by Roberta Kray
‘So everything’s that happened, everything that . . .’
‘For nothing,’ he says. Carefully, he pours the diamonds back into the pouch. ‘These are all that’s left. Sarah kept them for me.’ He pauses. ‘Patrick kept them for me.’
I feel like I’ve been holding my breath – for an hour, for a week, for a whole bloody lifetime – and as I finally let go, as my lungs deflate, grief and rage merge together in a torrent of resentment. ‘But you let Jim and Dee believe in that myth. You lied to them. You encouraged them. What were you doing?’ Gradually my voice is rising. ‘This is all your bloody fault!’
Before I can stop myself, I’m beating on his arms with my fists. ‘This is your fault!’ And the tears are starting to flow, to stream down my face. ‘You made them do this!’
Johnny doesn’t even try to defend himself.
‘I hate you!’
He flinches but still doesn’t back away.
I know I’m wrong, that it’s Marc I want to shout at, to bite and scratch and hurt, but blind rage urges me on. I need someone to damage right now, someone to blame. Inside my head, anger and humiliation are conducting their own battle. I feel lost, destroyed, abandoned. How could Marc do this to me? To let me think that his life was in danger, that someone was holding a gun to his head. Christ, all that fear, that dread . . .
My fists continue to take revenge on Johnny’s arms. ‘Why did he do it?’
‘I’m sorry,’ he murmurs.
‘You’re sorry? You’re bloody sorry? You don’t even know what that means.’ Sobbing, I hit and shout until I’m all burned out. Gradually my hands grow heavier and my head sinks down. ‘Why?’ I keep asking, over and over. ‘How could he do this to me?’ And eventually, exhausted, I can’t protest any more. I can barely move either.
Johnny pulls me towards him.
‘Why?’ I whisper. I’m trying to stop the tears, to stop being such a victim. I fold against his shoulder and he wraps his arms around me. And even as he’s doing it, I’m thinking how wrong it is, how twisted – of all the people in the world, he’s the last I should be taking comfort from.
‘It’s okay,’ he says.
And I should pull away, I know, but just for a while I need him there. Just for a while I want to feel safe. It’s easier to close my eyes, to cling to him, than it is to face the truth.
‘It’s okay,’ he whispers again, although we both know it isn’t.
I’ve got my face against his shirt, against his chest. I can smell him, that distinctive soap and tobacco smell, overlain now with whisky. But I’ve never felt him before. Not like this. I want to keep my eyes closed, to fall into an endless sleep. I’m not sure how long it is, five minutes, maybe ten, before I finally stop crying. I want to pull away but haven’t got the strength. As if he’s holding me by force, I murmur, ‘Let me go.’
But his arms have already set me free. I’m fighting against nothing.
‘You know why I stayed?’ Johnny asks softly. ‘You know why I didn’t just walk away?’
I make a vague snuffling noise, the closest I can get to an answer.
‘Simone?’
And now pride finally finds its voice. I lift my head and stare at him. ‘I’ve no idea. Because it amused you? Because you felt sorry for me?’
‘No,’ he retorts smartly. ‘Jesus, you’re the only one who thinks that.’
‘I’ve got a bloody right,’ I wail.
Johnny sighs. He reaches out and wraps his hand around my wrist. ‘I stayed for the reason Dee hoped I would.’
Dee. As if I ever want to hear that bloody name again. And I can hear her voice in my head saying, He likes you. Be nice to him. She was prepared to let me do anything, anything, to get those diamonds for her. And I almost did. There were times when I came recklessly close to . . .
Well, if that’s what Dee wanted, then maybe I shouldn’t disappoint her. I take his hand in mine and turn it over. I stare at his wrist, at those deep violent scars. I never did ask but I don’t need to. I know what they signify: that he understands pain, that he’s been somewhere terrible, somewhere far worse even than this.
And we’re alone now, aren’t we, the two of us? Both betrayed. What difference would it make?
Chapter Twenty-Four
Johnny
Simone looks up. She pauses for a second, those stricken hazel eyes examining my face, before her lips close over mine. There’s an urgency about it, a need, but it’s more punishing than passionate, a kiss rooted firmly in despair. But I don’t try to fight it. Why should I? This is what I’ve been waiting for.
Together, in a clumsy embrace, we fall back on the bed. She’s under me and then beside me.
Her mouth briefly searches for mine again, before she jerks away, almost pushes me away . . . and then instantly draws me closer again. Her hands move restlessly over my body, across my shoulders, down my spine. She doesn’t speak, doesn’t murmur a word. The only sound is our own uneven breathing. Through my clothes I can feel the sharp roaming edge of her fingernails, a sensation midway between pain and pleasure.
How long since I’ve been touched like this?
Now she’s taking off my shirt. She undoes the buttons and reaches inside. Her hands are caressing, gliding gently over the bruises. I lean in towards her. I run the flat of my palm along her belly; the skin’s soft and warm, inviting. Sliding quickly north, too fast perhaps, I pull up her jumper and grope for her breasts, cupping one in each hand, feeling for the curves, for the flesh beneath the lace, for a new place to put my mouth. Her body arches towards me. For the first time, she makes a noise, a softly whispered moan.
There are worse places to lose yourself than between a woman’s breasts. And this wouldn’t be a bad place to linger if we weren’t both so fucking crazy. There’s no time for idle contemplation. My fingers move quickly down. She lifts her hips and I wrench off her jeans, over her thighs, her ankles, and throw them on the floor. She’s still wearing her bra, her red jumper, but all that remains on her lower half is a pair of cream silk panties.
I stare down at her.
She sees me looking. Her hands reach out again, stroking my thighs, moving up and down, skimming, tantalizing. As she hears me gasp she pulls me in against her. She moves against my groin, her hips rising.
I groan, closing my eyes. Jesus!
I put my legs between hers and push them apart. There’s no finesse here, not on either side, no honeyed words or sweet seduction. There’s only need and desperation. Quickly, I fumble with the zip on my own jeans.
And then, just as I know that I’m going to take her, to finally have her, I raise my head and see her face. She’s leaning back against the pillow, staring at the ceiling. Her eyes are open but blank, and she’s crying, silently crying . . .
I stop dead, my lust instantly dissolving. I don’t mind a few grateful tears after the event, but seeing them before tends to cool the ardour.
What the hell am I doing? With a sigh, I regretfully roll off her.
‘Don’t,’ she whispers. She reaches out, wraps her arms around my neck, but her heart’s not really in it.
I prop my head up on an elbow and stare down. ‘This isn’t a good idea.’
Silently, she gazes back.
This is probably the time when I’m supposed to say Hey, it’s not you, sweetheart, it’s me but even I can’t bear to come out with something that crass. Instead I stand up, pull the duvet over her legs and go in search of a whisky anaesthetic.
I take the two glasses back to the bed. Simone’s already struggling back into her jeans. She looks offended, as if I’m the cause of yet another major rejection. She glances up at me with those mournful eyes. I’d like to offer some comfort but I’ve never been big in that department; lying, scheming, manipulating, yes, but not compassion, not sympathy.
‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—’
But even as I start to speak she waves my words away as if she knows they’ll do more harm than good. ‘It doesn’t matter
.’
I perch uneasily on the edge of the other bed. Slowly, I do up the buttons on my shirt. If tonight is the night of exposure then I’ve barely started yet. ‘There’s something else I need to tell you.’ I pause. ‘Why I came to the Buckleys’ in the first place.’
She doesn’t seem especially interested. Sitting with her arms wrapped around her knees, she’s studying the floor.
‘Simone?’
‘You already told me why.’
‘Not all of it. Not the whole truth.’
As if she’s had enough truth to last her a lifetime, she sighs despairingly. ‘Why should I care?’
Which is a reasonable question. I guess she’s got enough to deal with without adding my sordid confessions to the mix. Still, I’ve never let anything as superficial as consideration stand in my way so I open my mouth and eventually, when I’m partway through, she unwinds and picks up her whisky and finally begins to listen. Some of it she knows and some of it she doesn’t but I let it all spill out, the whole damn story, from beginning to end.
There’s a long silence after I’ve finished. I get the impression, unsurprisingly, that I haven’t exactly gone up in her estimation.
‘How do you know it was Jim?’ she asks. ‘How can you be sure he made that call?’
‘Believe me, I know.’
It’s not the most convincing evidence but she lets it pass. ‘And you and Melanie,’ she continues, ‘if all this hadn’t happened, if Carl hadn’t . . .’ She stumbles over the mention of his name, a shiver running through her body. ‘What would you have done to Jim?’
I don’t reply for a moment. I’m far from sure of the answer. Shrugging, I say, ‘I wanted to kill him.’
‘You could have done that on the first day you got there.’
‘I wanted him to suffer first. I wanted him to lose everything I’d lost – his home, his wife, his family. I wanted him to hurt.’
‘And then?’
I shrug again. ‘I don’t know.’
Another gloomy silence falls across the room.
Then she asks, in a small voice, ‘Do you think Marc had second thoughts about using me? Do you think that’s why he wanted to go to Spain?’
‘Yeah, maybe.’ Personally, I think he panicked, that he bottled it, but that’s a sentiment best not shared.
‘It’s okay. I’m not trying to make excuses for him.’ She smiles, a glimmer of the old Simone returning. ‘He’s weak. I’ve always known that.’
‘You’re better off without him.’
‘Thanks,’ she replies, caustically.
I sit back on the bed and stare out of the window. It’s still dark but on the distant horizon there’s a faint streak of light, the precursor to dawn. There’s a lot of weird stuff going through my mind – rage and frustration being only a part – and I’m trying to get it in order, to make some sense of it. It doesn’t do a lot for a man’s pride, or his reputation, to be duped by a bunch of fucking amateurs. Then again, compared to Simone, I’ve probably got off lightly. I may have a dent in my ego but she’s got a bloody big knife sticking out of her back.
‘Perhaps you were right. When you said it was my fault.’
She shakes her head. ‘I was angry.’
‘No. If I hadn’t been so busy trying to screw up their lives, I might have noticed what was going on. I should have seen it. I should have realized.’
‘They took us both for fools.’
I don’t need reminding. ‘Fuckers,’ I murmur.
Suddenly she gets up and starts moving round the room, picking up her things and throwing them into her bag.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Getting out of here. There’s nothing to stay for any more.’
‘Are you going home?’
‘Of course not,’ she says, with exasperation. ‘What the hell would I want to do that for? I never want to see them again, not any of them, for as long as I live.’
‘So you’re going to let them win.’
She rounds on me. ‘I don’t see any winners here, do you? They haven’t got their diamonds, I haven’t got a husband, and Eddie Tate’s still very dead.’
Simone carries on with her packing but I’m not giving up yet. ‘You can’t let them get away with it.’
It’s only a second before she looks up and it isn’t with affection. ‘No, you mean that you can’t. You know what your problem is, Johnny? Everything’s about your past, your pain, your bloody mess. You’ve just jumped from one prison to another and you can’t even see it. You’re so wrapped up in your own vengeful little world—’
Quickly, I snap back at her. ‘I’ve got a phone. If I want a shrink, I’ll call one up.’
‘You see? You won’t even listen unless it’s something you want to hear.’
I stick my face in the whisky glass again.
‘And that’s not going to help,’ she says.
We glare at each other. But suddenly the corners of her mouth curl up.
‘God, how ridiculous is this?’
‘Truce?’ I suggest.
She nods. ‘No point parting on bad terms.’
‘You can’t leave yet.’
As if to challenge that assertion she zips up her bag and reaches for her coat.
‘You can’t drive, Simone. You’ve been drinking.’
‘You’ve been drinking,’ she replies, ‘I’ve only been sipping.’
I glance at her glass, at the inch of whisky remaining. Truth is, I can’t remember how much she’s had. ‘Okay, but you’re still upset, you’ve had a shock. Just sit down for half an hour. Stay and have some breakfast at least. What’s the rush? Come on, let me make you a coffee.’ She hesitates. ‘Come on,’ I plead again, this time throwing in a shameless grin, ‘be a pity to smash up that ritzy car of yours.’
Which almost raises a smile. ‘All right,’ she agrees, ‘one coffee but then I’m definitely out of here.’
Once again I mess around with sachets and spoons while she sits on the edge of the bed, her bag at her feet. She looks like someone waiting for a train. She looks like what she is – a traveller passing through. It’s strange to think this may be my last memory of her.
‘So where are you planning on going?’
‘I’ll stay with friends for a while.’ She pauses. ‘And you?’
I take over the coffees and sit down opposite to her. ‘I know where I want to go. Trouble is, my driver’s just resigned. It kind of leaves me stranded.’
‘Oh.’ She smiles over the rim of her cup. ‘Well, if it’s not too far, I suppose she might be persuaded to give you a lift. Somewhere local?’
I wait for a second before I drop the bombshell. ‘Big house, pleasant garden, Essex way.’
Her jaw falls open. ‘What? You want to go back?’
‘Christ, Simone, isn’t there one little bone in your body that wants revenge?’ I see the expression on her face and quickly revise the comment. ‘Okay, let’s not even call it revenge – tit for tat, payback, or hey, how about squaring the account? That’s kind of apt, isn’t it?’
She shakes her head, staring at me like I’m mad. ‘I’m moving on. That’s what you should do too. I’m letting go.’
‘You’re running away.’
Knowing that I’m trying to provoke her, she simply shrugs. ‘Call it what you like.’
But I haven’t finished yet. ‘Don’t you want the chance to prove, just for once, that they can’t walk all over you?’
There’s a small hesitation, the tiniest, before she says, ‘No.’
It’s enough. The window may not be open but it’s no longer firmly locked. ‘Don’t you see? We’ve got the perfect opportunity. We’ve got it all worked out but they don’t have a clue. One day, that’s all I’m asking. Just one more day. What difference will that make?’
‘I’m not going back.’
I change tack a little. ‘There must be things you need there – papers, clothes, passport.’
‘I’ll get someone else to pick t
hem up.’
‘If Dee doesn’t trash them first.’
Simone starts, her hand jumping. The cup clatters in its saucer. She puts it shakily down on the table. ‘She wouldn’t . . .’
‘Oh, what? Because she’s not that kind of woman, not vindictive, not the type to commit some petty act of vengeance?’
‘Let her,’ she says, not very convincingly. ‘It’s only . . . stuff.’
‘Your stuff.’
‘I’m not going back,’ she repeats. ‘I can’t.’
I lean forward and take her hands. ‘Look, all I’m asking is that you come with me, that you pretend, just for a few hours, that you don’t know what they’ve done. God, you’ll hardly even need to speak to them. If we get there late enough, you can take a shower, say you’re tired, go up to bed. You can get all your things packed and we’ll be out again before you know it.’
‘And I can leave the rest to you?’
‘Yes,’ I say, too eagerly to register the disgust in her voice.
I feel her fingers move to extricate themselves. She almost slaps me away. Then she glares at me intensely, her eyes dark and cold. ‘And you think I want any part in this?’
It takes a moment before the full impact of her question, and the implication behind it, begins to sink in. To say I haven’t made myself clear is an understatement. ‘What are you saying, that you think I’m going back to . . .’
Her gaze falters, uncertainty creeping over her face. She bites down on her lower lip.
‘Simone?’
She doesn’t reply.
I groan, and then I laugh out loud. ‘Fuck, Simone, what goes on in that head of yours? You think I’m going back to kill him, don’t you? What, to shoot him, to stab him, to strangle him in his sleep?’
She winces but still refuses to answer.
‘Or maybe just to bore him to death with an endless stream of questions.’
That jolts her head back up. ‘Well, I’m glad you find it so amusing.’
‘I’m glad you find it so credible.’ I take a deep breath. ‘Look, I know you’re hardly my greatest fan but do you really think I’d ask you to do that – to drive me to a house where I planned to kill someone?’ And in case that sounded too concerned, I quickly add, ‘I wouldn’t want you as a fucking witness.’