The Debt

by Roberta Kray

  He picks my coat up from the counter. ‘And you must be Kerry Anne,’ he says, turning towards her and smiling broadly. He puts out his hand. ‘Nice to meet you.’

  As if he’s offered her a poisoned chalice, she withdraws a step, but hasn’t quite got the courage to refuse. I watch her gaze sweep his face, silently absorbing the cuts and bruises. She’s not sure how to react but reluctantly places her fingers in his. ‘Hi.’

  And there’s something about her being forced to shake hands with my so-called lover that makes me want to snigger. Suddenly I’m not so sorry that he’s here, that he’s making her feel awkward, that he’s making her squirm. She deserves it – and more. I’m almost tempted to grab him and kiss him in front of her. That would give Marc food for thought.

  But of course I don’t.

  There’s barely time for a backward glance as he takes my arm and manoeuvres me through the door. ‘Come on. We’ve got to go.’

  I let myself be bundled out.

  I give her one last faint smile. I hope she’ll pass it on to Marc. It’s the nearest I’ll get to any kind of goodbye.

  ‘So?’ he asks as we scoot across the road.

  ‘So?’ I snap back. ‘What did you think – that I needed saving before I scratched her eyes out?’

  He grins. ‘Didn’t you?’

  I get in the car and slam the door shut. I dig in my pocket, find the pack of cigarettes, take one out and light it. My hands are shaking. ‘The bastard’s probably been shagging her for weeks.’

  It’s another fifteen minutes, a slow crawl through the evening traffic, before we reach the house. Up until now, anger has kept the butterflies away but my nerves are starting to flutter again. I can feel the dampness gathering on my palms.

  ‘Are you sure we’re doing the right thing?’

  ‘Just think of what they’ve done,’ he replies.

  Which is all very well if you follow the ‘an eye for an eye’ school of thought. And I’m not denying that I want to pay them back – I’d like to kick Marc in the teeth just for starters – but I’m still not convinced this is the right way of going about it.

  Turning anxiously into the drive, I wait for the gates to open and then lurch forward so carelessly that I scrape a wing against one of the pillars. It makes a nasty tearing sound. Although on this occasion he’d be perfectly justified, Johnny doesn’t comment.

  ‘Relax,’ he says instead, ‘it’ll all be over in a few hours.’

  More like eight or nine. I glance at my watch. It’s barely six o’clock. Ahead the lights from the house are visible, four golden squares spilling out across the gravel. I do a three-point turn so the car’s facing back in the right direction. Then I switch off the engine and try to catch my breath.

  Johnny gives me a thin reassuring smile. ‘Don’t worry.’

  For him this is all so simple, black and white, a matter of principle. Of honour. But he hasn’t spent the past few years living with the Buckleys, eating, talking, laughing, arguing with them. I hate what they’ve done but we still have history.

  As if he can read my mind, he murmurs, ‘You don’t owe them anything.’

  Sometimes he can be so glib. ‘What’s the matter?’ I snarl. ‘Scared I’m going to change my mind?’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘No,’ I say quickly.

  The seconds tick by. We sit quietly together, partners – albeit reluctant ones – in crime. I’m only here because he can’t do this without me. He needs my help and if I don’t go through with it, then God knows what he might do instead. Perhaps it’s what’s referred to as the lesser of two evils.

  Or am I just using that as an excuse to make me feel better about my own part in it all?

  Surprisingly, no one has come out to greet us yet. They can’t have heard the car. Maybe they’ve got the TV or radio on. I take the opportunity to ask the question that’s been nagging at my brain since this morning.

  ‘So what about Carl?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He killed Eddie Tate.’ I grind my fists into my thighs. The thought of it still turns my blood to ice. ‘He tortured him, he . . . Christ, you know what he did. What are we going to do?’

  Johnny frowns. ‘What do you want to do?’

  ‘He’s sick, he’s dangerous. He should be locked up.’

  ‘So what do you suggest? You want me to call the cops, grass him up? If I do that, I’ll be implicating myself. It won’t take them long to find out I was living here and they’re hardly going to believe I had nothing to do with it.’ He pauses. ‘And much as I respect your admirable desire for justice, sweetheart, I’d really rather it wasn’t at my expense.’

  I search for my cigarettes again, find one and light it. I throw the pack into his lap. ‘So he just gets away with it? He just walks free?’

  ‘There’s a saying, isn’t there – what goes around comes around?’

  I wind down the window and lean out. The garden smells of rain. I turn to look at him again. Through the shadows, I search the profile of his face. Occasionally I think I know what’s going on in his head, but at other times – like now for instance – I don’t have a clue.

  ‘Do you really believe that?’

  ‘Why not?’ He lights his own cigarette and smiles. ‘Although there is another option.’ He digs in his pocket, gets out his mobile, and starts searching through the address menu. ‘I could always ring Quigley . . .’

  I start. ‘What? You can’t do that. You heard what he said -he’ll kill him!’

  ‘Carl killed Eddie,’ Johnny replies impassively.

  I reach out, grab his phone and turn it off.

  He shrugs. ‘I thought you wanted justice.’

  I glare at him. ‘Not that kind.’

  Ah,’ he repeats, softly, ‘not that kind.’ He lifts his cigarette and takes a drag. ‘I get it. You don’t mind him dying slowly, you don’t mind him rotting in jail for twenty years, every day a relentless fucking misery, but when it comes to execution . . .’

  I snort, rolling the phone between my fingers. ‘Is that what you’d have preferred?’ But even as the words leave my mouth, I’m regretting them. Those scars on his wrist are coming back to haunt me. I close my eyes and bite down on my lip. ‘No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . .’

  But now the back door has suddenly opened and Dee is descending on us. There’s no time left to explain – even if I could.

  If I ever had doubts that I could actually do this, it only takes a glance at Dee’s contrived woebegone face to know the answer. I get out of the car and try not to flinch as she wraps her Judas arms around me.

  ‘You poor love. You look exhausted.’

  Trapped against her ample bosom, I make a vague mumbling sound. Before I can utter anything more articulate – or more damning – Johnny rapidly propels us inside.

  ‘Come on, girls, let’s not hang about.’

  The kitchen is just as it always was – the big oak table, the pans hanging on the walls, the stained wood floor. It’s the same but different. Or maybe I’m the one that’s changed. I feel like a stranger now, a visitor. There’s a pot of coffee on the go but instead of helping myself, I pull out a chair, sit down and wait.

  Dee goes straight for the cupboard and the alcohol. She takes out a couple of bottles, whisky and gin. ‘What you both need is a drink.’ Which, roughly translated, means that what she needs is a drink – a large one.

  I can’t say I blame her. Maintaining a farce like this must be damned hard work. I’d like to get blasted myself, out-of-my-head, drunk, but I can’t. I’m going to have to drive later. Still, I don’t refuse the offer – one won’t do any harm.

  Jim lumbers into the kitchen, smiling faintly. He clearly wasn’t expecting us back today and is still in a state of semi-sobriety. Unlike Dee, he’s not a natural liar and his eyes move furtively between us, not sure where to settle.

  As if he can’t resist the urge, Johnny goes over and slaps him on the back. ‘Jim! It’s good to see
you again.’

  He makes a vague nodding motion, glancing anxiously towards Dee.

  ‘Sit down,’ she says, impatiently.

  Jim does as he’s told and she slams a large glass of whisky in front of him.

  Johnny, grinning, takes the chair opposite to mine.

  So now we’re all seated round the table, a nice little foursome. There’s no sign of Carl, thank God. If she’s got any sense, Dee will have packed him off for the night. She wouldn’t risk a repeat of the last fiasco . . . especially now she’s so close to getting what she wants.

  There’s a moment of silence as we all raise our glasses and drink. Dee can barely contain herself. She’s hyper, excited. There are pink diamonds dancing in front of her eyes. She wants to ask, she’s desperate to ask, but she’s trying to control herself.

  Johnny momentarily looks down, leaves a brief pause, and then slowly lifts his head again. ‘Don’t worry,’ he says. ‘Everything’s fine. The diamonds are safe. They’ll be here tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’ Her face falls in disappointment. She was hoping we had them already. She was thinking that’s why we were back. She was hoping she could take them, hold them, feel a million dollars slide coolly through her fingers.

  I look away, disgusted.

  ‘They’ll be here,’ Johnny repeats.

  His foot finds my ankle under the table.

  Quickly, I glance up. ‘Yes, tomorrow. For sure. Definitely.’ I force myself to meet her eyes. And then, perhaps with an excess of drama, I reach forward and grasp her hand. I expect her fingers to be cold, as nervous and clammy as mine, but they’re not – they’re soft and warm. Somehow that revolts me even more. ‘Marc’s going to be all right, Dee. I promise. I swear he will. We’re going to save him.’

  Johnny kicks me again. I can almost hear the intake of his breath. He’s worried. He thinks my response is over the top, too obvious, but I know better. She’s so wrapped up in her own game, she won’t take a second to think about ours.

  But he’s not leaving anything to chance. ‘Twelve o’clock,’ he says. ‘That should give us plenty of time.’

  Dee’s not overjoyed but it could be worse. She squeezes out a smile. ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  For the next couple of hours, like an aspiring actress, she goes through the motions. We get treated to the fearful mother, the agony, the full array of desolate gestures. She moans. She weeps silently into her gin. And there’s no denying that her trembling lips and smudged mascara are an art form in themselves. If ever anyone deserved an Oscar, it’s Dee Buckley.

  Eventually, with a flourish, she produces the latest ransom note and drops it on the table. ‘Here,’ she mutters hoarsely, ‘this arrived yesterday.’

  Johnny solemnly picks it up, reads it and slides it across to me.

  The typewritten note gives instructions of where and when the ransom should be handed over. Ironically, they’ve chosen the recreation ground – the place where I first read the details of Eddie Tate’s death. Thursday at 5 p.m. Practically speaking, it’s not a bad choice. With three approach roads and the woods behind, there are plenty of routes for a quick escape.

  I glance up. Jim frowns and sinks his face into his whisky. Dee plays with the bracelet on her wrist. There’s a kind of hysteria rising inside me, a mixture of rage and laughter. It all seems so clear now, so bloody obvious. How did I ever fall for it?

  Johnny’s the only one who’ll meet my gaze. He gives a slight shake of his head, a warning perhaps or just a reminder to hold my tongue.

  I know if I stay here any longer, I’m likely to lose my cool. And I’m thinking that it’s time to make my excuses and leave, when the front door opens and slams shut. If I’d made the move just a minute ago I could have avoided him. It’s too late now. Carl’s strolling into the kitchen.

  ‘Oh, back already?’ he says with feigned surprise.

  Dee glares at him. ‘I thought you were out for the night.’

  He helps himself to a drink, shrugging off the comment. Then he pulls out a chair and sits down next to me. ‘How are you doing, Simone? You look kind of . . . tired.’

  Has he seen the fear in my eyes? There’s something about that pause, or maybe simply his proximity, that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. He’s sitting so close his elbow is almost touching mine. He smells of beer and sweat and an unpleasant sweet aftershave.

  ‘Fine,’ I mutter.

  ‘That’s good.’ He nods, glancing around at his audience. ‘That’s good, isn’t it?’ Slyly, he adds, ‘Marc’s a lucky guy, having a wife like you.’

  And just for a second it flashes through my mind that he knows what we’re going to do. He knows. Quickly, before he can spot the trembling in my hands, I hide them under the table. Of course he doesn’t. He can’t. It’s just my paranoia slipping into overdrive.

  ‘I mean, it’s not every woman who’d—’

  ‘Are you hungry?’ Dee interrupts, ‘I can make you something to eat.’ She may be tipsy but her antennae are on red alert. Trouble is the last thing she needs this evening.

  ‘I’m not staying. I’ve got to meet someone.’

  I glance at Johnny – there’s a curious smile playing round his lips – but he’s only got eyes for Carl.

  ‘Meeting up with the lovely Melanie?’ he suddenly asks. ‘How is she? I haven’t seen her for a while.’

  My heart plummets. God, what’s he playing at?

  I feel Carl bristle beside me. ‘No, I dumped the little tart.’

  My sharp intake of breath must be clearly audible but Johnny, with surprising restraint, simply lifts his brows a fraction.

  ‘And she seemed such a nice girl.’ He leans back, his cool grey eyes narrowing to ice. ‘Although maybe too high maintenance. Women like Melanie can be very . . . demanding. They tend to go elsewhere when their needs aren’t adequately provided for.’

  Carl opens his mouth and bares his teeth. ‘And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?’

  Although he knows – along with everyone else – exactly what it means. The implication is hardly subtle. And no man, no matter how confident, can tolerate that kind of slur.

  Dee tries to interject again but Johnny talks over her. ‘First Gena,’ he goads, ‘and now Melanie . . .’

  ‘And who was catering to your wife’s needs when you were banged up?’ Carl spits out venomously. ‘What makes you such a fucking expert?’

  Christ! I flinch, ready for the shit to hit the fan. Any reference to Sarah’s fidelity and Johnny’s liable to explode. But incredibly he doesn’t. Instead, with studied calculation, he turns and stares lasciviously at Dee.

  ‘Oh, I’d never claim to be an expert but – well, I’ve had my moments.’

  As if a bomb has dropped, an ominous silence falls over the room.

  Even Jim can’t pretend it hasn’t happened. His rheumy eyes become bulbous. Understanding that a response is expected, positively demanded, he takes a deep breath and tries to stand up. The attempt is doomed before it’s begun. Impeded as he is by his weight and the booze, he gets securely lodged between the chair and the table.

  I look away, embarrassed.

  Dee grabs his arm and pulls him back down. ‘Jim!’ And with that single word a message passes between them: tomorrow we’ll have our revenge.

  Carl understands it too. He barks out a laugh, swings his jacket over his shoulder and, with one last evil look at Johnny, stalks out of the room and down the hall.

  As the front door bangs, relief shudders through my body. He’s gone. Quickly, I get to my feet and Johnny stands up too. Our eyes meet across the table. What does he think I’m about to do – name and shame, reveal the guilty parties?

  ‘I’m tired. I’m going to have an early night.’

  Relieved, he sinks back into his chair.

  ‘Oh, don’t go yet. Stay and have a nightcap,’ Dee insists, acting as if the scene we just witnessed has never taken place. What she really wants is
an opportunity to get me on my own, to find out for certain if Johnny’s going to deliver – and how I managed to persuade him.

  I give her a smile. ‘We’ll catch up tomorrow.’

  Upstairs, I drag a holdall out of the wardrobe and start packing. Most of my clothes, my computer, my books and CDs, will have to be abandoned. It’s a matter of priorities; I can’t take everything. In fact, I can hardly take anything. Bouncing a heavy suitcase down the stairs in the middle of the night doesn’t even border on the feasible.

  While I go through the motions, I try to switch off. As if I’m embarking on a short holiday, I choose only the bare essentials. But I feel almost apologetic towards the articles I reject. I pick them up, hold them once last time, and put them down again. I try to tell myself that one day I’ll retrieve them but in my heart I know it isn’t true. What I’m leaving now, I’ll never see again.

  Perhaps it’s easier to concentrate on inanimate objects than on real people. If I start thinking about Marc, our marriage, the end of our life together, there’s no telling where it may lead. There’s already a nasty little lump in my throat. I swallow hard. I have to hang on to the fact that whatever has happened, it would eventually have come to this anyway – in a month, in a year. I could never have stayed with him.

  But will I ever be able to forgive him?

  I gaze around the living room. I want to let go. More than anything, I want to let go – but surrounding me are too many memories. It’s the little things that hurt the most: his mug still sitting on the coffee table, one of his jackets hanging on the peg behind the door, the paper he was reading. Tears prick my eyes. Angrily, I swipe them away. This is your life, a tiny voice whispers in my ear. For a moment, I think my knees are going to buckle. The voice comes again, taunting me, tormenting me. I wince but then silence it with a deliberately licentious image of Marc and Kerry Anne. It’s enough to halt any further slide into sentimentality.

  Zipping up the bag, I slide it behind the sofa. Hopefully Dee won’t make a late-night visit but I can’t afford to be careless. And that’s something, or rather someone, else to focus attention on – my conniving, double-dealing bitch of a mother-in-law. If Johnny’s doing his job, she’ll already be well on her way to drunken oblivion, but that won’t stop her crawling up the stairs if she thinks she might extract one last piece of useful information.