by Dc Alden
Touché, bitch.
The truth was the American hailed from a different universe and Vicky had been drawn into his orbit. In a short time they’d gravitated towards each other like two shining celestial bodies, their compatibility written in the stars. By comparison, Roy felt like an insignificant lump of moon rock. No, more like an alien turd on a lump of moon rock.
Vicky’s words pulled him back to the table.
‘Things have changed, Roy. Nate’s been offered a position, a senior one.’
Roy responded with a sarcastic handclap. ‘Congratulations. Remind him to take the silver spoon out of his arse before he sits on his new throne.’
‘It’s in New York. He wants Max and me to join him.’
Roy’s face dropped. ‘Say again?’
‘He wants us all to go to New York. His family is very influential, so visas and employment won’t be a problem. Max would be taken care of too—’
‘He’s asked you to marry him,’ Roy realised.
Across the table, Vicky took a breath. ‘Yes. Once things are settled between us.’
‘Settled? That’s cold.’
‘It’s a wonderful opportunity, Roy. There’s a special school for Max in Connecticut. We’re talking the very best in care and facilities.’ She reached inside her laptop bag. ‘Here, I printed out their prospectus. That’s for you, to keep.’
Roy skimmed the pages. It was all ivy-covered buildings and state-of-the-art amenities under a cloudless Connecticut sky. ‘You could come and visit whenever you like,’ he heard Vicky say. ‘We’ll pay your airfare of course.’
Roy swiped the prospectus to one side. Damp rings of coffee soaked through the paper. ‘That’s all well and good, but as you rightly pointed out, we’re still married. I’m Max’s father. I have rights.’
Vicky plucked a tissue from her pocket and blotted the prospectus. She avoided Roy’s sullen gaze. ‘We wouldn’t do anything without your permission, Roy. Nate has a family lawyer. This could all be done with the minimum of fuss and at no expense to you. You can meet him if you want. I really think—’
‘On what grounds? The divorce, I mean.’
‘We’ve been apart for two years, so a no-fault separation would work. I’m not interested in blame.’
‘Sounds like the paperwork’s already been drawn up.’
‘Nate is taking up his position in the next few weeks. He wants us to travel together. As a family.’
Roy sat in silence for a while. She’d wounded him, but in doing so she’d also handed him a little power. And he intended to use it. He checked his watch again. ‘I’ve got to get back. I’m late already.’
Vicky reached across the table. ‘Please, Roy, we need to discuss this.’
He shook her hand off his arm. ‘I don’t have to do anything.’ He stood up and pushed his way past the table. Cold coffee slopped across the prestigious Connecticut school. He leaned over her.
‘You’ve got some nerve, Vicky. You were never there for me, so why should I help you? As for divorce, well, a courtroom might be a good place to get everything out in the open. Like a missing brother-in-law. Someone might actually sit up and take a bit of notice.’
Vicky shot out of her chair. He could see the pain in her eyes, the angry twist to her mouth.
‘Don’t do this, Roy—’
‘Tough shit. Max stays here. You don’t like it, I’ll see you in court.’
He dodged between the tables, flushed by his rare victory. He swerved towards the counter and ordered a coffee to go. He heard Vicky’s heels clicking angrily from the coffee shop and the satisfaction of his triumph quickly faded. Vicky wanted a new life, that was all, but still Roy found it difficult to forgive her. In the early days she’d been sympathetic about Jimmy while Roy had chased shadows. They’d talked, and argued, then fought, long and hard. Bitterness had turned to poison. Vicky left, taking Max with her. She’d joined the Herald but still she shied away from the story for fear of getting burned by her personal involvement. Roy hated her for it, but deep down he knew she was right. Jimmy was gone. A newspaper story, if there was one, wouldn’t bring him back. She’d broken his heart, twice. All he wanted now was revenge, and she’d given him the opportunity to exact it. Yet surprisingly, it didn’t make him feel any better. At that moment he wasn’t sure whom he disliked more, himself or Vicky.
Out on the concourse he took a detour to the men’s toilet. He threw his half-finished coffee into a waste bin. He urinated then washed his hands. He dried them on a fistful of paper towels that followed the coffee into the bin.
The radio on his hip crackled. He left the toilet.
Not once did he look in the mirror.
At that exact moment, a hundred feet away, Frank Marshall was moving through the Arrivals hall towards the exit.
He’d passed through customs without incident, using one of the passports taken from his personal strongbox in Manhattan. In this case it was a Belgian one in the name of Doug LeBreton, and although Frank’s face had changed since the original photo was taken, it hadn’t changed that much. Gone were the ponytail and the scruffy clothes; now Frank wore a grey suit and blue tie, a black raincoat draped over one arm, a leather carry-on in his other hand. He looked like a businessmen, not the first-class type but more of a travelling salesman, an eighty-hour-a-week guy who lived for commission and would travel anywhere to get it. Generic. Forgettable. Like the rest of his fellow passengers on the American Airlines red-eye flight he looked a little beat, having endured a bumpy ride east in the grip of a fast-moving jet stream. The aircraft had landed on time.
Now he had a thirty-minute window, maybe less, to get clear of the airport.
Overhead signs pointed him to subways and bus stops. Frank kept moving towards the cab rank beyond the terminal doors. Outside the air was cold and damp, the grey sky already darkening, the roar of distant aircraft competing with the black snake of taxicabs rattling in front of the terminal. He spied the cameras overhead, the faces of the crowd around him, the cars that loitered nearby. He had fifteen minutes now, maybe less. Soon the phones would be ringing in a dozen agencies across Europe, Doug LeBreton’s mugshot broadcast to police, security services, Interpol and others. He kept his head low and shuffled forward to the head of the line. A black cab squealed to a stop and Frank ducked inside.
‘Where to, mate?’
‘London. The West End.’
The cab pulled away. Frank spun around in his seat, swiping the condensation from the rear window. He watched the traffic behind them, saw no wild movements, no sudden acceleration or changes of direction. They joined the freeway into the city. As the driver answered a personal phone call Frank shoved the now-useless Belgian passport deep behind his seat.
Just before they reached the sprawl of Hammersmith, Frank ordered the driver to pull over. He paid the man in cash and disappeared into the darkness of a nearby park, emerging onto a busy high street on the other side. He checked a route map and mingled with a group of shoppers clustered beneath the shelter of a bus stop. He waited ten minutes and boarded a bus towards southwest London.
An hour later he checked into a modest hotel on Richmond Hill. The lobby was empty when he arrived and he paid cash, in advance, for two weeks. For an extra hundred the manager was persuaded to overlook the formalities and Frank was given his key. The room was clean and comfortable, and the view beyond the window provided a glimpse of the river Thames at the bottom of the hill.
He took a long shower, switched the lights off, and stretched out on the bed.
For the first time in forty-eight hours he could relax a little. As his breathing slowed and sleep beckoned, Frank clutched the dog-eared travel Bible to his chest and thought about the path of redemption he’d chosen. He was a ways down that path now, his sights set on another who was lost, who mourned a loved one and sought closure.
Frank would deliver that closure, and more, before the demons, both real and imagined, caught up with him again.
And when
they did, Frank, with Jesus’s help, would destroy them all.
Chapter Six
The bus rumbled to a stop outside the Fitzroy Estate.
Roy shuffled off with a dozen others and trudged beneath the concrete archway, a fine mist falling through the yellow wash of streetlamps. On nights like these the estate reminded him of a prison, dull grey concrete blocks surrounding the exercise yard, the long balconies stacked on top of each other like tiers of cells. Only this prison had no guards, no watchtowers or lockdown. There were no bars or fences either, but Roy felt trapped within its walls just the same.
At the top of the stairs two men loitered on the landing. They were draped over the balcony, the pungent smell of cannabis drifting on the air. Roy recognised one of them, his neighbour’s latest boyfriend. Dwayne, or something. He seemed oblivious to the cold, wearing only jeans and a white singlet. A comb with a black fist handle poked out of his unkempt afro. The other man was better dressed for the weather, a New York baseball cap pulled low over his brow, a black hoodie over that, black jeans and trainers. The street robber’s uniform of choice. They stopped talking as Roy approached.
‘Evening,’ Roy muttered, fiddling with his key.
They didn’t answer, and neither did Roy expect them to. This was the Fitzroy, after all.
He shut the front door behind him.
He kicked his shoes off and made a cup of tea in the kitchen. He used the rest of the water to stir up a curry-flavoured Pot Noodle and retired to the living room. He slumped onto the couch in front of the TV. He ate. He channel surfed. He was bored, and tired, but not enough to go to bed. He toyed with his phone, and thought about texting an apology to Vicky. He decided against it. She was probably with Nate.
He stretched out on the sofa, found a late night movie on the TV, one about a kid who could jump through time and space just by using the power of thought. He wished he could do that too.
He fell asleep.
The phone trembled on the coffee table. Roy bolted upright, startled. He cuffed saliva from the corner of his mouth and fumbled for the remote. The time jumper was gone, replaced by a man and woman kissing in soft, black and white focus and speaking in ridiculously posh voices. He snapped the TV off. He scooped up his phone; almost one in the morning. He didn’t recognise the number. He thought it might be Vicky, a new phone maybe, but calling him wasn’t her style. She was a texter, her messages sharp, disapproving.
‘Hello?’
‘Open the door, Roy.’
Oh shit.
‘Sammy?’
‘Open the door. Leave the lights off.’
The phone went dead. Roy sprang off the couch. He dropped the bolt on the front door, eased it open, peered along the landing. Deserted, the prison silent, slumbering like a dormant volcano. Then he heard movement in the stairwell, footsteps, the rustle of clothing. He retreated back down the hallway. A familiar shadow loomed in the doorway—Tank, Sammy’s long-time driver and minder.
‘In the sitting room,’ she commanded.
Tank’s voice was as deep as a man’s. She was a former cage fighter, and used to work the door at one of Sammy’s nightspots. She was tall, just over six feet, and had one of those dreadlock Mohawks that was woven into a thick clump at the back of her head. She was probably the butchest, most intimidating woman Roy had ever met. He slapped the light off.
‘Pull the curtains.’
Roy scraped them together.
He heard the front door close, the bolt slide into place. His legs felt hollow.
Two men entered the sitting room. The light came back on. Sammy’s face was shrouded in an expensive designer hoodie.
‘Jesus Christ, Sammy, you scared me to death.’
Roy cursed himself for uttering the word. He didn’t want to put ideas in anyone’s head.
Sammy flicked his hood off and smoothed his grey mane. ‘Shut up.’
Roy complied. Then glanced at the other man in the room, the one dwarfed between Sammy and Tank, a little older, fifties, carrying a black sports bag and wearing a dark coat and jeans. His balding grey hair was shaved close, his broken nose spread wide across his deeply lined face. He sat down on the couch and kicked his trainers off. He produced a packet of cigarettes from his coat pocket and lit one. Sammy broke the difficult silence.
‘Roy, this is Derek. He’s going to be staying here for a while.’
‘He’s what?’
Derek nailed him with a malignant stare. ‘Put the kettle on, son. I’m dying for a cuppa.’ He was a Scot, his accent thick and harsh.
Roy’s feet were rooted to the carpet. ‘What was that?’ he stammered.
Derek glanced at Sammy. ‘Forrest fucking Gump, this one.’ He sniggered, but the humour never made it to his cold grey eyes. ‘Tea. Now.’
Roy willed his legs to move and headed for the kitchen. He filled the kettle, grabbed a mug from an overhead cupboard. Sammy trailed in behind him.
‘What’s going on, Sammy?’
‘Derek needs to lay low for a while.’
‘He can’t stay here.’
‘Yes he can. You live alone, rarely go out, no girlfriend—wait a minute, you’re not a poof, are you, Roy?’
‘Course not.’
Sammy smiled. ‘Just checking. Like I say, you live alone, no regular visitors. You and Derek are a good fit.’
Roy’s mind raced. ‘There’s no room.’
‘Really? Far as I can tell you’ve got two bedrooms in this shoebox.’
‘Yeah, mine and Max’s.’
Sammy’s smile disappeared. ‘Don’t lie to me. That kid hasn’t stayed here for over a year. The mums down at the school, they like to gossip. Seems you’re not pulling your weight as a dad, ignoring the kid. Still, I can see why; when the fruit of your loins turns out to be a window licker I guess it’s hard to connect on an emotional level. And your ex, she thinks you’re a loser. The word is, she wouldn’t let him come within a thousand yards of this shithole. Smart girl.’
He took a step closer, looming over Roy. ‘Derek stays. And a word of advice—him and me go back a long way, so it would be advisable on your part to pay him the appropriate level of respect.
‘Course,’ Roy mumbled, pulling open a drawer and fishing for a spoon. There was no point in arguing. His life had just gone up a few notches on the shit-o-meter. Or down. Whatever. ‘How long will he be here?’
‘A few weeks. Six, tops.’
Roy’s eyes widened. ‘Six weeks? Jesus Christ, I’ve got a life here, Sammy.’
‘All evidence to the contrary.’
Sammy produced a thick roll of fifty-pound notes from his pocket and peeled several off. ‘That’s for Derek’s keep. He likes a drink, but he’s a punchy drunk, so stay out of his way.’ He slapped the wad onto the counter.
Roy stared at the money, more cash than he’d held in his wallet for longer than he could remember. He had a sudden mental image of himself at the airport, squeezing into a window seat, flying off to the sun, Sammy’s cash stuffed into his pocket. Never coming back.
The image melted away as a cold sweat prickled Roy’s skin. ‘This is about my job, right, Sammy?’
‘Bingo.’
‘I can’t do anything illegal. They don’t just sack you, they prosecute.’
‘You’d best be careful then.’
Roy felt like a panicked animal, a pigeon desperate to escape a lofty room. He wanted to charge past Sammy, fling open the front door, run until his lungs burst. Coarse laughter drifted in from the room next door. ‘Don’t make me do this,’ Roy whispered. ‘You know I’m straight, always have been. I just want a quiet life. I can’t afford to get mixed up in—’
Sammy grabbed Roy around the throat and slammed his head against a kitchen unit. Pain flashed and crockery rattled. Sammy’s strong fingers dug into his neck. Roy wheezed.
‘Sammy, please—’
The kettle whistled, filling the kitchen with steam. Sammy grabbed it with his free hand.
‘You ever wat
ch the History Channel Roy? I saw this programme once, about the Roman Empire. Back then they used to pour molten lead into people’s mouths as a form of execution. Cruel fuckers, eh?’
He held the kettle close. Roy could feel the heat on his cheek.
‘We can work things out a couple of ways, Roy. Tank wanted me to use violence. She gets off on it, crazy fucking bitch.’
He lowered the kettle and dropped his hand.
Roy coughed and spluttered.
‘I said no. I told her, I’ve known Roy Sullivan since he was a kid. Violence would work, sure, but I’m going to cut him some slack, for old time’s sake. No rough stuff, just these.’ Sammy handed over his BlackBerry. ‘Scroll through them. There’s some good ones there.’
Roy took the phone. He jolted as if he’d been stung. The picture on the screen was of him, seated in a booth in an unfamiliar night spot, a drink in one hand, giving the camera the finger with the other, a stupid grin plastered across his face. He swiped the screen; a topless girl straddled across his lap, platinum-blond hair falling down her back, voluminous breasts thrust in Roy’s face. What the hell?
‘Keep going,’ Sammy urged.
Roy did as he was told. With each image the mood darkened; clinking glasses with two hard-looking men, one shaven-headed, the other lank-haired, both suited, both tattooed, dead eyes and expensive wristwatches. A serious Roy in deep conversation with same. Roy doing a line of coke.
The last picture was the worst—the lap dancer, staring into the camera, her face ashen, eyes blackened, a deep cut across the bridge of her nose. Dried blood caked her hairline, her lips. Sammy snatched the phone from Roy’s trembling hand.
‘That’s Tank’s handiwork. Sofia didn’t mind too much, though. You know what these Russian birds are like, hard as nails. She got well paid too. In any case, she’d swear in court that it was you who did that.’