by Will Smith
He’d left her rooted to the bed. Further angry horn blasts had broken through her stupor. She’d gathered her coat and bag and run out of the bedsit, waving to the cabbie from the window on the way. But she’d been too late to meet Rob, losing not just ten grand but her future as a hotel owner. At least he hadn’t called the police. Although just because she was wrong earlier didn’t mean she was wrong now. He could be down at the station right at this moment while she sat here smashing rocks. Maybe she should cut her losses and get off the Island, go back to Liverpool. But what if Billy was there? She didn’t doubt he was out, but she couldn’t believe he’d come to the Island. Thinking about it, the attack didn’t prove anything. Billy was the adopter not the originator of his signature attack. The Glasgow Grin, the Chelsea Smile: he wasn’t the only psychopath in Britain. Even if he was here, that detective had him in his sights. He’d get in a fight and be back inside before he could ruin her life again. But what life did she have on the Island? She shrugged. It was still a better life than back home, where there’d be other Billys waiting for her. That was why she’d left, running from a queue of hard men looking to humiliate Billy by taking his woman while he was away. She was her own person, not a sexual pawn in a grim power struggle. She called the shots now.
She heard someone clattering over the stones and turned. Rob was walking awkwardly towards her, his ankles rolling in the pitch of the pebbles, his arms windmilling to keep his balance, almost going over with the weight of the briefcase in his right hand.
‘Sorry I’m late, so glad you waited …’
‘Where the fuck have you been? I was that close to heading for your wife!’ spat Louise, springing up and flinging a stone at his feet.
‘Hey! Stop that! I got stuck with the police.’
‘What?’
‘They wanted to check all the rooms, looking for this missing boy, said he might have checked in under another name or stolen a key. I didn’t want them freaking out our guests and ended up having a bit of a set-to. My uncle sacked Gerry Fauvant’s dad, and it was pretty obvious he was enjoying bossing me around. Although I shouldn’t have said that to his face …’
‘I don’t care. Give me the money.’
‘Here,’ said Rob, holding out the briefcase as he stumbled up to her. ‘It didn’t help my nerves, standing around with a case of cash. Shit,’ he added, looking down, ‘my shoes are fucked.’
Louise sat down and opened the briefcase. It was full of money.
‘It’s all there,’ said Rob, licking his fingers and trying to smooth over the scuffs on his shoes with saliva. ‘Got this new counting machine. Put the notes in, it flicks them through, gives you the total. Don’t know how it works. Seems like magic to me.’
‘Why are you so happy? It’s freaking me out.’
‘Just glad to get this over with, move on. All good?’
‘Yeah.’
Rob stood there expectantly.
‘What are you waiting for? A goodbye kiss?’
‘No, the briefcase. It’s mine.’
‘What do you want me to do? Stuff ten grand in my knickers?’
‘I thought you’d bring your own bag.’
‘I’ve got a handbag and a purse.’
‘It’s my actual briefcase, though – look, it has my initials on it.’
‘I don’t give a shit. You should have brought it in a sports bag or something.’
‘I didn’t want to arouse suspicion. I go round with a briefcase, not a sports bag.’
‘I thought wankers like you all played squash?’
‘Are you going to give me my case or not?’
‘How about I buy it off you? Take a hundred quid back.’
‘It’s of sentimental value. It was my dad’s. He gave it to me for my eighteenth birthday.’
‘I thought you said it had your initials.’
‘His are the same as mine – he’s Russell.’
‘Cheapskate present, then.’
‘It means a lot to me.’
‘I’ll drop it by the hotel.’
‘No. We’re not having any contact after this.’
‘Okay, I’ll get a friend to drop it off.’
‘Promise?’
‘Yes.’
‘And promise that that’ll be it? You and I, we’re done, yes?’
‘Yes. Now piss off.’
‘Sure. Just thinking if I should take my shoes off to get back. No, they’re ruined anyway.’
Rob made his way back to the steps and on to the breakwater. She glanced over occasionally to make sure he was going, then lay back hugging the briefcase. Ten thousand pounds. She shut her eyes and listened to the sloshing and sluicing of the waves as they landed on the shore and drained back, dragging and clattering the loose lighter stones on their way. She lifted her head and opened her eyes, squinting. It was a grey day but there was still brightness in the sky. The sea was now only a few feet below her: it had come way up since she arrived – must be nearing high tide.
She got up and walked back to the breakwater, the road and, more importantly, the phone box at the bottom of the hill from which she called Danny. Not wanting to set foot again in the Black Dog, she sat on the sea wall, looking down at the water. The bay got so deep so quickly that the sea had a navy hue, dark purple even, broken up beneath her feet by the yellows, greens and pinks of the seaweeds that softened the outcrops on which the wall was built. It really was a beautiful island. Now she could buy her way in.
Half an hour later Danny arrived in a cab. They shared a hug, restrained and fraternal so as not to arouse Danny’s libidinous hopes or the suspicions of the driver. It wouldn’t do to start punching the air and crowing about what she had just pulled off. They took the car to Rozel, a smaller, calmer bay, less grand and more homely, where at the base of the pier stood the Crow’s Nest bed-and-breakfast, dilapidated, uncared-for, and for sale. They knocked on the door, were shown round by an old man shrouded in a thick grey cable-knit cardigan, with a dense spray of nostril hairs to match.
Louise was in a daze, tuning in and out of the guided tour. Luckily Danny was attentive enough to provide the requisite nods and noises of concurrence.
‘Shut up for the season … thank God … Too much at my age … Bloody grockles … Up at five to get breakfast … The young ones come in past midnight … They’ve got keys, but the noise on the stairs … Carpet’s seen better days … Washing, washing, all I do is washing … Wife can’t help, what with the arthritis … She’s downstairs … Separate flat … No privacy … Edith! Edith! You okay, my girl? … Showing people round … I said showing people round … Not to stay, to buy … BUY! … Deaf as a week-old baguette … Beyond us both now … Good opportunity for a young couple like you … You are interested, yes? … I said on the phone, “No bloody time-wasters”… Fed up of getting my hopes up … Okay the roof leaks, I can’t lie, you’ll catch it on the survey … Can’t use top two bedrooms right now … But I’m not dropping the price, not for this location … You’ll take it! Oh bloody wonderful … Edith, we’ll be in the cottage by Christmas! … I said, never mind, I’ll come down in a mo … I’LL COME DOWN! … Let me shake your hand, my son. So glad it’s going to a nice Jersey boy too … Keep it among our own, eh!’
Louise found herself back outside not having uttered a word. Unusually for her, she had felt no need to puncture the old bigot’s giddiness with a ‘thank you’ Scoused up to near-unintelligibility.
‘What are you thinking?’ asked Danny, nervy at her stillness.
‘It’s a tip. It’s perfect. It’s perfect!’ She exhaled, breaking out in a smile.
‘And it’s ours!’ He beamed, raising his arms in what she knew was a request for a hug dressed up as a gesture of elation.
‘Let’s go and get pissed,’ she said, keeping her arms by her sides. He’d had his hug for the day.
Another phone call and another taxi ride found them back in town at the Soleil Levant pub. Danny had bought a canvas bag from the general store at
Rozel while Louise was ordering the car, assuming she’d find the briefcase too conspicuous. But there was nowhere private for them to transfer the cash and, besides, she wasn’t going to junk the case: she’d promised to return it.
‘Why should you give him his stupid case back?’ Danny asked, clearly puzzled.
‘Because I said I would. If I stick to that, he’ll know I’m serious about leaving him alone.’
So they sat drinking with an empty Îles de la Manche zip bag and a black leather briefcase full of money nuzzling between their feet under the table. They toasted Jersey, Liverpool, grockles, Scousers, adulterers, slags, each other, and their about-to-be-acquired establishment.
‘What happens now?’ she asked.
‘I’ve got my head round it. I give half of this to a lawyer so we get a Preliminary Agreement of Sale.’
‘You’re going to give him a briefcase of cash?’
‘Her. She’s my best mate’s sister – Heather, you met her at that Hallowe’en thing? Never mind, it’s fine. I’ve said I’ve been saving under the mattress, like the old farmers who don’t trust the banks. I’ll pop in at five.’
‘Jesus, this Island, it’s like a bloody gypsy state. All ritual and blood oaths. What next?’
‘I sort a mortgage – shouldn’t be a problem. I’ve got a cousin at Midland. He says it’s just a matter of filling out some forms. In a couple of weeks I go to the Royal Court on a Friday to pass the contract of conveyance. I get the keys on the Monday or Tuesday. Scuse, I need a piss.’
Louise sipped her beer, then shut her eyes. Her head was spinning, from drink, change or bewilderment at local practices, she couldn’t tell.
When Danny came back he sat on the bench next to her rather than the stool opposite. His eyes were bloodshot and his breath stank. He never could hold his drink. ‘I can’t believe it. We’ve done it.’
‘I did it. I was the one who fucked him, in all senses.’ She frowned, hoping to remind him of the ground rules of their agreement. He was too drunk to notice.
‘I don’t know whether to tell my boss to stick his job now, or when I get the keys.’
‘When we get the keys. Stop saying “I”.’
‘Well, it will be me. You can’t show up. In person, or on paper, you’re not allowed to buy property here.’
Louise bristled. ‘Don’t think I’m going to be a silent partner. Behind closed doors, I’m in charge.’
‘Yeah, yeah. The kitchen is the limit of my domain.’
‘What about the rest of the money? For the refurb. Where are we keeping that?’
‘I thought in my account. We don’t want it lying around.’
‘So you hold all the purse strings? I don’t think so.’
‘Come on, Louise, what are you worried about? You know how I feel about you. Why would I do you over?’
‘Because that’s what men do,’ she almost said, but she didn’t want him to start droning on about how he was different. ‘I’m sorry. I guess I’m just jumpy. This time last week I had a good job at a nice hotel.’
‘And now you’re about to buy one. You can trust me. You know why? Because I’m scared of you. I’m not going to cross you, Lou. You’re the toughest person I know.’
She smiled. ‘Aw, Danny, you say the nicest things.’
‘I love you, Lou. In the way you want me to.’
She was softened by drink and touched by his respect. ‘I know you do. And I love you too.’
She opened her arms to him and he leant in. As he tilted his head she pushed him back.
‘What?’
‘You were going to kiss me.’
‘On the cheek.’
‘My cheek’s not under my nose.’
‘I thought you wanted me to.’
‘Why do you have to do this? You always push it.’
‘You just told me you loved me and opened your arms.’
‘And that means you can do what you want with me? If I want to kiss you, I’ll kiss you.’
‘You’re being really mean, considering what I’m doing for you.’
‘Is this how it’s going to be?’
‘How what’s going to be?’
‘You buy me a hotel and I’m expected to give up my snatch in return?’
‘You’re being mental.’
‘Fuck you,’ she hissed, reaching under the table and grabbing the briefcase.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Taking what’s mine.’
‘Lou …’ Danny rose unsteadily to his feet. The other drinkers were staring now at what was clearly becoming a scene. Louise put her hand on a pint glass.
‘Sit down,’ she whispered, ‘or I’ll stick this in your face.’
Danny raised his hands and did as he was told.
‘Stay away from me Danny,’ she said quietly. ‘I need to think. Maybe I don’t want to put the money down on this bum crumb of an island. Maybe I don’t want another man telling me what I can or can’t do. Maybe I’ve had enough of being threatened.’
‘You threatened me!’
‘Stay away from me.’
Louise strode out, not looking round because she knew he didn’t have the guts to follow her straight away. He’d send her a whining letter or make a bleating phone call or come scratching round her door in the small hours. The skies were darkening, the wind had picked up and she was cold. It was a fifteen-minute walk home, and she kept swapping the case between her hands to stop it pulling so much on her shoulders.
She got back to the bedsit, flung the case on to the bed, threw the remains of Barney’s tea out of the window and poured a slosh of vodka into the dirty mug.
There was a knock at the door. Maybe she should have looked behind her. Maybe that simpering fool had followed her after all. ‘Danny, if it’s you, fuck off!’ Another knock, louder. Jesus Christ, when would he get the message? She yanked the door open, her teeth bared in a snarl.
‘Hey, Lou, who’s Danny?’ said the one person in her life whom she wished with all her heart she had never met.
‘Billy.’
14
CHRISTOPHE
Friday, 16 October 1987
Christophe looked in on the dining room at about six o’clock and spotted the broad back perched on the barstool at the far end. It was a back not dissimilar to that of Jambo, the silverback gorilla up at Jersey Zoo, a back that looked like a blow from a cricket bat would be brushed away, and a second attack warned off with a glance. Last year Jambo had stood guard over a boy knocked unconscious by a fall into the enclosure and protected him from the advances of the rest of the group. Christophe was pretty sure Barney Vautier would stand guard over a fallen child. But when that child came to, he would find himself in Vautier’s indeterminate debt.
‘Detective Vautier.’
‘What the fuck’s going on here, then?’
Christophe held his gaze and offered a quizzical smile, hoping this was just one of the detective’s usual brusque opening volleys rather than a specific enquiry.
‘There is something wrong with your drink?’ Christophe asked, nodding towards the bottle of Sol that sat on the bar encircled by Vautier’s massive right hand, which to an inebriated patron might look like the hand of a giant nursing a miniature.
‘That’s the least of it, but since you asked, one, you’ve stopped serving beer in pints, and two, that daft prick put a piece of fruit in it.’ He picked out the lime from the top of the bottle and slung it down the bar top to where the Portuguese barman was standing as far away from him as he could. The barman looked to Christophe, who dismissed him with a lift of his fingers.
‘This used to be a nice little bar, loads of character for the visitors, and now look at it.’
Vautier had not visited since the relaunch. Nelson’s Bar had been totally ripped out and renamed Skyliners, its faux-nautical theme abandoned. Gone were the ceiling nets and ship’s wheel chandelier, the plastic crabs and lobsters, the anchor in the fireplace, porthole windows and mermaid fresco.
It was now twice the size and included a dining area, with a bar of black marble offset by chrome-pipe edging, silver walls, angled pink and lime neon strip lights and a mirror-backed bar with a transfer image of night-time Manhattan.
‘Know your market. You think northern wrinklies want to feel like they’re in New York? They hate New York. It scares the shit out of them.’
‘Eventually the older market will die off. Businesses need to look to the future.’
‘I blame you, bringing your poncy mainland ideas over to our island. This is Jersey, not fucking Paris or wherever you’re pretending to be from this week.’
‘I merely carry out Monsieur de la Haye’s instructions.’
‘Bollocks! You’re the power behind the throne – anyone can see that. That boy couldn’t shit proper without you leaving a note in his pants. “Wipe arse, use paper.” Well, congratulations. You’ve turned a nice little bar into a wanker magnet.’
Christophe forced a good-humoured chuckle, longing to add that the Island had no shortage of wankers, and that maybe he was looking at the biggest one right now. But Barney Vautier had him on a small but unretractable hook. He moved round behind the bar.
‘Perhaps I can fix you something else. We have many fine wines, cocktails—’
‘Cocktails? You trying to compete with Roy’s?’
Christophe faked another laugh at the reference to Roy’s Theatre Bar, the twenty square feet of which made up the Island’s entire gay district.
‘We only want one of those,’ continued Vautier. ‘That way we know where they all are if we want to enforce the sodomy law. Although I don’t mind the queers myself. Fought one, back in the day, the Minto boy. You’d never have known, the way he punched.’
‘Then perhaps a spirit,’ said Christophe, ploughing on with relentless goodwill.
‘Nah, shouldn’t drink on duty anyway.’
‘So this is a professional visit?’