by K E Coles
Art smirked. ‘I saw you with her yesterday. She has quite a slap, eh?’ He examined the Glock, checked the magazine. ‘One shot. Nice one.’
Pearl’s shot, Spicer thought, not mine.
‘Papa hates her,’ Art nodded towards the stairs, ‘and when Papa hates someone . . .’
‘Yeah,’ Spicer said, ‘I know.’
‘Listen.’ Art winced. ‘Shit!’ He closed his eyes, as the colour drained from his face.
‘You okay?’
His skin had gone grey, clammy. A chance to snatch the gun, maybe.
Too late. The blue eyes flashed open. ‘Only one way Pearl can be safe,’ Art said, the words rushed, breathless, ‘and that’s if we’re banged up – me, Papa, all of us.’ He pulled a DVD from his pocket, flinched as he handed it to Spicer. ‘There’s the evidence.’
Spicer stared at it, hardly dared to believe it, afraid it was a trick.
‘Don’t tell her.’ Art groaned through clenched teeth. ‘Don’t tell her where it came from, okay? Don’t tell anyone.’
‘She thinks you don’t give a shit,’ Spicer said.
‘Yeah.’ Art leaned his head back against the wall, exhaled slowly, grimaced. His forehead shone with sweat.
‘You want her to hate you?’
‘I want her to have a life,’ Art said. ‘You think she’d have a life with me?’
‘No.’ Spicer shook his head. No, Pearl didn’t belong in their world. ‘You’ve got a deal.’ He turned the DVD over in his hand. ‘Is this . . ?’
Art nodded. ‘One of them, yeah.’ He sucked air in through pursed lips. ‘There are two in there – enough to damn us all.’
Spicer stared at it. That case held everything he’d worked for, the truth.
‘Don’t watch it, Art said. ‘Give it to Macready.’
‘Were you there? The night my . . .’ He couldn’t say it, couldn’t even say the word sister.
Art’s gaze was unflinching. ‘No,’ he said, ‘but Nico was.’
‘Nico?’
Art laughed, jaw clenched. ‘You executed your sister’s killer.’
Spicer’s legs felt weak. Nico, the person he’d sat next to day after day, the person he’d begun to think of as a mate, a brother. The person he couldn’t bring himself to shoot.
‘Funny, don’t you think?’ Art’s lips paled. He blew short, sharp breaths, put a hand out, steadied himself against the wall. ‘You didn’t kill that first guy, by the way. We did.’
Why, Spicer thought, did that make him want to cry like a baby?
Art opened the front door, took a step outside, turned back.
‘Spicer?’
‘Yeah?’
Art’s blue eyes bored into his brain. ‘Tell Pearl . . .’ He groaned. ‘Tell her . . .’ He bent forward, blew through his mouth, once, twice. ‘Never, ever let that kid out of her sight.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE PEARL
THREE YEARS LATER
Dad went to a new parish in Somerset, so we moved with them – me and my boy - away from the gossips, the curious eyes, and them.
I’m happy – ish. I’ve made friends who know nothing of my past. Marcus and I see each other often. We have shared secrets, shared memories. They bond us together. My parents like him, and are happy to assume he’s my boy’s father. Strange how they don’t notice the eyes.
He’s a beauty, my son. Dark hair, intense blue eyes – just like his father. I called him Lucas, in the hope he’d turn out like my dad, not his own. He should do. He’s growing up in a world full of love, a world without Mesmeris.
I toy with the idea of visiting Art, just to show he didn’t break me after all with his lies, his betrayal.
Marcus says it’s not a good idea. He says prison’s changed him, that I wouldn’t recognise him. But Marcus visits him. He’s visiting him today, as he does every Thursday. I don’t know why. Just to check he’s still there, perhaps, or to gloat. Although that’s not Marcus. Marcus has a good heart.
I started university last summer, and I’m doing well – on line for a first, my tutor says. It seems creative writing is one subject where a little insanity can be a good thing.
We’ve come to the beach today. I love the sea, the rhythm of the waves, the smell of salt in the air, the peace.
I had to pick Lucas up early from nursery because he’d been crying, and complaining of a headache. When I got there, he flung himself into my arms.
‘What is it?’ I kissed the salty tears from his chubby cheek.
‘Better now,’ he said.
‘He was pulling his hair,’ the teacher said. ‘I’m afraid he’d torn some bits out before we could stop him.’
I examined his head. The hair was a bit messed-up, some red patches on his scalp, but no real damage.
‘Perhaps check for nits,’ the teacher said, with a warm smile. To soften the blow, I suppose, or stop me being insulted. ‘They go through school like wildfire.’ She lifted Lucas’s chin. ‘Fine now, aren’t you?’
He nodded, buried his head in my shoulder, suddenly shy.
So, we’ve come to the beach. A treat, to cheer him up. I’ve been through his hair, but can’t find a single nit.
The sky is clear blue, almost turquoise, and hazy. It’s not hot, but warm enough, sitting out of the wind. Lucas is fascinated by the sea. I let him paddle, just a little, on the very edge. He screams every time the surf touches his little toes - a sound that could pierce eardrums for miles around. So, we’re sitting further up the beach now, near the sand dunes.
Lucas is playing with his bucket and spade. ‘Mummy?’ he says.
‘Mmm?’ I’m lying back with my eyes closed. The sun makes red patterns on the inside of my lids.
‘Where did the worms come from?’
‘God made them,’ I say, the easy, pat answer, ‘like he made us.’
‘Yes, but why did he put them in my head?’
I sit up and shiver. Everything looks grey, although the sun is just as bright as before. He’s still there, my little Lucas, building his sandcastle.
Behind him, in the dunes, I see a movement. I look again. All is still. And yet I did see it – a flash of khaki, sandy hair, grey eyes. Leo.
THE END