The Debt

by Roberta Kray

  She sighs. ‘Marc knew he was in danger. The night before it . . . the night before they took him, he was desperate. He wanted us to go to Spain, to get away.’

  You bet he fucking did. And he must have been crapping himself, wondering – just like I did – if he was about to end up inside again. ‘So why didn’t he tell you?’

  ‘Because he didn’t want to scare me.’ She pauses and smiles wryly. ‘And I guess he didn’t want me to find out about the diamonds either.’

  My eyebrows do an upward lift. ‘Have you two always been so straight with each other?’

  ‘Did you tell Sarah everything?’

  Touché.

  ‘No,’ I agree, ‘but that was different. She wasn’t under any illusions; she knew she was marrying a bastard.’

  Simone twists on the bed and briefly looks away. Her cheeks flush that giveaway shade of crimson. Why can’t I resist putting in the boot? It’s becoming a compulsion.

  For a few minutes we fall back into that familiar silence. I can hear a faint crashing noise. It could be down to the waves or maybe just to permanent brain damage. I lean carefully back against the pillows.

  ‘Still,’ I murmur provocatively, ‘I suppose we all learn from our mistakes.’

  ‘And what have you ever leant?’ she snaps back. ‘What do you know about anything?’

  Then, as if she can no longer bear to be even within three feet of me, she jumps up and walks across the room. Sliding back the curtain, she opens the window and stands there with her back turned.

  I think this is what they call the cold shoulder.

  And I’m sorely tempted, for one mad impetuous moment, to spill the truth. At least the part about Eddie Tate – about what Carl did, about what Dee’s covering up. That would curl those pink-socked toes of hers. But I know I have to fight it; it’s just a knee-jerk reaction, an impulsive desire to retaliate. Other than a brief satisfaction, there’s nothing to be gained.

  Best to keep my mouth shut.

  And she seems to have the same idea. For a while the noises are purely external: the echo of footsteps, the occasional voice, the distant ebb and flow of the waves. Floating up from an open downstairs window, the clatter of plates and cutlery heralds the start of evening dining. Ordinary people doing ordinary things. It’s only gradually that I begin to tune in to another sound, a series of soft desperate breaths as she gulps in the sea air.

  Fuck, she’s not crying is she?

  Sighing, I stub out my cigarette and peer at her. Hunched against the window she has the closed restrained stance of someone fighting the inevitable, one hand clenched against her thigh, the other wrapped too tightly round the sill. My gaze skims quickly over her body. Not the right time or the right place but . . . well, she’s worth the scrutiny. She’s wearing a black sweater and faded blue jeans. My eyes linger for longer than they should, tracing the contour of her spine, her waist, her long slender legs. Bearing in mind the sensitivity of the situation, I try not to stare too hard at her arse.

  ‘You’re such a shit,’ she mutters. Her voice is hushed but emphatic enough to carry.

  Bearing in mind my current disabilities, this seems a touch callous and I’m about to assume my state-of-the-art bewildered expression when it suddenly occurs to me – oh Christ – that she can see my reflection in the glass. She’s observed it all, every look, every slow lascivious glance. She’s followed my gaze all over her body. I’ve been well and truly caught in the act. Before I can think of an adequate excuse she turns to face me again.

  ‘This is just some kind of game to you, isn’t it? You don’t really care if Marc lives or dies.’

  I make the effort to meet her eyes and to do the only decent thing I can – lie with conviction. I shake my head. ‘That’s not true. I’ve told you why—’

  She barely waits for me to finish. ‘Oh, don’t give me that bullshit. I’m sick of it.’ She flashes me an angry look. ‘This isn’t anything to do with friendship . . . or past love affairs. And you won’t go back to prison if they can’t find you. All you want are your bloody stupid diamonds. So save your breath. I’m not a complete idiot.’

  She glares at me.

  I stare directly back. This kind of confrontation is small fry, amateur, compared to the stand-offs I’ve been used to. You can’t afford to be weak when you’re defending yourself on a prison landing, face to face, knowing one false move could send you to purgatory. It’s simple, basic. Stay cold and angry. Hold your ground, hold your gaze, and never look away. Give an inch and they’ll take a mile.

  Except those guys’ eyes didn’t fill with fucking tears.

  And the minute I see them I’m screwed. She’s trying to hold it together but as she walks towards me, it just gets worse and worse.

  She sits on the edge of my bed, tears running down her cheeks. ‘Will you promise me something?’

  I’d promise her the whole fucking world if she’d just stop crying.

  ‘Promise you won’t run out on me?’ She takes a deep breath. ‘Even if . . . if you decide you don’t want to go through with it, will you tell me?’

  I can hardly move, never mind run. It would take three paramedics with a heady dose of Valium to drag me out of here. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

  She does that trembling lower lip thing again. ‘It’s just – if that’s what you intend to do, I’d rather know it now.’

  This is crazy. It’s Jim I hate, want to punish. I’d like to string him up by his neck and watch him swing. He’s the one who should be sitting here now, in pain, suffering, afraid. Not her. How the fuck did it come to this? One big bloody awful mess. I should have bailed out when I had the chance.

  Simone wipes her face with the back of her hand.

  There’s only one thing for it. I do what I always do best in times of emotional emergency, pour another drink – and lie. ‘Sure,’ I say, with all the sincerity I can muster. ‘I give you my word.’

  After all, there’s nothing legally binding about a promise made under the influence of alcohol.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Simone

  It’s morning – and I feel like a brick has been dropped on my head. Too much brandy on an empty stomach and far too many cigarettes. Just to add insult to injury, the local church bells are ringing in my ears, a loud and unnecessary reminder of all my earthly sins. Perhaps I should crawl out of bed and find someone to confess to.

  A few feet away, Johnny’s still asleep, his mouth slightly open.

  From what I remember, it didn’t go too badly last night. At least I was spared the trial of seduction; a man’s hardly ever in the mood when he’s just had his head kicked in. And I did discover one useful weakness – he isn’t too keen on displays of emotion. Shed a tear and he’s mortified. He’d have promised me the moon and stars to put a brake on the waterworks.

  But whether he’ll be true to his word is another matter altogether.

  I swing my legs carefully over the side. Sudden movements and hangovers aren’t the best of soulmates. I dig some fresh clothes out of my bag, creep softly past him and lock myself in the bathroom. After a long hot soak I may be able to force down some breakfast. Coffee would be good too, strong and black. I start the water running and pour in some gratis hotel smellies. Then I scrub my teeth, trying to avoid looking in the mirror. Once the steam has done its work, my reflection will be safe.

  Now would be a good time to call Dee. But I need five minutes to get my throbbing head together. Aspirins first, with a glass of water. Is it safe to drink from a bathroom tap? I stare down into the basin. What the hell, it’s a bit late to start worrying about poisoning.

  Sitting on the edge of the bath, I review the events of last night. Some of it’s bordering on the hazy. What did we talk about? The Fosters, of course. It’s only taken a few weeks for Johnny’s past to dramatically catch up with him. But then he’ll never really be able to escape it; like a dark shadow attached to his heels, it will always be there. How can he ever move forward when . .
.

  I pull myself up sharp. Don’t start feeling sorry for him. Johnny’s a manipulator, a criminal, a man who lives outside the boundaries of common morality. He’s a law unto himself. And he’s only interested in taking care of Number One. All I can hope for – and let’s face it, it’s a slim hope – is that he’ll feel he owes me something for yesterday.

  The bath’s three-quarters full. With a sigh of relief, I lower myself into the bubbles. Heaven. Closing my eyes, I lean back against the cool white porcelain and dream of sobriety. Then, just as I’m slipping into a doze, I remember Dee and a shock of guilt jolts through my body. I sit up too quickly, reviving the jackhammer in my head.

  Moaning gently, I scrabble for my mobile and turn it on. Five missed calls. All of them from Dee. And a text message: Ring me. My guilt moves swiftly into alarm. It must be bad news. Is it Marc? Please God, no. With trembling fingers I push the button to return the call.

  It’s answered straight away. ‘Where have you been?’ she shrieks. Her voice is so loud, and the pitch so piercing, I have to hold the phone away from my ear. ‘I was ringing all night. I thought . . . we thought—’

  ‘Dee, what is it? What’s going on?’

  I can hear her taking deep breaths, trying to calm herself. My heart pounds in rhythm to the pain in my head.

  ‘We heard,’ she manages to splutter.

  And for a second relief flows through me. Stupidly, I think she’s talking about Johnny, about the attack. ‘It’s all right,’ I start to say but she’s already talking over me.

  ‘We got another note. It was left at the gate last night. Simone, they need the diamonds by Thursday or they’ll . . .’ She makes a thick choking kind of sound. ‘And I’ve been trying to ring you and when I couldn’t get through, I thought . . . Where are you? When are you coming back? Are you still with him?’

  So it’s finally happening. Perhaps a part of me thought it never would – that somehow this bloody awful nightmare would just melt away. But all the time it’s been creeping closer and closer. A wave of nausea renders me speechless.

  ‘Simone? Simone, are you there?’

  ‘Yes,’ I manage to murmur.

  ‘And Johnny – is he still with you?’

  I try to keep my voice steady. ‘Yes. It’s okay. It’s fine. We’ll be back . . . I’m not sure when exactly. But soon. A couple of days. We’ll be in London again tomorrow.’

  There’s a brief silence. ‘So where are you now?’

  ‘Norfolk.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Norfolk,’ I repeat, although I know she’s heard and that she means why not where. Except I haven’t got the energy to explain. I want to get off this phone as quickly as I can. I want some time to myself, some time to think before I pass the news on to Johnny.

  ‘I don’t understand, what are you doing in . . .’

  Her voice is starting to falter again, to lose the battle against her emotions. I can’t bear to listen. My own fear and dread are hard enough to deal with. ‘Look, I’ve got to go, Dee. He’s waiting for me. Try not to worry. I’ll call again. I’ll call tomorrow. And I won’t let you down. I swear.’

  As I hang up the only thing I’m hoping is that it isn’t an empty promise.

  I haul myself out of the bath, get dried and dressed. I’ve switched to automatic pilot, going through the motions, barely aware of what I’m doing. I pull on my jeans and a T-shirt. I feel like I’ve been dragged to Hades and back. With the edge of a towel I clear a wide stripe through the condensation on the mirror and stare at my face. My hair needs washing. Jesus, how can I even think about my hair at a time like this? Except it’s a way of not concentrating on the real horror, that mighty boulder rolling slowly towards me.

  When I walk back into the room Johnny’s awake and sitting up.

  ‘How are you?’ I ask.

  He nods. ‘Alive, I think. You want to check my pulse?’

  His face doesn’t look so bad, all things considered. There’s still heavy bruising around one of his eyes, an artistic swirl of ochre-reds and mauves, but the swelling has reduced. Even the cut on his lip has begun to heal. Now, at least from the neck up, he only looks like he’s been in a minor car crash. And from the neck down – well, that’s his business.

  ‘Shall I order breakfast?’ I scan the menu. ‘What would you like – eggs, toast, coffee? Full English?’

  He gives me a penetrating stare. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘What?’

  Shifting on the bed, he half-suppresses a groan. ‘I might be crippled,’ he says, ‘but I’m not blind.’

  Am I that transparent? I was hoping for some space, a chance to think, and an opportunity to shovel some food down his gullet before spilling the information. It’s been my experience that men usually respond better to any kind of news on a full stomach. ‘Nothing. Nothing, really. Only, I just heard from Dee and . . .’ I stop abruptly, gazing down at the menu again. Nothing? What am I talking about? This is as serious as it gets. But my eyes are still relentlessly scanning the words – bacon, eggs, sausages, beans – chewing them over, absorbing them, feeling increasingly sickened by them . . .

  ‘So she’s heard.’

  My gaze flies swiftly up to meet his. ‘What?’

  ‘I take it she’s heard from the bastards holding Marc.’

  How does he know that? ‘What?’

  He frowns. ‘Please stop saying that.’

  ‘What?’ It takes a moment for the request to sink in. My legs have acquired that weird jelly sensation. Slowly, I lower myself down on the corner of his bed. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘So have they? Is that what this is all about?’

  I open my mouth but quickly close it again. I nod. Eventually I manage to murmur, ‘Thursday.’

  ‘Good. Okay. Well, that was what we were expecting, wasn’t it?’ He moves forward a little and smiles. ‘Don’t you see? This is good news, not bad. The very fact they’ve made contact means that Marc’s still alive. The deal’s still on. You should be pleased.’

  Lifting my head, I stare into his cold ambiguous eyes. ‘Oh, excuse me if I’m not doing handstands, but for some reason I find it hard to view this as a cause for celebration.’

  He expels a low patient sigh. ‘Believe me,’ he insists, ‘the time to start worrying is when they don’t get in touch.’

  And I know he’s right. Better this than silence. But I’m aware as well that if we can’t deliver, if he reneges on his promise, then . . .

  ‘You have to trust me, Simone.’

  I only wish I could.

  While Johnny tucks into a hearty breakfast of bacon and eggs – he must have the constitution of an ox – I force down a slice of toast. Already I’m starting to wonder how I’ll get through the day, trapped within these four walls with him. What are we going do – play charades? I want to get on the road and head back to London but he’s clearly in no state to travel. His appetite may be unaffected but he can barely walk; I even had to help him to the bathroom, although thankfully only as far as the door. Anyway, I’m in no fit state to drive. God alone knows what my blood alcohol levels are.

  ‘So how are Jim and Dee?’ he asks, pouring out his third coffee. ‘How are they bearing up?’

  I shrug. ‘As you’d expect.’

  He glances over the rim of his cup. ‘Did you tell her what happened yesterday?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because she’s terrified enough already. I don’t want to push her over the edge. She’s just got that letter and if she starts to panic then . . .’

  ‘Yeah, you did the right thing.’

  And the minute he says it, I start to think the very opposite.

  ‘It’ll be over soon,’ he continues with irritating cheeriness. ‘Come Thursday you can put it all behind you, get on with your life.’

  ‘And you?’

  He raises an eyebrow.

  ‘What are you going to do? I mean, you’re the one about to sacrifice your pension plan. T
hat must have some bearing on your future.’ It’s supposed to sound casual but doesn’t quite hit the right note.

  ‘How sweet of you to worry,’ he replies, grinning.

  At which point I could happily slap him but it seems inhumane to add to his injuries. Instead, I do something even more destructive. Before I can stop myself, in an act of petty revenge, the retort flies like a cruise missile from my mouth. ‘And how’s Melanie?’

  That wipes the smirk off his face.

  Now it’s his turn to take refuge in the monosyllabic. ‘What?’

  And from the way he barks it out, I’m sure I’ve hit the jackpot. But the satisfaction is short-lived. I wish I could take the question back. His eyes are fixed in a hard cold glare and I can feel the temperature sliding down to zero. Damn! What have I done? My gaze darts around the room, desperately searching for some inspiration, for some way out of the hole I’ve just managed to dig for myself.

  Then suddenly he relaxes, shakes his head, and asks, ‘Melanie?’

  A tiny puzzled frown has appeared on his forehead. Christ, he’s almost as good as Marc. They must both have attended the how-to-get-yourself-out-of-a-tight-corner Academy of Learning. But if nothing else it gives me the opportunity to go along with him, to try and pretend that I’ve simply got it wrong. That has to be better than a confrontation.

  I force myself to meet his eyes. ‘I thought, er . . . that you were quite close to her and Carl, before you . . . you know, before you fell out with him. And she always seemed so nice. You know, friendly. And I haven’t seen her for a while, not since . . . and I wondered . . . I thought you might have heard from her and . . .’ Gradually my voice trails off. Why the hell am I bothering?

  He slowly shakes his head again.

  There’s one of those extended uncomfortable pauses. He sits perfectly still while I squirm. Despite having lungs like an ashtray, I reach automatically for a cigarette; I don’t really want to smoke it, I just want something to do with my hands.

  ‘No, well, I guess not,’ I say weakly.