Fred knew he’d caused Laurent’s death by leaving him to his own devices and putting him out in the cold. Ruben had the mental strength to move away from his past, earn enough money and the means to leave it all behind. However, Laurent was looking at no escape, always needing the drugs and the women to soothe his weary soul. Hiding his father’s secret… Freddie… took its toll.
“When a parent plays its children off against one another, do you know what that does?” he asks, biting his nails, his macho façade completely demolished, within just a few short confessions.
“I do actually. It makes you wary of everyone else. If you can’t even be on equal terms with your siblings, who can you be equal to? Nobody. You always have to fight. That’s what it teaches you. I should know.”
Freddie looks taken aback by my confession. “Then you know why I had to do it. You know, don’t you?”
Hatred pools in my stomach. It renders me a molten vat of fury and disgust. “You killed Ruben.”
“Well, with Fred gone, what was stopping me? Ruben had a vendetta, blamed me for Laurent, tried to have me done over in the past. He once threatened my kids. You don’t know what he was really like. You only see what you want to see,” he says, repeating the same old mantra. “I saw my chance to end my suffering and I took it.”
His suffering? His? I’m beginning to see there’s really only one sociopath in this family. Fred Snr was a sinner of the highest order, but this one in front of me… he’s in a different class.
“Maybe I do only see what I want to see. Maybe I see evil when I look at you. Maybe I see someone who didn’t stand a chance. Maybe I see jealousy.”
He’s suddenly spitting and gesticulating in response to my provocation. “Everything I’ve done has been to protect my wife and kids! Ruben wasn’t a good guy, Freya Carter. He was as much one of us as you are. We’re all the same. We take what we want, that’s what we do. We’re never safe, that’s not what we’ve been taught. We’ve always got to have a back-up plan.” He stands up with his arms outstretched. “I’m a product of them, so if you have something to say about that, get it over with. Right now. Or else…” He reaches into his drawer and pulls out a gun, chambers a bullet and almost gives me a heart attack as he points it right at my head. I fight the urge to both pee and cry, clinging to the arms of my chair. “Come at me, woman. I dare you. Just try it. Shag your way through people in my world to get to me. Use the money you’ll no doubt inherit from Ruben and pay to have me done for. Try it. See if I don’t anticipate every move you make. See if I haven’t foreseen your moves and your motives. Fred Kitchener might be in my DNA, but I’m the improved version. You think he was suspicious? I’m his bastard son. That’s made me ten times more suspicious. If you think you’ve seen the worst of humanity, you haven’t. The worst are in my employ and they will do whatever I say if the money’s good enough. People will never stop needing powder and pills and dope. Never. They need it just to stay awake these days. I control London, little girl. So, if you have something to say, say it. Or else get the fuck out and make sure I never have to see you again.”
He’s trembling as much as I am. I’ve unlocked something inside him, that tiny fragment of humanity he has left. Silently, almost ghost-like, I leave the room and shuffle out of his house and away from the grime and filth of their world.
He’s right… I could try to exact revenge, but it’d be futile.
Freddie is already living the worst hell imaginable.
He’s at the helm of the revolting kingdom his father created, and he doesn’t have any way out. If he thinks living like this is his only way of hanging onto some sort of identity, more fool him.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Six Months Later
I could’ve done as he asked and left for Canada, but being told what to do wasn’t what I signed up for with Ruben, not in life, certainly not in death. It’d always been my dream to buy a little hotel in France or Italy, maybe Spain. However, the little matter of £156million changed all that. What Ruben expected me to do with that sort of money in Vancouver I don’t know, but I couldn’t think of anything I’d spend my money on in Canada except maybe getting fat on all their food. I just knew it wasn’t for me. I’ve never spent time in Canada. I wouldn’t know anyone there.
Once the dust settled and I’d had time enough to think, I decided what to do. Before Ruben, I spent a lot of time in the South of France. I already knew quite a few people in the area, including those in the hotel trade and ex-lovers who’d help me get to grips with the nightlife, shopping, art scene.
Anyway, I’m now the proud owner of a tiny, spartan art gallery in Nice, tucked away somewhere nice and quiet. Alexia helped me pick the spot and put me in touch with some artists she thought I would get on with. She and I keep our association on the hush-hush. Besides, Freddie will never find her. She’s good and lost in Portugal these days.
When I’m not meeting artists or visiting exhibitions, I’m here, in my own house. I live in the hills above Nice, in a four-bedroom property, all to myself. I have two French bulldogs and my own company every night and that suits me. I have a pool and swim whenever I want. There’s also a lady who comes three times a week to clean and housekeep.
There hasn’t been a man in my life since Ruben, but he taught me not to settle and I won’t. I shan’t ever give my body again, not unless it’s for something akin to what I had with Ruben.
As evening approaches, I pour myself some wine and put the dogs out for a toilet break. They sniff the ground and waddle about a bit, do their business and kick their legs back, then hobble back inside. I got them from a rescue centre but anyone would think they’ve always lived the life of riley.
I clean up their poo and toss it into the trash can at the bottom of the garden.
Back in the house I pour some wine and take it to the veranda, where I enjoy sitting and watching the sunset most evenings. The dogs are happy enough inside, cosied up together on the big, deep cushions of the sofa.
Sometimes I sit here and allow myself to cry. The days of me curled up in a ball, my body aching, are gone, but I still need to cry every now and again. I often allow tears to fall quietly while I think about his smile or his laugh, the way he threw his head back, so carefree, whenever I said something outrageous or dirty. I think about how it felt to wake up to his body tucked around mine, my own personal hot water bottle. I loved the way his hair got messy at bedtime and how sleepy his eyes looked when he first woke, like he was a boy again and had never known anything but comfort and sanctuary his whole life. That was the magical thing about being together—we gave one another complete and utter escape from everything else, for those few hours every night when it was truly just us and nobody else. Sometimes tears drip down my face without me realising because I get so absorbed by a memory that it’s as if I’m right back there.
Tonight, I’m feeling okay. I’ve felt strong today, happy, and it’s important to focus on that whenever I have it because I don’t have it endlessly. In this vein, my mind turns to happy memories. My favourite recollections are the ones of us in bed talking, particularly one conversation from our first night together which always pops into my mind.
We’d just shared our first fuck and told one another those three words everyone longs to hear. Not only that, he had lavished me with praise and the words, “I love you more.”
My body was aching and I felt emotional. He wanted to look at me and cuddle me face to face, but I couldn’t… I needed a breather. I rolled on my side away from him and allowed him to spoon me even though I was sweaty, needed to clean up and felt hypersensitive, all over. I remember thinking it was so strange that he held me around my shoulders at the same time as kissing my hair. It made me even more weepy and vulnerable. I had wanted him for so long, it felt like there was a tidal wave of happiness raging inside me, ready to surge right out of my eyes and into the pillow I lay on.
“Freya?” he groaned.
“Yes.”
“Are
you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m okay.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I am, I just need to be held.”
I needed time to digest… to allow myself to feel happy… to believe this was real.
He wasn’t going to hold back anymore, I hoped, and he wasn’t going to let me go off with other men ever again. Those fleeting liaisons were only to make him jealous… hadn’t he known?
Didn’t he also know that his embrace and his smile and his warmth meant everything? That compared to even the riskiest, kinkiest, dirtiest sex, any one of those three meant infinitely more.
Had he been in love with me all the time we were friends? I wanted to know.
Even when he’d known there would be no sexual reward for his time and effort, he’d offered his ear when I’d needed it and his little way of never letting me buy a drink and always arriving at the pub first (bar that one time) had made me feel like maybe, just maybe, he cared. Now I was really starting to believe he did.
“Freya?” he asked again, sounding more tentative.
“Yesssss, Ruben,” I half-chuckled.
“How long do you need to be held before we can do it again?”
I had to push my face into the pillow to stop myself laughing the house down.
Once I caught my breath, I warned, “I am fairly gross down there, you know? I’m only lying still because I know if I move, it’ll seep everywhere.”
“Gross, huh? Dissing my spunk?”
I couldn’t help but smile but at least I wasn’t laughing that time. There was only so much clenching I could manage before my pelvic floor gave out.
“Okay, you’re going to release me from your arms and I am going to slowly get out of bed and waddle to the toilet with my legs together… and you’re not going to look, okay?”
“No, not okay,” he growled, moving me onto my back, to my horror.
Faced with him looking down on me, I was reminded why I’d been so chewed up inside for so long. Ruben and me had something. The look in his eye wasn’t just lust, it was love. We shared something, I don’t know what, something unspoken. Something raw. The sight of him made me his, all over again. The sticking-up hair, matching dark-brown beard, his small smile and soft glow… his glassy eyes… I put my arms around his neck and pulled him to me for kisses.
He slid on top of me and pushed right into me. I crossed my ankles against his lower back and pushed my hands into his hair as he stared at me, confounded.
“What is it, Ruben?”
He pressed his forehead to mine and closed his eyes, not moving. He was inside me, stationary, fixed. He enjoyed it for a moment before he opened his eyes and brushed his lips to mine.
“You’re the one for me, Freya… I’ve always known it.”
The second time was different. He was really with me that time. He didn’t let go of me, always touching me with his hands. He kissed me endlessly as we rocked, nothing limiting us, no pretences, no anxiety. I allowed myself to feel his body, to put my hands on his arms and shoulders and to squeeze his butt… stroke his back and kiss his neck, his chest… kiss his mouth and lavish him with my tongue, feel his chest press into mine. I encouraged his groans and his love. That fantastical first screw over with, this was more intimate, more bonding. Lovemaking.
He lifted my hips off the bed a little with his arm underneath my bottom, just as his other hand clung to the top of the metal headboard. He pounded me hard until I came with my hands tearing at my hair and my legs flopped to the sides of me like I was boneless.
This time as we recovered, he rested his head on my chest and I wrapped my arms around him, stroking his thick sideburns or his eyebrows or his beard.
“Freya?” he said croakily.
“Yes, baby.”
“Even if I turn out a douche and fuck this up, because believe me you’re not gonna fuck this up, you’re perfect and beautiful and the most caring woman I know—so even if I fuck this up, I want you to promise me you won’t go back to screwing around. Even if something happens and we’re no longer together, promise me.” His body trembled and there was a tremor in his voice I hated.
“Ruben,” I pleaded.
He lifted his head and looked down into my eyes, begging, “Freya, promise me.”
I couldn’t deny him.
“I promise,” I said.
He nodded his head, relieved. “Don’t ask me why, I can’t explain why, but I should have made a move so long ago and I didn’t and I was a fool. I can’t explain but I can say this. I can tell you that a body and a soul like yours deserves to be loved and cherished, explored and nourished with everything a man can give. You deserve to have a man learn what makes you happy and what drives you wild in bed.” He pressed a kiss to my lips and I had to stop my lip trembling. “You deserve a lover, Freya. Not those brainless numpties too stupid to recognise that pain inside you—a pain that drives you to meaningless oblivion. No, you deserve someone who’s gonna stick around, and I’m gonna try my best to be that man you deserve and to do what’s right.”
“Ruben,” I cried, “I don’t know if I can do it. I don’t know if I can go straight.”
“Well, I do. I know you can.”
I burst into full-on sobs and he kicked the duvet up towards us, covered our bodies and brought me into his arms. I wept into his chest as he held me firmly attached, no space between us.
“It’s okay, cry it out. I’m here now, angel. I’m here.”
“Ruben, what have I been doing with my life? I can’t believe…”
I was so upset with myself even though I’d never apologised for my behaviour before because it’d never entered my head I was ever doing anything wrong. Being with him had unlocked something inside me that had long been tight shut. Emotions were flooding me in thick waves that made me feel like I was drowning. I’d closed myself off to anything meaningful so long ago and now I felt sorry for so many things, but mostly I felt sorry for that young girl I once was who I’d neglected and forsaken. I’d buried her deep down because it was easier than owning up and admitting my ex-boyfriend had killed the tiny fragment of hope left inside me. My world was once full of promise and life and friends and adventure, but that all died when I started listening to other people telling me the world is shit and to get on with it. I should’ve never allowed myself to be broken by idiots, but I was.
“Often in life, we end up playing to other people’s tunes. It’s so easy, too. It’s often a lovely melody and sounds great. Sometimes you get out of your own head listening to their song, you forget about your own. The tune you’ve been living to isn’t yours, but someone else’s you had impressed upon you when you were vulnerable. Tell me if I’m wrong but that’s what I’m guessing.”
“Yes,” I cried.
“I’ve been there, too. I really have. Trust me, I’ve been there, but once you get yourself back, you’ll heal quickly after that, I promise.”
“Don’t let go of me, Ruben. Please.”
“Never.”
I fell asleep nestled in his embrace, tucked deeply into him, his fingers brushing through my hair and his lips on my forehead.
It’s only now I look back that the truth seems so clear. We waited two years before getting together, but it wasn’t because we weren’t sure of our feelings. In fact, Ruben was surer than me, I know it. He was the type of man who wasn’t emotionally stunted and he knew what he wanted, so that meant he’d always wanted me. From his perspective, it was so simple: he loved a girl and wanted her, but the problem was Fred stood in the way of his happiness and the potential was that I might get hurt. Ruben’s feelings for me were clear and pure. He loved me from start to finish and I will never forget that. I will always love him because he saved me.
He healed me.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
London’s El Chapo
On my day off the next day, I’m wandering around Old Town, looking for somewhere to get pizza, when I stroll past a café in which everyone is glued to the small
TV behind the counter. I laugh it off and carry on walking. It’s probably some new EU drama or another protest against Macron. I let my nose carry me towards the smell of passata, mozzarella, garlic, seafood and olives. Surely there’s something around here somewhere. Just a nice quiet place where I can peruse my dealer brochures and afterwards, tuck into a nice bit of Jane Austen over a slice of cake or something.
I find a place resembling what I’m looking for. When I walk inside, I notice first that the fans are flapping at top speed, then that everyone seems to be staring at the TV, except this one is a large flat-screen that’d normally be used to show football matches or the Olympics. Strangely, there isn’t even anyone available to show me to my seat and take my drinks order. What the heck is going on in France today? Has Macron resigned? I don’t get it.
I decide to find out what’s going on, walking to the viewing area where there’s a crowd of French and other nationalities all debating the story unfolding on the TV. My eyes realise what it is everyone is so glued to—it’s a news report. I’ve tuned in later than everyone else so it takes me a moment to get to grips. One thing I know though, is that the images we’re seeing are being shown ‘courtesy of the BBC’. Oh, so the drama is coming from the UK?
I overhear a conversation among the restaurant-goers and move around the crowds towards them—it’s a man in a fishing hat and his wife, both of whom are American.
“Excuse me,” I yell over the noise of everybody else, “what’s going on? What are people going crazy over?”
The woman turns to me and says in an excited tone, “Oh ma gawd, they just busted the El Chapo of London. $100million of coke, heroin and some other nasty stuff. My gawd. I thought South America had a problem.”
My eyes are suddenly pinned to the screen and I watch with a more avid eye than before as images play out in front of me. The screen has subtitles and I can’t make out much of what’s being said except that Scotland Yard investigators are being interviewed and look very pleased with themselves. We’re shown the inside of what looks like a warehouse and mountains of drugs stacked up, bags upon bags of the stuff. Police in full forensic suits are shown carting the stuff away, carrying it onto heavily armoured trucks.
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