Kiss Me Quick

by Miller, Danny

  Vince now saw that the knife was gripped between Jack’s teeth, like a pirate; then the fist came thundering towards him. Vince closed his eyes to receive the blow, and it smashed into the bridge of his nose. Crack. He felt – and always worse – heard the bone splinter. On his back now, the sweet sickly taste of blood in his mouth became overwhelming. His mouth was filling up with it, leaving him gurgling, choking, drowning. He opened his eyes, only to see Jack remove the knife from his mouth, grip it ready to plunge. Vince spat a gobbet of blood straight into the older man’s face. Jack recoiled, withdrawing his head in order to wipe the blood from his eyes.

  ‘You fight well, Vincent. Shame that your mind is not so astute. Always the tiresome policeman with his pathetic quest for the truth. We haven’t any of us told the truth since the apple was taken from the tree. And what good would it do her now, anyway?’

  Vince kept quiet, preserved his breath. He knew he’d need it. He felt their potency was equal – he could still win. He thrust himself forward and screwed his thumb into Jack’s eye. Jack’s head jolted back. Vince lunged his arms around to Jack’s side, enough to throw him off balance, then heaved himself up and pushed Jack away. He twisted over on to his front, lifted himself further and, like a sprinter out of the blocks, surged to his feet and gripped hold of the rail. He spun around and saw Jack lying on his back, his left hand covering one eye, his right hand still holding the knife ready to stab downwards.

  Vince hurtled towards the Corsican, raised his right foot ready to stamp his nose into his skull. Just as the raised heel was ready to do the damage, in a flash Jack spun out of the way. Vince’s foot slammed down and, almost as soon as his boot hit the floor, he felt a burning sensation. The Corsican was up on his haunches, and with almighty force had driven the knife into Vince’s foot. Through the leather, the flesh, the tendons, the muscle and bone, pinning his foot solidly to the floor. Jack scuttled back like a satanic spider, then was back up on his feet.

  Blinded with pain, Vince threw his head back and gave it voice. Then he crouched again and, feeling the blade inside his foot severing new tendons with each movement, he grabbed the ebony hilt with both hands, squeezed his eyes shut, pulled a face that was a dress rehearsal for the pain that was due to follow, and in one movement hauled the knife out of his foot. Burning hot blood began oozing through the black leather, like lava from a volcano. Now with the knife firmly in his grip, Vince stood up, ready to plunge into his enemy.

  But Jack was gone.

  Even with the knife in his hand, Vince knew he didn’t stand a chance against the Corsican in the darkness of the warehouse. This was his milieu, his web, and there were enough lethal objects sitting on the shelves for Jack to make use of.

  On the floor, Vince’s eye caught a glint of metal and realized it was the gold lighter. He bent down and picked it up, flipped the lid and ignited it. As the flame burned, he rubbed his thumb over the cartouche containing the etched message, ‘Jack, Pour Toujours’. Vince silently translated it: ‘Jack, Forever’.

  The smell of chemical vapours from below was strong, as he threw the lighter into the black pit. The flame met the fumes and it ignited immediately, sending a column of fire shooting up towards the roof. The wooden frame caught fire, the black plastic canopy instantly melting. It was an impulsive action, for the place was a powder keg, literally. Dynamite and petrol could be stored in the warehouse, for all he knew. But Vince didn’t give a damn, knowing he had to do it – to spite the Corsican, put a dent in his operation. And hopefully send him to Hell with Henry Pierce.

  As fast as he could travel, Vince made his way along the walkways to the stairs. A left, then a right, another left, then straight on. The pain in the foot was gathering momentum. It advanced up his legs, kicked into his stomach, beat on his chest, then burned its way up his oesophagus. It was a quickening and sickening pain, each footfall more painful than the last. Vince wondered when the body’s natural defences would kick in, take charge and eject the invading trauma. He closed his eyes and imagined the cool flow of his natural anaesthetic washing over him, numbing the burning pain in his foot, freezing the nauseous acids in his gut, and soothing his buckled brow. The stratagem worked: he opened his eyes and the stairs were in front of him. He felt the heat behind him, and looked around to see a corridor of fire rolling towards him, greedily burning up everything in its path.

  There were constant explosions as stored fireworks sparkled, banged and rocketed around. He choked on the spiky black smoke filling his lungs, finally dropped the knife and covered his nose and mouth with his hands, squeezed his eyes shut and carried on blindly along the corridor; as fast as he could manage until he finally reached the stairwell. The heat on his back seemed to propel him, guiding him onwards to freedom. It seemed the fire, like himself, wanted to escape into fresh oxygen so that it could breathe. Sensing his position, Vince groped around until he found the stair rail. One hand on the rail, pressure off the injured foot, he made his way down to the ground floor, hobbled over to the light switches and threw them. The huge light bulbs sparked up, throwing a light on the scene for the last time. Vince scoped the warehouse one last time.

  No sign of Jack. Just fire.

  He opened the door, and was standing in the forecourt. Rain beat down on his face, cooling and cleansing, getting rid of the musty smell of all the old things stored in the warehouse, of the chemicals in the black pit, and the deathly decaying stench of Henry Pierce.

  The Cadillac was still parked outside. It was closer than his own car, and Vince could do with the ease of driving one-footed in an automatic. The keys were still in the ignition and Vince climbed inside. He sat for a moment, got his breath back and his bearings. He looked back at the warehouse, where the small round window at the top was aglow – like the spinning disk of the sun. He smiled. Jack, pour toujours? Not any more.

  Vince had never driven an automatic before, but it looked easy, like the dodgems, he decided. He adjusted the rear-view mirror to assess the damage to his face. The nose wasn’t broken, showed no blood or marks at all. The thick black hair had lost its lustre and was now peppered with grey. His brow was strong though, casting a shadow over his eyes. It gave him a somewhat cadaverous look, but this was because the cheekbones were so pronounced. His skin was strangely olive, and had lost the suppleness of youth. He recognized the shape of the mouth, like his own, but the lips were not as full. A hand went to the bottom lip, forefinger and thumb pulled it down, exposing twin rows of strong, straight ivory-coloured teeth. And there, on the inside of the bottom lip, in black ink, was a tattoo of the Moor’s head.

  Vince felt an arm reach around and grip him. An ivory-handled open cutthroat razor was at his throat.

  ‘You know where to go, so drive,’ instructed the Corsican.

  Vince knew exactly where Jack wanted to go – wherever Bobbie was – and he knew he could never let that happen. He dragged his eyes away from the Corsican, and got down to the job at hand. He turned the key and gunned the engine, put the gearstick into drive. Right foot down hard: the car jolted forward. The razor pressed into his throat. Vince looked in the mirror, blood on his Adam’s apple. Jack narrowed his eyes, the crow’s feet spreading into the gullies that ran along his cheekbones.

  ‘I’ve never driven one of these before.’ As true as it was, to Vince’s ear this excuse sounded so prosaic as to be almost laughable. Jack passed no judgement. As Vince edged back in his seat, the edge of the blade followed suit. He drove forward, building speed, while heading towards the quay. Then foot down hard, then a burst of speed. Vince slammed down the brake and the car screeched to a stop. The razor jolted forward, then jumped back to slice open Vince’s chin. The blade dropped to the floor. Jack fell backwards. Vince slammed down on the accelerator. Jack sprang back up, went to grab Vince around the throat. Vince bit hard into his hand – the soft flesh between thumb and forefinger – and tasted Jack’s blood in his mouth. Vince kept his foot pressed on the accelerator. The quayside was disappearing f
ast on both sides, just the black sea ahead of them. Vince opened the door at the last moment, and rolled out of the car. He hit the ground with a dull ache, a hammer blow to the head, burning white light, then stars. The car pitched into the sea.

  Despite the pain, Vince rolled towards the edge of the quay, opened his eyes and watched the fins of the Cadillac disappear like those of a black shark diving into the murky swell. In two heavy gulps, the shark was swallowed up.

  Vince got to his feet, and took on a heavy gasp of night air for ballast to steady himself. He put a hand to the back of his head, which felt warm and worryingly soft. Blood oozed down the back of his neck, warm and sticky and sickening. He turned to haul himself towards his own car, felt his foot wasn’t hurting so much now, perhaps because it was in stiff competition with the searing pain of his broken nose and sliced chin, while his cracked cranium didn’t even bear thinking about.

  As his foot moved with increased ease across the tarmac of the parking lot, he heard exploding glass behind him. The fire inside the warehouse had finally punched its way through the top windows like a glowing orange fist. Vince would’ve loved to have watched the whole place go up, but he didn’t have time. He reached his car, took out his keys and climbed in. Taking a deep breath – and holding it – he peered in the rear-view mirror. No Jack. Just himself. Vince started the engine and drove slowly along the stretch of road leading out of the harbour and on to the coast road. Reaching the telephone box at the entrance, he stopped.

  Ray Dryden was at home in bed, but he was still happy to take the call. Vince laid out the bare bones of the case, telling him how Duval and Tobin were responsible for the body on the beach. And how Duval had the killing on film. He told Ray that he suspected Dr Hans Boehm, Vince’s psychological assessor, had been in on it too; that he was the weak link in this case, who would give everybody up under the right pressure. Finally, Vince told Ray that Jack Regent was dead.

  Ray wanted further details, but Vince was in a hurry, said he’d call in after he got home.

  Vince put the phone down, then took a deep breath and called Bobbie as he had promised. He wanted at least to tell her that he was all right. He wanted to tell her …

  ‘The Seaview Hotel.’

  ‘This is Detective …’ No, not any more, that was over, in another life. ‘Vince … Vincent Treadwell. The lady’s waiting for me in the bar. Can you tell her—’

  ‘Oh yes, but she’s not here, sir.’

  Vince, in alarm, exclaimed, ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘She said she had to go home.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘A taxi picked her up about ten minutes ago, sir.’

  ‘Where … where did she go?’

  ‘She said she had forgotten something … a photo album, I think she mentioned.’

  She couldn’t forget. Bobbie had sat in the hotel bar nursing a brandy, her suitcase sitting next to her. She had tried to empty her mind of what had gone before and think only of her future with Vincent. But her past wouldn’t let her go; it kept pulling her back in.

  So there she now sat, on the floor of the apartment, surrounded by the world of Jack Regent: the fine art on the walls, the antiques, the books and the past. That past she had invented for herself in the world of the photo album. As she turned its tired, faded pages, it still called out to her. The images of the family came to life like a film featuring the happy narrative of a fictional world. The sprawling farm house in the New Forest, horses nuzzling in the stable, black Labradors foraging around in the grounds. Her mother, the headmistress in the local school, with her joyous smile. She seldom wore any make-up, occasionally some lipstick to bring out the pleasing shape of her mouth when she and her father went up to town to see a show. And then here was her loving father, the doctor with the kind face; shirtsleeves rolled up at the weekend, being the keen gardener. He was her real father …

  * * *

  The street-entrance door was off the latch, as he made his way into the dark hallway. Past the old-fashioned gated lift that wasn’t working. And if ever he had needed the damn thing, it was now. It was on the stairs that his swollen foot announced itself. The light foot kept levering its way upwards, taking the weight of the other, which then landed with a distinctive thud …

  They say it’s darkest just before the dawn; it was certainly the quietest. A vast silence seemed to be compressed and distilled into one moment. And in that moment, she heard it – like she’d heard it so many times. The uneven footfalls of the nightmare climbing the stairs. And now she knew who it was, who it really was, who it had always been. And she knew what would happen when the door opened and he entered. She put the photo album down. Nothing could hurt her now, because she was already dead. She died the night that man came up the stairs and took her … She died, didn’t she? Henry Pierce – on his orders – had killed her, hadn’t he?

  The blood still wasn’t stemmed. With each new step it oozed up through the punctured leather like molten lava. He gripped the banister, focusing deliberately on its ornate metalwork decoration: cherubs and satyrs picked out in gilt. He pulled himself up its cold, polished rail as if it were a rope securing him to the mountain he was ascending. The adrenalin, the fear, the hatred, the sheer bloody excitement of the battle and the joy of victory against the monsters of his past, all of them had worked as an anaesthetic. But now it was fading as the pain returned and kicked in. Surging up from his foot, running through his body and twisting his brow. It was becoming unbearable again. It even took away his voice. He would have called out to her, but he didn’t want her to hear him weakened like this, beaten and breathless. He had to stay strong for her. That was his job now. He had to get her away and look after her. Vince knew that things had changed. He knew that the two of them had changed. But she didn’t know just how much – only the half of it …

  Her eyes squeezed shut, she shook her head violently, trying to shake those ascending footfalls from her ears. But still they approached, relentless. When her eyes opened again, her gaze fell upon the glint of a metal object amid the broken black heap in the middle of the room …

  Four floors up and he was finally on the right landing. He took it in slow steps, part of him never wanting to reach the door, never wanting to have to confront Bobbie. Thinking that even if he didn’t tell her the truth, she would see it in his eyes. Something that men like Jack could never understand is that the truth is something you can never fully conceal. It lives, it breathes and it needs to be told.

  And then there was the crime back in 1939, Bobbie’s mother and … and her lover. Didn’t they deserve the truth? Didn’t they deserve to have their story written up as a matter of record? Their murders solved? As Vince had told Bobbie when he first met her, People don’t just disappear. They go somewhere and eventually we find them. He was still a policeman, still a detective.

  He finally stood at the door he was about to enter, and listened for signs of life within. All he heard was his own breath, low and unsure and fading fast. He looked down at his shirt, soaked red with blood from the razor cut to his chin and from the broken nose. He ran his hands through his hair, and as he reached the crown he felt the blood there, too. His vision blurred. He felt sweat prickle down the back of his legs, his breath becoming laboured …

  * * *

  She was standing up now, the gun clasped in her hand. Firm, resolute and wide awake. She aimed it at the door. Did it work? Vincent had warned her that it should never be fired … but she had no choice now. Her breathing was measured. She was calm. She knew what she had to do, and pulled back the hammer …

  The handle turned.

  She saw the door gradually inch open. She didn’t even want to see his face. She squeezed the trigger.

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  Three shots. Three bullet holes clustering in the centre of the door. Her ears ringing. The bang, bang, bang, was so loud it filled the room, echoing and ricocheting around the apartment as if trying to find release. The smell of cordite and sulphur,
her eyes stinging and watering. She had absorbed the gun’s recoil and held her position, ready to fire more shots if necessary.

  ‘No! Please God, no!’ she cried out as she saw him.

  Vincent stumbled into the room. He dropped to the floor. Bobbie dropped the gun, ran over and joined him. She held his bloody and beaten face in her hands and peppered it with soft kisses; kissing away the blood, cleansing him with her lips and trying to void his pain. Her voice juddered and broke up, hot tears salting her eyes, blinding her. ‘I thought … thought it was him, Vincent.’

  Vince hushed her, putting his forefinger to her lips. ‘He’s gone, Bobbie. He’s gone forever.’ His eyes flickered, his pupils dilating and contracting, sliding in and out of consciousness.

  ‘Kiss me. Please, kiss me,’ she said, her tears splashing on to his upturned face, the blood dissolving wherever they fell.

  He lifted his hand towards her, his fingertips traced her profile: those black pencil-line eyebrows, the tip of her nose, the dips and curves of her lips. He smiled her a smile that was comforting, reassuring and strangely serene. ‘It’s all right, Bobbie, he’s gone … Listen to me, Bobbie, it’s all over. It’s all over, baby. No one can hurt you any more. You don’t need your photos any more.’

  Vincent noticed the dark roots of her bleached-blonde bob were just showing through. He studied the eyes, the dimple in her chin – not deep like her father’s, but still there – and the full rich lips and olive skin. That face, that was the face he’d recognized the first time he saw it. A face he’d known all his life. Did she know who she was? Did she maybe know the truth? Could she see the truth … could she see the truth in his eyes?