The Talisman

by Lynda La Plante

  ‘Eh, no problem, get a cab over to my place and we’ll take it from here.’ He let the phone drop back on to the hook . . . She was at the door before he had finished drying his hair. She handed him a small packet.

  ‘It’s something I saw, it reminded me of you.’

  It was a small carved wooden tiger, and he held it in the palm of his hand.

  ‘Reminded you of me? Don’t know how to take that, Mrs Barkley.’

  She smiled a little self-consciously. ‘It’s your eyes, it was a toss-up between that and a green lizard, but I wouldn’t be offended, I bought Edward a chimp.’

  She strolled out on to the verandah and asked where his houseboy was. Skye said it was his day off. It wasn’t. He was banished to his room.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind a swim, do you mind? Only I never really like swimming in hotel pools, because you never know how many people have pissed in them.’ He smiled, waved for her to help herself. He pointed to the shower area, and said there were swimming costumes if she wanted one.

  He sat rolling a very big joint as she changed. She came out, and posed in a terrible flowered one-piece suit. ‘Dear God, what kind of women do you have here, this is thirties, isn’t it?’

  He licked the paper, and she screwed her eyes up. ‘Do that again.’ He did. ‘I should have bought you the lizard.’

  She then executed a perfect dive into the pool. She was a strong swimmer and he began to lose count of the lengths. Eventually she swung herself up the steps, her hair dragged back from her face. ‘Ohhhhh that was good, so good.’

  She flopped down beside him and he lit the joint. He drew heavily on it, feeling it fill his lungs, and then held it out. ‘You want to try it? It’s home grown, pretty good.’

  She curled her tongue over her lips, and then nodded. He instructed her to draw in the smoke, to suck it in on a breath so she would ‘feel the benefits’. She held on to the thick joint, and gulped, coughed and wafted her hand . . . then she tried again.

  ‘You feeling the benefits?’

  She cocked her head to one side. ‘Not sure what they are, but it tastes foul.’

  He encouraged her to continue smoking, then took the joint back.

  ‘Holy shit, my head’s exploding, is that the benefit? It’s like being drunk . . . Whooo, lemme have some more, it’s great.’

  Skye passed the J back to her and lay back, he was feeling nicely stoned . . .

  ‘You want some music . . .? Harry? Shall I put some music on?’

  She didn’t answer so he got up and walked into the house. He chose one of his favourites, Berlioz. She saw the way his strange eyes closed as he listened to the music. His face with his eyes shut had no brilliance, was ravaged, gaunt. His flowing caftan gave him a sexuality that was both male and female. He hadn’t heard her enter, and his eyes opened. She listened to the music for a moment.

  ‘Ahhh, the Symphonie Fantastique.’

  ‘You like classical music?’

  ‘Mmmmm.’

  She was wrapped in a white bath towel, and he thought she was the most perfect creature he had ever seen. Her thick red hair still damp from her swim clung to her head forming tiny curls. She sat cross-legged in the centre of the room. ‘You know I think I am feeling the benefits, sort of woozy . . . but nice, Edward will be furious.’

  ‘Don’t talk about him.’

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘I just don’t want you to talk about him, I want you to talk about yourself . . .’ He lay on the sofa staring at her, leaning his head on his elbow. ‘I’ve waited for you, did you know that? . . . I wanted to get you stoned, then I wanted to take you to bed.’

  He saw her blush, her cheeks went rosy red, and she plucked at the carpet. He stretched out his body, at the same time rubbing his hand down his thigh, his fingers tracing himself, and she could see his erection.

  ‘Don’t you like him?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You know who, Edward.’

  ‘Ahhhhh, Eddie, sure I like him. If you want the truth I more than like him, we go back a long time. I met him in a whorehouse, a black whorehouse. You want a drink?’

  ‘Does he still go there?’

  ‘Sure, he takes whatever I deliver, he’s a great stud, a stallion, but you know that . . . you do know that, don’t you, Mrs Barkley?’

  He moved past her, so close his gown touched her. He slowly unscrewed the bottle of vodka and drank it neat. He swayed around her like a cat, a cat playing with his catch. He couldn’t see her face, couldn’t tell what she was thinking. Her hair hid her eyes, and he crouched down offering the bottle. Suddenly, she tossed her head back, and stared at him, then she reached over and touched his face.

  ‘Oh, Mr Duval, you are a dangerous man, with a beautiful face, and a very disarming manner, but you’re just an alley cat, a seedy alley cat with vicious sharp claws.’

  He pulled her to him and kissed her, forcing her mouth open, his tongue searching her mouth. An open, wet, frantic kiss, as he pulled the towel away from her and pushed her backward until he lay on top of her, his hands grasping her wrists. She made no effort to fight him off. She showed no fear of him. He was at a loss . . . the hunter had netted himself. She pushed him away from her and he flopped back on the carpet.

  ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘Christ,’ he thought, ‘not the bedroom now,’ he couldn’t get it up if she were Ben Hur.

  ‘To the whorehouse. I want to see what goes on when I’m not around.’

  Edward was exhausted, it had been a long, hard day. The mining rights for three of his perlite investments were causing problems. Added to that two hospital complexes were behind schedule and a high-rise apartment block built in shifting ground. This meant his men had bought land cutting corners on the surveys, but they had charged him the full rate. The men had to be sifted out and dealt with.

  He walked into the hotel and took the elevator up to their suite. He wanted a hot bath and food, his shirt was sticking to his back. He dropped his briefcase on to the bed, pulled his shirt off and threw it aside. ‘Harry? You on the balcony?’ Getting no answer he looked at his watch, it was after eight. He crossed to the phone to ring down to the main dining room and saw her note. He angrily placed a call through to Skye. No reply. He ordered room service, and then took a shower.

  He rang Skye three more times during the evening. His anger turned to genuine worry when at eleven o’clock she still had not returned . . . at twelve o’clock he was driving around the streets looking for Skye Duval’s car. He stopped at a phone booth and called Skye yet again, and still could get no reply. He called the hotel, and Mrs Barkley had not returned . . . he sat in icy fury in the car and banged the steering wheel. Where would that bastard take her at this hour?

  Skye was exhausted, he sat slumped on a bar stool. Harriet was sitting between four blacks and a hooker known as Tricks, because she never missed one. Harriet was holding forth about black rights, and Skye couldn’t believe it. One drive through the black shanty towns and she was an authority on what had to be done. They all listened avidly, because she also ordered drinks every two minutes for anyone who cared to join her group.

  Skye had tried to take her out, but one of her new friends had pushed him aside . . . pushed him a little too roughly. They were in the black area, and not wanting trouble he went back to the bar.

  Skye became more and more wary as the evening went on. He knew he would have Edward to deal with, never mind getting his wife out. He didn’t know who he would be more scared of – Edward or the blacks that surrounded him . . . or were surrounding Harriet.

  Encouraged by her friendliness, they were openly touching her, accepting her free drinks. White women didn’t come in their area. Shifty looks passed between dark eyes, her gold necklace, her diamond ring, even better was the thick wad of notes they saw in her wallet . . . any moment now they would make their move and take her outside – and Skye knew he could do nothing to stop them.

  Edward Barkley entered the dark, seedy ba
r. Everybody fell silent as the tension built. Harriet waved across to him and then turned to the men. ‘It’s all right, he’s my husband . . . Edward, I want you to meet some friends of mine.’

  He walked straight through the lot of them and took her elbow. ‘Time we went home, you got your bag?’

  He turned to Skye, his face was a mask; he gave Skye a small nod of recognition. The men formed a circle, surrounding Harriet and Edward . . . a tight silent group. Still holding her with one hand, he took from his inside jacket pocket a wad of notes, he tossed them to the bar . . . he looked to each man. They moved aside, and the couple walked out of the club. Edward opened the car door and slammed it shut so hard the car rocked. Before starting the engine he leaned over, flipped the glove compartment open and replaced the gun.

  She didn’t know what she was more afraid of, the change in her so-called friends, or the violent cold anger from her husband. His hands clenched the wheel as he drove back to their hotel. She could see a muscle twitching in the side of his face . . .

  ‘I’m sorry, I should have let you know where I was.’

  He gave her a look that frightened her.

  They went up in the elevator in silence. He unlocked their hotel room, jerked his head for her to go in before him and she moved quickly to the bed. He didn’t switch the light on, but stood in the dark. His voice was unrecognizable, ‘You have a good time, white trash?’ She had never seen him so angry. ‘Well? You going to answer me?’

  ‘Yes, and I am sorry, I should have called you . . .’

  ‘You should have called me . . .?’

  She moved towards him. ‘Don’t come any nearer, I’ve never hit you but, by Christ, you’re close . . . what the fuck do you think you were doing? Did that prick get you stoned? Well . . .? You better answer me, Harry.’ She didn’t have to, he knew by her silence.

  ‘So then what? Don’t tell me he fucked you? That would be too much of a joke . . . well, I’m waiting?’

  ‘Go screw yourself . . .’

  He was across the room like lightning, he got her by the hair and threw her down across the bed, his hand came up, and she was as fast as he was, rolling away from him. ‘This is how you treat your black tarts, is it . . .? Beat them up? That is where you pick them up from, isn’t it? Which one do you go for? Tricks? You go with her?’

  He had wanted to hit her before, now he could have killed her. Instead he chose his words, knowing he would get to her, hurt her. ‘I go with any woman who won’t freeze up on me, that likes me inside her, wants me inside her, unlike the frigid bitch I’m married to, all right?’

  Her dress hit him first, then her right shoe, she stood in front of him and swished her hips. ‘You want to rip my pants off, or shall I suck you off?’

  He tore her pants off, and picked her up. ‘You asked for it and you are going to get it.’

  She was spreadeagled on the bed, his hands gripping her wrists. Skye had tried to rape her in exactly the same way . . . but now she fought, struggling and kicking with all her strength, but she couldn’t move. Slowly he lowered his head and kissed her, releasing her hands, and pressing her legs open. She tried to move from beneath him and he grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked her head back. She screamed, biting at his hand, but he kept on, his hand roughly pushing her legs further and further apart. Slowly she began to move with him, not against him. Her whole body opened to him, and just as she reached out for him, he moved away.

  He laughed, standing at the end of the bed. He began to peel off his clothes. He then reached over for the lights.

  ‘Don’t turn it on, please don’t . . . don’t turn the light on.’

  He lay down on her, and with his right hand flicked the switch, light flooded the room. She tried to hide her face, but he turned her roughly to look at him. ‘You are going to know who’s fucking you . . . now look at me . . .’

  There were no fragmented dreams. No nightmares . . . they made love over and over again. She came to him, openly, with no fear, and her mind cleared, lifted. She was free.

  Skye Duval was, to put it politely, shitting himself. He had half a bottle of vodka beside him to give him the nerve to walk into the hotel. When told to go straight up to Mr Barkley’s suite, he had another large vodka in the bar. He tapped on their door sweating. Edward called that it was open and for him to walk right in. He hesitated, licked his lips, thought that if he was going to take a beating he might as well get it over with.

  Edward was sitting up in bed, just the white sheet draped over him. Skye hovered by the door, and Edward smiled, his teeth gleaming in his tanned face, and his hair loose, as if he had just showered. He lit a cigar and tossed the match aside.

  ‘Siddown . . . drinks on the table, help yourself.’ Skye was even more at a loss, he looked to the balcony. ‘She’s in the tub, okay? I’ve got all these papers for you to sort out; the cables I want sent today and the rest you can do when I’ve gone. I want monies transferred to the five accounts I’ve listed . . .’ As the bathroom door opened, Skye was so nervous he swallowed an ice cube. She was fully dressed and smiled at him. As she crossed to the bed, she knelt close to Edward and kissed him. ‘I’ll get them to collect the cases – you want anything from reception?’ Edward shook his head and she walked out. Pausing at the door, she cocked her head to Skye. ‘Bye Mr Alley Cat.’

  Skye flushed, looked nervously at Edward, his foot began twitching . . . still he got no adverse reaction.

  ‘Okay, that’s about it, there’s four folders, this stack of letters and the rest are cables. We’re leaving, but I’ll contact you in a few days, okay?’

  Skye nodded, his foot still twitching . . . she was right . . . compared to Edward he was nothing . . . just a seedy alley cat, because there before him was the king – the cigar clamped in his teeth, the broad powerful shoulders. As he got up from the bed tucking the sheet around him he seemed like a giant. ‘What you waiting for? You want something?’

  ‘No.’

  He towered above Skye as he whispered, ‘You’re getting off light this time my friend and you know it, now get out.’

  Skye gathered up the papers, and moved as fast as he could to the bar for another booster. He was shaking, not really believing he had got away with it. She hadn’t told him . . . he just couldn’t understand it . . . all he knew was, whatever the game, Edward always beat him, was always one step ahead of him. He could never be free of him, the power he held over Skye was unbreakable, unless he killed himself, and Skye was too much of a coward to do that.

  On their return Dewint was given so many African statues his ‘pigeon loft’ looked like a market stall. He had never seen them both looking so well and happy.

  It was even more unpleasant therefore for him to give Harriet the news that her father was dying. She left for Yorkshire the same day.

  The following morning Dewint carried in Edward’s breakfast tray. Although he said not a word, he couldn’t help but notice Edward’s appearance – the long hair, the tan so dark he could have been a Red Indian, or one of those hippies from America.

  ‘I’ll run a bath immediately, sah.’ He behaved as though Edward had been gone only a few hours, and asked no questions.

  ‘Dewint, contact Miss Henderson at the office, tell her to bring everything that’s been dealt with while I’ve been away. She’s to say nothing, I don’t want anyone to know I’m home yet. I also want back numbers of the newspapers – get copies from the library or whatever . . . And Dewint, the house looks good, just fine.’

  In contrast to Dewint’s reaction, Miss Henderson nearly dropped all the files, and her mouth gaped open.

  ‘Something wrong, Henny old girl?’

  She flushed to the roots of her mousy hair and bit her lip, trying to hide her shock by turning away to put the files down. Dewint closed the door as he went out, and Miss Henderson swallowed hard and took another look at Edward.

  He looked just like a wild gypsy. He smiled at her, reached out and gripped her chin. ‘What’s going on
in that little head, eh?’

  ‘I’m sorry, but . . . well, excuse me for saying this, but you look like a gypsy, Mr Edward. I don’t mean to be rude, but you do, you really do.’

  He tilted his head to one side and smiled again, his teeth whiter than white against his dark skin. ‘I do, do I? Well, well, I look like a gypsy, what a thing to say.’

  She looked so nervous that he patted her shoulder. ‘Just joking, I don’t mind – and you never know, Henny, I might just have a drop of the Romany in me . . . Right now, to work. Tell me everything, all the gossip, and don’t miss out a single thing. Let’s start with Alex.’

  He listened, wandering around the room in his dressing gown, barefoot. His long hair had been washed and combed back from his face.

  Miss Henderson talked for at least two hours, and was tired at the end of her lengthy monologue. Edward didn’t interrupt her once, gave no hint of what he was feeling. Finally, he said, ‘That it? How’s your mother, any better?’

  Miss Henderson shook her head, said she was worse, and now it was becoming very difficult to cope.

  ‘You need a break, Henny. Find a good nursing home, and don’t worry about the cost, that’ll be taken care of. Just go out and have a shopping spree, buy yourself a few things.’

  She was going to cry, but he picked up a file and started talking business.

  In the early evening Miss Henderson departed, trying to thank him, but he waved her thanks aside, then cupped her face in his enormous hands. ‘I don’t want to lose you – you go on doing too much and I will. So get that old lady of yours sorted out. I’ll be in the office first thing in the morning.’