Extremities
Page 7
She lay back and closed her eyes, avoiding my gaze. ‘Why are you so worried about anger? What do you have to be angry about?’
I couldn’t answer her.
Silence hung between us.
‘What are you hiding from, New York?’
‘What are you?’ I snapped back.
‘I asked first.’
‘What do you want me to say, English? We’re both hanging out on boats, in a country where we can barely string together five words of the language and doing everything we can not to talk about ourselves. I’d say we’re both hiding. We’re both here for our own reasons. Like you said from the start, no past, no future. Believe me, it’s best if we just stick to it.’
‘You know, this not knowing about each other could lead to all kinds of nasty surprises at some point,’ she said. A sheet of fine grains blew across us. She opened her eyes and pushed to her feet. ‘It’s the Scirocco,’ she wrapped her body in the fiery red sarong.
‘The what?’
‘The angry wind that blows up from the Sahara,’ she snorted. ‘Come on, let’s go before we end up covered in sand. You did well, New York.’
‘Well? What do you mean?’ Then I remembered. I looked down. ‘Oh hell, that’s right,’ I grabbed my shorts and dragged them on.
Her cell buzzed to Nirvana’s Teen Spirit. She glanced at the screen, picked up the pace and sucked in a breath before answering.
‘What’s wrong with Spain, Dad?’ I heard mumbling on the other end of the line. ‘I’m not up to anything. What about you, has anything changed?’ More mumbling. ‘You got me into this. And now you just expect me to snap to attention and do as you say.’ She walked faster still. ‘Well maybe someone needs to start sorting things out. That was our agreement.’ She hung up.
‘Why are men so obsessed with controlling women? I’m so sick of it.’ She didn’t slow her pace. ‘They wouldn’t want someone to control them. So why do they think they have the right to any kind of say over me?’
What exactly had I said again?
‘I’ve never tried to control anyone. And tell them it’s for their own good. I’ve never lifted my fist to anyone. I don’t intentionally hurt people. They should all be castrated, that’ll teach them. Why can’t people just leave me alone?’
Did she mean me? And that castrated thing …
I had to practically jog to keep up with her as she strode through the gates of the marina. The wind was whistling, unsecured halyards were clacking against masts. She jumped the bow rail of the Laila and stomped down the side deck. I followed.
When I reached the cockpit, I heard the electronics beep on. Max swung back up out the hatch and turned the key in the ignition. The engine coughed to life.
‘What are you doing?’ I said.
‘I’m taking the boat out.’
‘The wind is up, Max.’
‘You can stay here if you want.’
I’ve listened to many a bore, puffing out their Mediterranean sailing stories, but here’s the one thing they all say, “There’s either too much wind or too little wind.” Now, I can sail, I’ve been sailing since I was a kid, so I know what I’m doing. And venturing out in high unpredictable winds and a rolling sea wasn’t my idea of fun.
‘Max, look, I said I’m sorry. Don’t do anything stupid.’
‘Stupid? Like a stupid woman who needs to be controlled?’
‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘Get off, if you’re not coming,’ she grabbed the covers off the instruments and threw them down into the cabin. She jumped up on to the coach roof, unhooked the sail cover and hurled it down with them. ‘If you’re staying, make yourself useful and drop the bow lines. I stepped back to the front of the boat and stopped my foot on the rail, undecided. ‘Now!’ she grabbed the throttle.
I bent down, untied the lines and threw them ashore. She dropped the stern line and backed out of the slip. She made a perfect disciplined turn into the middle of the channel – no mean feat in a temper.
Out past the shelter of the marina wall, the boat began to roll. I grabbed the helm while Max went forward to the mast and hooked three reefs in the luff – at least she was calm enough to realise we only needed a little sail. She stepped back down into the cockpit, ran two turns of the halyard around the winch and raised the mainsail. Then she rolled out a little foresail. Satisfied with the rigging, she pushed me aside and grabbed the helm. She pulled us up close-hauled. The wind cracked into the sails. I felt the boat shoot forward. We settled at 5.8 knots – a good speed for a 32-foot cruiser. We were just long enough to stay atop the waves so we were enjoying a comfortable ride. The only sound was the wind in the sails. I could feel the gust through my hair – this was my kind of sailing. But not Max’s.
She turned us out of the close-haul onto a broad reach and I opened out the sails. ‘Ready about,’ she hollered with enthusiasm.
‘No Max, there’s no need. It’s not a race. Take us back up into the wind and we can tack.’ But I knew it was pointless. Marcus would be the same when he was in a mood.
‘Ready about,’ she hollered again. I grabbed the starboard jib sheet ready to pull. She reached over and let out the same on the portside, ‘Gybe ho!’ She threw the helm to port. I crouched, pulling the starboard sheet as the boom swung violently through 140 degrees, whistling past my ear. It jerked to a halt on the starboard side. I tumbled backwards. I threw out my arms, grabbed the lifelines and hit the deck. Max whooped. I thought of mentioning that if she did that once too often she’d rip the boom from the mast, but I didn’t think she was in the right frame of mind for that type of advice. I wrapped the sheet twice around the winch and then a third up into the self-tailer. I pushed down the handle and winched it in.
‘Not too far,’ she shouted, ‘I’m going to stay on a reach.’
‘You’re a lunatic, Max,’ but I could feel the adrenalin burst kick in. I was grinning despite myself. She navigated us through a square course, adjusting sails, kicking up the speed to 6.4, 6.5. Then we turned to run with the wind, hoisted the spinnaker and kicked it up to an impressive 7 knots.
When we pulled back into the slip that evening, Max was beaming, all trace of the earlier temper gone, ‘That was fantastic. I haven’t gone out and just sailed for such a long time. There is nothing like the wind in your hair and no-one to bother you. I haven’t had much fun lately,’ she said, looking at me, ‘apart from you that is.’ She squared up in front of me, throwing her arms around my neck, pulling me down to her and kissing me with a natural passion and energy I hadn’t seen before.
‘You know, the beach, I kinda liked it.’
‘I knew you would.’ A huge genuine smile lit up Max’s dark eyes, ‘I wish this was forever.’
We had spent our days lazing around the boats, laying on the beach and making love. I felt better with her than I had done in a very long time. Things were different around her. My problems in New York had started to fade into the distance. I wasn’t screwing up my career, failing to solve cases or, for that matter, burning with rage. I was falling in love with her, but she knew nothing about me. I had to tell her the truth. But how do you ask someone to accept something you can’t accept yourself?
She went below and when she came back up, she shoved more pages at my chest. Why had her smiles so far always been what? Guarded? Polite? I knew then I had to find out her story – no past, no future, no baggage, wasn’t going to be enough.
‘Why can’t it be?’
12
The Setup (The Lie III)
The market buzzed around me, an elixir of noise, colour and smell. It was still early as I meandered through the narrow lanes. There were only a few early morning shoppers, but buskers were already entertaining. I sucked in the atmosphere, glad to be alone and finally on the road again. As I strolled, bakers urged me to taste fresh herb breads; butchers: Provencal sausage; farmers: green olives. I stopped at a local artist and tried a dozen amber rings before settling on one for my index finger. Furthe
r along, dreadlocked hippies nearly tempted me with incense from Nepal. And a sareed lady succeeded with a saffron and magenta silk scarf from India.
As the morning dragged on, the sun rose high in the sky and the crowd grew. I headed away from the main market square down an empty narrow street of faded white buildings. I turned a corner and faced into the green iron tables and cushioned chairs of a pretty Provencal café, shaded by a deep awning. Only two patrons occupied the terrace. I chose a seat in the shade at the back, in front of a big picture window. Lavender wafted up from a large terracotta pot. I changed to a table at the far side.
A waiter, bound in a long black apron, approached and I ordered a café-au-lait and Perrier. I pulled the train timetable from my bag, stretched out my legs and reviewed the options. I settled on heading to Nice and staying the night, before setting off for the Cote D’Azur tomorrow. The start of the season was approaching and I could have my pick of sailing jobs. I swallowed my last mouthful of coffee, settled my bill and headed for the station. A hundred yards out from the café, a hand clamped over my mouth.
I tried to scream, but the fingers pressed down hard. A thick bicep came around my chest, pinning my arms to my sides. I wriggled, but the assailant clutched me in an iron grip. I was hauled backwards, my heels dragging along the tarmac. We passed through a gap in the wall. The whole thing took maybe a second. No-one had seen. There was no-one to stop him. I struggled to pull air into my lungs. I couldn’t breathe. My heart charged blood through my veins. We were fumbling through a narrow passage. I kicked out behind me, my feet stumbled and my legs scraped along the ground.
I was dragged through a door into a glaringly lit garage, the smell of diesel hung thick in the air. A white Transit-van revved in anticipation. The side door banged open. I was lifted off my feet and thrown inside, thumping onto a chipboard floor. The side slammed shut and I heard the hum of a garage door. The van squealed out the garage. I was thrown back, cracking my skull against the wheel-well. I finally screamed. What was going on? Where were they taking me? Why were they taking me?
I rubbed absently at my head and my grazed legs. I needed to concentrate. There were two men in the back with me and a woman driving. The man who had grabbed me had stayed behind. This wasn’t some lone crazed psycho random abduction. They were kidnapping me.
I sprung for the handle on the side door. I clamped my hand over the latch. I heard the button snap down, then chunky male hands reached out and grabbed me. ‘Where are you taking me?’ I screamed, hitting out. The arms yanked me back. ‘What the fuck is this?’
They all ignored me.
I looked across at the two men perched precariously side by side on the right wheel-well. They were dressed in dark suits, white shirts and almost identical striped ties. One was around twenty-five, the other maybe fifty. Both were broad-shouldered, sported shaven heads and looked fit despite their pasty white skin. When you travel a lot, you begin to notice traits that identify your own nationality without hearing them speak. I don’t think it’s any one thing, rather a combination of clothes, stance, hairstyle. Skin tone – like the pasty whiteness – and eye-colour help, but they can also be misleading. It’s the other factors that give it away. And these guys, to me, looked British.
The woman leaned forward on top of the big wheel, like she wasn’t used to driving a van. I wasn’t so sure about her. She was around my age with sallow skin and long fair hair, pinned up in a severe roll. Her no-nonsense grey trouser suit wrinkled up under the wheel.
Two, maybe three, Brits in suits, grab me off a Provence street, in broad daylight. What the hell was going on?
The men were keeping their eyes on me. No-one spoke. I looked up and forward out of the front windscreen; the buildings were thinning out, we would be out of town soon. I had to do something. I closed my eyes, focused on filling my lungs with air, opened my mouth and blew out the loudest ear-piercing scream I could. Maybe someone would hear. All three turned to look at me. They stared, their faces expressionless, unreadable. After a couple of seconds, the woman focused back on the road. I filled my lungs and screamed again. No reaction. But when I expanded my chest for the third time, Twenty-Five rolled his eyes.
‘Would you ever shut up?’ Fifty lumbered out the words in a Manchester accent. ‘We are not going to rape you, or kill you. We are just going for a little drive. We will be there soon. Now be a good girl and refrain from any more screeching.’
I looked out the front again. We were speeding fast through the French countryside. The woman peered out at the road as she pounded the accelerator. The three of us were bumping up and down in the back; the boys on the wheel-well were fighting to maintain their positions. The engine roared against the strain.
I looked around for a weapon. I could see nothing. I looked back up at the cab, the passenger door was unlocked, the button pulled up. I dived between the seats knocking the driver to the side. The van swerved, the breaks screeched.
The same big hands dragged me back, throwing me down on the floor. ‘Don’t even think about it,’ Fifty growled, ‘just sit on your arse and try not to kill us all.’ He turned to Twenty-Five, ‘He said she was like this.’
‘He who?’ I snapped, but I was thrown forward, thumping my head against the passenger seat as the van shuddered to a halt. It was worth it though for the sight of Twenty-Five sliding off the wheel-well and Fifty landing on top of him. I laughed as Fifty let out a barrage of expletives mainly directed at women drivers.
The door slid open and Fifty clambered out. Twenty-Five scrambled after him slapping dust from his knees and elbows. Fifty gestured for me to follow.
I stayed where I was.
‘Look, sweetheart, you have two choices: you sit here locked in the van, or you hop out and follow us.’ He gestured again and this time I scrambled up to a crouch and climbed out.
We were in an old stone garage. Twenty-Five headed to a narrow door in the back corner. Fifty gestured for me to follow before taking up the rear. I was led down a dank limestone corridor with liquid air and sweating walls. A chill oozed through my thin woollen jumper. The suits’ brogues echoed on the stone floor as we proceeded down, underground. At the end, Twenty-Five pushed open a heavy wooden door and held it. I stepped through into a musty cellar. Empty wine racks lined the walls. A plastic table and two odd wooden kitchen chairs were the only furnishings. Mould and condensation clung everywhere. Fifty held out a chair from behind the table and nodded to it. I sat. He stepped back through the open door. Twenty-Five swung the heavy door towards him. It banged shut. I heard a lock click. I was left staring at the door.
I stood back up and looked around. I walked clockwise around the room examining cracks. I turned, retracing my steps, examining the same tiny holes. No mirrors hung on the walls. I couldn’t see any cameras or listening devises, but they were probably there. I paced the floor. Why was I here?
The door slammed open and the driver marched in. She leapt to a chair and sat in one swift move. Bang! The door clapped shut. She slapped a cardboard folder on the table, laying a biro beside it. ‘Tell me about your boyfriend, Lucky McKenzie.’ She was French.
I continued to pace, walking back and forth across the cave. Six strides from side to side. From the corner of my eye I could see her watching me, studying me. She was about five one with a tiny frame, trying to make herself taller with heels and more authoritative with no-nonsense, severe, pinned-back hair, but she had fine bones and perfect skin giving her a natural girlish beauty. She held out for two minutes. ‘What is your purpose with Angelo Ariana?’
I said nothing.
‘Maybe, it would be easier to talk if you sat down,’ her English was barely accented.
I paced.
‘What is your …?’
‘Purpose?’ I shot my eyes to her, brows raised, ‘I don’t have a purpose.’ Why did they want to know about Angelo?
‘Have you, or have you not,’ she aligned the folder and pen, ‘been living with Angelo Ariana at his villa en Prov
ence for the last four weeks?’
‘I ’ave,’ I said in my best fake French.
She slid the pen around to the top of the folder, ‘And what is the nature of your relationship?’
‘I was ’ees lawver.’
She looked up at me, giving me what I guessed was her best intimidating stare, ‘You was, I mean, you were his lover.’ I sniggered at her grammar slip. ‘Very amusing, Ms McKenzie. What do you know about Mr Ariana?’ The pen was placed back at the side. She blew out a breath. Why was I making her nervous?
‘Not a whole lot,’ I stopped and turned my body towards her, giving her my best intimidating smile. ‘He’s wealthy, Italian, works in Marseilles, has a Ferrari Testarossa and he lets me drive it. That’s all I need to know. What is this all about?’
She leaned forward, using her elbows on the table to push up in her seat, ‘And where were you going, this morning, with all of your belongings?’
‘Where is he?’
‘Where were you going?’
‘Where is he?’
‘Where were you going?’
‘Where is he?’ my voice reverberated around the room.
She tapped her fingers on the table before sitting back.
I lifted an eyebrow and stared her down.
She blew out an exasperated breath, lifting her fringe from her forehead and sat back, ‘He won’t be here for another hour. He was in London when the apprehension order was executed.’
‘Apprehension order was executed. I thought you spoke English?’ I snorted.
‘Where were you going?’
‘I was leaving him.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I was bored. What is this all about?’ I asked.
‘How did you meet him?’
‘Are you going to answer my question?’
‘It would be best if you answered my questions. How did you meet him?’ I said nothing. She tapped her fingers on the table, her patience was straining. ‘Okay, let’s try again. Where did you meet him?’
I did the silent thing again.