Her hands turned, palms up. The camera could have been a little clearer, but he could see her movements perfectly well. Slowly, carefully, she tensed her fingers at the ends and inserted them under the lid.
‘Lift,’ he commanded, for the sheer buzz of watching her obey. She lifted and ran her eyes over the model, black lettering, dead centre inside the lid: STEINWAY AND SONS. She touched the logo sitting right above the A and Y. He could hear her thinking about the strangeness of this beautiful instrument, sitting here pristine, unused and idle in the house of a man who didn’t play; could hear her thinking about the implications, the agenda. The future.
‘That’s right,’ he said to the secret room where no other person had ever been except the person who’d built it. ‘Now touch the keys.’ He drew a couple of breaths, exhaled. His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Do it.’
She did. Her hands tremored slightly as she lowered them onto the keys and caressed them lightly, never daring to press for sound. A virgin piano, never played, reserved for her just like she . . .
His thoughts ran away sometimes.
Solomon stood up and shut down his screens. Watching her like this was the stuff of dreams, but nothing compared to looking at her, to connecting with her eye to eye. He straightened the sleeves of his shirt, pressed the creases in his trousers, one after the other, then he made for the door.
After an excruciating period of waiting, he was ready to talk to her now. It was time to lay his offer on the table and watch her deal with it. A fire would burn in her brain. Her amygdala would trigger a chain reaction. She’d blow.
Solomon exited and secured his safe room and retraced his steps through his dressing room, then his room. He could hardly wait to hear the whip of passion in her tone, watch her cheeks scald crimson, see the tension set her face. Strange how noise from anyone else infuriated him, and yet coming from her it was art, music.
Naomi Hamilton would object to his offer, without doubt.
But when the fire burned dim, she’d also accept.
25
Feeding time at the zoo, is how it felt to Dan. Herds of hungry animals let out of their cages to scavenge food during a small window of time. Dan stood, exhausted from lack of sleep and from the effort of doing so little. The days were long and lifeless. The regimented hours were slow to shift.
Out of his cell, Dan’s primary objective was to steer clear of trouble. Eye contact had layers of meaning in here. Someone looked at you, it was best to look back for a couple of seconds then look at something else. Looking away immediately could draw trouble. Could mean you were shifty, scared, had something to hide. So Dan’s preferred response was to meet curious or even hostile stares without flinching. He reckoned his height and size helped a lot. The guys were interested in new guys, why they were in, what they’d done, what they were made of. So they looked. Dan was learning to look back, maybe nod without smiling, move his gaze on without giving much away. He guessed that in time, they’d quit looking.
Inside his cell, he spent his time reading, learning, thinking, exercising. It was tempting to spend his time fantasising about Naomi and what they should be doing together. Pointless though. He was furious enough with Solomon to want to lie on his bed plotting revenge attacks, with intricate subplots. But he did none of the things he felt compelled to do. He resisted anything unhealthy. He was a doctor. Health was crucial in a place like this, Dan knew that. Lack of it meant vulnerability. Vulnerability could invite threat. Threat could spell real trouble. No, it was necessary to look after himself and keep his mind and body in good shape in order to minimise risk and remain sane. Plus he had his parents and their feelings to consider, so he chose to pass the time as productively as possible.
His cellmate, Vic Meredith, was an ex druggie who, while high on some substance that he later couldn’t recall, had spun his car into a tree and hit a fifteen year old kid and his little sister. Both had subsequently died. He was considered a sufficient risk to society to land him in Strangeways. Vic was economical with words and liked to watch TV, as much of it as he could. At least it meant that his attention and eyes were always diverted when Dan needed to use the toilet. Dan grew accustomed to the incessant background noise. He was learning to tune out of it when he wanted to concentrate on something else.
So here he was, out of his cell, just one in a line of hard, hungry men of all colours waiting to be fed. Being out of his cell meant a switch to high alert. Surviving. Mealtimes involved queuing to the hatch, waiting for food to land on your plate, then down the hatch with it. Think school canteen, that summed it up. It was the cons themselves who did the preparing and serving of food. Working as a kitchen orderly was a privilege. Got you out of your cell. Meant you could pinch extra bits of food, dish extra bits out. It was a job for the well-behaved, those with a track record of obeying rules.
The queue stopped moving suddenly. A holdup caused by some shoving and shouting at the serving hatch. Then a fight broke out and Dan, because he was tall, could see punches being thrown. The screws, only four of them on duty from what Dan could see, yelled at them to break it up, pack it in. They threatened action, but didn’t act.
Why weren’t they rushing forward to sort it out? They hung back, unwilling to get involved. It was the first fight Dan had seen. A great clash of testosterone with a crowd looking on, jeering, half-incensed that the food queue wasn’t shifting and half glad of a bit of entertainment.
The fight fizzled out quickly. The queue shunted forward again. One guy involved in the scrap walked past Dan holding out his plate, blood trickling from his nose, muttering about the other guy having a bigger one than him. Dan wondered what he was talking about and looked over his shoulder at Vic.
‘Food portion.’
‘Oh, food!’
To be fair, there really wasn’t enough of the stuff. Dan reckoned he got about fourteen, fifteen hundred calories a day. Not enough for a bloke his size, especially given that he exercised regularly. So food was currency in this place and if someone got a bigger pile of mash than the next person, or a few more beans . . .
Of course, the guys at the serving hatch had their mates, their little clans, all of whom wanted a favour when the spoon came down. The kitchen orderlies tried to be sneaky about portions, but weren’t greatly gifted in the art of subtlety. Any con with half a brain cell could spot a generous pile of mash from an ungenerous one.
A classic prison dish today – sausage, mash, peas, with a splash of brown water passed off as gravy. Dan already knew what the mash tasted like – bland. The type of consistency that plastered itself to the roof of your mouth. Even so, Dan’s mouth watered as he approached the hatch. Too warm, he pushed up his shirt sleeves and the guy holding out the spoonful of mash, stalled, stared at Dan’s arm. Dan glanced down. It was his tattoo that had drawn the guy’s attention. He brought the spoon down, dolloping the mash on the plate and Dan moved on with an uneasy feeling in his gut.
When he looked over his shoulder the guy was eyeing him carefully. Dan shifted his eyes away too quickly, and immediately regretted it. He’d been caught off guard. Calm down, Dan. He was unnerved and hated the feeling. As he walked to the nearest available table, his cellmate said, from behind, ‘What’s his problem?’
Dan said, ‘No idea.’
‘You don’t want to mess with him, Doc.’
‘I don’t want to mess with anyone. I intend to get out of here one day.’
‘What do you have up your sleeve?’
‘Nothing! It was my tattoo he was looking at.’
They sat down. Vic glanced at the knight on Dan’s arm. ‘Everyone has tattoos in here. What’s special about yours?’ He stabbed a sausage and lifted the whole thing to his mouth and ripped the end off with his teeth.
‘Nothing.’ The plastic cutlery was slipping in Dan’s hands because he was perspiring.
‘A chess piece?’ Vic asked, mouth full.
‘Mmm,’ Dan mumbled, pulling his shirtsleeve down to cover it.
> They ate for a few seconds. Dan felt queasy.
‘You play chess do you, Doc?’ Dan’s nickname, though his days as a junior doctor felt like a different life in a parallel universe.
‘Not really.’ Dan lied, though he wasn’t sure why.
Vic nodded, carried on eating.
Next thing, a big bloke with a shaved head and a lot of chest hair poking out of a black vest, slumped down next to Vic, right opposite Dan. His eyes were green; his arms were a scribble of tattoos. He disturbed the air around them and the scent of unwashed armpits breezed across the table.
‘Evening, ladies.’
‘Alright?’ Vic said, without looking at the guy. A rhetorical question. Dan nodded, said nothing, found himself staring into and through his food and struggling to break it down inside his mouth. He couldn’t look up. They ate without speaking, the noises of packs of primates echoing around them. Dan would rather be eating in his cell, but disappearing and hiding was no way to blend in. It sent a message, the kind of message Dan was trying to avoid. So here he was instead with a thug opposite him. He was struggling to swallow.
Skinhead said, ‘Is he always this chatty?’
Dan snatched a look up and attempted a nonchalant expression. Vic was shrugging his shoulders, head down.
Dan forced a mouthful of food down, which seemed to lodge in his oesophagus.
Skinhead leant over the table. ‘One of Solomon’s lads, are you?’
Dan needed the toilet. Flight or fight. ‘No.’
Skinhead leant back in his chair now. ‘Easy, lad. Me and Jimmy were mates. You’ve nothing to fear from me.’
‘I’m not afraid,’ Dan lied. ‘You’ve just got it wrong.’
‘The mark says you’re Solomon’s.’
‘I say I’m not.’
He fell quiet for a few seconds, while he chewed on a sausage and studied Dan. ‘Stone, isn’t it? Sent down for bumping off your bro and waltzing off with his missus? There aren’t no secrets in here.’
The double negative grated on Dan. ‘It isn’t a secret,’ Dan said. ‘I just didn’t do it.’
‘Mate, join the club,’ he said, raising a hand. ‘None of us did it!’ He smiled. A front tooth was missing. ‘You’re squeaky clean too, aren’t you, Meredith?’
Vic didn’t respond. Dan stood up. A reflex action. He wasn’t in control. Skinhead launched a hand at his plate. ‘You done with that sausage?’
Dan looked down. His plate was half full of food. Had he intended to take it with him? He wasn’t sure. ‘Hmm.’
‘I’ll sort that out for you.’ He snatched Dan’s plate, grabbed the one remaining sausage and, with it, scraped all the food from Dan’s plate onto his own. ‘Cheers.’ Then he stood, leant over the table, handed Dan his plate, but clung to it when Dan tried to take it. ‘Listen, Jimmy had his enemies. Some of them are still in here. You be careful, right?’ He released the plate. Dan took it. ‘And, Stone, anything you need . . . you know . . . I can get hold of it for you.’
Dan was desperate to leave. Desperate Dan! His whole skeleton felt weak and rubbery. ‘Thanks, but I won’t be needing anything.’ He bolted to his cell.
***
Naomi heard light footfalls on the stairs and responded by soundlessly dropping the piano lid and trotting on tiptoes to the library door. She met Solomon in the hall and was relieved to find him dressed in blue trousers, shirt, she glanced down – her eyes drawn involuntarily – brown shoes. When she looked up again, he was studying her intently, hands in trouser pockets, the colour of his eyes blending faultlessly with the clothes.
‘You like them,’ he said, flicking a glance down.
She shrugged nonchalantly, said nothing.
‘It wasn’t a question.’
‘Look, I’m here to talk about Dan,’ Naomi said, glaring at him, refusing to renounce the eye contact now that he was clothed. She had to generate some confidence. With ground to recover, she needed to take the reins. The sun burst through the house suddenly, brightening the hall by several shades.
‘Shall we talk about Dan standing here, or sitting in the lounge? I vote the lounge.’
‘Here’s fine. I won’t be staying long.’
‘We’ll see.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ she barked. ‘What kind of threat is that?’
‘No threat, Naomi.’ Said in his calm, unwavering voice. They weighed one another across the hall while sunlight slashed stripes on the floor. ‘So, what about Dan?’
Another flash of anger. ‘You know very well what about Dan. He’s been convicted for murder. And he’s innocent.’
‘Oh, that.’
‘Yes, that! Don’t tell me you know nothing about it.’
He wet his lips. ‘I won’t.’
‘So you admit it, then?’
‘Admit what?’
‘Stop doing that!’ Her fists clenched. ‘You’re absolutely infuriating.’
‘And you’re fascinating and blindingly beautiful when I’m infuriating, so what incentive is there to stop?’
‘Don’t say that.’
‘Which part?’
She drew breath to speak, but changed her mind. Solomon took advantage of the silence and strode towards her.
‘I’ll take the key,’ he said, when he was standing in front of her. He held out a palm. Naomi looked at his hand then put the key in it without touching him.
This wasn’t going as planned. She knew what she needed to say to him, but he kept throwing her off course. She was searching for the next sentence when he said, ‘Is your piano to your taste?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Shall I repeat – ?’
‘What piano?’ she snapped, and his lips twitched in the direction of a smile and Naomi could feel her cheeks burning again and the rage swelling inside her as he looked into her eyes very directly.
‘You’ve just come from the library. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice the ten-foot concert Steinway in the window.’
‘Oh, that,’ she gibbered, repeating his phrase, hating herself, loathing this stupid, ridiculous conversation, over which she was gaining no control. ‘What do you mean, my piano?’
‘Well, it’s virtually useless to me.’
‘And to me, Vincent. What do you want me to do, load it in the boot of my Nissan Micra – clue’s in the name by the way – and take it home?’
This comment was met with the kind of silence which would grow uncomfortable in time. But initially, she felt as though she’d scored back. She glared at him defiantly and his expression never changed.
At length he whispered, ‘Say my name again.’
‘What?’
‘I liked it when you said my name. I can feel furious when people use my name. Almost like they’re trespassing. But when you said it, I heard an invitation.’
‘There was no invitation.’
He tilted his head slightly. ‘No?’
It was an effort to keep looking at him, but she was sure the blaze was dying in her cheeks at least. ‘No!’
He turned and walked towards the lounge door. Naomi breathed more freely. He took hold of the handle and it turned. She hadn’t remembered to relock it. ‘Always lock the doors please,’ he said.
‘Don’t you think your security’s a bit over the top?’
‘No, I don’t.’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘Let’s sit and talk.’
‘I need to be going.’
‘No, you don’t. You’ve been looking for me for months and you came here to negotiate and you’ve said nothing yet. So here’s some practical advice for you. If you don’t want me constantly steering the conversation or becoming aroused just by the tone of your voice and your breath when it fires out of you in hot bursts, then keep your voice even and ask me direct questions. I think logically.’
Naomi couldn’t answer. She looked at the front door, then at him, standing sideways on, ready to disappear inside the lounge. What was she doing here?
‘Remember the next level?’ he said, cutt
ing into her thoughts. ‘That was a while ago, but I think you’re ready now. Ask me the questions that are chewing you up and I’ll answer. Unless you’re one of those who’d just rather bury your head and not know?’
‘I’m not,’ she said. ‘I’m nothing like my mother.’
Why had she said that? Allowed words to fly out of her mouth which gave away family secrets? She didn’t want Solomon to know anything about her family.
‘Well, I hoped I hadn’t overestimated you.’ A short pause. ‘Let’s do it then.’ Vincent Solomon vanished out of view in his brown shoes that clipped across a wooden floor she couldn’t see.
Naomi stood, planted. The art shouted at her from the walls without speaking clearly at all. There was an abstract painting of what looked like a chessboard in a garden. Something warned her that everything in her world was in the balance. Maybe it was that thought that rooted her shoes to the hall floor, resisting a move into the next room. The next room felt like the future. Just three paces to get to the lounge door, maybe ten to the front door. The front door felt like the past. Ten paces to an exit and a world of questions, or three paces to find Solomon and whatever answers he had. No choice at all.
She counted the paces as her shoes announced her entry. Four tentative steps, in the end. She was short of breath and fighting to cover it. Solomon was standing in the window, in profile, sipping something that looked like whisky out of a shallow glass.
‘Drink?’
‘No.’
‘Sit down.’
She was going to refuse, but her legs felt shaky. She chose a chair so that he couldn’t sit with her and perched on the edge of it, cross-legged. She should speak really, take charge. It all felt futile somehow. So she sat, waiting, watching him slowly sipping his drink.
‘So, let’s leave idle chat aside and reach the point shall we? I know why you’re here. I know what you want and you’re entitled to the truth. So I’ll be straight with you in as few words as possible.’ He raised his glass to his lips and tipped, swallowed. Then he turned and walked toward her and stopped in front of his grand fireplace and settled those eyes on her. ‘This is as it is: I want you, and when I want something I don’t know how not to play for it.’ Her heartrate accelerated. He watched her while he lifted his glass to his lips again and drained it. She wanted to launch something back at him, something about her not being a toy, about her life not being a game he could play with. The words only buzzed around in her head. He continued, ‘So, I want you and you want Dan. Neither of us has what we want. Life’s a bitch, isn’t it?’
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