by Roberta Kray
‘God, no,’ I reply sympathetically. I wonder what he thinks killers do deserve – a pat on the back and a bunch of flowers?
He glances over his shoulder and lowers his voice. ‘So look, how’s he really doing? Johnny’s not one to complain but I know how tough it can be when you first get out.’
I dare say he’s speaking from personal experience, but the idea that I may be sitting drinking with two murderers isn’t one to dwell on. Still, he’s given me the perfect opportunity to find out about Johnny’s background. Although I’ll have to be careful how I phrase it; I don’t want him to suspect just how little I know. Carefully, I say, ‘Well, I guess it’s easier if you have some family support.’
He nods. ‘That’s true enough.’
For a second I think that’s going to be it, my cautiously sown seed has fallen on stony ground, but then he sighs, shakes his head again, and carries on.
‘Yeah, it hit him hard when Dixie died. They were like brothers, those two. He’s never got over it. I mean, you don’t, do you?’
‘No,’ I agree solemnly, even though I don’t have a clue what he’s talking about. Who was Dixie? I’m about to start probing but Alan hasn’t finished yet.
‘Thank God he’s still got Melanie. That girl’s like a daughter to him.’
The name descends like an axe. Melanie? I can feel the air rush painfully into my lungs producing a gasp of dismay. Quickly, I try and cover it with a cough. Melanie? No, he can’t be talking about the same one. Come on, get real, there must be thousands of Melanies in the world. There’s no connection to Carl’s girlfriend. How could there be? No, it has to be a coincidence. Unless . . .
But there isn’t time to pursue it. Already Johnny’s on his way back, weaving a way through the crowd. His earlier conquest at the bar must have pushed him up the waiting list. My heart begins to thump. I don’t want him to know what I’ve heard, not until I’ve been able to think it through, to be sure that they are two different women. Because if they’re not, if they are one and the same, then . . .
‘So what about you, Alan? Do you have any kids?’ My voice comes out at a higher pitch than usual.
Thankfully, by the time three large whiskies appear on the table, he’s already embarked on the saga of his offspring. I’m glad Johnny’s bought me another double; like a thirsty alcoholic I’ve got the urge to knock it back in one. But I don’t dare lift the glass. What if my hand shakes? Act normal, my brain is telling me, but I’m not even sure what that means any more.
‘Alan’s been telling me about his family.’
Johnny throws me a glance. His eyes seem to narrow but that might just be a figment of my imagination.
‘How is Ruth?’ he asks, sitting down.
And as Alan proceeds to tell him, in detail, I feel I’ve gained a temporary if uneasy reprieve. All I have to do now is look fascinated and make the usual polite and encouraging comments. ‘Three grandchildren? Really? That’s great. How wonderful.’
And eventually, after several long minutes, I’m confident enough to pick up the whisky. I take a few hasty gulps. I need to get out, to get away from here before her name is raised again. Melanie, Melanie, Melanie. I’m nodding and smiling while all the time it’s going round my head like some bloody awful mantra. No, they can’t be . . . they can’t know each other. I’ve seen them together and there wasn’t any indication that . . . except, well, there wouldn’t be, would there? Not if they wanted to keep it quiet.
‘Simone?’
I’ve let my attention slip. Johnny’s leaning forward, offering me a cigarette. ‘Thanks,’ I respond, automatically taking one and then instantly regretting it. He’s poised with his lighter and I worry again about a shaking hand.
Fortunately, Alan creates a distraction. ‘Christ, Johnny, did you hear about Eddie?’
And this time it’s his turn to falter. I see him jump. The flame shifts an inch and I have to grab his hand to bring it back. Has Alan noticed? Perhaps, even if he has, he thinks it’s just a loving gesture.
‘Yeah,’ Johnny says, ‘what the fuck was all that about?’ And he gives me a long hard look – a warning or a plea for silence?
I glance from him to Alan, my ears about as pricked as they’ve ever been.
But Alan just shrugs. ‘I don’t get it. I know he could be . . . but why? Why would anyone do that to him?’
Johnny shrugs too. ‘God knows.’
I glance into his eyes, searching for some small nugget of truth. A moment ago there was a flash of alarm, a definite reaction, but there’s nothing there now. He’s closed down as securely as he did on the promenade. And the grossly unwelcome memory of Eddie Tate rises up to haunt me – not the day he came to the shop, not the things he said or did, but just that stark black-and-white image in the newspaper: a dead man, a man murdered.
God, I need to get out of here.
I pull my hand away and try to keep on smiling. I’m getting good at this smiley stuff. It’s the perfect mask for anything too hard to face. Grabbing my glass, I swallow the rest of the whisky and look at my watch. ‘Hey, I’ve got to go,’ I announce, as if I’ve got an urgent appointment and time has run away with me. I turn to Alan. ‘It’s been great to meet you.’
‘Oh, you don’t have to—’
‘I do, I’m sorry,’ I lie, standing up, ‘but I’m sure we’ll catch up soon.’
Johnny also rises to his feet.
‘It’s okay,’ I insist, waving him back down. I’m still smiling so hard my lips are starting to ache. ‘I’ll see you later.’ And then I shake Alan’s hand again, exchanging the usual banalities.
They seem to go on for ever.
With a final friendly wave, I walk demurely across the pub and out of the doors. For all my city ways, I can barely wait to get outside. As if I’m the one who’s been imprisoned, I stumble gratefully into the cold, gulping in the fresh freezing air and trying to get my thoughts together.
Now I’ve got two names careering through my head: Melanie and Eddie, Eddie and Melanie. And I can’t make sense of either. I stare up at the darkening sky, hopelessly searching for any kind of insight. Then, absurdly worried that Johnny might decide to follow me, I take to my heels and head off up the street. What I need is nicotine. What I need even more is to get away from him.
In the summer this is probably a bustling place but now the town has a forlorn abandoned air. Even the arcades near the front are empty, their flashing lights playing to an empty auditorium. I hover for a moment, tempted to step inside, to waste my loose change on some defiant wasteful gamble. But I don’t. My hopes are already riding on too many crazy odds.
I walk on into the centre. There’s only a few hardy souls here, huddled in their coats and scarves, their bodies braced against the wind. I find a newsagent and buy a pack of twenty and a disposable lighter. As I pace the streets, I start thinking about Christmas Day. Didn’t Johnny deliberately sit next to Melanie? No, I can’t be sure. At the time, I would have claimed he deliberately sat opposite to me. But then there was the row and it wasn’t just him being provocative – wasn’t she going on about fidelity? I’d put it down to crass stupidity but maybe I’d underestimated her.
Why would they do it though? Why would they pretend to be strangers? But then nothing’s beyond Johnny. I may as well ask why he paid Jim and Dee to stay with them. Why didn’t he choose Alan or any of the other guys who slapped him on the back and seemed so pleased to see him yesterday?
But I suppose the most pertinent question is: if this Melanie is a different girl, and if she is so very close to him, then why hasn’t she been to visit? He hasn’t even mentioned her. And Johnny may not be the chattiest bloke in the world, but that doesn’t make sense. No, it goes well beyond that; in this vicious new world of ransoms and death threats, it quite definitely enters the sphere of the highly suspicious.
Or am I finally losing my marbles, seeing conspiracy anywhere and everywhere? Perhaps, like one of those Roman emperors forever waiting for the poiso
ned chalice or the stab in the back, I’m slipping into paranoia. Except, now I come to think of it, they were usually right to be concerned.
But where is Carl’s seductive little Barbie doll? I haven’t seen her since – well, since I read the news about Eddie Tate. And the memory of that day reminds me again of Marc, of the danger he’s in, of how . . . I suddenly get a suffocating sensation, a tightening of my throat. Panic sweeps over me, and for a moment the street shifts out of focus. I’m beginning to feel as faint as I did in the lift. Desperately, I look for somewhere to sit, for somewhere I can take the weight off these treacherous legs, but there’s nowhere. The best I can do is to find a wall and lean against it. Struggling for air, I raise my face to the sky.
Breathe, breathe.
And for the first time, as the world swims around me, I’m aware of how utterly alone I am. There’s no one coming to the rescue – no husband, no friend, no passing stranger. If I were to collapse now . . . but I can’t afford to let that happen. I can’t give in.
Breathe.
Eventually the cold air drags me back to reality. The mist starts to clear and the pavement to regain its solidity. Dazed, I glance around. Across the street, there are people passing by but no one’s looking at me, nobody’s staring – or caring.
Already the daylight is fading, the heavy shadow of dusk creeping over the town. If I were sensible, I’d head straight back to the hotel. But I need to calm down first, to achieve at least a minimal level of composure before facing Johnny again.
That’s if he ever comes back.
As I stumble down the steps to the sea front it’s clear the temperature has dropped a few degrees. There’s an extra harsh bite to the wind. I’m almost grateful for the cold, for its icy bitterness, for its ability to chase away all but the most basic survival instincts. Keep your head down, keep your hands in your pockets. Don’t think. Can’t think.
It’s even more deserted here than in the town. There’s only a few disgruntled dogs walking their owners. The wind throws back my hair. I raise a hand, pointlessly, to wind a few strands back behind my ears. What am I doing? Fear twists my stomach into a knot. Marc – where are you? Are you safe? I lean over the rail that Johnny leaned over and stare out towards the sea.
I can smell the salt, the brine. I stand and watch until the last flash of silver dissolves across the waves. I’m beginning to understand why he wanted to come here. There’s something weird and wild, almost primitive about this place. You can put your soul on the line. You can lose yourself in the sound of the sea.
But not for ever.
It doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t change the fact that Marc could be murdered, that his life is entirely dependent on Johnny, on some diamonds, on some bloody stupid hope and a prayer. I reach for my phone – surely the best thing I can do is to ring 999. But then Dee’s voice comes back to haunt me: Don’t come crying to me when . . .
I don’t know what’s right or wrong any more. I’m incapable of making a decision. I roll back from the rail and slump down on a bench. Leaning forward, I bury my face in my hands. The tears roll down my cheeks. If I were halfway smart, if I had even half a brain, I’d be back in the room by now searching through his bag for evidence. But it’s too late for that; I’ve already blown my chance. And what could I hope to find anyway – an incriminating note from Melanie or an entry in a journal reading, Yesterday I killed Eddie Tate?
I find a tissue and wipe my face clean. This isn’t doing any good. Instead of wallowing in self-pity I should be taking the opportunity to make plans, to plot, to work out how to get closer to Johnny. If I want him to help I’ll have to provide an incentive. I’ll have to give him a damn good reason to stick around.
Reluctantly, I get to my feet and start back. There’s no point putting it off. Time’s ticking away, maybe even running out. Tonight may be the last chance I get to make a difference. I’ve got to make the most of it. I’ve got to do whatever it takes.
And then, surprisingly, as if just by thinking about Johnny I’ve magically managed to conjure him up, there he is, standing two hundred yards along the esplanade; he must have cut down the steps near the hotel. He’s standing very still, gazing out towards the sea. I can make out the profile of his face but not his expression. Pensive? Angry? It’s too dark to tell. If I keep on walking I’ll have to pass right by him and, whatever his mood, I don’t imagine he’ll welcome the intrusion.
Accordingly, I hold back, slinking into the shadows. The wind whips around my face and my teeth start to chatter. I hope I won’t have to wait too long. The art of seduction is rarely enhanced by impending pneumonia. The shock of this thought temporarily distracts me from the cold. Am I really planning on seduction? No, that’s too strong a word. Temptation is nearer the mark. Or leading him on. Although that can backfire, and pretty dramatically, if you don’t have your wits about you. And I’m hardly an expert – when was the last occasion I hooked a man with my deeply sensual and captivating charms?
Shivering, I wrap my coat tighter around me. How much longer should I give him? Five minutes, ten? I’m starting to feel like a stalker. No one in their right mind would loiter in a place like this on such a freezing day. Perhaps he wouldn’t notice if I slipped quietly behind him.
I’m still considering this option as the two men loom into view. They’ve got their collars turned up high and their heads bent down. I don’t think anything of it until, as they draw nearer to Johnny, they gradually slow down and stop. He turns as one of them speaks. I can only hear a faint mumble. Maybe they’re just asking for directions or a light. No, they’re still talking. They’re drawing closer together. Ah, the truth dawns! So Johnny has another meet, a secret assignation. I should have guessed. Still, I shouldn’t hang around; if he spots me, he might think I’m spying. I’d better retrace my route and use the other flight of steps.
And then in a second everything changes. I’m just about to leave when a pale hand rises out of the twilight, driving quickly and viciously through the air. I hear the crack and then the exhalation of Johnny’s breath, sharp and pained, as he falls to the ground. What? And suddenly they’re both leaning over him, one of them almost on top, fists still flying, the punches delivered with a gross and forbidding regularity.
Shit, they’re going to kill him.
And I’m still staring, wide-eyed with disbelief. It’s unreal, removed, like a scene from a movie. First I’m paralysed, too shocked to move, and then I do that mad, frantic, looking-around routine but there’s no one else in sight. Of course there isn’t. These two have chosen their moment with care. They’ve overlooked me because I’ve been skulking in the shadows.
How long have I been watching this? It feels like an eternity.
And now one of them is standing up, standing over him, kicking him. Like a madman he’s driving his boot into Johnny’s body, over and over again. The dull relentless thump is almost drowned out by the sound of the waves. If I don’t do something soon, if I don’t act, if I don’t . . .
All I hear next is my own hysterical scream. I’m scared, terrified, but the fear of losing him, and effectively losing my last chance of saving Marc, obliterates everything else. Doing a fair impression of a banshee I launch myself forward, waving my arms. Even as I’m running towards them I have this dread, this agonizing fear, that I’m about to meet the same fate. Won’t they turn on me too?
But luckily my assault has the opposite effect. As if the Furies are descending, they glance up, pause for one long moment, and then take to their heels. Escaping up the steps, they disappear into the dark.
Thank God.
I drop quickly down beside him.
I’m not sure if he’s alive. He’s lying, curled up tight in a ball. There’s blood pouring out of his nose. I lean towards his mouth. Is he still breathing? Yes, there’s a thin rasping sound emerging from his lips.
‘Johnny. It’s me.’ I shake his shoulder. ‘It’s Simone.’
Even as I’m doing it, I know I shou
ldn’t. I shouldn’t try and rouse him. There might be internal injuries; I could be doing more harm than good. I should leave him be, call an ambulance and let the professionals deal with it. I reach for my phone. But as I’m punching in the number, he suddenly shifts and groans.
‘Simone?’
I lean over him, smiling with relief. ‘I’m here. Don’t worry. I’m getting help.’
‘No,’ he whispers. The word’s barely audible. His mouth’s already swelling, his lips so bruised he can barely speak. He groans again. His eyes are opening and closing, flickering, searching for some point of focus.
‘Don’t move,’ I insist. I put a hand on his arm, attempting to restrain him, but he slowly begins to drag himself up. I try to stop him, to hold him down.
‘No,’ he murmurs, reaching out. He folds his fingers around mine. It’s not help he’s searching for, not kindly reassurance, but only the hard cold metal of my phone. ‘Leave it. Please.’
How can I? He’s clearly in agony, maybe bleeding to death.
‘Johnny, I need to—’
‘Just get me back,’ he insists. ‘Please. Just get me back.’
I hesitate, staring down at him. What the hell can I do? He needs proper help. This isn’t something that can be covered by a few comforting lies and a strip of Elastoplast.
‘I can’t.’
He lets go of my hand and grabs the rail to drag himself to his feet. I watch his face scrunch into pain. His breath emerges in a series of short sharp pants. ‘You see,’ he claims ridiculously, swaying in front of me. ‘I’m okay. I’m fine.’
Except he looks like he’s been hit by a freight train. There’s blood everywhere, on his face, down his shirt, even on his shoes. He’s drowning in red.
‘Johnny, don’t be crazy. I have to—’
‘Please,’ he says again, and when I don’t respond, when I just continue to stare at him, he turns his back and starts to stagger towards the hotel.
I run the few steps necessary to catch up and grab his arm. ‘What the hell are you doing?’