The Debt

by Roberta Kray

  Well, nothing apart from saving my arse in Norfolk. And how am I supposed to pay that back? I slam into my room and pour another whisky. Shit, if there’s one thing I hate it’s being beholden. Surely I’ve paid my dues by bringing her home. At least I didn’t desert her. But it’s not enough. Even my own twisted logic tells me that.

  I walk to the window and gaze down on the black expanse of garden. My hand tightens around the glass. No, what the hell am I talking about? She’s a Buckley and when you add up the columns, the accumulated family credit and debit, they’re still securely in the red. They owe me. They owe me eighteen fucking years of interest. As an accountant Simone should understand those figures. Whatever she might have done, she hasn’t negated the debt – she’s only knocked a few quid off the balance.

  I drink the whisky and nod.

  But although I feel better, I still don’t feel good. There’s only one way to dump these nagging doubts. Grabbing my phone, I light a cigarette and dial Melanie’s number.

  ‘Hey, where are you?’ she says, as soon as she picks up. ‘What’s happening? Are you okay?’

  ‘Of course.’

  She laughs with relief. ‘Where are you?’ she asks again.

  As if she can see me I shrug and smile. ‘I’m fine. I’m sorry, I should have rung but it’s been difficult. Everything’s fine. I just—’

  ‘Hang on a sec,’ she says. I hear a door slamming, the sudden muffling of music. ‘Johnny?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Sorry about that. I’m at work. So come on, tell me what’s—’

  I cut her short. ‘Look, I can’t really talk right now. I’ll explain it all when I see you. I just wanted to make sure that you were okay.’

  In fact all I really wanted was to hear her voice again, to be reminded of Dixie, to get my focus back. Sometimes revenge needs a little honing, something to sharpen its edges.

  It’s getting on for four when I creep down the stairs. As if sleep is equivalent to absence, the house has got that eerie empty feel. Every step I take sounds thunderous. The clock in the kitchen ticks too loudly. The radiators hiss. Like an inverted burglar, one trying to get out rather than in, I hold my breath and tiptoe towards the door. Do I have any regrets? Yeah, a few, but none that are going stop me from getting away as fast as I possibly can.

  I put my bag down and take a final glance along the hall. It’s been . . . well, I can hardly say fun but certainly an experience. And although there’s still unfinished business, it can wait. There’s more than one way to skin a cat.

  Goodbye, Buckleys. If I had a glass I’d raise it: Here’s hoping you get everything you deserve.

  And then, just as I reach eagerly for the latch, I notice the tiny red light flashing in the box on the wall. My heart sinks. Damn, the door isn’t only locked, it’s alarmed too. Why didn’t I think of that? The minute I try and open it, all hell’s going to break loose. Welcome to the apocalypse! I cover my face with my hands. For a second I laugh – I mean, God, you’ve got to laugh – before a long frustrated groan escapes from my lips.

  Fuck, what next?

  But even as I turn, I’m already acknowledging the answer to that untimely question. There’s a whisper in the air, a movement, a presence. Suddenly the hairs on the back of my neck are rising to attention. Oh God. I don’t even have to look to know it.

  I’m not alone.

  And as soon as I see her, my heart instantly leaps – right into my mouth. If I weren’t so fucking brave I’d sink to my knees. Shrouded in a white shirt, like a ghostly apparition, she’s standing on the bottom step.

  Simone.

  Fuck.

  Her voice, when she eventually speaks, is a dull monotone. ‘Would you like me to tell you the code?’

  Chapter Nineteen

  Simone

  ‘It’s not what you think,’ he says.

  I try not to laugh in his face. Like there could be any plausible reason for him sneaking out in the dead of night.

  ‘It isn’t,’ he insists. He takes a deep breath and stares at the ceiling. ‘Honest.’

  Ignoring him, I go to the box and punch in the number. ‘There. The alarm’s off. You’re free to go.’ I open the door and stand back. ‘You’re not a prisoner here, you never have been.’

  But still he doesn’t move.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. You need some transport, don’t you? What would you prefer, Jim’s car or mine?’ I wave towards the keys on the table. ‘Help yourself.’

  A cold wind sweeps inside. And I’m suddenly aware that this whole dramatic scene would be rather more impressive if Marc’s shirt wasn’t flapping wildly round my thighs. It’s hard to look dignified when your knickers are on view.

  ‘Actually,’ he says, ‘I was going to take a cab.’ He reaches across and closes the door. ‘Can we talk?’

  ‘What for?’

  He glances uneasily up the stairs, worried perhaps that Buckley reinforcements might be about to make an appearance. Fat chance. It would take an earthquake to rouse them from their slumbers.

  ‘Two minutes,’ he murmurs. ‘Please.’

  He walks towards the kitchen and I follow him. Why not? I may as well hear his feeble excuses. There’s little other entertainment on offer at four o’clock on a chilly January morning. But I’m not prepared to beg. If he wants to leave, fine, I won’t stand in his way. This travesty has gone on long enough.

  And when it’s over I’ll do what I should have done last week – I’ll get on the phone and dial 999.

  Moonlight shimmers through the window, turning the room to monochrome. I pull out a chair and slide in behind the table. In the darkness he paces up and down, one hand in his pocket, the other raking through his hair. That sly brain of his must be ticking as forcefully as the clock: what to say, what to do.

  ‘Two minutes,’ I remind him. I don’t intend to freeze to death. The heating’s on low, barely warm enough to cut through the frost. Goosebumps are forming on my skin.

  ‘Okay.’ He stops and sits down in the chair opposite to mine. Then, leaning forward, he puts his forearms on the table. Edgily, he clears his throat. ‘First,’ he begins, ‘we need to get one thing straight -I wasn’t doing a runner.’

  I snort in my finest ladylike manner. ‘Oh, sorry. Don’t tell me, you couldn’t sleep so you and your bag were just off for an early morning stroll?’

  As if the sarcasm is undeserved, a wound to his strong and noble heart, he gives a small pained sigh. ‘I didn’t say I wasn’t leaving, Simone, only that I wasn’t running out on you. There’s a difference.’

  ‘Yeah, between getting caught and not—’

  ‘At least give me my two minutes,’ he interrupts. ‘Can’t you hear me out?’

  I’d like to hear him straight out of the door with a boot up his arse but it’s not every day you get the chance to observe an expert liar at work. Perhaps I’ll pick up some tips. Flapping a hand, I say caustically, ‘Carry on. Please. The suspense is killing me.’

  ‘So, right,’ he starts again. ‘I was going, I’m not denying it – but I was also intending to come back.’ He’s talking to the table but, as if suspecting an imminent interjection, quickly raises his eyes. ‘Really,’ he insists, ‘I give you my word.’ He leaves a brief pause to emphasize this honourable declaration. Then he sighs again. ‘I know you wanted to come to London with me but I don’t think it’s smart, not with the Fosters on the loose. You’re better off here. You’re safe here. What if they have another go? I mean, look at me, I’m hardly in a fit state to defend myself never mind someone else.’

  I smile at him. ‘How considerate.’

  There’s a short silence.

  I stare at him. He stares at me. It’s like one of those childhood games: the first one to look away is a cissy.

  ‘Okay,’ he eventually snaps, ‘you want the whole truth, the unabridged version?’ Now his voice is coarser, less apologetic. He introduces another of his shameless pauses. ‘I don’t want you with me, love. I don’t need
the stress. I’d rather do this on my own. It’s not just the Fosters I’m concerned about, there’s Eddie’s killers too, not to mention whoever’s holding Marc – there are too many complications out there. You think I want to be worrying about you twenty-four seven? Believe me, I don’t. I don’t need that responsibility. I don’t want to be looking over my shoulder a hundred times a day stressing over what might or might not happen.’ He shakes his head. ‘I like you, Simone, and I really don’t want to see you get hurt.’

  God, respect where it’s due. From bastard to tainted super-hero in two minutes flat. Very impressive. If I weren’t so angry, I’d be tempted to applaud. Instead, I put my chin in my hands and glare at him. ‘And so you decided the kindest, most worthy action was to sneak away?’

  ‘I didn’t want a row.’ He tries a smile. ‘Not one of my greatest moves, admittedly, but I thought if I could just do this on my own, sort it out, pick up the diamonds and get back, then . . .’ He shrugs. He reaches out his hand towards mine. ‘I’m sorry. It was a mistake. I should have talked to you. I should have explained.’

  I pull away before he can touch me. If he imagines I’m going to swallow this wretched fairy-tale, he’s got another think coming. Rage and indignation blaze on to my cheeks, the only part of me that’s warm. Just how stupid does he think I am? Well, that’s a question that hardly needs answering. I’m tempted to cut my losses, to kick him out right here and now, but something he said has begun to niggle.

  ‘You told me Eddie’s killers had nothing to do with this.’

  Johnny frowns. ‘I’m not convinced they do. But that doesn’t mean they’re not out there, sniffing around, waiting to find whatever scraps they can.’ He picks up an empty glass and rolls it around in his fingers. ‘That’s the thing about villains – they’re always on the lookout for the main chance.’

  And don’t I know it.

  ‘It’s not worth the risk,’ he says.

  I wish I could see him more clearly but he keeps lowering his head, hiding in the shadows. I’d like to see what blatant lying looks like but his cold grey eyes, ambiguous at best, refuse to give anything away. I’ve had enough. I’m too tired and cold to continue with this. ‘Why don’t you just go?’

  As if we’re lovers parting on bad terms, he says, ‘Please, not like this.’

  ‘Well, it’s been fascinating but I think your two minutes are up.’ I can feel the rage growing inside me. I want him out of here before I do something I’ll regret.

  He puts the glass carefully down on the table, sits back and pulls a face. ‘So, what now? Are you going to ring the cops?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘And how, exactly, are you going to explain about the diamonds?’

  I shrug. ‘That’s your problem, not mine.’

  ‘And Dee’s, and Jim’s.’

  I stare at him, astounded. ‘You really imagine they’re bothered about some lousy diamonds when their son’s life is on the line?’

  ‘It’s those lousy diamonds that are going to save his life.’

  ‘They’ll understand,’ I insist.

  ‘You think so? You think they’ll be happy that you let me walk out, that you called the cops, that you made these decisions without even bothering to wake them?’

  ‘But you’re coming back,’ I say snidely, ‘so there’s nothing to worry about, right?’

  ‘You make that call and I can’t come back.’

  I curl my toes against the cold tiles of the floor. ‘Well okay, let’s wake them then. Let’s have a free and frank discussion.’ But I say it with more confidence than I feel. Jim isn’t in a fit state to make an informed decision about what day of the week it is and Dee may well believe his story. Johnny can be very persuasive when he puts his mind to it. Ringing the police as a knee-jerk response to his doing a runner is one thing, ringing them against Dee’s express wishes is quite another. But God, no, surely even she couldn’t fall for this pile of tosh.

  ‘As I see it,’ he continues smoothly, ‘you’ve got two choices. You either trust me or you make that call. But if you choose the cops then once it’s done, it’s done. There’s no going back.’

  He’s got a bloody nerve. Trust him? I’d more likely jump from a plane without a parachute.

  He must see the incredulity in my face because he quickly adds, ‘Or there could be a compromise. Give me twenty-four hours and if I’ve not returned by then—’

  ‘You can get a long way in twenty-four hours, Johnny, halfway round the world in fact.’

  ‘Yeah, okay, but look at this from my point of view for a moment. What’s going to happen if I do a bunk? You’re going to get the cops involved, it’s all going to come out about the diamonds, about the robbery, about the connection to Eddie . . . and I’m going to be up to my neck in shit. You think I want to be on the run for the rest of my life, worrying when they’re going to catch up with me – you think I want to go back inside?’

  I raise my shoulders in a brief dismissive shrug. ‘Oh, come on, the robbery was years ago. Unless they catch you with the diamonds, how are they ever going to prove you were involved? And you had nothing to do with killing Eddie Tate.’ I hesitate for a second, that nasty suspicion still lurking in my mind. ‘Did you?’

  ‘Jesus,’ he says, sounding genuinely frustrated, ‘of course not. How many times . . . You don’t know much about the law, do you? With my kind of record they’d bang me up as soon as look at me. Just being associated with Eddie will be enough to put me in the frame; it won’t take them long to put two and two together and make a very convincing five.’

  There may be some truth in that but not enough. Johnny Frank the victim – original but not entirely convincing. ‘Except that won’t be so easy if you’re sunning yourself on foreign shores.’

  He half sighs, half laughs. ‘For fuck’s sake, I’m not Ronnie Biggs.’

  I gaze towards the window, avoiding his eyes. I’m so cold my teeth are starting to chatter. Clenching my jaw, I try to figure out where to go next. We seem to have reached an impasse, to be joined in a tug-of-war that neither can win. He’s got the pull of the diamonds, the potential to set Marc free, and I’ve got the threat of calling the cops, of causing him major grief. Who’s got more to lose? On first reckoning I’d say it was me – this is my husband’s life at stake – but then, isn’t it true that Johnny’s future is hanging in the balance too? He’s so mixed up in this mess that whatever happens he’s hardly likely to walk away scot-free.

  ‘Come on, Simone,’ he urges. ‘Twenty-four hours. What have you got to lose?’

  That’s easy to answer. ‘Twenty-four hours when the police could be searching for Marc.’

  It’s his turn to snort. ‘Yeah, right. And you really want to take that road, take that chance? You think the house isn’t being watched? The minute those cop cars come rolling into the drive, no matter how disguised they are, that’ll be the end of it. But go on, you do it, so long as you don’t mind signing his death warrant . . .’

  His words shouldn’t hurt me but they do. I recoil, wrapping my arms around my chest. And so we’ve come full circle again, to last Thursday, to the day it all began. The situation may be different but the song remains the same: trust Johnny and take the consequences or call the police and take the consequences. Which makes me – what? Either Simone the fool or Simone the executioner.

  ‘That’s crap,’ I retort, ‘you don’t even know if they’re watching.’

  He shrugs again, stands up, takes the glass to the sink and rinses it under the tap. I watch him, silhouetted against the window, the outline of a stranger. I’ve been alone with him for three days but as to who he is, I’m still as much in the dark as when we first met.

  The splash of water drowns out an angry silence. He fills the glass, takes a mouthful, and walks back to the table. He sits down, bringing his sly smile with him. ‘No, you’re right, you can never know anything for sure. But it pays to look at all the angles. Never go in blind. Never make rash decisions
.’

  But he’s wrong there. There’s one thing I can be sure of – that he’s trying his best to scare the hell out of me. The trouble is, he’s succeeding. Now fear is wrapping round the cold, biting at my resolve, and every bone in my body from my toes to my skull is starting to shake. Let’s be honest, he could have a point – what if I call the cops and it all goes wrong and . . . I want to hide, to cover my face with my hands, to think, to reason, but I can’t. If I drop my guard for even a second he’ll walk all over me.

  ‘Simone?’

  I glance up at him again.

  ‘You look frozen,’ he says. ‘Here.’ He takes off his jacket and pushes it across the table.

  I should tell him where to shove it but I’m too cold to stand on whatever may be left of my dignity. I put it round my shoulders and nod but don’t bother saying thank you. After all, it’s his fault that I’m heading towards hypothermia.

  ‘Why can’t you trust me?’ he pleads again. ‘I don’t want Marc’s death on my conscience.’ He tries one of his wry smiles. ‘Do you really think I’m that much of a bastard?’

  But it’s neither the time nor the place to go into that. I’ve two voices warring in my head: the first is shouting, ‘Kick him out! Don’t listen!’ while the second whispers, ‘What if he is Marc’s only chance?’ And I’m back in that same old circle of indecision.

  He sits, waiting, tapping his knuckles softly against the table. Wisely, he keeps his mouth shut. He lets me work the odds out for myself.

  If I weren’t so exhausted, I might be able to concentrate. I listen to the clock: tick-tock, tick-tock. Have I any ideas at all? Perhaps I’ve got one. And before I can change my mind, I just come out and say it.

  ‘Okay, let me ask you something. If our situations were reversed, if you were in my position and it was Sarah who was being held to ransom, how would you deal with it?’