The Debt

by Roberta Kray

  As she reaches for her cup, I watch her lips open. And she’s not just planning on drinking her coffee. She’s about to start again, to pick up the threads, to launch yet another attack on my dubious integrity.

  Time to get in there quick.

  ‘Whatever you want to know,’ I say smoothly, ‘just ask.’

  She gives me one of her interrogative glares.

  ‘Anything,’ I insist.

  She takes a sip of her coffee and then lays the cup back on its saucer without even a tremble. And there’s something about that steady movement that sets my nerves on edge. She should be worried, more worried than I am – but she isn’t. She’s aware that I’m on the defensive.

  ‘Anything?’ she repeats.

  I nod, trying to look blasé.

  ‘Okay.’ She pauses again, pushing her plate aside. ‘So who knows about the robbery, about the diamonds?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that.’

  As if I’m being deliberately obstructive, she leans forward, folds her arms and sighs.

  I lean forward too and meet her face to face. ‘I don’t mean I won’t, I mean I can’t. I’ve got no idea who Eddie may have talked to – and even if he didn’t, if he kept it buttoned, there are still plenty of others who could have taken an educated guess.’

  ‘Not to mention all the people you’ve been meeting recently.’

  Now probably isn’t the time to tell her that all my ‘meetings’, bar one, have had nothing to do with the ice. So I just shrug. ‘Those guys are safe.’

  It’s clear that she isn’t convinced but she lets it go. Instead she asks, ‘So how much exactly are these pink diamonds worth?’

  ‘Hard to say.’ My shoulders lift into a shrug again. ‘A lot. Although they obviously can’t be sold on the open market.’

  ‘Obviously,’ she repeats, drily.

  Hoping to forestall any more awkward questions, I flick out my wrist and stare with deliberation at my watch. ‘We should be getting off.’

  Although where the hell we can go at this ungodly hour is anyone’s guess.

  In the end we head out towards West India Docks. I’m thinking of Billingsgate Fish Market, not the most romantic location in the world but then we’re hardly on a date. At least she can cruise the cod and haddock while I make small talk with strangers and pretend to be busy. It’ll kill some time until I meet Patrick.

  A silvery dawn has broken over the City. The snow’s still falling, a swirling haze of white that’s begun to settle, giving an almost luminous quality to the streets. Simone has put her cross-examination on hold. The traffic’s beginning to build and she’s staring straight ahead with that fixed expression; it might be concentration or, more likely, she’s quietly gathering ammunition for a later round of questions.

  We pass through East Smithfield and Limehouse. Have they changed? Perhaps, but it’s hard to tell how much. I’m gazing through the windscreen, between the swishing wipers, trying to spot familiar landmarks. In the end it’s an unfamiliar one that grabs my attention.

  She clocks me peering up. ‘Canary Wharf Tower,’ she reveals like a tourist guide. ‘What do you think?’

  I think it’s pig-ugly – but impressive too, at least in the way that anything’s impressive when it towers above everything else. I search for the perfect critical response. ‘Well, it’s certainly . . . big.’

  It seems to take a moment for the full impact of my words to sink in. ‘Big?’ she eventually repeats, incredulously.

  I widen my eyes in an imitation of hers. ‘Hey, whatever you’ve heard, love – size does matter.’

  I hear the sharp exasperated intake of her breath. She glares at me, then turns her attention back to the road.

  Grinning, I stare up towards the building again. It’s got a flashing light on top. And just as I’m thinking of how flashing lights are haunting me this morning, I suddenly realize – shit – that it’s Monday, bloody Monday. And unless things have changed since I was last here, the market’s only open from Tuesday to Saturday. I’m going to look pretty stupid when we roll up at the gates and find them firmly locked.

  Time for a quick change of plan. Digging in my pocket, I get out my phone and pretend to check the messages. Melanie taught me the rudimentary details: how to ring out, take a call, how to send text messages and receive them; other than that, the menu’s a complete mystery. I scroll through it, ignoring the bleeps, pretending to know what I’m doing. ‘Jesus,’ I mutter, shaking my head.

  ‘What?’ she asks.

  I give a long groan. ‘I’m sorry, we’ve got to turn around.’

  It takes over an hour to get to Camden. The roads are blocked, the commuter traffic crawling slowly through the snow and ice. And, to top it all, there’s a nasty one-way system guaranteed to fray the most patient of tempers. We’re going round in circles, on our third lap, when she asks: ‘Do you know anywhere we can park?’ Almost instantly she frowns. Of course I bloody don’t; the only route I’ve been negotiating for the past eighteen years has been from my cell to the fucking landing.

  Twisting round the backstreets, she eventually finds a space near a pub. She pulls up, parks and turns the engine off. I look at my watch again. It feels like we’ve been travelling for ever but there’s still half an hour to go before I meet Patrick.

  ‘So where next?’ Simone asks, releasing her seatbelt.

  I gaze out at the snow. ‘From here we walk,’ I reply, ‘unless you’d rather not. You can stay here if you want. We can always meet up later.’

  Not surprisingly she pulls a face, flounces out of the car and slams the door. Then stands outside, shivering, while I deliberately delay getting out. I carefully fasten the buttons on my coat and wrap a scarf around my neck, and glance out of the window. Shifting from foot to foot, she’s doing the dance of the truly freezing. If I had an ounce of decency, I’d move a little faster, hurry things up – but I haven’t and I don’t. We might not be at war but we’re not allies either.

  A few minutes later we’re walking side by side in silence. Dodging the traffic, we finally cross the road and pass through Gloucester Gate into Regent’s Park. If we’d arrived a bit later we could have had a meander round the zoo – seen the spiders and snakes – but I doubt, at this early hour, if the inmates have even raised their heads.

  We pass an empty kiddies’ playground and then turn left along the Broad Walk. To our right the grass, already carpeted in white, stretches into the distance. If we stroll slowly enough the cafe may be open by the time we reach it. I stop for a moment, gazing aimlessly towards the horizon, but Simone, unsurprisingly, shows no inclination to loiter. Her breath comes in short steamy bursts as she stamps her feet impatiently against the ground.

  However, she has the good grace not to chivvy me along. Or perhaps she doesn’t dare. Maybe she’s worried that, like an escapee from the cages behind us, I might suddenly take fright and bolt. It’s a reasonable analogy. I suspect she often thinks of me as more animal than human, as something base and uncivilized, a creature without morals.

  I lift my head and audibly sniff the air.

  Simone glances over. ‘Any danger lurking?’ she asks drily.

  I don’t answer straight away. Instead I gaze beyond her, peering intently between the trees, until she gradually becomes uncomfortable and, tracing my line of vision, begins to stare too.

  ‘What is it?’

  I shrug. ‘Nothing.’ And in fact there is nothing – I’ve made damn sure that we’re not being followed – but I say it in that careless, over-reassuring tone, as if I could simply be trying to protect her.

  ‘What is it?’ she asks again. Now her voice has dropped, slipping almost into a whisper. She hunkers down, her chin sinking into her collar. ‘Johnny?’ A slight shiver makes her shoulders tremble.

  I pause for a few seconds more and then grin. ‘You know, I could have sworn I saw a squirrel.’

  She instantly pulls herself up straight and glares, a full hard-on Simone special. ‘I suppose you
think that’s funny,’ she snaps, and without waiting for a reply, she turns her back and waltzes off.

  ‘C’mon,’ I say, after I’ve run a few paces to catch up, ‘lighten up. Don’t be so touchy. Things are bad enough without us falling out.’

  She sighs.

  I’m sure I’m about to get the ‘You think this is all one big joke’ lecture, and gird my loins accordingly. But in the event she saves her breath and gives me the silent treatment until we swing right on to Chester Road. Unable to resist any longer, she finally says, ‘You ever heard of the boy who cried wolf?’

  I turn to grin at her again. ‘Yeah, but there’s always two sides to every story. I mean, it can’t have been much fun for him, stuck alone on that hillside, day in, day out, with only a flock of bleating sheep for company. Isolation can do terrible things to the human psyche. You know, he might just have been lonely, searching for a little attention.’

  As if the idea of giving me any attention is complete anathema, she lowers her eyes to the ground.

  Eventually, I laugh. ‘You’re right. I spent way too long with those psychiatrists.’

  We pass into the more formal area of the park, the gardens that during summer are always filled with roses. The snow is still falling. She walks beside me, not too close, not too far, a resolute if reluctant escort.

  It’s a relief to see that the lights in the cafe are on. I step up the pace, hoping the doors are open too. They are. A few people are queuing for drinks but there’s no sign of Patrick. I look at my watch – there’s still ten minutes before we’re due to meet.

  ‘You go on in,’ she says. ‘I’ll follow you.’

  This time she doesn’t stick to my heels but wanders off round the gardens. Either she’s finally starting to trust me or she just can’t stand another second of my company.

  I buy a pot of coffee and choose a table away from the window and the other customers. It’s warm inside, too warm, and as I sit and wait I get that weird creeping sensation again: agoraphobia, claustrophobia, some fucking phobia anyway, something that fills my mouth with cotton wool and makes my heart race. My body’s starting to sweat, to run hot and cold; I can feel the perspiration pricking my temples.

  Just as I’m thinking of going in search of fresh air, Patrick’s hand descends on my shoulder making me start.

  ‘Jumpy,’ he laughs, settling into the chair opposite. But his smile quickly fades as he sees the bruises on my face. ‘What the . . .?’

  ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘Don’t give me that shit.’ He stares at me with those rheumy blue eyes, weaker than they used to be but still as penetrating. ‘What’s going on?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘You’re in trouble,’ he says.

  ‘No. No, I’m not,’ I insist. ‘It’s over, finished. Just a little welcome-home present.’

  Patrick’s in his seventies, maybe even pushing eighty now, but his brain’s still revving on full power. He doesn’t hesitate. ‘Christ,’ he murmurs, ‘the Fosters?’

  I don’t confirm or deny it but instead lift up the pot. ‘Here, have some coffee before it goes cold.’

  ‘You should have stayed with me when you came out. You’re always welcome. You know that.’

  But we both also know that it wouldn’t have made a difference. They would have tracked me down eventually. Best it’s over and done with. And anyway, apart from the fact I had plans of my own, I couldn’t have stood it in that house. Surrounded by pictures of Sarah, her eyes following me from room to room, there’d have only been grief and regret.

  In the past ten years I’ve come to terms – as much as I can. But I only have to look at Patrick to see the enduring pain in every crease and line of his face. It fucks me up. He lost a daughter and I lost a wife. Well, ex-wife if we’re going to be pedantic, although the ink was barely dry on the papers when she . . .

  As if listening to my thoughts, he frowns. ‘You have to forget it all, Johnny, get on with your life.’

  ‘Move on,’ I say, with audible bitterness.

  His eyes rise solemnly to meet mine. He knows me too well, can read me like a book. ‘No, it isn’t that easy. I’m not saying . . .’ He hesitates, his gnarled fingers drumming a silent beat against the side of his cup. ‘But do you really think Sarah would have wanted you to—’

  ‘Of course not,’ I agree too quickly, abruptly terminating whatever platitude he’s about to deliver next. Shit, I don’t want to get into this conversation. I understand that he means well, that he likes to talk about her, that it maybe even brings him comfort just to speak her name – but I can’t bear to hear it. Sarah, Sarah. Those two syllables are already doing a waltz around my head.

  He takes a brief sip of his coffee and winces. I’m not sure if it’s the temperature, the taste, or my apparent lack of sympathy that makes the corners of his mouth curl down. Whatever the cause, I feel instantly remorseful. It’s consideration and respect he deserves, not dismissal.

  He puts his cup down with a clatter.

  I think, for a moment, that he’s making a point. And who can blame him? I was far from the perfect son-in-law – and an even worse husband: a villain, a cheat, a man who ineptly managed to get himself locked up for eighteen fucking years. The last thing I expect is a round of applause.

  But as I stare at his hands, I realize the tremor isn’t due to anger or blame but to something that he can’t control. The years have taken their toll. I didn’t notice it when we met a few days ago but then I was so self-absorbed, so intent on playing out the game, I wouldn’t have noticed if the Angel Gabriel had spread his wings and popped down to grab a cappuccino. All I wanted was to make the arrangements to get my diamonds back.

  ‘Sorry, Patrick, I didn’t . . .’

  He sees me looking and with a wave of his hand flaps my words away, along with their implicit pity. Reaching into his jacket, he pulls out a small black pouch and slips it across the table. ‘She kept them safe for you.’

  Although this isn’t strictly true – he’s the one who has kept them hidden for the past decade – I don’t argue the point. ‘I know. I appreciate it. And look, thanks for getting that cash to the Buckleys too.’ In one easy practised motion, I slide my palm over the package, draw it back and drop it discreetly into my pocket. ‘Thanks.’

  Sternly he says, ‘There’s something you can do in return – if it isn’t too much trouble.’

  I lift an eyebrow, wondering what’s coming next.

  Leaning forward a fraction, he lays his hand briefly over mine. ‘It’s a lot to ask, I know, but . . .’ He pauses and gradually his mouth breaks into a smile. ‘Try not to fuck up the rest of your life.’

  Relieved, I smile back. I’m about to laugh, to reply, when he pushes out his chair and rises to his feet. I try to stop him. ‘Hey, you’re not going, are you? Come on, you’ve only just arrived. Stay and finish your coffee.’ And I’m not just asking out of courtesy, out of affection, but out of something far more desperate. I’m developing an irrational fear that this is the end, that I might never see him again.

  He shakes his head. ‘Things to do. We’ll keep in touch.’

  Anxiously, I stare up at him. It’s not as though I can afford to lose one of my few remaining allies. Of all the people I’ve cared for, and it’s hardly an extensive list, Patrick has always figured large. Was his last comment sincere or was it just one of those empty phrases that we all occasionally fall back on? I’m worried that he feels he’s discharged his duty, that there’s nothing left to link us any more. If that’s the case then . . .

  Except there always will be a connection. Sarah. And perhaps I was wrong earlier, perhaps I do want to talk about her, perhaps I do need to say: Hold on, let’s talk, let’s talk about her.

  But I can’t. I can’t go there.

  Patrick hovers, looking down. ‘One last thing,’ he says, as he prepares to leave. He leans in and lowers his voice. ‘I take it you know that girl in the corner?’

  Surprised, I glanc
e quickly over my shoulder. Simone’s sitting with her face in her coffee, trying to appear unobtrusive. As our eyes meet, she abruptly looks away – fast, but not fast enough; she hasn’t quite mastered the art of surveillance.

  ‘Yes,’ I reluctantly admit, ‘but she’s not . . . She’s just a friend. She’s not . . .’

  Damn, I don’t want him to think that I’ve taken up with some other woman, that I’ve been crass enough to bring her here, that I’ve forgotten Sarah.

  But Patrick just bows his head and laughs. ‘Shame,’ he murmurs, ‘I was kind of hoping she was looking at me.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Simone

  The tall white-haired guy didn’t stay for long. He detoured past my table as he left, murmuring, ‘Good morning’ with a wink. So much for being undercover; perhaps I need to work on my technique.

  Now I’m not sure whether I should stay here or go over to join Johnny. Probably best to stay put, to let him make the first move. I sip my coffee and wait. I light a cigarette and wait. The minutes crawl by but still he doesn’t turn. Sitting forward with his chin in his hands, he’s either gazing through the window or into empty space. Unable to view his face, I can’t read his expression but almost certainly know what it is; I don’t need to see those hard grey eyes to feel their coldness. I stare at his back. His shoulders are stiff and hunched, the posture of a less than joyous man.

  It doesn’t bode well.

  It bodes even worse when he finally gets up. Barely sparing a glance, he jerks his head with a cursory nod in the direction of the door. I feel like a dog being summoned by its master. Angry as this makes me, I have the sense, for once, to glue my lips together. I’ve seen him in this kind of mood before.

  While he strides silently and purposefully forward, I trot obediently at his heel. We’re going away from the car but I don’t mention it. Taking deep calming breaths I try to hold on to my temper. Patience is what is called for here, not to mention tolerance. Whatever the temptation, I have to bite my tongue, to look at the bigger picture. Johnny’s clearly upset – it doesn’t take a genius to work that one out – but the worst thing I could do is to open my big mouth.