The Debt

by Roberta Kray

  ‘When were you planning on telling me?’

  He frowns, adding a delicate shake of his head. ‘What?’

  I throw my coat and bag over a chair. ‘Just for once, can we skip the I don’t know what you’re talking about routine and move on? Or is that too much to ask?’

  His frown deepens while, in a gesture of assumed indifference, he leans casually back against the ledge. ‘If you’d tell me what—’

  ‘I mean our new life on the sunny Costa. I mean your plans for a brave new world. I mean Jim and Dee selling their businesses, selling this house. When exactly were you planning on telling me about it all?’

  Marc’s good but not quite good enough. I’ve caught him off guard and there’s a moment of hesitation, a short guilty pause, before he gathers his defences and comes back on the attack. ‘Oh, that. Who have you been talking to? Mum?’

  ‘No, I got the glad tidings from Johnny.’

  ‘Johnny,’ he repeats, smiling again now, nodding and then raising his eyes to the ceiling. There’s suddenly a look of relief on his face. ‘You know what he’s like, Sims.’

  It takes an effort to keep my voice calm. ‘No, I don’t know what he’s like – and I don’t want to. All I do know is that he seems to have a damn sight more information than I have.’

  ‘Look,’ Marc replies, sliding into the voice that irritates me the most, the soft over-patient tone of an adult talking to a child. He must have picked it up from Dee. ‘There aren’t any plans, not any definite ones. I swear. It’s only an idea and a vague one at that. Come on, sit down and I’ll make you a cuppa. You look done in. Bad day at work?’

  But I don’t sit down. I carry on standing with my hands on my hips, waiting. This time I’m not going to be deflected by his storm-in-a-teacup routine. I’ve heard it all too often before. ‘Johnny seemed to think that it was more than a vague idea. In fact, he seemed to think it was pretty cut and dried.’

  Flopping down on the sofa, Marc expels one of his languorous sighs. ‘Well, Johnny knows fuck all.’

  ‘More than me, it would appear.’

  He shook his head slowly. ‘Look, Sims, I’m not denying that they’ve mentioned it, Mum and Dad I mean. They’re getting on, thinking about retirement, and it’s a dream, isn’t it – selling up and moving to Spain. But nothing’s been decided. You think I wouldn’t have told you if it had?’

  ‘So why is Johnny—’

  ‘I guess he’s just heard them talking and jumped to conclusions.’

  But I’m still not convinced. Something smells and I’m certain he’s lying. Hadn’t Johnny claimed that Marc had talked to him about the move too? ‘I thought you said The Palace wasn’t doing well? How can they afford to retire?’

  ‘All the more reason to flog it – before the rot really begins to show.’

  Before the rot can’t be covered up, I think. Before Marc isn’t able to work his magic on the books any more.

  ‘They might still get a decent price at the moment,’ he continues, ‘but in a few months, well . . . who can say?’ He leans back and puts his hands behind his head. ‘To be honest, I think it may be the right thing to do. And you know, Sims, perhaps a fresh start would do us all a favour.’

  Now we’re finally getting somewhere. ‘So you want to go too?’

  He shrugs. ‘Why not? It’s worth considering. There’s nothing for us here. I’ll never get another decent job, you know I won’t – not in this country. What have we got to keep us?’ He glances towards the window and grins. ‘Apart from the bloody rain.’

  A more apt question might have been What have we got to keep us together? It’s clear that Marc has made his mind up, that the vague idea has already passed from possibility into the firmer realm of probability. I wonder how many conversations he’s had with Jim and Dee, not to mention Johnny, about this glittering new future.

  ‘It sounds like you’ve already decided.’

  ‘Don’t be like that,’ he says, assuming his hurt little-boy-lost expression. ‘I haven’t decided anything yet. How could I without you? All I’m asking is that you give it some thought. It’s not the worst prospect in the world.’

  But I know from past experience that the dream would as quickly turn into a nightmare. How long would it take before Marc returned to his former ways, before a sultry sen˜orita caught his eye or an opportunity too good to miss came within his grasp? And I don’t intend to be a prison widow -especially in a foreign country. No way. I’ve seen too much of that grey-faced army of disappointed women, all clinging to a future that will never come, to know I’m not prepared to join their ranks. I’m making the break. I am. I will.

  ‘Sure,’ I reply disingenuously. ‘I’ll think about it.’

  He gives me that smile, the beautiful smile that once upon a time would have instantly broken my resolve. But I’m older now – and wiser. If I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to make the break it’s just been handed to me on a plate. I should be glad but in truth I feel only an overwhelming sense of grief.

  Quickly, I turn away before my emotions reach my face. I don’t want him to guess what I’m planning to do. Entering the kitchen, I switch on the kettle and then, eager to change the subject, I glance over my shoulder and ask, ‘Have you ever heard of a guy called Eddie Tate?’

  His reaction isn’t what I expect. ‘What about him?’ he replies too quickly, and there’s an edge to his voice, a curious mix of fear and irritation.

  Surprised, I step back into the room and stare. Alarm bells are going off in my head. ‘You know him, don’t you?’

  He shrugs. ‘I’ve seen him around, that’s all. He’s been trying to contact Johnny but he doesn’t want anything to do with him. Some creep from his past.’

  But it doesn’t wash. There’s something false about his glib response. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ I seem to be asking that question a lot this afternoon.

  Marc shrugs. ‘There’s nothing to tell. Like I said, just some creep. It’s no big deal.’

  ‘Well, it’s a big deal to me,’ I insist, ‘especially when he comes to the shop and starts hassling me.’

  Now his eyes suddenly narrow and he moves quickly forward. ‘What’s he been saying?’

  I’d like to think this was Marc being protective, concerned about my welfare, but I know him far too well for that. This is about something else entirely, another secret he doesn’t want me to share. Turning the tables, I ask: ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Don’t play games, Simone. I’m not in the mood.’ Then, as if belatedly aware of his snappy confrontational tone, he forces his mouth into a rueful smile. ‘I’m just worried about you, love, that’s all. If this guy’s been hassling you, if he’s been giving you trouble, then—’

  ‘Nothing I couldn’t deal with,’ I interrupt.

  His eyes search mine, trying to assess what I might or might not have learned from my brief encounter with Mr Tate. I see the indecision in his gaze. He can’t decide how far to pursue it. In the end he settles on a bland enquiry. ‘So what did he want?’

  I wait a moment, watching him. Perhaps I should be grateful for this reminder of how devious Marc can be but somehow it only adds to my feelings of despair. I mimic his shrug. ‘Like you said, nothing much. He was just trying to make contact with Johnny.’

  The relief in his eyes shines as brightly as a beacon. ‘Some people can’t let go of the past.’

  ‘No,’ I agree, determined not to be one of them.

  Chapter Ten

  Johnny

  If looks could kill, I’d be a dead man by now. Simone stared daggers at me this morning, brushing past on the staircase, her eyes burning into mine. No flicker of a smile, not even a murmured greeting. I could have said Don’t shoot the messenger but she didn’t seem in the mood for witty repartee.

  It’s been a couple of days since we had our little chat.

  I was still watching her from the window, her steps brisk but her head bent despondently down, as she disappeared around the curve in
the drive. And okay, maybe I was feeling a bit smug – why shouldn’t I? Now the diamonds had entered the equation, everything was going to plan, the Buckleys circling each other like a pack of hungry tigers. I couldn’t have hoped for a happier outcome. The others had been easy to manipulate, Jim and Dee, Marc and Carl – all with their own blatant weaknesses – but Simone was the real icing on the cake. Pissing her off was really worth the effort.

  A few more weeks, maybe a month, and I’d have Jim exactly where I wanted – estranged from his family, destitute, fucked up, a broken man. Then it would be time to . . .

  They say pride comes before a fall but nothing had prepared me for what was coming next. When I turned it was to find Carl at my shoulder.

  ‘What are you watching that bitch for?’

  ‘You don’t like her,’ I replied, stating the obvious.

  ‘She’s a bitch,’ he repeated. ‘She’s the worst thing that ever happened to Marc.’

  I raised a non-committal eyebrow. ‘Nice pair of pins though.’

  ‘If you like that kind of thing,’ he snorted, as if the admiration of a pair of long shapely legs fell into the category of sexual deviance. Then, more forward than usual, he added, ‘Don’t even think about it. She’s colder than a fucking Eskimo. You haven’t got a chance.’

  ‘Who says I want one?’

  He grinned, his damp smile more obnoxious than usual. ‘Because you haven’t stopped staring at her since the day you arrived.’

  Now he was taking liberties, stepping over the boundaries. I didn’t like it. I didn’t like it one little bit. ‘Meaning?’ I asked, directing my icy gaze directly into his eyes. You let shits like Carl get away with it once and there’s no knowing where it may lead.

  Instantly he withdrew. Taking a step back, stumbling on the stair, he read my face and raised his hands in a gesture of submission. ‘Nothing, man,’ he retorted quickly. ‘Sorry. Hey, no offence. All I meant is that she’s not worth the effort.’

  Having made my point, I nodded. ‘Okay.’ It was meant as a dismissal, as a signal that he should just sod off and leave me alone, but instead his mouth slid slowly and unexpectedly into a wide ingratiating smile.

  ‘Have you heard about Eddie?’

  At first I thought he was just changing the subject, trying to wriggle his way out of a tight spot. I shook my head but humoured him. ‘Something I should know about?’

  He gave me a sly look. ‘Only if you want to pay your respects.’

  I’d turned away to glance out of the window again. My head must have spun back faster than a whipcord. ‘What?’

  ‘It seems he met with . . . an accident.’

  ‘You’re kidding?’

  He grinned inanely. ‘Shame, huh? Should we send a bunch of flowers?’

  Shit. Dead. I shook my head. Perhaps I shouldn’t have been surprised; Eddie had a habit of annoying people. He always was a double-crossing, good-for-nothing louse. But just when I wanted him alive, when just for once his stubborn crass stupidity was doing me a favour, his time had finally run out. Forcing a smile, I said: ‘Well, that’s a fucking stroke of luck.’

  I was almost down the stairs, trying to think, trying to hide my frustration, when his next words pierced me like a stab in the back.

  ‘Who said luck had anything to do with it?’

  My hand tightened and froze around the banister.

  ‘Now there’s nothing stopping us,’ Carl announced triumphantly. ‘We’ve got a clear run, Johnny. We can pick up the ice whenever we want.’

  I turned slowly to look over my shoulder. His eyes were shining almost as brightly as the gems he craved so much. He was staring straight at me, his face gleaming, almost manic, a fine sheen of perspiration covering his forehead and cheeks.

  Fuck. What had he done?

  The answer blossomed in my gut like deadly nightshade.

  ‘It was you,’ I said softly, a statement not a question. He didn’t know me well enough to hear the rage behind the words. He thought I was pleased. Shit, the little fucker even thought I was impressed. He jogged down the last few steps like some snotty kid about to receive a lollipop.

  We were only inches apart when I made my move. I timed it to perfection. He was younger than me, taller and fitter, but I had something he didn’t – the element of surprise.

  Bewilderment flashed across his face as I hurled him back against the wall, my forearm tight against his windpipe. ‘What the fuck have you done?’ He only struggled for a second, his body sensing the futility before it properly registered in his tiny brain. Carl tried to speak, strangulated grunts of protest emerging from his throat until I slapped him hard across the face. A stripe flared red across his cheek. ‘Tell me! Tell me, you shit!’ I loosened my hold, just enough to let him start breathing again, and then quickly raised my knee. With a satisfying crunch it made contact with his balls. As he slid slowly down the wall, his sharp intake of breath was swiftly followed by a long howl.

  ‘Shut it!’ I yelled, trying to drag him upright. It was pointless. His body was a dead weight. I let him fall with a slam against the polished wooden boards. I could have killed him. I could have finished him there and then. I wanted to. He’d just screwed up everything. In my mind I could already hear the sirens screaming through the streets, those bloody pigs coming back to have another bite of the cherry. This time I wouldn’t see daylight again. Carl fucking Buckley was truly his father’s son.

  ‘You want to see me back inside?’ I could hear my own voice, an octave too high. ‘Is that what you want? Is that what this is all about?’

  Gagging, he spewed up a stream of thin green slime. He moaned into the floor, doubled up, his hands still cradling his most precious assets. As well they might. God alone knew where his brains were hidden but they certainly weren’t in his head. Eddie Tate was dead, stone cold dead, and if Carl had left a trace, one single tiny clue, I’d be hung out to dry as an accessory.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘No,’ he eventually managed to splutter. Even the expulsion of that one syllable made his face crease up. But at least he could talk. And that’s all I needed to hear.

  ‘Speak to me,’ I said, grabbing him around his collar. ‘I haven’t got all day. Tell me. Tell me fucking everything or I’ll break your fucking neck.’

  It had the desired effect.

  His head shifted round. ‘I thought . . . I thought . . .’ His expression dissolved into pain again. It took a while before he managed to complete the sentence. ‘I thought it would help.’ He looked up pleadingly, his scared resentful eyes searching mine ‘Honest, Johnny, honest. That’s all.’

  ‘Help?’ I echoed, almost spitting in his face. ‘How the fuck does killing Eddie Tate help me? You want the pigs swarming round like a plague of bloody locusts? You think that’s smart? You think that’s keeping a low profile? Do you?’ I smashed my fist against the wall, just above his head. I only meant it as a warning but angrily mistimed the blow, punching too hard and smashing my knuckles against the plaster. Which only made me madder. God almighty, could anything get worse?

  But of course it could. It always did. It’s one of those laws, like the eternal and indisputable rules of physics. It grew ten, a hundred, a thousand times worse as he reluctantly came clean. His confession, although concise, wasn’t short on gory detail. As he stumbled through his story, tentative at first but slowly gaining in confidence, I had to fight to stop myself from gagging too. He’d gone after Eddie Tate, tormented and tortured him, before finally bludgeoning him to death. And it was clear, horribly clear, that Carl had taken pleasure in every single second of his victim’s agonizing demise.

  ‘I did it for you,’ he whined pathetically, ‘for us.’

  Shit, I wasn’t just dealing with a killer. Carl was a fully fledged psychopath.

  I lowered my head and stared into his wild blue eyes. Behind them lay an ocean of blankness. It took an effort to hold the gaze. My bones were shaking, every nerve trembling with rage. ‘There is no us. There n
ever was and never will be.’

  ‘Johnny!’ he shouted as I walked away.

  I resisted the urge to go back and kick him.

  I should have seen it. I should have realized. But I was too busy concentrating on the petty stuff to see the bigger picture. If I’d thought . . . if I’d thought . . . for God’s sake, how could I have been so fucking blind?

  Melanie’s hunched on the edge of the bed, her eyes glazed with disbelief. With her chin resting on her knees, she looks tiny, more like a child than a woman. She whispers, ‘Are you sure?’

  Even from across the room I can see her shivers. She’d bargained for all sorts of things – for deceit, for manipulation, for the satisfaction of revenge . . . but not for this. I slop a large measure of brandy into a glass and hand it to her. ‘Here, drink this.’

  She sips it like medicine, her face screwing up at the taste.

  I’m trying to stay calm, to at least pretend I’m in control, but it’s an effort. I get the feeling that one wrong word and she’ll shatter as surely as the glass she’s holding.

  ‘It’s better if you go, Mel. You should leave today.’

  There’s a tremor in her voice now. ‘What if he guesses?’

  I know what she’s thinking, that he’ll kill her too if he suspects she’s running out on him. ‘He won’t, I promise. And anyway, I’ll keep him busy until you’re well gone. Have you got much at the flat?’

  She shakes her head.

  ‘Good.’ It isn’t really a flat, only a studio room that she rented for the purpose, a convenient ‘home’ for her to escape to. It’s barely twenty minutes away, less than five if she takes a cab. And I want her in that taxi as soon as possible, away from here and any possible danger. I don’t think she’ll panic – she’s tougher than that – but shock can have a strange effect. I speak slowly and carefully, making sure she understands.

  ‘You go back and pick up your stuff but don’t rush, okay? You’ve got plenty of time. Don’t leave anything lying around – no addresses or contact numbers for friends.’ I pause for a second and wait for her to nod. ‘And if he rings, if Carl rings, then answer the phone. Don’t avoid him. I don’t imagine he will – he’s got enough on his mind but . . . well, if he does, just try and keep it natural. Keep it cool. Tell him you’re out, that you’re shopping, with a mate, anything. Tell him you’ll meet him at the club tonight. Keep it friendly. I know it won’t be easy but he’s got no reason to suspect that you’ve heard about . . .’ I take a deep breath. ‘So don’t give him one, okay?’