by Rose Edmunds
Rudi held me tight as I sobbed uncontrollably once more. He smelt not of fancy aftershave, but clean and healthy, as though he’d spent the day walking through a meadow.’
‘You’re determined to beat yourself up, Amy,’ he said, when my crying jag had subsided. ‘But consider this—up until that night alcohol repulsed you, and then you fancied a glass of wine. Why?’
‘If only I knew.’
‘Is it possible Zowie had already passed away? That your hormones had shifted allowing your taste buds to return to normal? Isn’t this explanation more reasonable?’
This hadn’t struck me before, but now he’d raised the possibility, I saw the logic in what he said.
‘But isn’t that letting myself off the hook?’
‘Don’t you want to be exonerated?’
‘I do but…’
‘But it feels disloyal to your son to absolve yourself of responsibility?’
I nodded—he’d nailed it. And the reason I hadn’t lost the five pounds excess weight was because it represented a physical link to Zowie and losing it would be like expunging his memory.
‘Can I give you my advice, Amy? I don’t suppose you’ll take it, though you ought to for the sake of your mental health.’
‘What?’
‘Forgive yourself and move on. You were the one who told me regrets were pointless—remember?’
I recalled the evening at the castle and indeed I had uttered those words. But advising others is always so much easier than managing one’s own life. Nevertheless, I vowed to follow his advice and even, in that moment, thought myself capable of doing so.
‘Now, shall we try again with the champagne,’ he suggested.
So we repeated the toast and this time I meant it.
‘And you know what,’ I said. ‘There are Pearson Malone partners even more insane than Crazy Amy.’
He laughed as I showed him the article about Claude Lavigueur, the lunatic corporate finance partner from Toronto.
‘Alien invasions,’ he said. ‘Well, whatever next?’
I was conscious of monopolising the conversation, which I hadn’t intended.
‘And what about you, Rudi—you give me all this wise counsel, but who advises you?’
‘No one.’
‘Maybe you don’t need any guidance?’
‘Oh, Amy, we both know that I do.’
Now it was my turn to play therapist, and I listened as Rudi described how the obsession with salvaging his heritage had blighted his entire adult life. It had destroyed two marriages, deprived him of a close relationship with his children, and left him little time to nourish his soul.
‘Here’s my take on it,’ I said when he was done. ‘The assets have been restored now. Job done, and you must reclaim your life.’
‘But how?’’ he asked. ‘The Strnad empire is my life.’
‘Which is the whole problem.’
‘And the solution?’
‘You should hire a business manager, like you were talking about at the vineyard.’
‘I was only kidding. But if I did hire one you’d be perfect.’
‘It’s OK—I’m not angling for the job. But I reckon that’s the remedy— it would take the pressure off and allow you to rediscover your true self.’
‘You could be right,’ he said, when we’d talked around the idea a little more. ‘How strange I was joking about it, like part of me knew. Isn’t it amazing?’
‘Not amazing at all. The best consultants understand that the client already knows what the answer is—the skill is in drawing it out.’
As Rudi disappeared into the bathroom, Little Amy showed up, wearing polka-dot pyjamas.
‘Well, well, well—what a performance. Aren’t you ashamed you’re so fat he didn’t even make a pass?’
‘He didn’t make a pass because he’s a gentleman,’ I hissed back at her.
‘And you didn’t tell him about me,’ she said, pouting. ‘It’s like I’m an embarrassment to you.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘You’re just not that important.’
I had toyed with confiding in Rudi about Little Amy, but held back because acknowledging her existence only gave her more power. And besides, everyone was entitled to keep at least one secret.
‘I never knew you had all those feelings.’
‘Those feelings are your feelings, but you’re too immature to understand them yet. Now piss off and leave me alone.’
‘Charming—and I shan’t be back.’
‘Suits me.’
And then she was gone, leaving Rudi and me to spend a chaste night cuddled up together.
***
At breakfast, Mel asked rather pointedly whether we’d slept well.
‘Yes, very soundly, thank you,’ Rudi replied, in tones suggesting further enquiries were unwelcome.
I glowered at Mel. What Rudi and I had shared was way more intimate than the sordid sexual thrills she provided for Beresford. Unburdening myself had given me a complete mental reset, which was both energising and exciting. And I sensed Rudi felt the same.
Ignoring the frosty atmosphere, Mel cheerfully announced she, Beresford and Hana were all booked on afternoon flights to Zurich.
‘See,’ she said to Beresford, waving her phone at him with a simpering smile, ‘this modern technology has its uses. And I booked the hotel too. Now I’m off to pack.’
‘I’d better supervise you,’ said Beresford, following her, ‘or I fear I’ll never find anything again.’
We left Rudi to liaise with Hana and make arrangements with the bank and interpreter.
‘I must leave now,’ he said, kissing me on the cheek. ‘We will see each other again soon, I hope.’
‘Don’t let me be a gooseberry,’ said George.
‘You’re not,’ I laughed.
Rudi put his hand on my shoulder by way of farewell, like Trevor Howard in the film Brief Encounter.
‘You’re in love with him?’ George asked after Rudi had gone, having somehow detected, yet misinterpreted, the emotional energy between us.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m done with love. I once thought I was in love, but it was a sham. And then I fell properly in love, but he only loved a perfect version of Amy, so that didn’t end well. And then a man fell in love with me, but I never appreciated it until too late.’
‘I see,’ George replied. ‘That does sound like an unfortunate chain of events, though it’s a small sample on which to base your conclusions.’
‘Believe me, it isn’t. And Rudi’s in the same place. Two marriages wrecked by his zeal for restitution—he daren’t risk another. We’re friends, and nothing happened last night. I’m not like Mel, pouncing upon the first available man.’
‘Oh I gathered that,’ said George, with a twinkle in his eye. ‘Otherwise, you would have pounced on me.’
‘When I develop a fetish for skinny octogenarians, you’ll be the first in line.’
‘I’m flattered,’ he said.
‘Don’t be—you’re the only skinny octogenarian I know.’
As we passed reception, Beresford was conducting an animated and detailed audit of his minibar bill before checking out.
‘See what I mean about him being a tightwad,’ hissed Mel, who was standing nearby, trying to look as though she wasn’t with him.
22
Obeying George’s instructions, I telephoned Stan on the number he’d given me, and arranged to meet at the usual place that evening.
George seemed annoyed when I reported back. I inferred that he had mixed emotions about the whole business and possibly regretted agreeing to see Stan, but found it easier to voice his discontent about the proposed venue.
‘You might at least have booked a decent restaurant rather than a sleazy wine bar—show the man a bit of respect.’
‘Stan isn’t a “decent restaurant” person,’ I argued. ‘The guy is weird, and he’d be totally out of place in a fancy eatery. Apart from anything else, he smells awful.’
; ‘What of?’
‘Hoarding,’ I replied, leaving George none the wiser.
‘OK,’ he said finally. ‘I guess we don’t want to make him uncomfortable.’
With time to kill before our appointment, we took the funicular railway up to Petřín Hill and then rode the elevator to the top of the mini Eiffel tower.
I wore the new Armani puffer jacket and hoped George wasn’t offended by me ditching the fur. I considered making an excuse but decided against it, because why shouldn’t a girl buy a new coat if she wants to?
‘Nice jacket,’ he said in his laconic style.
And in the same vein, I thanked him for the compliment.
‘It’s extraordinary,’ he said after we’d come down from the tower, ‘but I recall this park too, from all those years ago. That photograph of me with my parents may have been taken here. You know, I keep asking myself how my life would have been if my mother hadn’t put me on the train.’
‘Probably much shorter.’
‘Yes I know that, but it’s hard to imagine it not continuing as before.’
‘I’m the same, sometimes. Suppose my father had lived. Suppose…’
I was thinking about Zowie, but easy as it had been to confide in Rudi, I still couldn’t bring myself to tell George.
‘… but it’s not productive—we must move on from where we are, because we sure as hell can’t start from any other place. And you said it yourself, George, on the first night we were here—you can’t change the past.’
‘But you can influence the future,’ he said, as we strolled through the park.
Precisely. As Rudi had said, I must forgive myself and move on, not just for Zowie, but for all the missteps I’d made along the way.
I seemed to be the only person in town wearing dark glasses, so I spotted the thickset guy with the shades at once, and in short order confirmed my theory that he was tailing us. I remembered Rudi’s description of the man who’d accosted Brabec at the vineyard—was he the same person?
‘Don’t look behind you, but we’ve got company,’ I said to George. ‘Let’s see if we can shake him off.’
‘How?’
‘The maze of mirrors. I can’t imagine anywhere better than a maze to lose someone.’
We’d bought combined tickets for both the tower and the maze, but now there was a much greater urgency to visit the second attraction. As it was low season, there was no queue to gain admittance, but still we hoped our pursuer would be delayed by purchasing a ticket.
As we entered, we were greeted by an infinity of reflections, reminiscent of all the glass and mirrors in my old offices at Pearson Malone.
‘Which way?’ asked George.
‘Follow me.’
As I’d learned in the topology module of my maths degree, there’s an infallible mathematical method of navigating a maze. Keep your left hand in contact with the left hand wall throughout. This technique will lead you in and out of blind alleys but ultimately you’ll emerge at the exit.
I explained this to George, who seemed sceptical.
‘Let’s hope the chap tailing us isn’t a mathematician too,’ he observed.
As I caught sight of the multiple reflections of our man, I recognised my strategy was flawed in several respects. First, the maze was a lot less convoluted than I’d expected for the price we’d paid. Second, the mirrors kept us in his eye line when we’d otherwise have been out of sight. Third, the man was armed with a gun.
Shit.
I stood rooted to the spot for a few seconds, thrown back in time to the traumatic night when Ed had died. I forced myself back into the present, which seemed equally fraught with danger. We were caught—like rats in a trap.
The gun appeared to be pointing directly at us, but the mirrors caused confusion. One of evil Ed’s favourite phrases had been “perception is reality”, but this stale corporate maxim was never less true than here in this maze. Abandoning my system, I pulled George round a corner, but the man was still in our line of vision. And if we could see him, he could see us.
A shot rang out, which missed us but shattered a mirror. A woman screamed.
‘Let’s get the hell out, George.’ I hoped we’d blunder our way through before we were cornered, or the gunman struck lucky.
He fired again, and I stopped looking in the mirrors—it was too scary. After a few long minutes, we exited panting into a funfair hall of mirrors.
‘Seal the maze!’ I shouted to an attendant on duty, who was on his walkie-talkie.
‘Too late,’ he said in broken English. ‘He escaped the way he came in.’
And then looking at me, he said, ‘You need a doctor.’
Only then did I notice the growing red stain on the sleeve of my Armani jacket and a throbbing pain in my arm.
So much for us being safer in Prague.
***
My first thought was the jacket, ruined even before the paramedics cut off the sleeve. Damn—it had cost the best part of a thousand Euros. How I wished I’d worn the fur—this would have been a wonderful excuse for getting rid of the wretched garment. Perhaps Beresford was right about me being shallow, after all.
Thanks to the jacket, the bullet had only grazed the arm. They told me I’d been incredibly lucky, but I didn’t feel lucky at all. Once I’d escaped from the emergency room and subsequent police interview, the full horror of the attack began to sink in. Someone had tried to kill me—again.
As George steered me towards a taxi rank, I scanned every minute detail of the tourists and locals thronging the streets. I caught sight of a man in dark glasses, panicked and dragged George into a doorway, before realising it wasn’t the same guy. At this rate, my crippling paranoia would finish me off long before the bad guys got to me. By contrast George exhibited an eerie calm, but then he hadn’t been hit.
‘It rather proves Beresford’s point, doesn’t it?’ he said with a sangfroid I couldn’t share. ‘They haven’t caught on to the Zurich connection yet.’
‘I suppose that must be right.’
I derived no satisfaction from validating Beresford’s theory. And why the hell had we been targeted anyway? Was Beresford himself behind it? For all Mel’s faith in him, I still didn’t trust him an inch, and he might well have deliberately misled our enemies by directing them to Prague.
‘You don’t need to come with me to Stan, if you’re not up to it. I can manage on my own.’
‘No—I’m fine, honestly. Just give me five minutes to calm down and fetch my fur from the room.’
I wasn’t fine at all. The powerful painkillers the hospital had dispensed had already reduced my pain to a dull ache, but the tranquillisers had scarcely touched the jagged edges of dread. In truth, I’d agreed to accompany George because being alone terrified me. I sat down on the edge of the bed, trying to recover my poise, and more or less succeeding until Little Amy put in an appearance. I’d hoped I might have seen the last of her, but no such luck. She could never resist showing herself whenever I was at a low ebb.
‘Go away—I don’t need you now.’
‘Oh but you do,’ she declared, in smug tones. ‘Look at you—you’re a quivering wreck.’
‘Wouldn’t you be a quivering wreck in my position?’
‘Nothing scares me.’
This wasn’t even true. When I’d been seconds away from death, she’d been utterly panicked at being left alone.
‘Oh I remember one time…’
‘That was only in your head,’ she countered. ‘Everything about me is in your head.’
I had no energy to unpick the inconsistencies in this new line of logic she’d developed. But it seemed to allow her to take credit for my success, while passing the buck when the shit hit the fan, putting me in a no-win situation. If I was done with being Crazy Amy, I needed rid of this turbulent ghost.
‘Anyway, I only came to tell you to brace up,’ she said sternly. ‘Like your new best buddy Rudi said, if they’d wanted to kill you, you’d be dead.’
/> Before I could respond, she faded away into the ether, leaving me unsure if drawing comfort from her timely reminder was merely playing into her hands.
I insisted we took the Metro rather than another taxi, since avoiding crowds and transport would only feed rather than allay my anxieties.
‘If you’re sure?’ said George, sounding doubtful.
I carried out a rapid risk-assessment of everyone standing on the platform in the Metro station. How long would I continue monitoring my surroundings with such paranoid thoroughness? When I’d been in this position before, I eventually became sick of expending mental energy on fearful precautions. But then I knew who my enemies were—rational professionals capable of assessing whether it was worth the bother of eliminating me. This time, by contrast, I had no information about their identity or objectives. Hopefully Beresford’s announcement of the discovery would take the heat out of the situation. Unless of course he had created it…
Once on the train, George indignantly waved aside the efforts of a young woman who tried to give up her seat for him.
‘I’m not old,’ he protested, ‘despite appearances to the contrary.’ She didn’t have much English, but she understood the gist alright and rolled her eyes at me as though to say “what a nutter”. I’d have liked the seat myself, but she didn’t offer it, even as she eyed the sling on my arm.
23
We arrived at the wine bar to yet more banter from the owner.
‘Ah—every time a new man,’ he said, in heavily accented English, his throaty chuckle seguing into a coughing fit.
Stan was already waiting, and had made more than a token effort with his appearance. Gone was the filthy overcoat and in its place a jacket no less flattering than Beresford’s tweed, even if it did smell strongly of mothballs. He wore a clean-ish shirt and had visited a barber. Even the dirt under his fingernails was less prominent. He still honked though.
I saw George draw back at the smell as the two men hugged. Perhaps he now understood why an expensive restaurant was an unsuitable place for the rendezvous.