Capture

by Flora Dain

  We get out of the car. Instantly his men surround us, their faces solemn. We walk into a vast, poorly lit hangar. Shadowy figures walk over to greet us.

  ‘Whoa, look who it ain’t. Hey you guys, he’s back. An’ he’s the real deal. Check out the suits.’ The voice comes from a wiry individual with bad teeth and short, frizzled grey hair.

  He strides up to us with a big grin and claps Darnley on the back. His companions hang back a little, looking sheepish. They’re all scruffy, their jeans torn and filthy. They have beards, tattoos, long hair – and paint stains.

  The vast space is partitioned off in units like some kind of workshop. I can hear voices, and the whine of machinery. There’s a strong smell of acetone.

  ‘An’ look who’s with him, you guys.’ The older man fixes on me, his sharp eyes gleaming with recognition. ‘The lady herself. Pleased to meet you, ma’am. I looked forward to this a long while. He promised we’d see you fer real one day. Ain’t that right, Darnley?’

  I stiffen, scared now as all the men look at me. And, to my amazement – one woman. Syra.

  She steps forward. ‘Mz Dean? Hi. Come to see my folks?’S real weird seein’ ya here.’

  Startled, I say hello but I still feel uneasy. These people look like they’re barely off the streets. We could have stepped out of a magazine. And Darnley’s men are still watchful.

  ‘What is this place?’ I say softly.

  Darnley places a hand lightly at the back of my waist, a small gesture of ownership – or reassurance. ‘Ella, meet Jay, my artist. He’s also guardian to Syra and Chet. I got to know them while he was doing my painting.’

  Syra slips her arm through the older man’s. She’s still chewing gum. ‘Jay does street art. Night time. While folks is asleep.’

  I hold out my hand. ‘Jay? Can I call you that? That mural of sunlight on water? It’s beautiful.’

  The silence around us deepens. The men exchange looks.

  The older man’s eyes crinkle as he drops my hand. ‘Thank you kindly, ma’am. Sunlight on water?’ He looks at me, his head on one side. ‘Not bad. I kinda like that,’ he says softly. ‘Darnley? She ain’t seen it yet?’

  ‘Nope.’ Darnley smiles at Jay like they share a joke.

  ‘What?’ I say, puzzled. ‘Did I just say something funny?’

  ‘In a way, honey.’ Jay looks thoughtful. ‘No wonder she’s fazed. So it works, then?’

  ‘Yep,’ says Darnley quietly. ‘Works a treat.’

  ‘Cool.’

  But I’m not listening. I’m staring past Jay into the partition beyond.

  It’s lined with vast pictures of a woman’s face. The same image, repeated time after time, bold and dramatic, in a single colour on a white ground. Each one different, painted in bold, bright watercolour – pink, blue and green.

  It’s a picture of me.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Jay shows me round. Darnley hangs back and says nothing. I’m burning to ask about my picture. How does he know me? Why is it here?

  Mindful of the joke – or whatever this is – I don’t.

  Instead I ask about other pictures here, some roughed out on cardboard torn from old boxes, some filling streetscapes in photos pinned to the pegboard.

  Some are waiting for a suitable wall – right shape, right street, right area. Street art’s not like the other kind. The frame comes first. He works out the ideas here – and he uses watercolour, the same kind supplied to the complex for paintballing. Syra brings it.

  He grins as he explains this. ‘You gotta work fast, before the police get there. Stay tuned for sirens.’

  Soon he and Darnley hang back to talk and Syra sidles up.

  She jerks her head towards the older man. ‘In case you was wonderin’, Jay brung us up. We was on the streets, Chet an’ me. Jay’d lost his job paint-sprayin’ fer a motor dealership. The other guys got laid off too. They was sleepin’ rough till they found this place. We hung out with them after that.’

  She lowers her voice. ‘That night the Boss fetched up here – it was way back, over a year ago now, nearly two – he was in a pretty bad way. But I guess you know all about that.’

  I stare at her. ‘I do?’

  She looks scared. ‘Shit. Me an’ my big mouth.’

  ‘It’s OK, Syra. Tell me.’

  She darts a nervous look towards Darnley and then lowers her voice to a hiss. ‘He helped Jay fight off the police one night. He was took too bad to get away by hisself so Jay brung him here, felt he owed him. Holed up here a while. Week or so. Watched Jay workin’. When he finally come to he said he wanted a picture for his beach place.

  ‘Back then we din’t know who he was. He was jus’ some guy in a classy suit. Then Mz Freda turned up. She’d tracked his cell. Tol’ us he was some hotshot from the Valley. She talked to him a while an’ then she took him away.’

  She chews fast, her tough little face suddenly troubled. ‘Jay din’t want no money fer the picture. He liked doin’ it. So Mr Wolfe offered Chet an’ me some work at his new trainin’ place. Chet on the bikes, me watch out fer him and maybe sit in on some of the trainin’. But we ain’t treated special, Mz Dean. If we do bad stuff we git fired same as anybody else. That’s why I’s scared fer Chet. He bin acting real weird lately.’

  ‘But –’ I stare at her, puzzled. ‘You said Mr Wolfe was “took bad”. What kind of bad? He was sick?’

  ‘He’d bin drinking. A lot. Took more’n a week to dry him out.’

  ‘He was drunk?’

  Syra looks away, chewing fast. ‘He was in a real bad place. He’d met some girl. Give her his number.’

  I stare at her. ‘So?’

  She chews faster. ‘She never called.’ Her eyes stay locked on mine.

  And all at once I get it.

  The girl was me.

  * * *

  In the helicopter going back Darnley sits close but we don’t say much. I guess NewsPeak’s latest pin-up has things on his mind. So does his fiancée.

  The night we met is still etched on my brain. I relive every scorching second, every fierce, lingering kiss. And then the long, empty year that followed, when every day I nearly called and didn’t, scared I’d seem trashy.

  And all that time – he was suffering too?

  And then Freda found him. So she must know everything.

  I feel I owe her something.

  I thought Darnley was talking about her and Kraik, sharing the blame for his death. Was he talking about me?

  It’s after sunset when we walk into the beach house. We share a light meal and head upstairs. I expect to go straight to our rooms. Instead he pauses on the balcony and holds me close. ‘From that glint in your eyes I’m guessing you want some answers.’

  From up here the mural has faded without the sunlight to bring it to life. Now it’s just a blur of random glitter.

  ‘I don’t get it,’ I say stiffly. ‘If Jay’s such a great artist, why does he live like that? I thought artists made millions.’

  ‘He likes it. Street’s his style. He’s got plenty of fans. Some of them powerful. He gets by.’

  ‘But that picture of me?’ I frown. ‘Did you give it to him?’

  He looks at me like I’m missing something obvious. ‘Sure. Who else? Watch.’

  He flicks a switch and now spotlights flood the mural with light – this time from overhead.

  I clap a hand to my mouth.

  It’s a vast picture of me – the image from Jay’s studio. But this one’s all in gold and about thirty feet high.

  ‘I got the idea when I saw Jay at work. I told him I wanted a picture of somebody but I wanted it hidden. And I wanted it fast.

  ‘He was fine with fast. That’s how he works. The rest made him edgy. So we worked on the idea together. It helped a lot. I got so involved with the process it pulled me through. Then I brought him over here and told him how I wanted it to look and left him to it. He brought the kids along as helpers. And this is what he came up with.

&
nbsp; ‘I gave him a still from the security footage trained on the hotel entrance that night we met. It was a fabulous close-up of you. He did the rest. He came up with a way to paint an image that would show only under directional lighting. Then he played around with liquid-repellent plastic undercoats and the paint-spraying techniques he’d used on two-tone metallics when he worked for the dealership. He keeps your image as a template whenever he starts a new job.’

  He grins briefly. ‘I promised him he’d meet you one day.’

  He looks away. I see a muscle flex in his jaw as he gazes down at my picture.

  ‘Why didn’t you call?’

  Wham. My heart thumps against my ribs.

  ‘Because –’ I break off. Something in the air between us has shifted. All at once I sense this is a big deal. ‘I wanted to. I nearly did, often. But every time …’ I tail off as he turns slowly to face me, the pain in his face a real shock.

  ‘Christ, Ella. Nearly did? All it took was one phone call. Did that night mean so little to you?’

  Shit. ‘I knew nothing about you. I thought rich men always behaved like that. How should I know? You can get any woman you want.’

  He’s staring at me like I’m crazy. ‘Apart from the woman I do want. Why didn’t you call? You were still planning to get back with Mitchell?’

  I feel my stomach lurch. ‘No,’ I say evenly. ‘There was nobody else.’ I bite my lip. ‘I kind of – waited for you.’

  ‘Waited for me? Waited for me to do what? Grow old? Dammit, Ella, you think I give my number to every woman I meet?’

  ‘Maybe. How did I know? Does it matter?’

  ‘Matter? Of course it matters.’ He turns to stare at my picture again, arms folded, his jaw rigid. ‘And just for the record, when we did meet up again you weren’t even looking for me. You were looking for Mitchell.’

  ‘Stop this.’ I take a deep breath. ‘OK, I was after Ryan. Only because he’d asked me to meet him. And I might remind you he dropped me, Darnley – not the other way round. I have no feelings for Ryan. And I’d no idea back then that you had any for me. How could I know I meant anything to you?’

  ‘Did I have to spell it out? I wasted a year of my life waiting for you to call. You seriously mean to tell me if Mitchell hadn’t wanted your signature on some shitty paperwork you’d never have met me again? You think I flip like that over just anybody?’

  We’re standing very close. I can almost smell his fury. And all at once we’re fighting over something else. What it is I’m not precisely sure, but it shimmers in the air all around us. His nostrils flare as he takes a step closer.

  I lick my lips. ‘I didn’t know you back then.’

  He’s so close now we could touch. The faint scent of his aftershave hits me like a drug as I drink in his beautiful, classical face, the faint sheen on his skin, his high, angled cheekbones. I can feel his breath on my hair.

  ‘And now, Ella? Now you do know me? Would you call me now?’

  I never get to answer. As I part my lips something flashes between us. All at once I’m in his arms, pressing against him and his arms wind around me, his grip like iron. His mouth lands on mine and now we’re not talking any more. Not with words, anyway.

  Instead his hands start talking, and his angry, thrusting tongue, and his powerful, curving body as he pushes me back down onto the sofa we should have been sitting on before all this started – way back all those minutes ago when we walked in here like civilised people.

  Suddenly we’re somewhere new and not civilised at all. His fury matches mine as I splay out beneath him, wanton, abandoned. He’s pressing me down hard into the cushions. His weight and his energy are firing something in me, something fierce and primal. He’s forces my legs apart and feels in deep with his hands, teasing me, kneading me, mapping every dip and rise of my eager, arching body.

  ‘You damn near killed me, Ella. I waited. I was sure you’d call.’ His low voice growls in my ear as his hand searches deep into my clothes, his touch making me burn. He’s pushing away my gown like it’s tissue, crushing the satin into rags in his hurry to get to my riches.

  ‘That’s how people get to meet, Darnley. It’s not always plain and simple. It can take a while. Touch and go.’

  His nostrils flare again. ‘I touch, you go, is that it?’

  He’s still brooding about this? Why now? When it was all going so well?

  Or is this about something else? Once more I feel a tiny pang of guilt.

  ‘Hey. You’re not listening. I asked you to open up.’ He’s looking at me strangely. Does he sense something? He’s still demanding answers. Now I’m scared of the questions.

  ‘I thought we were having sex,’ I say softly. ‘I’m always open for you. You know that.’

  ‘Do I, Ella?’

  He falls on my mouth once more. With swift, angry movements he shreds my gown and rips off the wisps of costly lace that pass for lingerie. When I’m naked and quivering he pins my wrists, not over my head like he usually does but behind my back, pulling my knees up with angry twitches of his other fist.

  ‘Splay your knees. I want to look at you. I don’t look at you enough. You’re so beautiful.’

  I lean back and give myself up to his gaze, liquid as honey in his power. He runs his thumb along one quivering thigh and then the other, his expression solemn, intense, following every shift of my rippling skin as I react to his touch. As he reaches my sensitive centre and I start to clench he darts me a glance and then gently pushes my knees apart till they’re back in position and does it again.

  Soon it’s easier. I start to glow under his lingering look, growing calm under his close, intense inspection, radiant under his worship.

  He lowers his head and starts to kiss me, softly at first and then harder, searching out all my pleasure points with his tongue, following through with soft sweeps of his fingertips – light, intimate, probing. His touch is electric. Soon I’m rippling with arousal, twitching with excitement.

  ‘Can we switch that mural off now? It’s like being watched by a giant mirror.’

  His eyes flash. ‘Your picture stays on. I need to see it. And I need to see you here, in front of it.’ He leans forward and teases my lips apart with his tongue, cupping my sex with his hand while he does it.

  ‘I thought that’s all I’d ever have of you. I told myself that even if I never saw you again I’d capture you in paint. And now here you are for real. Big moment for me.’

  ‘Me too,’ I grin. ‘Trapped like a specimen while I’m pinned underneath you.’ I tail off at his frown. ‘What?’

  ‘You feel trapped?’ He’s frowning.

  And instantly I see from the glimmer in his eyes that this is indeed a real moment for him. Something about my picture, or the effort it took to get it, has reminded him of a black moment. He was in a real bad place …

  I start to kiss him, tiny touches of my lips along his rigid jawline. Slowly I work my way up to his firm, beautiful mouth and tease his lips apart with the tip of my tongue. In seconds he responds with a long, shuddering sigh and I feel him pressing against me, shifting his hips into position so he’s aligned very precisely along my belly and he’s leaning into my softest place and grinding slightly.

  The feeling is extraordinary. I’ll come in seconds – don’t stop … please, don’t ever stop …

  I dart my tongue deeper into his mouth as he pauses to slide his hand down my flank and along my thigh, easing me open a little wider, and now I reach between us to help, my fingers impatient as our mouths take charge.

  ‘Hey. My treat.’ He brushes my hand away and in seconds I feel him surge up inside, his single glorious thrust slick with my own eager inner welcome. He pulls slowly away and then thrusts again. He fastens on my mouth once more and now he sets up a punishing rhythm as he takes me – his tongue fierce and invading, his lips soft and loving, but his length hard and hot and fierce. When he finally comes he buries his head in my neck and breathes deep into my hair, his chest heaving o
ver mine.

  ‘And just so you know,’ I whisper, running my fingers through his hair, ‘no way am I trapped, however much of me you put on a wall. I’m here because I want to be.’

  * * *

  Next day he seems preoccupied at breakfast and moody at lunch. He says nothing about my picture and refuses to talk about his NewsPeak launch. His mood swing’s so violent it’s scary. I start to fret.

  His traumas are real and painful and it looks like I’ve tripped one quite by chance. And this time it’s all to do with me.

  He says he’s going out for the afternoon. When I ask where, he hedges.

  Dismay must show in my face because he tips up my chin to kiss me before he makes for the door. ‘Don’t look at me like that. See you later.’

  I have work to catch up, some shopping to do and literacy sessions to prepare. I get back early, my mind still on other things – mostly Darnley, so I go for a walk instead. I’m coming back along the cliff path when he calls my cell.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Walking. You?’

  ‘Wishing you were naked and wet. Back in about thirty minutes. Are you getting naked and wet any time soon?’

  ‘Maybe. I’ll think about it.’

  ‘Me too. But wait till I get there. I want to surprise you first.’

  Excited, I walk quickly back, glad of the cool sea breeze in my hair and the tangy smell of ozone. But when I arrive the beach house seems unnaturally quiet. No music, no voices. He’s not back yet.

  What kind of surprise? Excitement tingles up my spine as I race upstairs, glancing at the glittering mural as the sunlight shifts across it.

  He had it painted before I even got to know him. Then I remember the bracelets and my doting smile fades.

  Darnley’s surprises can have a sting in their tail.

  I’m almost at the door to my dressing room when I stand very still. In the distance I hear the low roar of a motorcycle.

  It’s coming closer.

  A prickle of fear darts through me. I fight it down.