’
‘Don’t you have to pick up Jim?’ he says.
Now Dee’s not the type to be summarily dismissed so it’s pretty shocking, after a pregnant pause, to see her rise slowly from the table. It’s clear she isn’t happy but she isn’t going to argue with him either. She nods, saving the full force of her antagonistic glare for me.
‘Well, I’ll see you both later,’ she says icily.
Johnny sits, waiting patiently, until the bitter clicking of her stilettos is abruptly terminated by the slamming of the door.
‘Thanks for that,’ I snap. ‘Today’s just getting better and better.’
He picks up a skinny prison roll-up and lights it. ‘You don’t care what Dee thinks,’ he replies, exhaling the smoke through his nose. ‘You don’t care what anyone thinks.’ His mouth almost smiles. ‘You’re like me.’
Like him? A small laugh barks to the surface. If that’s the truth I may as well hang myself right now. ‘Oh yeah, and how do you figure that out?’
He leans back in his chair and stares. Does he know how uncomfortable it makes me feel? God, of course he does. Try not to look bothered. Meet his eyes. Don’t let him stare you down. But what he says next throws me into a much more precarious zone.
‘You’re only here because it’s safe and convenient.’
My heart does that flip-adrenaline thing, boom boom, and the blood reddens my cheeks again. I know he’s referring to those matters I don’t want to think about: Marc, the flat, the job. My life, in fact. And for a moment, like on the day I first met him, he’s looking right inside me as if I’m made of glass.
‘So you see,’ he continues slyly, ‘we’re not so very different.’
There’s a bad taste in my mouth. Bile. My stomach makes a grumbling nervous noise and I shift in my seat to try and cover it up. It’s not the only thing I want to hide. My voice, when it emerges, has more than a hint of a croak. I clear my throat and start again. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Why? Because I killed a man?’
My face burns hot and then cold. What the hell am I doing here? I should have gone upstairs when I had the chance; I only stayed to spite Dee, to temporarily shake off the Buckley shackles. Now I’m back in the one place I never wanted to be again – alone with Johnny Frank.
Ignoring the question, I say: ‘I thought you wanted to explain about your low-life scummy friend.’
‘Well, you’ve got it wrong,’ he says bluntly.
It’s not the only thing I’ve got wrong. I shouldn’t even be listening to him. I’m about to open my mouth, to interrupt, to prevent any more of his unpleasant and unwanted opinions, when he starts to talk again.
‘Eddie Tate isn’t a friend. Far from it. He’s just someone that I used to . . . associate with.’
His voice drifts as if from a distance. It takes a moment for its content to register in my consciousness. We’ve moved on. He’s no longer talking about me, about us. Pull yourself together, girl.
‘Right,’ I eventually murmur, relief merging with the sharper remnants of alarm. Too warm for comfort, I shrug off my coat and drape it over the back of the chair. It gives me a good excuse not to look at him.
‘I’m trying to make a new start,’ he continues, ‘to put the past behind me. I don’t want shit like Eddie Tate around.’
‘So what does he want?’ I retort, echoing Dee’s earlier question. Relief has made me strident. ‘And why can’t he use the phone like any normal person?’
‘Because I won’t take his calls,’ he replies.
‘But what does he want?’ I ask again, this time deliberately meeting his gaze.
Johnny produces one of his indifferent shrugs. ‘The usual. The same thing rats like Eddie Tate always want.’ Laying his forearms flat on the table, he sighs. ‘To pull you down into the same stinking sewer that he lives in. To make your life as miserable and meaningless as his.’
‘He’s a villain,’ I say, stating the obvious.
‘Like me,’ he retorts softly.
I stare into his flat grey eyes – there’s no hint of emotion – but don’t reply.
‘He shouldn’t have approached you. I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.’
I drop my gaze and examine the table. I suddenly feel tired and empty, drained by the exhaustion that so often follows anger. I feel faintly foolish too as if I’ve overreacted to an incident that was really no big deal. Dee will think I’ve lost my marbles. Still, she’s never had that high an opinion of me. I guess it’s yet another thing to add to her list. I’m still thinking about that when the full impact of what he has said hits me like a thunderbolt. I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again. My head jolts up and the words, accusing and fearful, are out before I can stop them. ‘What do you mean?’
A small frown settles on his forehead but then instantly clears. He shakes his head, amusement quivering the corners of his mouth. ‘Oh, Simone,’ he says, ‘for an intelligent woman you have some very serious prejudices. What do you think I mean? That I’ll solve the problem the old-fashioned way, down a dead-end alley on a dark and moonless night?’
‘No,’ I lie.
He takes a drag of his cigarette. ‘Although that might not be such a bad idea.’
This time I don’t take the bait. ‘I was only asking.’ Now I sound petulant, like a teenager. Johnny certainly doesn’t bring out the best in my nature.
‘Never mind,’ he grins, ‘you’ll be rid of me before too long.’
‘Are you leaving?’ I ask, with perhaps a touch too much enthusiasm.
<
br /> He laughs as if I’ve made a witty comment. ‘You’re the ones planning a new life in Spain.’
Now it’s my turn to laugh. ‘Yeah, right.’
‘Oh, sorry,’ he replies quickly, ‘I thought with Jim and Dee selling up . . . and from what Marc said – well, I was under the impression you were intending to join them.’
‘Selling up?’ I repeat, stupidly. What Marc said? ‘What are you talking about?’
He assumes a bemused expression before focusing his blank grey eyes on me again. Then his lips slide into a grimace and I hear a sharp intake of breath. ‘Ah, I’m sorry. Perhaps I shouldn’t have said anything. I thought . . . I’m sure they meant to – mean to . . .’ Then, with an embarrassed smile, he adds: ‘I’m sure nothing’s been decided yet.’
‘You’ve got it wrong,’ I insist, ‘you must have misunderstood.’ But even as I speak I know I’m clutching at straws. For God’s sake, this is madness. They can’t just make plans to sell up and move abroad without mentioning the fact. I want to go on denying it, telling him he’s mistaken, but the seeds of doubt are beginning to sprout. Is this what all the whispering has been about, the odd atmosphere, the silences when I walk into a room?
‘What did he tell you?’ I ask abruptly. ‘What did Marc say?’
Hearing the frustration in my voice, he raises his hands in a gesture of submission. ‘Hey, maybe I got it wrong. I don’t want to cause any trouble.’
But there’s a sly look on his face and I suddenly know, contrary to his protestation, that trouble is exactly what he wants. Johnny Frank is doing what he always does best – stirring the pot.
There’s a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach as I climb the stairs. Why I should be even mildly surprised by this latest turn of events, I have no idea. It’s hardly the first time Marc has kept a secret. Did I really think he’d changed?
Wearily, I push open the door to the flat. As if I’ve exhausted my supply of anger, I feel only a dull despairing ache. Marc is standing by the window. He turns but his smile slowly fades as he sees my expression. ‘What’s the matter, babe?’