by K E Coles
‘I’m always afraid,’ I said.
He looked away, picked up his coffee, drank. ‘I want to know the truth, that’s all,’ he said. ‘You’re all for that, aren’t you? Truth, and love and all that shit?’
Dad would have helped him, I knew. Surely he’d expect me to do the same.
‘And if it’s true?’ I said. ‘About Papa?’
He stared. The skin on his forehead grew pale and waxy. At first, I thought the lighting had dimmed but, as I watched, the clammy greyness spread down his face, as though every drop of blood was being siphoned from him. Sweat beaded his upper lip.
He stood up unsteadily, held onto the table.
‘Are you okay?’ I said.
He didn’t answer, stumbled as he made for the door.
I ran after him. ‘I’ll try,’ I said.
He looked at me with blank eyes. ‘What?’
‘I’ll try to find her.’
‘Oh, yeah. Right.’ He lurched through the door, turned back to me. ‘I . . .’ He clutched at his head. ‘Oh, fuck! Fuck!’ He cringed, tore at his hair, eyes squeezed shut.
One of the middle-aged men appeared at my shoulder. ‘Need an ambulance, love?’ he said.
‘No.’ Art blew short breaths through his mouth and slowly straightened up. ‘No, I’m fine.’
I followed him along the pavement, caught him every time he veered towards the road.
‘Art.’
‘Shush.’ He stopped. ‘Can’t think . . .’ His jaw clenched. ‘Can’t think about it now. It’s crap, the stuff in that notebook. It must be.’ Two pink spots appeared on his cheeks.
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘If you say so.’
‘I do.’ He nodded. ‘I do.’ The pink spots vanished, replaced by a greenish tinge. ‘Shit!’ He crouched down, rocked back and forth.
‘You need a doctor,’ I said.
His laugh was harsh, bitter. ‘You’re telling me you haven’t seen this before?’
I shook my head, then remembered Jack clutching his head in agony in just the same way.
‘It’s Papa?’
Art nodded, swallowed. ‘I’ll be okay in a second.’
I put an arm around his back, under his arm, and helped him to his feet.
He steadied himself, straightened his shoulders. ‘I’m fine.’ Some colour had come back into his face. Only his lips were still pale, whitish.
What was I doing, holding onto him like that? I went to remove my arm, but he stopped me, pulled me to him. He bent his head, and kissed me. His lips were soft, his skin rough, prickly.
For a moment, just a moment, I kissed him back, lost in the sensation, the taste of him, the feel of his body pressed against mine. It was only an instant, and I realised, and jumped back. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Sorry.’ Was that satisfaction, triumph even, in his eyes?
I felt myself flush.
‘I’ll walk you home,’ he said.
‘No.’ I was horrified at the way my body had reacted – the overwhelming desire I’d felt. I couldn’t even look at him.
‘Please yourself.’ He looked up and down the road, inhaled. ‘You should be safe for now - until they find him.’
‘Him?’
‘The dead tail.’ His eyes watched me. I could feel them studying my reaction. ‘Until they send someone else, that is.’
I walked away, turned back. ‘Who’s ‘they’?’
‘Us,’ he said, ‘of course.’
‘But not you?’
He made a face, raised his palms, as if to say, what does it look like.
‘Thank you,’ I said.
There was something sad in his eyes as he turned away. ‘I’ll call you.’
Back home, as I put my key in the door, a strange feeling came over me, a conviction that I was being watched. I glanced up and down the road. Nothing. Then I looked behind me, at the low-rise block of flats. Even from a distance, his eyes scorched mine. He made no attempt to hide, but stared back at me.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO PEARL
The people in my office arranged a night out on the Friday before my last week - drinks first at the local as usual, then a nightclub.
My excitement was ridiculous. I spent hours putting on make-up, taking it off and putting it on again. I wore my best short skirt, best top and my favourite pair of heels. I ordered a taxi, went down to the hallway and waited. My legs felt exposed and cold. It was the first time I’d worn those shoes since – since . . .
My insides seemed to fall to the floor. I sat on the bottom stair and covered my face. The last time I wore the shoes had been that night, the night I lost Jack. The night I lost my mind.
I went back to my room, kicked my shoes off so violently, they hit the wall. I tore my clothes off, broke the zip of my skirt, ripped the fabric of my top. I threw them around the room, crying, screeching through clenched teeth, hoping Mrs Arnold wouldn’t hear me.
The doorbell went. I ignored it, heard Mrs Arnold’s voice, heard her gentle tap on my door.
‘Are you going out, dear?’ she said.
‘No.’ I stifled a sob. ‘Tell him I’m sorry. I’m not – not feeling very good.’
‘All right, dear.’
Another knock on my door, seconds later. I found it hard to speak, took a deep breath. ‘Just a moment.’
The door opened. A man stood silhouetted in the doorway. Tall, long coat.
‘Are you okay?’ Art said.
‘You?’ I took a pace towards him, stepped back again. ‘Oh, my God. Have you hurt Mrs Arnold?’
‘Of course not.’ He shut the door behind him, quietly, with barely a click.
‘There’s no ‘of course’ about it,’ I said.
‘Well, no then.’ He moved towards me.
I backed away. ‘How d’you get in?’
He smirked. ‘You know me.’
Yes, I knew him all right. Should I run, or scream, or both? A scream would bring Mrs Arnold, maybe put her in danger too. And there was nowhere to run. He stood between me and the door.
‘Get out.’ I turned my back, faced the wall. ‘Please get out.’
He put a hand on my shoulder. ‘Pearl.’
I froze. ‘Don’t touch me.’
His hand didn’t move.
I slammed my elbow back into his torso, up under his ribs.
He doubled over, staggered back. I punched the side of his face with every ounce of strength I had. All the hatred I felt for Mesmeris, Papa, Leo, everyone who wasn’t Jack was in that blow.
He toppled backwards. There was a crack as his head smacked the coffee table. He lay flat out, didn’t move.
Oh, my God! I’d killed him. My fist, arm, shoulder ached with the jarring force of the impact. I knelt beside him, dithered. Was I supposed to feel for a pulse, do mouth to mouth? Then I remembered you should never move someone with a head injury. I put my hand against the side of his neck, couldn’t feel anything.
He groaned. ‘Shit!’ he said.
‘Oh, thank God!’
He tried to roll onto all fours.
‘Don’t move,’ I said.
‘Why not?’ He dragged himself to a sitting position. ‘Fucking hell.’ He sat back and felt his jaw. ‘You’ve got some right hook there.’
‘Sorry.’
He was so close, I could smell his skin, almost taste him. He’d shaved. It made him look younger, cleaner. It made me want to kiss him.
‘Are you okay now?’ he said.
‘Better for thumping you.’
He laughed.
‘Thought I’d killed you,’ I said.
‘Would it have mattered?’ Those killer blue eyes gazed into mine.
I wanted to look away. I tried but couldn’t. I wanted him so badly my nerve ends tingled with it. ‘Yes,’ I said.
‘You’re playing with fire, you know that?’
‘What?’
‘Kneeling there in your underwear . . .’
I reached for my dressing gown.
He caught my
wrist. ‘Don’t.’
I couldn’t look away from his eyes. ‘Art.’
‘Shush!’ He slipped my bra straps from my shoulders, leaned forward, kissed the hollow of my shoulder. He inhaled. ‘Bed?’ he said.
I nodded. Idiot girl.
He tasted like heaven. I pressed my lips to his, couldn’t get enough of the taste of him.
He pulled away. ‘You’re sure you want this?’
I nodded.
‘Pearl, listen . . . ’
I pulled his head down, covered his lips with my own. His skin was smooth and warm against mine. He moved against me – sweet, sweet rhythm. He smelled of earth and trees and fresh air, and everything I loved. And then I was melting into him, drowning in him.
Tears ran down my face and into my ears, even as he shuddered and moaned into my shoulder.
Afterwards, we didn’t speak. He got up and left and I cried huge, racking sobs into my pillow.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE PEARL
I woke the next morning, hoping it had been a dream, but no. I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror, asked myself how the hell I’d been so stupid. I lay in a scalding hot bath until my skin wrinkled but no amount of scrubbing washed him off my skin.
I went over and over what I’d say to him, how it was a mistake, how, as far as I was concerned, it never happened. It didn’t occur to me that he wouldn’t call.
Every time my phone buzzed, my insides tightened. Mum called. Dad called. Nothing from him.
Perhaps he’d just turn up then, I thought, barge into the house, like he had the night before. I paced my room, unable to settle, my stomach churned up. The more I thought about what I wanted to say to him, the more wound up I became.
At half past eleven that night, I went to bed.
I lay awake for hours, couldn’t get comfortable. I tried to get my brain to think of nothing, but it kept drifting back to how he’d felt, how he’d moved. My door creaked open. I held my breath. The door clicked as it closed. I heard his clothes fall to the floor. The mattress dipped as he climbed into bed. He curled his naked body against my back, his heat warming me. He kissed below my ear, down to my shoulder, sent shudders through my whole body. Still, I didn’t move.
‘Yes or no?’ he said, in my ear. His cold, dry hands moved inside my pyjamas, over my warm skin.
I turned and kissed him. I didn’t want to. I couldn’t help it.
‘Is that a yes?’
I nodded, kissed him again.
When I woke, he’d gone. All the words I’d planned to say lay in a heap, dead and empty.
I couldn’t go to church, not the way I felt. Instead, I faffed about, watering the pansies. I played some music, then watched a rubbish Rom Com on my laptop. A mismatched couple, who looked just like every other Rom Com couple – her, blonde and pretty, him, dark and handsome – fought against their oh-so-bloody-obvious attraction. The ending - the insipid couple smiling at each other, hands intertwined, as they gazed at the sunset, made me want to throw up.
All afternoon I listened out for him. Mrs Arnold asked if I wanted to go for a walk, but I said no. What if he came over while I was out? What if I missed him?
I couldn’t pretend any more. I longed to see him. Like an addict, I craved his touch, his smell. Again he didn’t call. I went to bed, but didn’t sleep, waiting for my door to open. And it did. And again, we didn’t speak.
I woke early, alone. A little knot of sadness lodged in my chest. The pillow beside me wasn’t even dented. He hadn’t stayed long enough to rest his head, the bastard. That’s the last time, I told myself – definitely the last time. I showered, dressed, slapped on some make-up. I looked like a junkie – eyes shadowed and heavy, skin pale and unhealthy. I looked like one of his lot - Mesmeris. Never again. Never, never again.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR SPICER
Spicer woke to the sound of raised voices. He sat up, checked the time. Five-thirty, still dark.
The voice was Nico’s. ‘Just get the fuck up.’
Spicer jumped out of bed, pulled on his jeans. By the time he opened his door, Nico was heading downstairs, followed by a sleepy-looking Leo.
‘What’s goin’ on?’ Leo rubbed his eyes.
Spicer followed them down to the living room.
‘Ah, Leo,’ Art said. ‘I have a job for you.’
‘Yeah?’ Leo yawned. ‘What?’
‘Go down to the church. Get it ready.’
Leo stopped, mid-yawn. ‘You mean that dump in Camden?’
‘You can have Umar and Malki,’ Art said. ‘They’re on their way.’
Leo’s eyes widened. ‘But it’s condemned.’
‘Then uncondemn it. Papa wants it cleaned up and . . .’
The doorbell rang.
‘That’ll be your men.’ Art said.
Leo glanced around the room.
‘Well, go and let them in,’ Nico said.
Leo stomped out.
Art’s eyes flashed to Spicer. ‘Go back to bed, Spice.’
‘I’m all right. I’m awake.’ He stretched, arms above his head.
‘Bed,’ Art said, an order. ‘Want your brains at full capacity later.’
The narrow hallway seemed to be full of the kind of muscle you’d find either side of a nightclub door. There were only two of them, and one of them wasn’t so big at a second glance, more wiry, with olive skin. The other was broader, his neck as thick, if not thicker, than his head. His flattened nose barely protruded from the pasty flesh around it. Tiny, black eyes peered out, shark-like.
Spicer edged past them, and up the stairs.
He lay on his bed, intending to stay awake, but when he next opened his eyes, sunlight was filtering through the blinds, making striped patterns on the wall.
Someone banged on his door. ‘Get up,’ Nico shouted. ‘Work to do.’
Spicer had a quick shower, went downstairs.
Ruby looked up from filing her nails. ‘Look who it is – Rip Van Winkle.’
‘We’re going down to church,’ Art said.
Nico waved an arm. ‘In the car, kids.’
They piled in, Art in the front passenger seat, Ruby in the driver’s.
‘So what’s happening with the church?’ Spicer said.
Art looked over his shoulder. ‘We need a base here.’ His gaze slid past Spicer. He groaned. ‘And we have a tail.’
The road was busy with rush hour traffic.
‘How the hell. . .?’ Spicer said.
‘White BMW. It was outside the house.’
Nico pulled out his phone, tapped the screen. ‘Nothing on it. Coincidence?’
‘Next left, Rubes,’ Art said.
Ruby swung the car into a tree-lined, residential street.
Art studied his wing mirror. ‘And again.’
Everyone fell sideways, as Ruby took the tight left turn into another busy road.
‘Or not,’ Nico said. ‘Looks like we have ourselves a hanger-on, all right.’
‘So, what do I do?’ Ruby said.
‘Pull in here.’ Art pointed to a row of shops on the left.
They drew up alongside a newsagents. Art jumped out.
Spicer watched the BMW pull in behind a parked car. Jim, he thought, you need to up your game, big time.
Art ran into the shop, came back thirty seconds later, glanced back at the BMW. He climbed into the car. ‘Crap car. Got to be press. Lose ‘em, Rubes.’
Ruby grinned. ‘Yes, sir.’
She pulled out into the traffic without signalling. Tyres squealed, horns blasted, as she did a U-turn. A silver car swerved to avoid them, hit an oncoming truck, and spun in the road. More squealing brakes.
Spicer looked back and saw the BMW stalled in the middle of a three-point turn, watched a taxi hit the rear end, sending the BMW spinning.
‘Classic,’ Nico said.
Art nodded. ‘Nicely done.’
‘His face,’ Ruby said. ‘Hilarious.’
Art didn’t look amused. ‘How’d they find us?�
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‘Dunno.’ Ruby shrugged. ‘Nobody’d squeal to the hacks. They’d have to be mental.’
‘Luck, then, you reckon?’ Art said, eyebrows raised.
‘Who the fuck . . ?’ Ruby said
‘That’s what we need to find out.’
They parked in a multi-storey car park, walked down to a street lined with grubby buildings, shops, offices. Greengrocers’ tables spilled out onto the pavement.
They stopped beside muddied hoardings. Art pushed one panel forward, and disappeared inside.
They followed, stumbling over cans and bottles that littered the gravel.
‘Get this cleared up,’ Art said.
And there was the church – blackened, crumbling. Leo had been right, calling it a dump. Spicer wondered if the structure was sound, or if it would collapse on top of them. Dead leaves, take-away polystyrene packaging, and random bits of rubbish congregated inside the porch. The oak door had rotted or been eaten away at the bottom, right hand corner. The hinges, and the massive keyhole were orange with rust.
‘This ain’t gonna work, is it?’ Nico said.
‘Did last time,’ Art said.
Nico shrugged, pushed a huge, iron key into the lock, and turned it. The door swung open. ‘Abracadabra.’
Light from the open door showed crap littered the floor – cans, dead leaves – same stuff as the porch, only more of it. Darkness shrouded the corners, hiding God knows what horrors. Spicer tried the light switch – nothing.
‘Wishful thinking,’ Nico said.
They walked inside, and the temperature dropped. Chill air felt moist against Spicer’s skin. No surprise, since the walls were shiny wet and covered in slime. He expected the stench of mould and damp, but not the sour, sharp tang that took him back to those woods in Gloucester. He stopped, shuddered.
‘What’s up?’ Art’s sharp eyes watched him.
‘The smell.’
‘What about it?’
‘Er . . .’ Think of something, anything. ‘When I was a kid, a bird got trapped behind our fireplace. Stank the place out.’ He shuddered again. ‘Flies.’
Art smiled. ‘No dead birds here. Rats, maybe – or a wino or two.’
It wasn’t the dead body, Spicer thought. It was the flies - bloated, lazy, fat bluebottles – buzzing around his head. He shuddered again. ‘Leo was right. This place is a dump.’