by Nick Louth
‘Will, I’m worried. Sometimes I think that we’re on a runaway train, and I don’t know where it’s going to end.’ Dawn pressed her face into the warmth of his chest.
‘Dawn, the moment I first saw your sweet innocent face, it was like the first opening of a rosebud, bejewelled in dew on a spring morning. You’re precious to me and I’ll keep you safe,’ Mordant said. ‘Because I love you.’
Dawn kissed him tenderly. ‘Will, no one has ever said such things to me before. I’ve never loved anyone, Will, like I love you.’
It was true. Mordant had received dozens of little notes from her over the months. Sweet little cards with pussycats and puppies and hearts, all in her careful neat well-brought up handwriting in which she pledged her undying love, and her determination to right the miscarriage of justice which had brought him to this place, for crimes which he had never committed. She had even, in her innocent and amateurish way, tried to please him by writing her own sexual suggestions. For him she was trying to break her own boundaries, but to Mordant they were kitchen sink vignettes, fifty shades of gravy. While he knew every word of John Donne’s and Shakespeare’s love sonnets, she could manage only The Owl and the Pussycat. Nevertheless, Mordant had carefully preserved each and every note, nails in her professional coffin should he ever really need to apply some pressure.
‘We have to wait, my sweet one,’ Mordant murmured, stroking her hair and nuzzling her ears. ‘There will be more time on Friday, and the shifts make it safer. We mustn’t compromise your career. Sometimes, you know, I have to think for both of us.’
‘I’d throw it all away for you,’ she said, and he knew she meant it. In the end, whether she wanted to or not, she would.
As they embraced, Mordant looked over Dawn’s trembling shoulder at a magazine picture of Mira Roskova he had stuck on the wall. Soon, my dear, I will be with you. Just be patient.
* * *
Mordant was surprised how long it took for the director to call him to interview about Lucy’s injuries. With the director were Mordant’s own psychiatrist, the wonderfully malleable Dr Miguel Kasovas, and a stone-faced police liaison officer, Sergeant Deborah Crooke. Not an ally, I fear. Richard Lamb began by describing the events of that night, and Mordant feigned ignorance of much of the detail. ‘So what exactly were the nature of those injuries?’ Mordant asked. ‘I’d assumed it was self-inflicted.’
He absorbed a very hard glare from the grey helmet-haired sergeant. ‘No it wasn’t. A sharp object was inserted inside him, causing serious injury.’
‘Inserted? Ouch.’ Mordant pouted sympathetic pain. ‘It would be a brave man to tackle him, surely.’
‘Smith was clearly drugged,’ Sergeant Crooke said.
‘So it must have been a member of staff,’ Mordant said. Ah, the word ‘clearly’ meaning you don’t actually know. Of course not. Rohypnol is very quickly metabolised.
The director leaned forward, his hands steepled in front of him. ‘William, you and Smith have a bit of history, don’t you?’
Oh, here we go. ‘Our paths crossed at Wakefield.’
‘I’d put it more strongly than that, William,’ Lamb said, looking down at a document in front of him. ‘The report from HMP Wakefield mentions two incidents, one of which involved boiling water being poured over him from the landing above, causing second degree burns to his head, neck and shoulders.’
‘That wasn’t me. And the report doesn’t say so either.’ You forgot to mention all the sugar I had dissolved in the saucepan so it would really stick and burn.
Lamb sighed. ‘You were among those identified as being present, and having a motive…’
‘Dr Lamb, please. Lucy generates motives in almost everyone. Can I ask how many members of your staff he’s hurt? How many have gone off sick, resigned from having to deal with him? They all have motives as good if not better than mine for revenge. But I, alone, spend almost all my time in a separate ward with a security-coded door between us. Surely your CCTV would show exactly who was able to do this.’
It was with the greatest satisfaction that Mordant noticed not one of them had anything left to say.
Chapter Ten
Two weeks after the assault on Mira
Dear Lawrence,
As you know things have been very difficult between us in the past few weeks. I feel hurt and frightened and saw a side of you that I did not know was there. I have thought long and hard about our relationship, and given the intensity of both of our lives at the moment, feel that it would be best for both of us if we took time away. I still have feelings for you, and I know you have about me. I will do everything to protect the privacy of this news, and of the time we spent together, and I’m sure you will too.
With affection
Mira XX
‘Nice one,’ Jonesy said, passing the photocopy back to Thad. ‘Like it.’
‘What do you think, Virgil?’ Portia asked.
He read it twice and nodded. ‘I’ve never been dumped this gracefully.’
‘It’s perfect,’ Thad said. ‘Gentle tone, and hints at the possibility of a reconciliation, so long as he behaves.’
‘Thank you,’ said Portia. ‘Diane and I worked through several drafts, all of which we copied to Mira. This is the one she chose, and copied onto a card. She’s already prepared the ground by cancelling a couple of dates they had planned. He’s getting the hint, I think.’
‘So we’ve got the letter. What we need to figure out is the right time to send it,’ Jonesy said.
‘Actually, he’s already received it,’ said Portia.
‘What!’ shrieked Jonesy. ‘Why didn’t anyone check with me?’
‘Read your e-mails. The card was Fedexed to arrive yesterday morning,’ Portia said. ‘Kelly’s spent the last day setting up Mira’s new contact numbers to coincide with the letter. We couldn’t do it beforehand or he might get the hint. But it works well because Mira said he was due to fly abroad in the evening.’
‘Yes, I know, to effing Croatia!’ Jonesy said.
‘It’s good timing for us, Jonesy,’ Portia insisted. ‘She’s still in the Caribbean for the next couple of days. So even if it leaks the UK press won’t be able to get hold of her easily.’
‘Jesus, another bloody PFU! Didn’t you stop to consider the England game tonight?’ Jonesy wailed.
‘What England game?’ Portia asked.
Jonesy took his spectacles off and rubbed his face. ‘Christ, Portia, the reason he’s abroad is for the European Championship qualifier against Croatia. You’ve let Mira dump England’s crucial defender just before this vital match. We’ve got to win or we’re out. A draw won’t do it.’
‘Who cares, Jonesy?’ Portia said, hands up in despair. ‘He’s over. He’s history.’
‘Nah, nah, you don’t understand,’ Jonesy wailed. ‘Lawrence Wall will think the timing is deliberate. If he’s pissed off, plays badly and we lose, he’ll be tempted to leak the news. It’ll deflect the spotlight from him. Then there will be an absolute shit storm in the papers, on Facebook and on Twitter. Mira will get death threats. I mean it. If England are eliminated, some of these guys may actually try to kill her.’
Portia looked stunned.
‘He could be right, unfortunately,’ Virgil added.
Thad turned to the others and said, ‘I guess we better hope England win.’
* * *
At Jonesy’s suggestion, Virgil joined him that Friday evening at his local, the White Hart in Richmond, West London, to watch the England game. The pub’s quaint low-beamed ceilings and cosy nooks didn’t quite fit the big screen sports bar image, but already squashed into a corner with Jonesy an hour before the match, he had to concede that the punters didn’t care. The bar was already four deep with big men wearing replica England shirts, rapidly sinking pints. Virgil watched fascinated at Jonesy’s dextrous betting by smartphone, and the never-ending witty patter he kept up with a neighbouring drinker, their club rivalries buried for an evening for a greater c
ause: England. All conversation ceased for the kick-off.
Within half a minute Lawrence Wall was in trouble. He thudded into a Croatian striker a good two seconds after the ball had been passed, knocking him to the ground where he writhed in pain. A bellowing chorus followed in the pub about how no-one could get past ‘The Wall,’ which ended with vigorous rhythmic clapping. The referee gave Wall a yellow card, but a close-up of the centre-half’s pugnacious face thrust within two inches of the referee’s made it look like the face-off at the start of a boxing match.
‘He’s taken the Mira news well, then,’ Virgil shouted into Jonesy’s ear.
Jonesy shook his head, speechless for once. The pub quietened down into a restless ill-temper as the game deteriorated into a series of niggling tackles, injuries and confrontations, with Lawrence Wall never far from the trouble. Finally, a minute before half-time, Wall burst through a knot of Croatian defenders and laid the ball off to Wayne Rooney who fed him back a quick looping return on the edge of Croatia’s eighteen-yard area. Wall sprinted past the last defender, but was felled by a high tackle. A deafening cry of ‘penalty!’ chorused across the pub. Almost everyone jumped to their feet, yelling. But the referee, a short, balding fellow, didn’t award a penalty and was immediately surrounded by remonstrating England players.
First among them was Lawrence Wall, who after pointing angrily at the penalty spot, bellowed into the referee’s face. A couple of England players tried to steer Wall away from this dangerous confrontation, but he pushed them away angrily.
‘Oh no,’ Virgil muttered, seeing Wall move further forward. ‘Don’t, don’t do it. Oh God. No.’
The push wasn’t hard but the referee stumbled nonetheless. He lifted a red card from his pocket and held it aloft. Curse-laden groans of disappointment washed round the pub, and one obese man in a Lawrence Wall replica shirt fell to his knees and held his head, groaning the word ‘idiot’ time and again.
Virgil and Jonesy exchanged a glance of exasperation and turned back to the screen, to see the push and the stumble repeated again and again from every camera angle.
‘Well, at least it wasn’t a head-butt,’ Jonesy said.
A low-angled camera tracked Lawrence Wall stalking angrily off the pitch. He turned to the camera and spat, the viscous fluid spattering the lens. Virgil shook his head.
The game ended nil-nil, so England failed to get through to the next round. The post-match analysis focused on blaming Lawrence Wall’s lack of self-discipline. Then the camera switched. In the tunnel leading to the changing room, an intrepid Sky TV reporter buttonholed Wall as he was walking out for the team press conference. ‘Not one of your best days today, Lawrence. What happened?’
Wall muttered for a while, looking at the floor, before turning to the reporter and saying: ‘Ah, well, you know how it is. I was in a bit of bad mood, with this and that at home, y’know?’
‘Ah, the forthcoming home tie against Arsenal?’
‘Nah,’ muttered Wall. ‘Just girlfriend stuff an’ that.’
‘Yes, the lovely Mira Roskova,’ the reporter said, helpfully filling in the details. ‘Well, I’m sure she’s watching you right now. Is there anything you’d like to say to her, exclusively on Sky, Lawrence?’
The player stared at the camera and then the reporter before his forehead creased angrily. ‘Yeah, actually there is.’ His face closed right in on the camera. ‘Mira, thank you very much, right? And don’t worry, love, you can keep the Porsche, the jewellery and the fur coats.’ He blew a kiss, and as he stalked away he could be heard muttering one word: ‘Bitch.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ Jonesy muttered. ‘Now we’re really screwed.’
* * *
Portia Casals usually tried to avoid going into the office at the weekend. When it was her turn to be Stardust Brands’ out-of-hours spokesperson, she could normally manage from home by getting up early on Saturday to skim through the papers while her husband George was still asleep, then getting Tamsin and Columbine their muesli and waiting for the au pair to arrive. A normal weekend would be no more than half a dozen calls about clients, most of which could be dealt with as a proforma ‘no comment’.
Today was going to be different, she realised, when she got the first call at 6.15am, waking George, who thought it must be about his ailing mother. Instead it was some chirpy producer from a London radio station asking for someone to go on their 8am breakfast show to talk about Mira in the light of what happened at the England game last night. She declined that offer but knew that things were going to be bad. The papers arrived at 7am, an enormous bundle that took the paper girl a full minute so shove through her letterbox. The moment she saw the headlines she immediately regretted not having bothered to watch the late sports bulletin last night. She looked at her mobile and saw three missed messages from Jonesy warning her about the news.
The Daily Mirror headline was: ‘England fiasco: Wall blames Mira’. The verdict of the Daily Mail, across two inside pages, was ‘Mira, Mira on the Wall: I just don’t want you, not at all’. Underneath was a centrespread of a suntanned Mira looking sultry in a white bikini, with seven small inset pictures all around her of Wall’s face during many footballing disappointments: glum, petulant and furious, like seven dwarves, all of them grumpy. Very clever, she conceded. The Sun had somehow managed to get hold of a copy of the letter she had written for Mira, and there it was printed on page five superimposed on a picture of Mira and Lawrence Wall hand-in-hand at some formal event the previous month. By 9am, with twenty-three calls logged, Portia realised she would have to go in.
It was a beautiful sunny morning, and being a Saturday an easier bus ride than usual, but when she arrived at the office she knew that the craziness had already started. Right across the glass doors and the imposing white stonework of MacMillan House someone had spray painted in two-foot high letters ‘England hate Mira’ and ‘Kill the slag’.
Inside, the duty security guard apologised to Portia and explained that he had tried to get the paint off with white spirit. ‘You need nail varnish remover,’ Portia said. ‘I’m sure we have some upstairs. Make sure we have the CCTV checked and the footage saved, call maintenance and get someone to remove or cover up the damaged stonework.’
For the next eight hours she never quite caught up. Jonesy and Thad each called with their advice on how to handle the press calls, the maintenance company wouldn’t come until Monday except for lift emergencies, the lunchtime Sky news bulletin had footage of the graffiti-damaged building, and there were already roundtable discussions being advertised for the evening schedule with leading psychologists, feminist writers, footballing pundits and God-knows-who to give their opinion on how ending a relationship can damage your self-esteem.
By the time it got dark shortly before four, Portia had had enough. She scooped up her notes into her bag, set the answering machine to night mode, turned off the lights and decided that she need a big coffee before going home. She donned her nice warm Peruvian poncho, draped the pashmina around her neck, and headed out. She said goodbye to the security guard, who had finally done a decent job on the doors, and stepped out into the bustle of the West End. The two-minute walk to Regent Street cheered her up as she joined the throng of January shoppers. It was only when she went into Costa Coffee that she got a feeling she was being followed. A group of three shaven-headed twenty-something lads, oblivious to the cold in sleeveless sports shirts and jogging trousers, came in after her. She ordered a skinny latte from the barista and risked a look over her shoulder. They were staring right at her, and making it obvious they were doing so. They looked to her like football fans: coarse, tough, belligerent and completely out of place here. One, with a dagger tattooed on his cheek, had a can of Foster’s in his hand. They were muttering to each other and eyeing her.
Portia started to get really nervous. She picked up the coffee and looked around to see if there was a CCTV camera. There was. It might be safe to stay, but she didn’t feel safe. The bus stop wasn’t fa
r away but she wanted the sanctuary of a taxi. To get to the seating area or to get out she now needed to get past them. And they were blocking her path. She took a deep breath and turned to get past them.
‘What the fuck are you looking at?’ said dagger tattoo, his pale eyebrows knitted in fury.
‘Excuse me, please. I just want to get past.’
‘Oooh, I’m so posh! I want to get parrrst!’ he waved his hands in an affected manner, to the amusement of his mates.
‘Look. I don’t know who you are, or what you want…’
‘But I know you,’ dagger whispered, pointing at her, a nicotine-stained finger with its dirty hard-bitten nail just an inch from her mouth. ‘You just tell that Russian slag that she’s as good as dead, right?’
He showed no sign of moving out of the way. You could hear a pin drop in the café. Dagger’s mates pointed at the other customers, eyebrows raised in a warning which said: we’re looking at you. Suddenly the customers all seemed overly engrossed in their phones, laptops and newspapers. Portia looked towards the barista, a tall studenty-type fellow who was staring at them, but radiating a fear that even Portia could feel. Following her eyes, dagger looked at the barista and pointed a menacing arm. ‘Oi, cunt. Don’t you fucking start. Understand? Get me a cider.’
The barista couldn’t meet his gaze. ‘Um. We’ve only got apple juice.’
‘No fucking cider? What a dump.’ With that he threw Portia to the ground, dousing her with scalding coffee. Then leaned over her. ‘She’s fucking dead, understand?’
* * *
Virgil was watching football at home with his mother when he took the call. Portia was in tears, in the ladies toilet at Costa, and it took a while to get from her what had actually happened. The police were already at the scene, waiting to take her statement.
‘Are you hurt?’
‘Just a scalded arm. But they ruined my poncho.’ She started to cry again. ‘And George is out and about somewhere and not answering his phone. Thad and Jonesy’s numbers are busy.’