by Susan Lewis
‘The cow!’ Sarah seethed, taking the napkins Louisa had scooped from a nearby table. ‘What did she do that for?’
‘You have to ask?’ Louisa muttered.
‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,’ Morandi fussed, taking the napkins and dabbing the inky red liquid from Sarah’s face. ‘Your beautiful dress, she is ruined. But I will buy you another.’
Everyone was looking in their direction so Sarah turned her back in disgust and fury. ‘How the hell am I going to walk out of here looking like this?’ she raged. ‘What’s the matter with the woman? Is she crazy or something?’
‘She has a very passionate nature,’ Morandi said apologetically.
‘I’ll get the car and bring it to the front,’ Erik chipped in helpfully.
Sarah looked down at her lovely new dress and wanted to weep. ‘Well, I won’t be going anywhere for dinner now,’ she said tightly.
‘Please, let me drive you home,’ Morandi implored.
‘No, thank you, I don’t fancy the idea of a bomb being flung through the letter-box,’ Sarah retorted angrily.
Morandi looked crushed.
‘Maybe you could go and keep an eye out for Erik and let us know when he arrives,’ Louisa suggested, dipping a napkin into her white wine and using it to try and absorb the red wine in Sarah’s hair.
‘Where did she go?’ Sarah seethed. ‘I want to kill her.’
‘I think she left,’ Louisa answered. ‘Shit, she’s made a right mess of you. Your hair’s turning purple.’
‘Why the hell did he invite me if he was bringing her too?’ Sarah demanded. ‘Does he get off on her jealousy or something?’
‘He looked pretty upset about it actually,’ Louisa placated.
‘So he damned well should. Where’s Erik? I feel a right idiot standing here like this.’
Louisa bit her lips. ‘Actually, you look a bit of one,’ she remarked.
‘Thanks!’ Sarah snapped, but the glint in her eyes told Louisa that her indomitable humour was on the return.
‘Erik’s here,’ Morandi said, coming up behind them. ‘Please, take my jacket,’ he said quickly stripping it off and draping it over Sarah’s shoulders.
Since Erik had taken his car to the front of the hotel they had no choice but to leave through the terrace restaurant. As they reached it Louisa took hold of Sarah saying, ‘OK, just put your head down, cover your face with your hands and leave the rest to me.’
‘What?’ Sarah said, gulping as Louisa shoved her head down.
‘Emergency!’ Louisa shouted, ushering Sarah forward. ‘Make way! Make way! We have an emergency!’
The astonished diners looked up from their tables, staring with bloodthirsty interest as Louisa and Sarah dashed past the Léger mural towards Cesar’s giant sculpture of a thumb beside the door and hurled themselves into the back of a waiting Jaguar.
It wasn’t until they were speeding through the winding back roads towards Valanjou that Sarah realized that neither of them had said goodbye to Morandi and that she was still wearing his jacket.
‘Never mind, it gives you a good excuse to call him,’ Louisa pointed out.
‘Yes, yes it does, doesn’t it?’ Sarah said, obviously cheered by the thought.
‘So you’re not angry with him any more?’
‘Depends what he does to make amends,’ Sarah said with relish.
Erik laughed, then swerved dangerously around a giant pothole in the road. Since his driving was worthy of any Frenchman or even Italian come to that, they were home within twenty minutes.
‘Aren’t you coming in?’ Sarah said when he stopped at the bottom of the drive, confused because she’d assumed he was driving like a maniac to get to Danny sooner.
‘Actually I’m rather hungry,’ he answered, ‘so I’m going to see if Jean-Claude has eaten yet and if not we shall go to the village for dinner. Would you care to join us?’
Louisa and Sarah looked at each other. ‘Yes, I think we would,’ Louisa answered, smiling.
‘Just give me a few minutes to clean up and change,’ Sarah said, ‘and we’ll be right with you.’
They were already out of the car and starting up the drive when Louisa turned back and said, ‘Uh, what about Danny?’
‘In case you hadn’t noticed,’ Erik answered mildly, ‘her car isn’t there.’
Louisa and Sarah turned to look.
‘Ah,’ Sarah said awkwardly.
‘I think we can all guess where’s she’s gone,’ Erik smiled. ‘Leave her a note if you like asking her if she would care to join us when she returns. We’ll go to La Table Gourmand. I’ll be at Jean-Claude’s when you’re ready.’
‘Looks like Danny might have met her match,’ Sarah muttered with a grin as she and Louisa started back up the drive.
‘Doesn’t it?’ Louisa responded.
‘Are you going to tell her that Erik is a friend of Jake’s?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Very wise,’ Sarah smirked. ‘You know, I think I’m going to rather like Erik Svensson.’
‘Mmm, me too,’ Louisa smiled.
Danny was crying. Silently, unmovingly, unblinkingly. The small, yellow light in the master cabin cast the spidery shadows of her eyelashes over her delicate face. The tears flowed freely from her tormented eyes, spilling onto the pillows as she gazed blindly at the black circle of the porthole. Outside the waves splashed indolently against the hull of the Valhalla, above the giant masts clanked and the wooden deck creaked as someone moved stealthily across it.
It was the final shot of the scene. The camera was tracking slowly back from her face revealing the man in the bed beside her, sleeping peacefully, one arm thrown across his chest the other squashed beneath his head. A single tousled white sheet covered them both, but a perfect female leg lay exposed on the bed, just as the raw emotion lay exposed in her eyes.
This was the most delicious living out of her fantasies she’d had in ages. She was captive on board, unable to escape, only able to do her master’s bidding, to satisfy his needs, to suffer the humiliation and feel a part of herself die each time he abused her. He had no idea of the love that flourished so deeply in her heart, of the desire he aroused in her, of the pain his indifference and cruelty caused her. He saw only her terror, did all he could to incite it, passed her amongst his crew for their pleasure, never witnessing the violations but hearing of them later and watching her with baleful, mocking eyes that slaked her body with contempt. How could her heart be so treacherous as to make her love a man who treated her so?
The scene faded to black and Danny turned on her side. The aura of memory tingled over her and she pushed a hand between her thighs. Sleeping with Jake’s crew was no hardship but to sleep with Jake was what she really wanted. She’d known that first time, when he’d finished with her then laughed and told her she didn’t look like a whore, what he’d wanted of her, what role he was casting her in and she was more than happy to play it – at least as long as it suited her she was. And right now it was suiting her just fine, the only question was, how to get him away from Louisa? Still, with Louisa’s unerring talent for choosing the wrong man it shouldn’t prove too difficult to convince her she’d done it again. Which, as far as Danny was concerned, Louisa had for there was no doubt in Danny’s mind that Jake was as skilled a deceiver as he was a lover. It might be easier to persuade Louisa though if Danny could tell Louisa just what it was that Jake was hiding, for he was hiding something, that Danny knew for a certainty. So far she hadn’t even been able to guess at what it might be and neither could she get as much as a murmur from Bob who was lying beside her now, snoring softly, with whatever Jake’s secret was locked securely, unattainably in the deepest recesses of his mind. But she would find out what was going on, she would find someone to tell her and maybe, she thought, not for the first time, that someone was Consuela.
As for Erik, there was nothing she could do to stop him falling in love with her. She knew he would because he was like all
the others, though she had to confess she liked him a bit more than she’d liked the others. But Jake was different. Instinct told her that his complicated, insidious and ambiguous soul was a reflection of her own. With her he had no need to disguise his cruelty, or his treachery, he could vent it as freely as he wished for whatever he was feeling, whatever he desired, whether it be violence, tenderness, hatred or love she could always summon the exact same emotion to embrace it. In other words she could handle a man like Jake, Louisa couldn’t.
Feeling Bob’s hand on her shoulder Danny rolled onto her back and turned to look into his bleary, bloodshot eyes. The stirring savagery of lust was starting to curl his mouth and throwing back the sheet he pointed at his groin and ordered her astride him. As she drew herself up Danny could feel herself beginning to slide into the character of her fantasy. A frightened, pleading look rose in her eyes as she knelt over him, preparing to impale herself on his solid, angry erection. Her last, conscious thought as the captive slave girl eclipsed her, was to wonder again what it was that had taken Jake Mallory so suddenly to Mexico.
13
DROPPING A CRUMPLED ten thousand peso note on the counter Jake carried his Dos Equis through the dingy, deserted bar with its scratched tables, broken chairs and ubiquitous TV blaring violence from its perch high in the corner. He selected the furthest, darkest corner of the bar where he sat facing the door, unseen but able to see.
The bartender, smearing glasses with a greasy cloth, watched him with small, aggressive eyes, sucking the corner of his moustache into hard, thin, scarred lips. Gringos didn’t come to this bar, they had no business here unless it was bad business and this man, with a patch over one eye and a mean glint in the other was all bad. José knew, he’d seen enough men like this one to know.
Jake ignored him, kept his gaze focused on the dazzling block of light streaming in from the dusty street where ragged children scuffed a football in the dirt and flea-ridden dogs scavenged the festering piles of week-old garbage. He glanced at his watch, knowing he could be in for a long wait. Mexicans rarely kept to time and the Mexican he was waiting for might just not show at all.
He’d left France four days ago, flying first to Mexico City, then to Cancun then north to Chihuahua. Yesterday he’d detoured across the country to Puerto Vallarta, a town too full of memories – he hadn’t been sorry to leave. His patience was wearing thin, already he’d spent too much time chasing around this godforsaken land, had handed out thousands of dollars to slit-eyed men with solid chunks of gold flashing on their necks, their wrists and their fingers, gaudy shirts and designer jeans straining over the muscles of their taut little bodies, and still he had nothing. He trusted few of them, knew there was little or no chance that he would find what he had come for, but the fear that he might was what drove him.
He tensed as a shadow darkened the doorway. He couldn’t see the face, but knew from the shapely outline that it was a woman, from the sway of the hips that she was a hooker. She went to perch on a tall stool, leaning her elbows on the bar, flicking her black, curly hair over her shoulders.
Jake could feel her eyes on him, guessed that the kids outside, the ones he had paid to keep the wheels on his jeep, had told her that a rich Americano was in the bar. It wasn’t long before she came over, asked him in broken English if he would like some company and sat down. Jake called out to the bartender to get the lady a drink and keep her out of his way. Feigning hurt the hooker pouted her fleshy lips, and leaning towards him to expose the deep crevice between her breasts told him she’d make him a good price. Casually lifting one foot and resting it on the chair beside his own, Jake reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a 9mm Luger.
Her druggy eyes widened, then dropped to the table as Jake slammed down a hundred thousand pesos. She eyed it greedily, looked uncertainly back to his face, then watched as using the barrel of the gun he pushed the money towards her.
‘Now beat it,’ he said, sliding the gun back into his pocket.
Quickly she scooped up the money, cursed him in Spanish and returned to the bar.
Jake picked up his beer. It was as well to let the bartender know that the gringo carried a gun, that way he wouldn’t try pulling any stunts like inviting his friends around for a little sport.
He took out a Marlboro, lit it, drained his beer and called for another. The whore brought it, set it down and sauntered back to her stool. She reminded him of Danny Spencer, the British actress who behaved like a whore. She didn’t have Danny’s class, but the two dark-haired beauties sure as hell shared a soul. His upper lip curled as he thought of Danny, of the games she played with herself and tried to drag him into. Just where was she coming from, he wondered, what was she trying to prove? She had to be crazy if she thought she could control him, she was well out of her league, was flirting with the kind of danger that would destroy her if she didn’t leave it alone.
His hand tightened around the bottle as he then thought of Louisa. Louisa Kramer, the writer who had stirred emotions in him he wanted left alone. But Jake was a master at controlling his thoughts and right now they belonged here in this sordid Mexican bar.
An hour passed. The hooker had long gone, the movie had changed and now it was time for him to go. His fury was such that he wanted to smash a fist through the grimy, stained-glass window, to see the blood flow from his veins to remind himself he was human, that he couldn’t take much more of this. There was a whole network of people working for him all over this fucking country and still they’d found nothing. Still the rendezvous weren’t kept, still there was no evidence to tell him that she was alive – or dead.
He walked to the bar, handed over some money and waited impatiently for the change.
‘Señor Mallory?’
Jake swung round to find a skinny old man with drooping eyelids and a cruelly pock-marked face looking up at him.
Jake eyed him, waiting for him to speak again.
‘Fernando send me,’ the man said. ‘I am Pedro.’
Jake glanced back over his shoulder at the barman.
‘He no speak English,’ Pedro informed him, then nodded to the barman to make himself scarce.
‘So?’ Jake demanded.
Pedro shrugged, lowered his eyes to the floor and kicked around the dust.
Jake’s jaw was like rock as he slid a hundred thousand pesos from his pocket and passed it over. Pedro took it, held it up to the light, then pocketed it. His shifty eyes came back to Jake’s, then turning he walked out of the bar.
Jake followed, blinking at the harsh glare of the sudden sunlight, feeling his injured eye sting beneath the patch. The dusty street was empty, just two scrawny kids idly kicking a ball beside his car, seemingly oblivious to the biting heat of the sun. The old man stopped, asked why they weren’t in school then hurled a stream of abuse in response to their smartass remarks.
As the boys ran off Jake grabbed Pedro’s arm and hauled him round. ‘What have you got?’ he growled, his hand itching for the gun.
The old man revealed his chipped, tobacco-stained teeth in a savage grin. ‘She has been seen,’ he said.
Jake’s eyes blazed into his. The old man had no way of knowing what those few words had done to the man accosting him, neither was he going to know. ‘Where?’ Jake spat.
‘Twenty kilometres from here.’
‘When?’
Pedro shrugged. ‘Two weeks, maybe three weeks ago.’
‘How do you know it was her?’
‘I know.’
Keeping hold of the old man Jake threw open the door to the jeep and shoved him inside. ‘Drive,’ he said.
After an hour or more of bumping over rock-littered dirt roads, swerving round potholes and crashing through the gears as they headed into the foothills of the Sierra Madre the old man skidded the jeep to a halt in an ancient, crumbling village where the only sign of life was a weary, dejected mule tethered to a wall beside the faded red paint of a Coca-Cola sign.
‘Over there,’ he said, poi
nting towards a dirty white building where the word hotel, painted in blue, was barely visible above the dilapidated shutters of the upper floor.
Jake looked at it. His face was inscrutable.
‘She was there. Maybe they know where she goes after,’ Pedro said.
‘Maybe you know,’ Jake replied, turning slowly to the old man.
‘No.’ Pedro was shaking his head. ‘I not know. But maybe they tell you.’
Jake got out of the jeep, trod the sandy road with deliberate, reluctant steps, feeling a hundred hidden eyes following his progress. She’d never have come to a place like this, not the woman he knew. The woman he knew was dead. So why was he here? Why was he chasing around Mexico, shelling out a fortune to hunt down a woman who didn’t exist? Because he had to be sure, that was why.
The hotel door creaked open, the lobby was dark and empty. The smell of stale tequila curdled the air, mingling with the pungent spices of simmering chilli. Somewhere, out of sight and barely audible, a tinny radio piped music, the taste of poverty and neglect salted his lips.
He hit the bell on the counter and waited. After a few moments a worn-out old woman in a sauce-smudged apron and shabby dress emerged from a door beneath the stairs. She looked at Jake, blinked and gruffly asked him what he wanted.
Jake was on the point of answering when he heard the jeep start up outside. In a split second he was at the door, wrenching it open and racing into the street. It was too late, the jeep was already speeding back down the road they’d come in on.
Cursing himself viciously for his own stupidity Jake watched it until it disappeared from sight.
‘So they’d never heard of her?’ Fernando said, hours later as he paced Jake’s hotel room while Jake stood at the window staring down at the grim, grey lines of the freeway and the stark oblongs of abandoned construction that stretched to the filthy brown line of the horizon.
At last Jake tore himself from the window. Exhaustion and rage was etched in every line of his face. ‘No, they’d never heard of her,’ he said tightly. His eyes came to rest on Fernando’s, boring into him. ‘I want you to find the old man again,’ he said.