by Amanda James
Nathan chuckled when he thought of what Imogen had done to Jason. The dumb ass. The one-eared dumb ass now. By all accounts, Ransom was beside himself with rage at the way his own flesh and blood had betrayed him and then disappeared off the planet. What did he expect? Did he think she’d wait around for her maniac father to organise another assassination attempt?
Nathan puts the last of his sandwich in his mouth and thinks about his own family. His contact in the police had said they’d arrange for him to see his mum some time soon, but it would have to be under their terms. It was a bit like witness protection, but he wouldn’t be at trials. He was a glorified informer. There was a completely new backstory for his mum, too, and for his sister and brothers. He’d sent money to Sandra, the lovely lady looking after his mum, regular as clockwork, and said that he was working abroad, probably never coming to live back in the UK, stuff like that. Soon Nathan wouldn’t know what was a lie and what was the truth anymore … who he was. Try as he might, he can’t get used to thinking of himself as Adam Jackson. He answers to it daily at work, but sometimes it takes a while to realise he’s being spoken to.
The job is one of the aspects of his new life that he absolutely loves. He’s a driver for Highland View Tours. Sometimes he’ll drive a minibus, other times a coach, and take tourists, mainly American and Japanese – though lately there’ve been quite a few Chinese sightseers too – to the places of interest. Whisky distilleries, dolphin centres and boat trips, Loch Ness and other lochs, castles, battlefields, and lots more. Every day is different and that’s how he likes it.
At first he’d been a bit worried that this job would be too exposed, that he might be recognised, but the chances are pretty slim. How many Sheffield criminals would be up in this neck of the woods taking a tour? Besides, he’s had a lighter colour put through his now shoulder length hair and grown a beard. And in his spare time he walks a lot and his skin has become tanned. One of the tourists said he looked like a Viking the other day. Not even his mother would recognise him. That thought wipes the smile off his face and he goes to answer his phone ringing somewhere upstairs.
It’s David, his contact in the police. ‘Hi, David, how are you?’
‘Very good, Adam. In fact, bloody fantastic!’
‘Oh. Has something happened?’
‘Yes, we’ve arrested Dawson. We have the bastard on at least three big ones. His little toe-rag Jason, too. He’s squealing like a stuck pig, on both Dawson and Ransom. Can’t wait to do a deal to get himself less jail time.’
Nathan lowers himself onto his bed. He suddenly feels unsteady. ‘Jeez.’
‘And Dawson’s put the finger on Charlie Kreswell for the same reason. He’s as big a fish as Ransom. Bigger in fact.’
‘Kreswell? Bloody hell. He and Ransom are big enemies.’ Nathan remembers that Ransom once had three of Charlie’s casinos closed down, did some shady deal and got them raided for drugs and fraud. He was in competition with him at the time. Kreswell lost a packet and did jail time. He never knew it was Ransom for sure, he had no proof, but he suspected.
‘Are they? Well, Ransom had better hope that Charlie doesn’t get sent to Wakefield then.’
‘Yeah.’ Nathan laughs. ‘If he does, there’ll be a big showdown.’ But even as he says this an idea is forming in a dark part of his mind.
‘I just wanted you to know how much your help has contributed to this arrest and I’ll keep you up to speed. But as far as I can see, your job is done.’
After they end the call Nathan wanders around the cottage doing chores before he has to go out to the local supermarket to do his weekend shop. The idea he had at the end of the phone call is like an itch that demands scratching. He didn’t say anything to David, of course, but Dawson had mentioned to Nathan that Kreswell’s brother, Rob, was in Wakefield a while back. Rob hadn’t his brother’s aptitude for business but was handy with his fists. He was a bit of a loose cannon by all accounts and in for GBH. Rob would not be best pleased to find that Ransom’s number two was responsible for getting his brother arrested. Since Charlie had already been inside, the next jail time would be far longer. And Rob certainly wouldn’t be pleased if he knew beyond doubt that Ransom was responsible for getting him in there the first time.
Nathan shoves these thoughts to the back of his mind and walks out to his car. He still can’t get used to the country air and the way everything looks clean, green, picture postcard. No litter, grime or crime. He isn’t naive enough to think there wouldn’t be all that in the big cities not too far away, but up here in the hills by the water, it seems like a different country … a different world, far away from everything he’s ever known. Now he’s done his job, given the police what they wanted, he could just live his life out here, pretend that the old world didn’t exist. That it had just been some sordid little dream he’d once had – a nightmare. It hadn’t happened. Nathan Walker hadn’t happened. He’d always been Adam Jackson: a down to earth, honest man, off to do his shopping of a misty Saturday afternoon.
Inside the car Nathan closes his eyes. But he can’t pretend, can he? He’s not the clean, upstanding, unblemished Adam at all. The nightmare was real, and the ones that had put him in it are still lurking in the wardrobe and under the bed, ready to pounce as soon as the lights go out. There’s one last thing he can do as Nathan. Bryony deserves it, and so do countless others not yet plunged into the nightmare. Young lads sucked into Ransom’s world, trapped in a life of crime, filth and despair. But should he do it? Maybe he should just stay well out of it. Move on. Move up. An image of Bryony laughing on the beach comes to him, her hair wet from the sea, sunlight on her skin. She’s so real he can almost touch her. Nathan opens his eyes, starts the engine and drives down the tiny track towards Inverness.
36
I have to admit to myself that I’m becoming used to French life. Or life in a small village in the Loire Valley, at least. How did I ever manage without fresh bread from the local bakery and the choice of so many delicious cheeses? My waistline is actually expanding for the first time in my life; I have curves and it suits me. Well, I think it does, judging from the appreciative glances I get from the men in the village. Which reminds me, I need to decide whether to accept Valentin’s invitation to dinner at the weekend or not. He’s such a nice man and attractive, and though I have made a few friends here, I do crave more social interaction. I’ve always been outgoing, not really happy with my own company for huge lengths of time. But a man? I said never again.
It’s still only 7.30 but I know the bakery will be open as I set off from my gîte into the tiny lane winding through the ancient village. On my mental to-do list are: buy a baguette, a pain au chocolate, and maybe one of those apple and cream choux things dusted with icing sugar and coffee. Shall I have a takeaway coffee or get a table? Then to the little shop for milk and fresh veg. I smile when I think of my Monday morning to-do lists not that long ago when I drove to work at the station – how different could the two be?
The only person I’ve mentioned my old job to is Valentin and he couldn’t believe it. He said he couldn’t imagine such a relaxed, calm individual being a police officer. I wasn’t the same person back then though. Besides, I think Valentin has a skewed view of what it is to be in the police from American cop shows. His view of the world is very narrow anyway, I remind myself. He’s only ever lived in this village, owns two gîtes, one of them being mine, and has a small pottery business that does really well in the tourist season but not so well outside it.
At the bakery, Chantelle, the owner’s daughter I’ve become quite friendly with, greets me in flawless English. I have tried to speak French with her, and although it’s improving, I think she gets impatient and finds it much easier to have a natter in my mother tongue. She does sometimes get things muddled though, which can be funny.
‘Coffee, Bryony? Here, sit.’ Chantelle wipes a table and pulls out a chair. That’s the decision whether to take away or not taken care of. ‘Now, I want to know all
the gossip about you and Valentin.’
‘There’s no gossip.’ I laugh and fiddle with my napkin.
‘Well, there should be.’ Chantelle winks and says she’ll be right back with a pastry and coffee.
While I wait, I look through the window and wave as Monsieur Laval the grocer walks past lugging a sack of something on his back. He points at the sack, rolls his eyes and puffs on. I almost feel like a local now, even though it’s only been eight months. Almost. When I allow it house room, there’s a tug in my heart pulling me towards the English Channel and home. I miss my mum, Aunty Jen, Immi – though at the moment she’s still in Spain – and one other, though I wish I didn’t. No idea where he is and I shouldn’t give a shit, but I do. I told myself that I didn’t for a while, but what’s the use in lying to myself?
Chantelle returns and puts a plate – with an enormous choux and chocolate creation on it – down in front of me along with the coffee. She’s got a coffee of her own and quickly pulls up a chair, her dark curls bouncing, her chocolate eyes alight with eager anticipation. ‘So are you going to dinner?’
‘I expect I will eat dinner later … it’s only breakfast time, Chantelle,’ I tease and take a sip of coffee.
‘Oh stop it. You know what I mean. I don’t get you. If Valentin had asked me I would have said yes, yes, yes!’ Chantelle emphasises each ‘yes’ with a slap of her hand on the table. From behind the counter, her mother raises her eyebrows but says nothing.
‘I’ll tell him you like him next time I see him.’ I smile and take a bite of my pastry.
Chantelle’s eyes grow round and she puts her hand on mine. ‘No. You mustn’t do that! His poor dead wife was one of my friends and it wouldn’t do to let him know I’ve always had a’—she twists her mouth to the side and struggles for a word—‘hard dot for him.’
At this I nearly choke on the pastry. ‘You mean soft spot.’
‘Oh yes! Anyway, are you going to see him?’
‘I don’t know …’ I wipe the icing sugar from my mouth with the napkin and consider her question. ‘I don’t think I will. I just want to finish my online counselling course, enjoy the rest of my time here in your lovely village, and then go home and see my family.’ When I’ve done a bit of investigation to see if Ransom’s still looking for me, of course. ‘I used to have a very stressful job, but I left it all behind and being here is just what I needed.’
‘To re-find your battery?’
‘Yes. That’s it exactly.’ I don’t correct her as I think it fits.
‘But I’m sure that Valentin would be able to do much more for your battery, if you know what I mean?’ She gives a lascivious wink.
I give her a withering look and sip my coffee. Of course I have missed physical contact, but not enough to take all the complications that would go with that. ‘Seriously, Chantelle. I’m sure Valentin wouldn’t think badly of you if you were to ask him for dinner.’
A shake of her curls. ‘No. I couldn’t. Apart from the fact that he’s known me forever, I bet he thinks I’m a rubbish wife or something, because why would Albert leave me, go off to Paris with a woman nearly twice my age?’
‘You told me she was a rich widow. Doesn’t that speak for itself?’ I say, attacking the pastry from the other side now.
‘Oui, but … oh, I don’t know.’ Chantelle shrugs and does a thousand-mile stare over my shoulder at the wall.
I think I do. I think she’s lost so much confidence after her husband left that she’s decided to build a wall around herself, protect herself by being the jolly happy-go-lucky confidant … when all the time she’s really someone else. My counselling course has helped me arrive at this conclusion, but I do see common ground between the two of us. Kindred spirits.
We talk of this and that, village gossip while I finish my food. Then I drain my coffee and say, ‘Okay, I must go, but please keep an open mind where Valentin is concerned. You might be pleasantly surprised.’ I kiss her on both cheeks and leave her looking a little puzzled.
On the way back to my gîte I toss around the idea of speaking to Valentin on her behalf. I’ve never been a matchmaker, but this does feel right. Before I go home I’d love to see a relationship blossoming between them. Two lovely lonely people, just waiting for someone to bring them together. And that would be me. If I can’t have my own happy ever after, then I’ll make bloody sure other people can. If it doesn’t work, then at least I tried. The prospect of getting a counselling job back home is so comforting. I’m glad I decided on that rather than teaching – it feels so right in my gut. Soon the Anyas of the world will have an ally, a point of reference, a helping hand. This is a worthy future to aspire to – who needs bloody Nathan Walker?
As I step through the door my mobile jangles in my pocket. It’s either Mum or Immi. They’re the only two people that have my new number. I pull it out and see an unknown number … my heart’s thumping, my mouth’s dry. Do I answer? Could it be that one of Ransom’s lot found me somehow … through Immi? Have they harmed her? Instinct swipes my finger across the screen and I hold the phone to my ear with trembling fingers.
‘Hello … who’s this?’
‘Bryony … it’s Nathan.’
37
Nathan. It’s Nathan. Nathan? How the hell did he get my number? Mum or Immi? And why? Why now? A twisted lump of grief, anger and pain that I thought I’d buried explodes, fires words out of my throat in fury. ‘Fuck off! I’m hanging up.’
‘No, please don’t!’
‘Oh, that’s ironic! That’s what I said to you not that long ago, remember?’
‘Yes, I do, but please listen. I didn’t mean what I said back then—’
‘Oh yes you did. You blocked my number, Nathan. Blocked me from your fucking life!’
‘Please! This is very important!’
‘Is it? Is it really? Well go tell it to someone who gives a f—’
‘Ransom’s dead, Bryony.’
The lump of grief and anger morphs into shock. I lean against the wall and take a breath. ‘How?’
‘Hanged himself.’
There’s an image of Ransom hanging in his cell, bloated and blackened face, tongue protruding. I rub my eyes, push it away. ‘When?’
‘Yesterday.’
‘Oh my God, does Immi know?’ Why am I asking him? I don’t know how he even knows about Ransom.
‘I don’t know. She … I think she’s out of the country.’
By the tone of his voice he knows damned well that she is. ‘Who told you about Ransom?’
‘I don’t want to explain it all over the phone. Can we meet soon?’
‘No,’ I say, suddenly worried that this is all a lie. Ransom’s not dead and he’s just fishing – trying to find out where I am. He could be back working for Ransom for all I know. Unlikely, but how can I trust him again?
‘Please, Bryony. Come back to England. We …’
So he knows I’m abroad? Thanks, Mum or Immi! ‘Who told you where I was and gave you my number?’
‘It was your mum. I explained that it was really important I got in touch, didn’t say why though. She was reluctant at first, because you told her we’d broken up but not why … and that you never wanted to see me again.’ There’s a pause. ‘But she said she trusted me and that she thought we should try and patch things up.’
‘Oh please! Mum’s heart is in the right place, but she has no bloody clue what she’s talking about! She has no idea who you really are for a start, or what you came down to Cornwall for in the first place. Can you imagine what she’d think of you if she did?’
Nathan breathes a heavy sigh down the line. ‘Yes. But once we explain it all to her like we did with Immi—’
‘It’s not happening. Not in a million years.’
‘Look, I don’t blame you if you don’t want to come back to me. But please, Bryony. Just come and hear what I have to say in person. Let me explain properly. I had to do what I did to protect you. We can meet on the beach at Fistral, w
here you saved my life, and I can try to make you see that breaking things off with you and … doing what I’ve done since … might have helped to save yours.’
What was that supposed to mean? Part of me wants to meet him, find out what the hell he’s been up to for the past eight months, what he means by protecting me. The most part of me is wary, suspicious and worried that he’s lying. Tell it like it is. ‘How the hell can I trust you, Nathan? You might be working for Ransom for all I know and he’s no more dead than you or I – you’ve lied to me in the past, or have you forgotten?’
‘No, of course not. I don’t blame you for being mistrustful. I don’t expect anything else really, but I swear I’m telling the truth. Don’t you see, Bryony, with Ransom dead you don’t have to hide anymore? Neither does Immi. Dawson’s on remand awaiting trial, Jason too and a few more besides. They’re all going down.’
This is all a bit too much to take in. I walk to the sofa, slump down onto it. ‘I don’t know, Nathan,’ I say with a sigh. ‘If you are lying I’ll just be walking into your trap. How do I know that your mum isn’t being held hostage again or someone else in your family, and you’ve decided that you have to finish what you started?’
Nathan clears his throat. ‘You don’t I guess. But if you remember how we were together, how much …’ Another long sigh. ‘Oh God, Bryony … How much I love you, then you wouldn’t even consider such a thing.’
I don’t say anything. I can’t say anything. There are so many replies waiting on my tongue but none seem right. He loves me? Really? He never said that when we were together, but then nor did I. Confusion and anxiety chase each other round my head; if he loves me why did he leave? I run my fingers through my hair. He’ll be surprised when he sees that it’s past my shoulders now. Hang on … when he sees it? So I’m planning to meet him then? Part of me must be. The stupid gullible part.