by A. J. Adams
While she had a third cup of tea, I read the Financial Times. The euro and the rupee were up, so I’d made fifty thousand dollars in five days. A nice bit of loose change. I make a lot more money in my other business, but trading currency and stocks gives me a kick because it’s more of a challenge. I took out my Tab and checked my portfolio.
When I glanced at Solitaire, she was pretending to look out the window, but I could see she was listening to Quique and Kyle. Her time with Escamilla had clearly not been wasted; she understood what was being said. That was good, because it showed she had brains.
I was happy to see that Solitaire was bright, because my rent-a-mistress scheme hadn’t worked as well as I’d have liked. It had been six months since I tossed Gina overboard, and since then I’d had too many zero-sized airheads in my bed. Although beautiful and practiced, they invariably irritated me, even if they did bounce well on a mattress. Solitaire would be an easy companion, especially once she was properly dressed.
I decided to take her to Oxford Street. Few people knew I was in town, so it was a perfect opportunity to go out. We’d go shopping, have a siesta and then go for drinks, dinner, and a long city walk, followed by more drinking and maybe some dancing. London’s a party town, and I was ready for some fun.
Everyone was smiling until one of the girls, the blue-eyed blonde I’d picked for myself, eyed Solitaire up and down maliciously. “Didn’t expect to see you here,” she drawled. “Up from the country, are we?”
Solitaire shrugged and ignored her.
The blonde tittered. “Where did you get that top? Tesco?”
There was a short pause as everyone waited to see what would happen next. Chick fights are always fun, and this looked to be interesting.
Solitaire smiled. “I’m not on the clock like you, sweetie, so I can wear what I like.” She paused and added, “You picked the perfect outfit for the job, though. It just screams ‘pro’!”
There was a short silence, and then Quique laughed. “Round one, Solitaire!”
Yes, she was smart. I was going to have a blast.
Chapter Four: Solitaire
After the bloodbath and the horror scene on the lawn, I thought I was in for some deep shit. I lay under the covers in that hotel room and shivered as I listened to the murmurs of Arturo and his men next door.
I didn’t want to remember that head bobbing about in the oil drum, but the image kept popping up in my head. It came with other memories, though, and as Escamilla forcing himself into me featured quite a bit, I decided I wasn’t sorry he’d died. What did freak me out was the way he’d gone. Also, I was worried that Arturo would end up doing something just as nasty to me.
I decided I wanted out, to get as far away as possible from this, but there was no phone in the room, and Arturo was between me and the exit, so I had no choice but to stay put.
I was exhausted, but I knew that if I slept, I’d wake screaming, so I tried to distract myself by watching television. By teatime the story of the massacre broke. I guess it was too gruesome for daytime viewing, because they only showed the smoking pile of embers that used to be the house.
As they couldn’t show the bodies, they talked about the cartels. They speculated correctly that this was a punishment, and then the reporters had a field day describing other revenge murders. Apart from some pretty bloody shootouts and bombings, they talked of people being dismembered and even a crucifixion.
As for witnesses who wanted to testify, they didn’t last long. The cartel had gotten to people in protective custody and even in the actual witness box. Arturo hadn’t been kidding when he said he could find anyone, anywhere. I was definitely going to keep my mouth shut.
I switched off the television and decided that I would do whatever Arturo wanted and to do it as well as humanly possible. Anything to keep him happy. As it turned out, Arturo had a really long business meeting, and by the time he rolled into bed, I was lying in the dark, pretending to be asleep. He didn’t even try to waken me. He just put an arm around me, and then he was out.
The bed was soft and the feather pillows heavenly, but I dipped in and out of consciousness, drifting into deep sleep, having weird dreams and then waking up again. Arturo had no trouble sleeping at all, something I took as the sign of a depraved mind. Part of me wanted to slide out of bed and run off, but I was certain that Lucifer and his pals would be on the watch.
By morning, I was tired, uptight and convinced that Arturo would do something nasty. Instead, he was gentle and sweet. He stroked my hair, told me I was beautiful and spooned me before fucking me slowly. I was so grateful that I did my best for him, pushing back into him and rocking to his rhythm.
I quickly figured out that Arturo was determined to be nice. He promised to buy me some clothes, took me down to breakfast and treated me with respect. Seeing I’d spent the night imagining rape, torture and other horrors, I made busy with the teacups, helped him to extra toast and generally waited on him hand and foot. Arturo loved it, and instead of being in for some serious shit, I found I was in for major retail therapy.
We started at Ann Summers, and pretty soon I was beginning to relax. Arturo hadn’t been kidding when he said he was buying me a wardrobe. I could see straight away that he was generous, but I wasn’t expecting him to be fun or to have a shopping list as long as his arm.
“I don’t get out much when I’m home,” he told me. “So whenever I go on a trip, I like to bring something special back for the family.”
He was happy to chat, so I learned that he was from Nuevo Laredo in Mexico. It had featured largely on television the day before. “Is that the place where they have gang wars?”
“That describes all of the Americas.”
“Guess it describes most of the world.”
“Hopefully not Oxford Street. I’m taking a personal day.”
Arturo kicked off his holiday by decking me out in some seriously decadent lingerie, all of which he insisted I model for him, and some very slinky tops and Levis at Harvey Nicks, also personally approved and admired.
With me looking bloody good in new togs, we bought armfuls of cotton undies at Marks and Sparks for his sisters, pretty, frilly dresses at Liberty for various teenage nieces, and stuffed toys, roller skates, puzzles, and toy boats and helicopters at Selfridges for everyone else. By the sounds of the names that ran from Sharmini (aged one month) to Shaun (aged eighteen), Arturo had a massive and diverse family.
As he told me about Angela, his niece who lived entirely in pink, his nephew Carlito who wanted to be a pilot, and his cousin Ivy who needed cheering up because her boyfriend had dumped her, the phantom screams that rang in my ears began to fade. Standing in Oxford Street, the events of the day before didn’t seem quite real, except that every newspaper headline blared news about ‘the Cartel Massacre’.
I got a sneak peek by watching daytime newscasts playing on monitors in the tech shop while Arturo was buying radio-controlled boats and computer games. There were pictures of Escamilla and lots of people who looked like thugs, but none of Arturo. It looked like nobody suspected him. Mind you, if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I would never have believed Arturo was a killer. Hesitating over whether little Martin would prefer Crash Car over Hell Driver, he seemed a perfectly normal family man.
We ended with a trip to Waterstones, where we stocked up with three bags of children’s books.
“Kids don’t read enough in school anymore,” Arturo said seriously. “I buy them Goosebumps and the Vampire Diaries, things they want to read. Then, by the time they get to college, they have a reading habit.”
“You plan for all of them to go to uni when they grow up?”
“My cousin Isabella is graduating from Vassar this year,” Arturo said proudly. “She’s top of her class.”
“Wow! That’s terrific!”
“Yeah. All the girls in my family go to college. I insist on it. They know you can’t rely on men,” Arturo said seriously. “The boys are harder to motivate.”
Cartel boss, murderer, family man, feminist and educator. Arturo was definitely a man of many parts. I blessed myself that I’d saved his life and hoped he was seeing me as part of the family. Being under Arturo’s wing sounded like a comfy and secure place to be. Especially when being out from under it might lead to being turned into a pot roast.
By this time the car was full of parcels, and I thought we were done, but then Arturo took me to Bond Street. “Now for your wardrobe.”
“Arturo, you just bought me half of Oxford Street!”
He looked surprised. “That’s just casual wear. Come on, let’s buy a party dress.”
Arturo’s idea of a party dress was haute couture. A purple silk shift from Yves Saint Laurent, a black number with feathers from Bulgari, and the classic houndstooth checked suit from Chanel were just the start of it. Jimmy Choo shoes, handbags from Coach and Cartier, and then the most heavenly Chanel scent and a top-of-the-line makeup set from Estée Lauder.
“Arturo, this is too much,” I said when he dragged me into a dinky boutique selling simple bikinis and batik shawls for a couple of hundred quid each.
“Sirenita, it’s just a few things to wear.”
At this point I wondered what exactly Arturo had in mind for me. Was he intending to keep me on as a girlfriend? Or, and it gave me the shivers to think of it, was he going to set me up as a hooker? For all I knew, I was one. That girl at breakfast seemed to think I was. And for all my bitching about her gear, she’d been dressed very expensively.
It worried me that twenty-four hours hadn’t made much difference to that dark, blank nothing in my mind. I kept getting flashes, especially when I caught glimpses of myself in a mirror or my reflection in a window, but they weren’t exactly informative. I kept seeing myself, looking bruised and bashed. As my hairstyle was different, sometimes long and sometimes short, I’d been beaten up several times.
The memories that surfaced alongside were dark, too. Apart from Escamilla forcing himself on me, I had visions of a woman lying in a hospital bed, a blonde bloke lying in a pool of blood, and an Arab having his head chopped off in front of a cheering crowd. All the images came with feelings of despair, rage and fear. Whatever I’d been into, it had been violent and dangerous.
I knew I was still in trouble. Although Arturo was acting the Care Bear, I wasn’t going to forget that oil barrel in a hurry. This was a dangerous man who would kill me at the drop of a hat. Thank God I’d had the sense to get on his good side.
I guessed I’d been in London before because I piloted through Selfridges and Harvey Nicks effortlessly even though none of it looked familiar. My general knowledge seemed intact, allowing me to recognise Beyonce on a poster and identify Vassar as a top-tier American college. It was seriously weird.
By lunchtime we were loaded with loot, and I had decided I’d sit tight and wait for my memory to come back. Coasting was my best and safest course of action. And as my first priority was to stay breathing, I’d be Arturo’s girlfriend or his tart, and if that included doing so in Chanel and Jimmy Choo, that was fine with me.
So when Arturo pulled me onto his lap in the car on the way home and let me know that he was planning on having me as soon as we got back to the hotel, I cuddled up to him. Actually, that wasn’t half as difficult as it sounds, because I remembered that Arturo was a tiger in the sack.
I was hoping for a repeat of that four-poster episode, and thankfully it was even better. We enjoyed a little spanking, and then my knees were around his ears as he banged me good and proper. Arturo has an amazing cock: thick, long and seemingly with its own power source, because he had me squealing for ages before he smacked me on the arse again and rode me into heaven.
I fell asleep immediately after, and when I woke up with his arm around me again about an hour later, that chunky body next to mine was a comfort. Arturo had been so sweet that my fears of torture and rape were replaced with visions of great sex and orgasms. If that was what was in store for me, then I was in clover. So I woke up feeling much better, but then I caught a whiff of myself, and it wasn’t nice. Stale sex and sweat. Yuk.
Looking at the clock by the side of the bed, it was five o’clock in the afternoon. I sneaked out from under Arturo’s arm, crept into the bathroom and tripped over his jeans, which he’d left puddled on the floor. Seeing as my swearing hadn’t woken him, I gave up sneaking about and had a long shower. Then I admired my new clothes and picked out a black skirt and a dark blue silk top that matched my eyes. A little makeup, a pair of heels, and I was set for clubbing, dinner, or an evening at the theatre.
Arturo was still fast asleep, so I sat in front of the window and tried to force my brain to work properly. It didn’t do any good. Under pressure, I came up totally blank. I ended up staring out over the small park and church that lay beside the hotel. The church sparked something deep inside me. I sat and stared at it for a while and decided it needed checking out. Maybe if I went inside, it would work like a key to my past.
I decided to let Arturo sleep. He’d said drinks at about seven, and it was not even six yet. The church was a step away, so I’d be gone just a few minutes. It must have been post-orgasmic brain fever or something, but I’d completely forgotten my fears about Kyle lurking in the corridor. Going out was an incredibly stupid thing to do, and it almost cost my life.
So there I was, acting like a total spaz, sneaking out of the hotel, crossing the park and entering the church. It was a dark place, old and gloomy, and it told me nothing. No flashes, no epiphany, not a blessed thing. I sat in the back, looking at the altar and wondering what it was about this place that had called to me.
The church was deserted, so I got up and looked around, examining the stained glass windows and wishing something would happen. That turned out to be a bad thing, because the door opened and this bloke walked in. I could see immediately he wasn’t here to pray; this man was a predator. He was also packing. There was a bulge in his coat pocket that screamed Magnum, and I don’t mean the ice-cream.
I was quietly edging behind a pillar when he spotted me. He made this growl of satisfaction, reached for his pocket and started towards me. I have no idea what I was thinking except that I knew this was trouble.
He stood between me and the only exit, so there was just one thing to do: I took off my shoes, dodged round that pillar and scrambled over the pews. He almost got me, but a high heel slammed into his wrist, and another chucked at his face gave me the seconds I needed. Throwing my bag at him gave me the time to clear the exit. Then I was out of that door and charging across the park, making for the safety of the hotel and Arturo.
Thank heaven he was there, standing in reception, talking on his phone. I was going so fast that I almost cannoned into him. “There’s someone after me!” I gasped. “And he’s got a gun!”
Arturo was talking into his phone, “She’s here.” Then he turned to me. “Where were you?” He wasn’t looking very friendly. In fact, he was looking rather pissed off.
“I was at the church across the street,” I explained, “and this bloke came in –” The hotel door began to revolve, and there he was. “That’s him!”
“Don’t yell, Solitaire.” Arturo was completely calm. “He works for me.”
I just stood there, staring in disbelief. “He works for you?” I spotted that my so-called shooter had my new heels and my bag. I felt like a complete idiot, and it made me furious, so I marched up to him and took my stuff back. “You tosser!” I hissed at him. “Why didn’t you say you work for Arturo? You scared the shit out of me!”
I was shaking like a leaf, pure adrenaline from all the unexpected athletics, so I tottered to a sofa by the window and sat down.
“Why did you walk out?”
Arturo was still frowning. I didn’t want this man angry at me, but I couldn’t figure out why he was mad. Yeah, I can be a dopey cow sometimes, but as I’d had a tough couple of days, it’s hardly surprising. I answered automatically, “You were asleep, and I wanted to
see the church.”
“Church? Why?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know.” As I said it, I had a nasty flash of déjà vu. Going out was wrong. I felt it in my gut.
“Who did you speak to?”
“Nobody.” I saw his eyes were suspicious. Oh fuck. This wasn’t good. “Look Arturo, I should have left you a note, but there’s no need to send people after me.”
He was giving me a cold look. “You don’t go anywhere without running it by me.”
There was an edge to his voice that had my stomach in knots. It brought it home to me that despite all the soft soap and presents, I was hanging in here by the skin of my teeth. I may have saved Arturo’s life, but I was also a witness against him. And at the moment, he was wondering if it would be safer to get rid of me.
I looked at Arturo and realised this could go two ways: I could crawl or take the high road. Crawling would make him happy fast, and being snotty would make him mad. Possibly boiling mad.
“If that’s what you want, sure.” I leaned towards him. “But let’s face it, you were out cold when I went out. I could have yelled for the nearest plod and blabbed, and you wouldn’t have known about it until the cuffs were on, and I’m not talking about a bit of slap and tickle here. So let’s kick the paranoia, okay?”
He looked flummoxed for a moment. “You’re saying I should trust you?”
“I don’t know about trust, but I decided to let you snooze because I was being thoughtful, not tricky.”
“Hmmm.”
I sat back and looked at my feet. They were filthy. “I’m off to the loo,” I informed Arturo. “Want to come along and make sure I don’t climb out of the window?”