by Roberta Kray
But she wasn’t listening any more. Turning my hand around in hers, she was lost to another world. ‘It’s okay. It’ll all be okay.’
It’s morning. I watch as the sky pales into dawn. Rain is falling, a heavy steady beating against the window. For a moment I can’t recall what the urgency is, why I have to get up, but slowly the panic wakens in my gut, a hot sick feeling that rises to my chest and then my throat and then . . . Oh God.
I stagger to the bathroom and lean my head against the cool tiles. I take some long deep breaths and the nausea passes. I brush my teeth and step into the shower where I’m greeted by a stream of barely lukewarm water – the perfect start to a perfect day.
I can’t believe it’s morning already. It’s a miracle I managed to sleep at all. In the end, worried I’d be in no fit state to drive, I resorted to the pills in the bathroom cabinet, a legacy from Marc’s post-prison insomnia. Just half a pill had been enough to deliver me into a weird dreamless state of unconsciousness.
Lord, how I’d like to be back there now.
As I wash, my mind’s starting to spin again, providing a dizzying recital of yesterday’s events. What I need to do is concentrate, to try and think straight, but it’s easier said than done. And on top of everything else, there’s that crazy thing Dee spoke about last night.
Shivering, as much from the memory as the cold, I step out from under the water and grab a towel. Had she been serious? No, she couldn’t have been. She was just upset, confused. She was clutching at straws. Johnny doesn’t have any interest in me, the very opposite . . . except, well, there was that weird thing Marc had said at Christmas, about his wife, about Sarah, about how I . . .
No, this isn’t the time to struggle with that. I’m messed up, scared enough already. I have to stay focused. I need some caffeine. I take a detour via the kitchen to switch on the kettle and then head back to the bedroom.
What to wear is the least of my worries but I’m still incapable of making a decision. I open the drawers and stare at their contents. As if they belong to someone else, the garments lie in clean neat layers. I feel odd, disoriented, like a stranger in my own home. A minute passes. Then another. What am I doing? Unless I want to walk the streets naked, I’d better make a choice and quick.
In the end I drag on my usual jeans and boots, pair them with a T-shirt and a thin black sweater – it’ll be warm enough in the car – and make a vague mental note to pick up my winter coat on the way out.
I look at my watch. It’s close to eight o’clock. Damn! A sense of urgency suddenly kicks in. I’ve only got ten minutes. Grabbing a bag from the bottom of the wardrobe I quickly throw in some underwear, a change of clothes, toiletries and make-up. What else will I need? God knows. I’m not even sure how many days we’ll be gone.
Rushing back to the kitchen, I make a fast strong cup of instant coffee. I should eat, a slice of toast if nothing else, but I can’t. Fear is churning at my stomach. I reach for the cigarettes, resorting to that old familiar comfort, and light one with a shaky hand.
Everywhere I go, everywhere I look, there are reminders of Marc: his clothes, CDs, books, even a mug that he drank from yesterday. I don’t have the heart to wash it up. Instead, like a clairvoyant trying to read invisible tea leaves, I stare intently into its dregs. It doesn’t help. As if he’s already dead, a wave of desolation floods over me.
I try to shake it off, to think along more positive lines. Why would they kill him? They wouldn’t. He’s their key to the diamonds, their bargaining tool. He has to be safe. He’s got seven days’ grace if they stick to their side of the deal.
But what if Johnny doesn’t stick to his?
I lean my face against the window and stare down at the garden. It’s filthy dark, filled with shadows. Even the cyclamen, pale as they are, are no more than a blur.
What if he reneges on his promise?
I shudder and look at my watch again. There’s no time left to think about it. I have to make a move. After a few last gulps of coffee, I stub out the cigarette, pick up my bag, my purse and coat, and head out of the door.
It all seems quiet until I reach the first floor. Then, as I head down the last flight, Dee appears from the kitchen and stumbles along the hall. It’s clear she’s spent the night with a bottle of gin.
‘Take care of yourself, love,’ she says, holding me tight in an alcoholic embrace.
‘I’ll call,’ I promise, gently extricating myself. ‘Try not to worry.’ I can’t remember the last time Dee showed me so much affection but then it’s not every day that your son gets held to ransom.
She’s about to say something else when Johnny appears and she instantly closes her mouth.
‘All set?’ he asks cheerily, as if we’re about to embark on a weekend jaunt to the country.
He’s carrying a bag that’s only slighter larger than mine and I try to figure out how much he’s bringing with him: everything he owns or just some of it? But then how many possessions does a man have after eighteen years in prison? And if you’re about to pick up thousands of pounds’ worth of diamonds then I doubt you’re too concerned about the odd abandoned shirt.
‘Here,’ Dee mumbles, ‘have these.’ She pushes a set of keys into my hand. ‘You can take Jim’s car.’
I shake my head and pass them back. ‘It’s okay, really, I’d rather drive my own.’ Jim’s BMW may be faster, more comfortable, and probably a darn sight more reliable than our old Fiat, but I prefer what I know. And anyway a small car’s got its advantages, especially in London.
As we’re about to leave, Jim and Carl join the farewell committee, the former looking hung over, the latter like he’s been a few bad-tempered rounds with Tyson. It’s not the most Christian response but I can’t help feeling a rush of satisfaction; if anyone deserved a taste of his own medicine it’s Carl Buckley.
Neither of them speaks. Jim makes the effort to nod but Carl just stares sullenly at his assailant. There’s a mountain of hate in that gaze but Johnny doesn’t seem too bothered.
Fortunately the rain prevents any lingering goodbyes. As soon as the bags are deposited in the boot, I give a wave, climb into the driving seat, and start the engine. Johnny curls in awkwardly beside me, his long legs bent into the limited space.
We’re halfway down the drive before I mention, ‘If you need more room you can push the seat back. There’s a lever to your left.’
I stop and wait for the electric gates to open. He’s still fumbling unsuccessfully, a series of slight frustrated sighs escaping from his throat. If it was anyone else I’d lean across and do it myself but I don’t fancy being so close. The only other option is to get out of the car and walk round his side but thankfully I’m saved from this foray into the rain as, with a jolt, he suddenly shoots backwards. I try not to smirk.
Before moving off again, I ask, ‘So where are we heading?’
‘The City,’ he replies shortly.
‘Okay.’ I wait but no further information is forthcoming. ‘Any chance of something more specific?’
‘I’ll direct you when we get there.’
‘Oh great,’ I reply, pulling out into the traffic, ‘so you’ve kept up with all the one-way systems then? That’ll be useful.’
He gives me a look, a sarcasm-is-the-lowest-form-of-wit kind of look, before eventually capitulating. ‘Old Street,’ he says reluctantly.
It’s another ten minutes before he talks to me again. Of course he chooses the moment that I’m negotiating a tricky exit off a roundabout to resume the conversation. And not just any old small talk, oh no; while cars are hurtling from every direction, he has to come straight out and ask, ‘So why exactly did you marry Marc?’
I glance at him, startled. What kind of a question is that? The answer is clear almost immediately – the sort guaranteed to cause a major accident if you don’t keep your eyes on the road. Swerving to avoid a lorry, it’s only by some miracle that we finally make it safely on to Eastern Avenue.
While my heart’
s pumping, he continues to look impassively out of the window. Glaring straight ahead, I silently curse him.
‘Sorry,’ he says smugly, ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’
Upset me? He almost just bloody killed me. But recalling what Dee advised – Be nice to him – I make an effort to rein in my temper. Not that I believe her ludicrous notion but there’s no point either in being deliberately antagonistic. He’s the one who’s holding all the aces. If he decides to bail out then . . .
‘Look,’ I reply bluntly but softly, ‘my life’s been turned upside down, my husband’s been taken hostage, a man’s been murdered, my family’s been plotting behind my back to retrieve a stolen stash of diamonds – and now I’ve almost been squashed beneath the wheels of a truck. Just how much more upset do you think I’m capable of being?’
He gives me one of his weird unintelligible smiles. Whether he’s amused or sympathetic is impossible to judge although, going on past experience, it’s unlikely to be the latter.
The traffic grinds to a halt and stays that way for the next few minutes. This is one of those infamous snarl-up locations, a rush-hour disaster area I should have found a way of avoiding. Sadly, it’s too late for that now. And although it’s not the first occasion I’ve been stuck with Johnny in the tight confined space of a car, I can’t quite figure out why it feels so much worse this time.
I drum my fingers on the steering wheel, willing the road ahead to clear. Perhaps I do know what’s bugging me: I’m too aware of him, too disturbed by his sitting so close. Perhaps I should have taken up the offer on the BMW. At least I could have kept a reasonable distance. Even the small things, like his smell, set me on edge. There’s nothing bad about it, nothing malodorous – there’s even a fragrant whiff of shampoo and soap – but somehow, overlain by the tobacco, it’s just too unpleasantly distinct.
Mind, for all my discomfort he doesn’t seem too easy either. Despite the rain, he winds down the window and leans out. Maybe he’s just checking on the traffic but from the paleness of his face, and the quickness of his breath, I’m more inclined to suspect an attack of claustrophobia.
‘Are you all right?’ I ask. I’d like to claim that it’s a purely humanitarian response, an act of kindness, but it isn’t. If Johnny’s got a weakness then I want to know about it. Any weapon, however big or small, could be useful in the days ahead.
But he doesn’t reply. He doesn’t even look at me.
And before I get the chance to pursue any lurking devils, the car ahead has shifted and we’re slowly crawling forward again. Gradually we pick up pace until we’re rolling along at a respectable 20 mph. Still he doesn’t say anything and, as much to break the silence as in any hope that I might get an honest reply, I ask, ‘So why are you really doing this, Johnny? No offence, but what’s in it for you?’
‘We’ve already had this conversation. I get to stay out of jail.’
I suppose there’s some truth in that – but I’m still not convinced. ‘Oh come on, those diamonds are worth a fortune.’ I try to keep my tone light rather than accusatory. ‘They’re your future. They’re your way out, your chance to escape from . . .’ I pause, looking around. The bleak grey street seems to say it all. ‘What’s to stop you from just taking off? It’s not as if you even like the Buckleys.’
He smiles. ‘You’re a Buckley.’
I ignore the implication. ‘You see, unless I’m missing something, it doesn’t make any sense.’
Johnny lifts his eyebrows and sighs. ‘Then perhaps what you’re missing is an old-fashioned sense of loyalty.’
Forgetting my intention to stay calm, I glare at him and snap, ‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’ He’s hit a sore point, reminding me of my plans to leave Marc. That guilty secret hasn’t just been playing on my conscience, it’s been eating away at my guts too. There’s this sharp remorseful pain that grows more intense by the hour. His kidnap feels like a punishment, divine retribution for my intention to renege on my marriage vows. For better or for worse. And it’s not as though I ever stopped caring. I didn’t. The thought of Marc being hurt, killed, fills me with unadulterated terror. Which maybe goes to prove, now I’m in danger of losing him, how much I still love him.
Johnny takes a moment to absorb my retort – or perhaps just the evidence of my guilt – before continuing. He doesn’t answer directly, harking back instead to my earlier comment. ‘You’re right. Well, about Jim for sure; we never were the best of mates. I was always much closer to Dee.’
He stops. Is that it? I’m tempted to prompt him – but wisely keep my mouth shut. There’s a time and a place for interrogative interruptions. Occasionally, if you keep quiet for long enough then . . .
‘Yeah,’ he eventually begins again, ‘we go back a long way. And if you think that doesn’t count for anything, that it’s all just ancient history, then you’re wrong. It’s the old ties that are the strongest. When you’ve been inside for as long as . . . well, you don’t ever forget your real friends, the ones who’ve stood by you. No, Dee’s been good to me. I’d do anything for her.’
And now I know for sure that he’s lying! Dee didn’t stand by him. She was as shocked as I was to hear that Jim had invited him to stay. She didn’t even want to see him again. I swing the car left on to Mare Street, trying to think of what to say next.
Perhaps he reads my expression because he gives a soft disconcerting laugh and averts his face to stare out of the window. ‘Sorry. I thought you realized.’
It takes a while for the words to settle in my brain. Realized? Realized what? The driver in front is doing the indecisive jig of the lost. Now, while I’m not completely incapable of simultaneously driving and thinking, I’ve already had one near-death experience today and am loath to encourage another. For the next thirty seconds, I keep my mind and my eyes fixed firmly on the road ahead.
‘What?’ I eventually ask, as I take a right into Hackney Road and our future feels a little more secure.
He shrugs. ‘At Christmas. When we talked. I thought you’d guessed; women’s intuition and all that.’
Frowning, I glance back at him. Christmas is one of those days that I’ve already put firmly behind me. Best forgotten as the bad ones always are. Reluctantly, I resurrect the memory, trying to remember what he told me. The only time we really talked was outside, after the row, after it all kicked off, after Jim said that stuff about people in glass houses, after Dee stormed out . . . and when I was curious, too curious perhaps, as to what lay at the heart of it all. And what I’d presumed was that she’d once had an affair, that . . .
The light finally flicks on in my brain.
‘God,’ I whisper, ‘it was you.’ And I don’t know why I’m shocked but I am.
He doesn’t deny it. ‘It was a long time ago and no, in case you’re wondering, there’s nothing going on now.’
‘But you still have feelings for her?’
‘Not like that,’ he replies. He’s got a faintly embarrassed expression on his face, the kind of look that men often assume when the ugly subject of emotion raises its head. ‘I’m not proud of what we did. It should never have happened but . . .’ He shrugs. ‘So you see, there is a reason why I’m doing this.’
Do I believe him? Not entirely. He may be telling the truth about the affair but as to the rest . . . well, the jury’s still out on that. ‘For old time’s sake then?’
‘Partly,’ he agrees, ‘but don’t forget they took me in when I needed a place to stay. They gave me the chance to sort myself out. If it wasn’t for them, Lord knows where I’d be now.’
‘You gave them money to do that,’ I retort, taking a shot in the dark.
It hits the mark. He glances at me, startled. ‘What makes you say that?’ It’s good to see him wrong-footed for once, on the defensive.
‘Why? Are you denying it?’
Johnny laughs. ‘You ask a lot of questions.’
‘I’ve got a lot to learn.’
We’re approaching Shoreditch High
Street and it occurs to me that we’re not so very far from Dalston, from where Eddie Tate met his gruesome end. Glancing down at Johnny’s hand, I wonder if Dee was lying about Tuesday night, if he really was at home or if . . . No, I can’t start thinking like that, not when I’m trapped in a small metal box with nowhere to go. Whatever their history she wouldn’t cover up a cold-blooded murder. I can’t believe that. Well, not unless she was doing it for Marc . . .
Is that the deal – they keep quiet about the killing in return for Johnny handing over the diamonds?
‘Why did you hit Carl?’
He’s in the process of rolling a cigarette. As if the task takes all his concentration, he waits until he’s formed the skinny cylinder, until it’s been dampened, sealed, examined and lit, before finally replying. His lips slide into a thin cruel smile. ‘Does anyone need a reason?’
In Carl’s case, probably not, but it’s hardly an adequate answer. ‘I thought you two got on like a house on fire. You spent enough time together.’
‘Let’s just say we had a difference of opinion.’
‘You always solve your differences with your fists?’
He exhales a thin stream of smoke out of the window before turning to look at me again. ‘No, not always.’ There’s a short pause before he adds softly, ‘And no, I didn’t kill Eddie Tate either.’
God, I hate the way he does that, reading my thoughts as if they’re sitting in a cartoon bubble right above my head. Too quickly I retort, ‘I didn’t say you did.’
‘But you can’t help wondering.’
He doesn’t seem so much offended as amused. Perhaps he’s one of those men who get a kick out of women being scared of them. And I am afraid although I’m desperate not to show it. I’m trying to keep it buried not just from him but from myself too. I’m secretly praying Dee wouldn’t be so mad as to pack me off with a psychopathic killer, but if it came to a choice between my life and her son’s . . .