Shadows to Ashes

by Tori de Clare

  In the bedroom, light on, she didn’t find the fitted wardrobes she was expecting. Opposite the bed, on an otherwise stark wall, there was just one door near the window. She gasped when she opened it and took a couple of paces forward. She was standing inside a long, slim dressing room which ran parallel to the bedroom. She pressed the dimmer switch and turned the lights up full.

  ‘Whoa.’

  A dozen little lights blazed in pairs along the length of the ceiling, like stars. She could see herself in the huge mirror at the end of the strip. She walked past rows of dresses, jackets, shoes, running her hands against silk, sequins, embroidered cotton, chiffon. A rainbow of colours. Like finding treasure. She got hold of herself quickly and left the dresses in darkness and closed the door. Her purpose here was serious. Distractions not permitted.

  She collected the keys from her bedside table and exited her room. Outside the bedroom was an immaculate landing that disappeared around a corner. The carpet was thick-piled, natural colour; the walls, unlike the bedroom, were busy with art. Again, easy to get sucked in, but she set her sights on the stairs. Downstairs was quiet and, as expected, all doors were locked. She used her keys and checked the rooms: lounge, kitchen/diner, bar room, library. No sign of Vincent anywhere. Asleep in bed, presumably. The only room unchecked was the card room. Books and shelves lined the walls. A safe was sitting on top of a small cupboard. On the table was a chess set on the glass table, ready to use.

  A thought struck her. There was no mess in any of the rooms. No glasses, drinks, bottles, sprawled rugs or cushions. The house had been full the previous night and had emptied suddenly, after which she’d lain still for hours, listening, hearing no sound. And now there was no evidence of a party or of people. Strange.

  In the kitchen there was a note in difficult-to-read scribble that sloped a lot and had no loops.

  Out on a job.

  Do eat and drink. It’s recommendable so I’m told. I’m delegating a weekly job to you: rubbish collection. It’s today. Green bin in garage (remote on key ring). Leave on the street, handle facing the road. Return to garage when emptied. Lock doors at all times.

  Chess board ready in card room. You move first. One move each per day. V.

  The V had a little line beneath it sloping upwards. It looked intimate. She stood, perplexed. Out on a job? At this hour? Why was the house always so quiet? When would he be back? This wasn’t what she’d anticipated.

  She resented the sudden spasm of disappointment and countered it by setting about the task of letting herself out of the front door, pressing the little button that lifted the garage door and hefting the green bin from darkness and into a grey morning where the sky was breathing moist drizzle.

  The morning loitered for an age, and no Solomon. She drifted from room to room purposelessly, dazed in disbelief that she was here and that she was alone in Solomon’s house with nothing to do but poke around. There were five bedrooms in all. She had access to every room but Solomon’s, which was next-door-but-one to her room, a bathroom sandwiched between them. The other bedrooms were like hers: Clutter-free, double rooms with bathrooms and cupboards, some with clothes. When and why did he need all those rooms? Those clothes?

  The entire house was unnaturally dirt and dust free. Every cupboard, surface and drawer was scrupulously tidy and well organised. Impressive, but dull really. Nothing much to look at. To find. The question occurred to her: what were you expecting? An arsenal of guns, bombs and hideously sharp weapons was the honest response. Definitely not girls’ dresses and vintage clothing. She hadn’t come here to find silk and dinner jackets. She’d come to find answers. To buy freedom for Dan.

  Maybe the guns and bombs were in Solomon’s bedroom, behind the locked door. All in all, wandering the house was an anti-climax. Like getting socks for Christmas. She was too miserable for music; too chuffing braindead for chess.

  So many questions. No answers. And no Solomon.

  Yet.

  ***

  Highlight of the morning. At 11:30, she was drawn to the window by the chug of a cumbersome van reversing down the street, alarm screaming. Men in padded florescent coats were yelling to each other and dragging green bins to the rear of the van and feeding the thing as much crap as it could swallow. Not long later, show over, all was quiet again.

  She put her shoes on and walked to the bottom of the drive and examined the street, looking left and right, glancing in gardens closely guarded with trees, getting a feel for the place. Is this what it felt like to reach the age where there was nothing better to do than watch the neighbours and wonder what they did?

  The bins were thrown together in clusters, odd stray ones strewn around. She found Solomon’s and pulled it from a gang. As she grasped the handle, her fingers scratched against something sharp. She pulled her hand away and looked underneath the handle. Just clear tape was all it was. Wait, a small scroll of paper had been fastened to the handle. Part of the tape was clumped together in a ridge, which her fingers had caught.

  Curious now, she bent down to investigate and caught sight of, read in garage. She stood upright, conscious suddenly, and unsure.

  Do something Naomi. Behave normally.

  So, acting on instinct, she rearranged her face into a nonchalant expression, wiped her hand on her trousers and took hold of the handle and pulled it up the path towards the garage, acutely aware of the possibility that she was being watched. Wondering who’d left the note.

  Once inside, she lowered the garage door until she had privacy. A flick of a nearby light switch and the strip bulb flashed twice and then settled. There were cars in the garage, a motorbike under a cover. She paid them no attention. Her gaze was fixed on the note which she now ripped from the handle and unrolled.

  The typed note said: Safe bet that this job would be yours. Vincent hates touching bins. Warning: there are cameras all over the house downstairs and one outside above the porch, overlooking the front garden as far as the road. The bedrooms and bathrooms are spy-free. Careful what you do downstairs. He’ll be watching. Do not let on that you know. Destroy this. More next week.

  Naomi read it again and again, hands quivering slightly. Cameras all over the downstairs? Where? Her mind ran over the morning and raked over details of where she’d been, what she’d done. She’d hunted through all the drawers and cupboards. Ran her fingers across the surfaces. Helped herself to toast and butter.

  Her phone buzzed, interrupting her thoughts.

  Message from Annabel: We’re getting ready to bury Shadow. We can wait for you. Are you on your way?

  ‘Oh crap!’ She hadn’t given it single thought. In fact, she’d battled the urge to text anyone. Lying wasn’t her thing.

  After pausing a few moments, she replied: I’m thinking about him. Mum made it clear that I wasn’t welcome at home. You know the feeling! Until she retracts those words, I don’t think I can come home, Annie. And I don’t want to if she’s going to be like that.

  It felt horrible to use Camilla as the excuse, but she had a bigger problem. She could hear a car approaching now. The garage door was beginning to lift and Naomi was standing, holding the note. She turned her back on the opening, pushed it inside a pocket and as the light changed and daylight overruled electricity, she busied herself with the job of dragging the green bin along concrete and parking it next to the blue bin, lining it up exactly as she’d found it. She hoped she wasn’t blushing. By now the garage door was gaping open and a black Mercedes was nosing forward. Naomi looked past the polished exterior and peered inside.

  Vincent Solomon was behind the wheel in a pair of dark glasses. He climbed out of the car. Naomi’s heart was thumping a guilty beat. Solomon removed his glasses and eyed her carefully.

  ‘What’s so fascinating about my garage?’

  ‘I was putting the bin away.’ He was studying her closely. She didn’t avert her gaze. Didn’t dare move a single tiny muscle. She was hyper aware of the note in her pocket. He was unconvinced, waiting for more. �
��If you must know there was some hideous insect on the handle. I felt it on my hand. I wanted to leave it for you to bring in, but I finished my job. Then I lowered the door to check the bin over – make sure there wasn’t a family of those things. I didn’t want anyone seeing me scrutinising the stupid bin, OK?’

  He wasn’t blinking. He was concentrating hard. ‘And?’

  ‘Just the one.’

  ‘I see.’ And she wondered if he did – see everything. She felt as transparent as glass. Another thorough stare, however, and he turned and headed for the open door. Naomi breathed more easily and followed him on weak legs. ‘Wash your hands. Me? I’d do them twice.’

  He lowered the door and she shadowed him without further comment until they were standing in the hall. He locked the door behind her. In daylight, she noticed that his eyes were mildly bloodshot, lids heavy. He bent down and undid his shoelaces, which drew her attention to a pair of dark grey shoes. She’d never seen shoes like the ones Solomon wore. He took them off, scooped them up and turned to her again.

  ‘Italy.’

  She stared at him, said, ‘What?’

  ‘You were wondering where my shoes were from. I bought them in Venice.’

  Spooked, admittedly, she shrugged and looked elsewhere. ‘Whatever.’

  ‘I need to sleep now. I’ve been awake for twenty-six hours.’ Another twinge of disappointment. All this being on her own . . . ‘Later, we’ll go through the terms of your stay here.’ His expression was hardly oozing adoration. Not that she wanted him to like her or anything. No, his expression was just fine.

  ‘Fine.’ She echoed her thoughts, but her background feelings were in disarray. If she was honest, his indifference to her since she’d arrived was plain confusing. Was she expecting to have to fight him off with a stick? She didn’t know really, but the lack of conflict with him was sapping her of energy. She was without a cause.

  ‘Have you moved yet?’

  What? Oh, chess. ‘No.’

  ‘Take white. Make your move. Be decisive.’

  He turned and began to slowly ascend the stairs. ‘Dinner, 7 p.m. in the kitchen. Don’t be late. Or early. Wear one of the dresses in your room.’

  The fancy ones? All sequins and silk? No chance! ‘I’m fine as I am.’

  He glanced over his shoulder and loaded her with a look, like she had to be kidding. She looked down at what she was wearing because she’d forgotten. ‘Wear a dress,’ he insisted. ‘My house. My code.’ She was about to object, but he went on. ‘Carter’s history, by the way.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He stepped out of line, so I dealt with him. You know what I’m talking about.’ He’d reached the top of the stairs now. ‘He doesn’t work for me anymore.’

  Naomi stood, gripping the bannister to steady herself while Solomon vanished into the one place she couldn’t access. A key turned in the lock and the house was as silent as a library again and she was the statue at the foot of the stairs.

  32

  Head down, Dan was running in the yard, up and down, working hard to maximise his one opportunity for cardio a day, his only chance to look at the sky and breathe in air that didn’t taste of stale men and everything they hadn’t properly washed. Dan meticulously cleaned himself in his cell every morning, resorting to snatching a slot in the communal showers just once a week. The showers – grimy, powerless and lacking any capacity to stay at one temperature or offer any measure of privacy – were utterly inadequate for the number of men on the wing. Dan opted to spend as little time as possible in the company of those showers and the naked men who congregated beneath them, some of whom were forced to share one shower at the same time.

  Knots and clusters of males were strewn around the yard now, some idling the precious time away, others exercising, others disturbing the air with subtle vibrations which signalled to Dan that they were up to no good. There was one guy who was always boxing with an invisible opponent in an imagined ring. He’d dance around, switching direction, jabbing and swiping the air, dodging hits that never came.

  Footfalls on the ground behind him and Dan heard panting, close. Next thing, he found himself with a running mate he hadn’t invited and didn’t want. When Dan snatched a look to his left he found the guy from the serving hatch who’d eyed his arm. He was matching Dan step for step. Tension crept into Dan’s muscles, interrupting his rhythm until he was breathless and uncomfortable. Three lengths of the yard later, the guy still glued to his side, making concentration impossible, Dan stopped running and walked in a little circle, hands on hips, recovering his breathing. He resented this guy for disrupting his yard time. What did he want?

  ‘Payne.’ The guy said.

  Dan, alert to any kind of threat out of his cell, stiffened. The adrenaline was pumping. ‘What?’

  ‘Marcus Payne.’

  Oh! So? Dan wanted to say. ‘Dan Stone,’ was what he actually said, while he eyed the sky. It was a luxury to have it in view, colourless though it was today.

  ‘I know who you are.’

  Dan didn’t want to know how and why, so he ignored the comment.

  Marcus Payne held up his arms, elbows bent at a right angle. He clenched his fists which caused his biceps to bulge, and twisted his upper body left, right, left, right while keeping his bottom half still. Exercise, or an indiscreet display of muscle topped with zero body fat? He was about five-eleven, and had a long torso, relatively short legs. ‘I make it my business to know everyone and how they landed up in here. You killed your brother, innit?’

  ‘No,’ Dan said. ‘I was framed for killing my brother.’

  Payne didn’t laugh or attempt to tell Dan he was a dreamer, he asked, simply, ‘Framed by who?’

  Dan didn’t know how to respond to that. He shrugged nonchalantly. ‘Doesn’t matter now.’

  Payne stopped rotating his upper body and shuffled closer to Dan. In Dan’s peripheral vision, the boxer aggressively punched fresh air then ducked to avoid an attack. ‘You a friend or foe of Jimmy Solomon’s?’

  There must have been a right answer because Payne was searching Dan’s eyes for it. Dan looked away. He didn’t like where the conversation was being steered. It brought the feeling of being on the ropes. The entire yard was the ring. Best to play safe, to sidestep, duck and dodge. ‘I’ve never even met Jimmy.’

  ‘But you know who I’m talking about, right?’

  A pause. ‘I know who you mean.’

  He fingered Dan’s arm in the exact area of his tattoo, though Dan was wearing a long-sleeved top. ‘You got the badge, innit?’

  Intensely irritated by the lack of intelligent conversation, Dan was keen to get away. ‘I never asked for it. Had my drink spiked and woke up with it, OK?’ Not that it was any of this guy’s business. Still, Dan couldn’t ignore this first opportunity to make enquiries for Vincent in exchange for some feeble promise of freedom. Dan didn’t intend to put his neck on the line – not with Vincent’s word to rely on and little else. But this guy knew the Solomons and Dan found that he was curious to know how, so he could better protect himself, if nothing else. ‘It’s Jimmy’s son that I know,’ he ventured, waiting to gauge the response, see if he knew Vincent’s name.

  ‘Vincent, yeah?’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘Chess piece, see? I know.’ A tilt of his head, as if he knew all things and was issuing a fair warning to Dan that he’d better watch out lest his mighty, all-knowing intellect cause problems for Dan. ‘Coz the other one isn’t from around here.’

  This threw Dan. Which other one? Another son?

  He tried to look unaffected, sound casual. He jumped into action and began to jog on the spot to cover his surprise. ‘Vincent, yes. Can’t remember the name of the other one now.’

  In the interests of proving that he knew all things, the guy was searching the heavens, face set in concentration, scouring his measly brain for a name. ‘Long hair, innit. Short name. Geordie accent.’

  Dan’s muscles turned into a strange, weakene
d substance, but he kept moving somehow. ‘Joel?’ he offered.

  ‘That’s him. You know him?’

  ‘Kind of.’

  Dan was seeing Annabel now, heavily pregnant. What the hell? Naomi being pursued by Vincent was only half the tale? Who else was involved? His fingers began to tingle. He moved those too, to circulate the blood. He had the feeling that if he didn’t keep moving, he might fall into a trance and seize up altogether.

  ‘So I’ll ask again, friend or foe of the Solomons?’

  Dan evaded the question. ‘He was murdered, wasn’t he, Jimmy?’

  An uncomfortable, taut silence. ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘It’s no secret,’ Dan improvised, holding out. He knew nothing about Jimmy Solomon or his death.

  ‘Report said he died accidentally.’

  ‘What do you say?’ Dan asked.

  ‘You answer first. Friend, or foe?’

  Again, that look in his eye – a search for the correct answer. There was no fence here, so Dan took his chances. ‘Definitely foe. Hate the lot of them.’ True enough, but it was risky to declare a camp like this. His arms were tingling now too.

  ‘Rumour has it Vincent visited you in here.’ No show of Payne’s cards yet.

  Dan had committed himself now, so he had to stick to his course. ‘Because he lied about who he was when he applied to see me. I was expecting a friend and he was sitting there instead.’

  A friend – Joel? Vincent’s brother, more like. Which explained fully how Vincent had intercepted them in the Maldives.

  Payne nodded, like this made sense. ‘What did he want?’

  ‘To taunt me. He’s trying to steal my girlfriend.’

  He suddenly punched his left hand with his right fist then began waving his forefinger in the air like he was making an important point. But he was yet to voice it. ‘And that’s why you’ve been framed for your bro’s murder. To sweep you out of the way.’ He pointed to his head, to illustrate, again, that there was a sharp mind inside it. Dan, convinced by now that he’d picked the right side of the fence, resumed breathing. Payne sidled closer, head down. ‘Jimmy deserved to die.’