The Debt

by Roberta Kray

  God knows why I even stopped here. There are plenty of other caffs, other restaurants along the road. I could have pulled in anywhere. Never go back. Isn’t that the rule? Twenty years ago, I would have walked into this place and seen at least a few familiar faces but now I’m just a stranger, someone passing through. It makes me feel old, removed, like a piece of history that’s been summarily deleted.

  Sensing my mood she says softly, ‘Everything changes.’

  I snort into my coffee. ‘Not this dive.’

  She wraps her hands around her mug and, as if it might be laced with a cocktail of germs, sips cautiously at the dense black liquid. ‘Then maybe you have.’

  There’s another of those murky pauses.

  She waits but when I don’t reply, transfers her gaze and conducts a cursory survey of our surroundings. She’s careful to smile, to keep her tone light and amused. ‘Well, it’s certainly got . . . atmosphere. Is that why you brought me here, to provide a taste of authentic city life?’

  I pretend not to understand what she means. That I wanted to make her feel awkward, uncomfortable, to punish her for the unforgivable sin of rousing my conscience, is something I’ll never admit. Surely I’m entitled to one last petty act before we go our separate ways? Quickly, I smile back. ‘Actually, I just fancied a breather.’

  ‘Right.’

  It’s amazing how she can imbue a single word with so much scepticism. I wonder if it comes naturally or if she has to work at it. Anyway, if I was hoping to play on her recent discomposure it’s certainly backfired. She may be less than happy but she isn’t intimidated. I’m the one who feels alienated; if this was ever a part of my world, it isn’t any more.

  I fumble for a cigarette and light it. Then, remembering, I shove the pack ungraciously across the table. ‘You want one?’

  She shakes her head.

  There’s a silence. She sips. I smoke. Our eyes embark on a mutual journey of avoidance, around the room, at the ceiling – everywhere but towards each other.

  She’s the first to speak again. ‘You know, we don’t have to go back tonight. I don’t mind staying in London.’

  And I’m not sure whether she’s offering it as a consolation prize – like a sweet to a disappointed child – or if she’s got some inkling of my intentions. ‘Makes no odds to me,’ I reply casually. ‘Why should it?’

  ‘No, no reason.’ She hesitates. ‘Except . . . I was just thinking, maybe it would be better to stay away for now, to avoid all the questions – what with Dee and . . .’ She touches her forehead, reminding me of my injuries. ‘And it would save us the journey in the morning.’

  It would also be a damn sight less dangerous. The filth could be hovering on the Buckleys’ doorstep at this very minute, prepared to pounce, ready to triumphantly arrest the killer of Eddie Tate – and all his associates. Why did I ever agree to go there?

  ‘I don’t mind,’ she says again, ‘it’s up to you.’

  And if I weren’t feeling so perverse, so bloody pissed off at everyone and everything, I’d jump at this chance to change our plans. The old Johnny Frank, the one with more thought than instinct, would have snapped her hand off – but this version’s got a different agenda. So what if the bastards turn up? I’ll deal with that if and when I need to. The game isn’t over yet. Jim hasn’t suffered enough, not nearly enough, and I haven’t waited eighteen years to just walk away.

  I shrug, feigning indifference. ‘No, we’re almost there. And you’re right, we need some rest. It’s getting late.’ In fact it’s barely five o’clock, not exactly the witching hour, but any excuse will do in a crisis.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Bloody hell. Now I’m the one having to persuade her. Another night alone with the devil incarnate is the last thing she wants but having already lost me once today she’s clearly prepared to go to any lengths to ensure my happiness. I ponder on that notion for a second. Any lengths? And as she lifts her eyes, as she gazes intensely into mine, it suddenly occurs to me that she might be suggesting more than a night of alternative accommodation.

  Fuck, am I currently in the process of passing up an opportunistic shag?

  No, it’s only wishful thinking. She wouldn’t go that far – not even for that cheating rubbish husband of hers. Although it would be interesting to know, if pushed, just how far she would go. An embrace? A kiss? Maybe, if I asked really nicely, she’d let me hold her hand.

  I must be grinning like an idiot because she asks, ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  I’d love to share the joke but I value what’s left of my balls. Which is another crucial issue. Even if she was offering to take me to heaven and back – and hey, a guy can dream, there’s no law against it – I’m not sure if this recently shattered body of mine could exactly rise to the occasion.

  ‘Nothing?’ she echoes. Those seductive hazel eyes are still fixed firmly on mine.

  I’m going have to respond. And as the truth is out of the question, I fall back on ambiguity. ‘Only it’s kind of strange isn’t it – the two us being here together?’

  She isn’t quite sure how to respond. I could be referring to the general situation or to something more specific. Taking a sip of the strong bitter coffee, she tries to keep smiling. ‘I suppose.’

  And there’s a quality to her voice, about the way she bites gently down on her lower lip, that makes me wish I’d never started thinking about sex. It takes an effort to keep my gaze steady, to prevent it from scrutinizing the places it shouldn’t. I’m concentrating on her mouth but that really doesn’t help much . . .

  Shit. I’ve got to call a halt to this right now, before I embark on that long and lonely voyage to frustration. Angry is better than aroused. Stay concentrated. Stay focused. Forget it. Think of Jim, of what he did, of why I have to return tonight. I’m too old – and far too battered – to be seduced by a fantasy.

  Placing my elbows on the table, I draw a deep determined breath. Sex is one thing but revenge is quite another. I know where my priorities lie. I know where they’ve been lying for the past eighteen years. There are debts to be paid – and Jim has barely started on his first instalment.

  By nine o’clock I’m beginning to wish we’d never come back. Dee has been fussing round for the past few hours, flapping like a mother hen, and driving me to distraction. Naturally, I got the third degree as soon as I walked through the door. ‘God, what happened? What happened to your face?’ She grabbed my arm, horror growing in her eyes. It’s great to know you’re loved. Except, of course, it wasn’t my welfare she was fretting about. She didn’t give a fuck about that. Her only worry was that I might have been robbed of the one thing that was important.

  I didn’t see why I should put her out of her misery any faster than I had to. Let her sweat. Shaking her off, I strolled through to the living room, looking for Jim.

  ‘Johnny!’

  She tried to chase after me but Simone held her back. ‘It’s okay, don’t worry.’ From the hall, I could hear the murmured fragments of an explanation, some fabricated story about a pub, a brawl, a nothing-to-be-worried-about tale of reassurance.

  And by the time Dee caught up with me again she was all smiles and consideration. ‘Sit down, sit down. Let me get you a drink. Scotch? A large one, right? I’ll get some dinner on. You must be starving. Put your feet up – you look shattered. What you need is a good meal inside you. That eye looks sore, Johnny – do you need anything for it?’

  And so it went on . . .

  I’m on my third whisky before Jim finally gets back. I can smell him before he even appears at the door, the heavy stench of sweat and alcohol preceding his entrance. I wonder if he’s been sober at all since we left.

  ‘Good to see you,’ he slurs, attempting a smile as he lumbers across the room.

  For one piss-awful moment I think he’s coming over to shake my hand but thankfully he’s heading for the drinks cabinet. I watch as his fat fingers reach eagerly for the bottle. Yeah,
he’s in a state all right, completely off his head.

  He half-fills his glass and looks around for a seat. I notice Simone’s nervous glance, her eyes partly closed as if she’s praying to God that he won’t join her on the sofa. And fortune’s smiling on her this evening. Instead he chooses the nearest chair, the one next to mine, and slumps down into it.

  Since his appearance, no one else has spoken. Even Dee’s endless chatter has temporarily been silenced. But if Jim’s aware of the sudden lull in conversation, he doesn’t show it. No, he’s way beyond the realm of social niceties. Staring intently into his glass, he contemplates its contents and then takes a large greedy mouthful. He licks his lips.

  ‘Good to see you,’ he says again, as if it’s the only sentence he recalls.

  He doesn’t comment on the state of my face but maybe he can’t see it properly. There’s only one lamp on and the room is full of shadows. Or perhaps he’s so wrecked he wouldn’t notice if I’d had a fucking sex change.

  I nod. ‘You too, mate. How are you doing?’

  The question seems to confuse him. He frowns. His mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

  ‘Stupid question,’ I say, apologetically. ‘Sorry. It’s all such a bloody mess, isn’t it? A real nightmare.’ Leaving a few seconds for this despairing news to sink in, I embellish it with a sympathetic sigh. ‘I can’t . . . I can’t even begin to imagine . . . but I’m sure he’ll be fine . . . I mean, of course he will . . . so long as no one panics, and they don’t lose their nerve and . . .’

  Jim’s features, as they drunkenly catch up with my meaning, gradually twist and fall.

  Simone coughs loudly and glares at me.

  I look innocently back.

  ‘But it’s going to be okay,’ she insists, holding my gaze. ‘Nothing’s going to go wrong. Everything’s sorted. In a few days it’ll all be over. Won’t it, Johnny?’

  As if the desire to console is fighting a conscientious battle with the truth, I hesitate. A false quivering smile finds its way into my repertoire. I shift in my chair. ‘Sure,’ I agree, with an unimpressive excess of enthusiasm.

  ‘You see?’ she says, glancing hopefully between Jim and Dee.

  You’ve got to give her credit. She’s a trier. But much as I admire her capacity for optimism, she’s not doing me any favours. In fact the very opposite. It’s an atmosphere of despair I’m trying to induce, not of hope. Suffering is what I’m aiming for – something deep and dark, something that hurts. I’m still in the process of constructing that master blow, of finding the right words to completely freak Jim’s brains out, when his runt suddenly struts into the room and interrupts my train of thought.

  He takes one look at my bruises and his eyes light up. ‘What the fuck . . .’

  And I only have to hear his voice, to see his psychopathic self-satisfied smirk, to lose my cool. I’m already rising from the chair when Dee suddenly finds her voice again.

  ‘Carl! Sit down!’

  He pauses. Then, like a vicious but obedient dog, slowly does as he’s told. But he’s still grinning, still gloating, as he falls back on the sofa. I see Simone flinch as he lands too closely beside her. He turns to study me again. I know what’s coming. He just can’t resist. Slyly, he asks, ‘So, what’s the deal, Johnny? You run into a spot of trouble?’

  And I wonder if he gives a damn about what happens to his brother. Here I am, holding all the fucking aces, and he’s still acting like there’s everything to play for. Demented isn’t the word for it. Maybe Dee dropped him on his head when he was a baby . . . and if she didn’t then, shit, I’m more than happy to make up for the oversight.

  He growls at me.

  I snarl back, waiting for it all to kick off. But as my hand clenches slowly into a fist, Simone jumps up and grabs my glass. ‘Let me get you a drink.’ She stands between the two of us, creating a slight but effective barrier. While she’s turned away from Carl, she stares at me, silently willing me to retreat. Please, her eyes say, don’t go there, don’t do this.

  While I sink back down, Dee quickly shifts to sit beside her son. She lays a restraining hand on his arm. ‘Come on, calm down. We’re all in this together.’

  Only Jim remains oblivious to what’s going on. Addled by the booze, he grunts, belches and gazes into nowhere.

  ‘Another Scotch?’ Simone asks.

  Carl grins. ‘I see your new girlfriend’s taking care of you.’

  ‘What did you say?’ She swings angrily round. And if he ever thought I was a threat, it’s nothing compared to the expression in her eyes.

  And I leap to my feet again. In truth, it has less to do with defending her honour – gentleman as I am – than having the perfect excuse to rearrange that pretty face of his.

  But Dee rapidly intervenes. Now there’s more than frustration in her voice, there’s fear and panic too. This isn’t the kind of welcome you extend to the hero who can save your firstborn. ‘I’m sorry, Johnny, I’m sorry. He’s drunk. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.’ I notice she doesn’t apologize to Simone. Still, I guess she’s used to their charming little ways.

  Dragging Carl off the sofa, Dee skilfully manhandles him out of the room. He doesn’t make any attempt to resist; so far as he’s concerned he’s done exactly what he wanted – successfully wound me up without having to suffer the consequences. I listen to his smug diminishing laughter, and her quiet remonstrations, as she leads him down the hall to the kitchen.

  But if thinks he’s got away with it, he’s wrong. Don’t worry, mate, you’ll get yours.

  And then there were three; well, if you can count a near-comatose tub of lard as being actually present. The only evidence of life from Jim is the monotonous lifting of his glass to his mouth.

  I touch Simone lightly on the shoulder. She’s still standing, rigid with anger, glaring at the space Carl recently occupied. It’s hard to tell what she’s more outraged about, the actual suggestion of infidelity or of that relationship being with me. Perhaps it’s a potent combination of both.

  I offer her a smile. ‘It’s great to be back, huh?’

  In return she gives me a dismissive glance before moving neatly aside and shrugging off my hand. So much for a united front; even in the face of mutual adversity, she isn’t prepared to form an alliance. Talking to the devil might be one thing, but waltzing with him is quite another. I sink back into my chair.

  Perhaps Jim’s got the right idea. There’s a lot to be said for being soused.

  The seconds tick by. We drift into an awkward silence. Then without warning Simone shoves a freshly poured drink under my nose and sighs. She even aims for a smile, although she doesn’t quite make it. ‘Sorry.’

  Quite what she’s apologizing for is anyone’s guess. Not that it really matters. That word has been doing the rounds tonight. Sorry. I’ve said it, Dee’s said it, and now she has too. But I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. If she’s willing to extend a whisky-filled hand of friendship, then I’m more than happy to take it.

  We may as well part on good terms.

  ‘Cheers,’ I say, lifting my glass, ‘here’s to the joys of family life.’

  She sits down on the edge of the sofa and studies her boots before slowly raising her eyes. ‘Perhaps it wasn’t the smartest idea, coming back tonight. Everyone’s stressed out, upset about Marc and . . . Dee’s right, Carl isn’t thinking straight, he doesn’t know what he’s doing.’

  ‘Does he ever?’

  It’s clearly an effort for her to make excuses for him – she loathes him as much as I do – but she feels obliged to try and paper over the cracks. The last thing she wants is for me to start thinking about disappearing again. Her lips slide into a wry upward curl. ‘You know, we ought to make allowances; he has got a very small brain.’

  I snigger into my whisky. ‘Can’t argue with that.’

  Her mouth breaks into a proper smile. We grin at each other. Then she goes and spoils it all by leaning closer and saying, ‘Johnny, you do realize
how grateful we are, don’t you?’

  And she’s got that plaintive pleading look on her face again. Christ, I hate this guilt-trip crap. What does she imagine – that if she fastens me with those sad liquid eyes, I’ll dissolve into mush and swear an undying allegiance to the cause?

  ‘Don’t mention it,’ I reply, sincerely wishing that she hadn’t.

  ‘I just—’

  ‘Please,’ I interrupt. There’s only one Simone whose company I appreciate and it isn’t the needy version. Where’s the smart-arse Ms Independence when you want her? She’s the Simone I want to leave behind, the one who can cope, the one who won’t fall to pieces, the one who understands that I don’t give a fuck about anyone.

  God, this has all been such a bad mistake. Another one. I seem to have got in the habit recently. I glance at Jim; his eyes are closed, his head lolling drunkenly against the back of the chair. His fleshy lips tremble as a snore rumbles out. What a pathetic bastard! Even if I could get him alone for a while, it wouldn’t make a difference. He’s way too pissed to appreciate the finer art of innuendo. Still, there’s one consolation – if I can’t kill him, perhaps the booze will do the job for me.

  I feign a yawn, placing a hand politely over my mouth. Time to put this farce to bed. ‘You know, I’m shattered. I think I’ll call it a night.’

  She glances at her watch. It’s only ten o’clock. ‘Sure.’ But she hesitates as I stand up and suddenly asks, too urgently, ‘When do you want to leave in the morning? I don’t mind an early start. Seven, eight?’

  The lie slips from my lips with effortless ease. ‘Yeah, eight sounds good.’ I smile and nod. ‘That’ll be fine.’

  ‘Okay. Goodnight.’

  ‘Goodnight.’

  It’s only as I reach the door that I make the fatal mistake of glancing back. There she is, still sitting there, but now her face has assumed an expression of abject desolation. Does she know I’m leaving? Has she guessed? No, she can’t. I’m just succumbing to guilt, to self-censure, to the rebuke that might be lying in those soft reproachful eyes.

  I stamp bad-temperedly up the stairs. Forget it. There’s no such thing as a painless escape – or a pain-free war. It’s not my fault if her stupid bloody husband has managed to get himself knee-deep in shit . . . or her brother-in-law gets his kicks out of torture . . . or that Dee’s a bitch . . . or that Jim’s a fucking waste-of-space grass. She chose to marry into this excuse for a family. I owe her nothing.