PART TWO
Chapter Eleven
‘There you are, Guv. Bein’ a bit careful this afternoon, are we?’ The bookmaker grinned in impudent fashion at Adam; a small roll of banknotes changed hands. ‘Another day you’d ’a’ broke me with that one.’
Adam shrugged, noncommittally, took the money and tucked it into his pocket. As he turned from the booth the man behind him slapped his shoulder. ‘Sinclair! How goes it? Winning as usual?’
Adam blinked at a barely familiar face, hid his irritation beneath a meaningless smile. ‘Of course. What else am I here for?’
‘Got a tip for the next one?’
‘Rosy Lee’s probably the best each way.’
The man’s grin broadened. ‘Bugger off, you shyster. She doesn’t stand a chance.’
Adam shrugged, still smiling, already moving into the crowds. ‘Please yourself, old man. Please yourself.’
The loudspeakers were announcing the line-up for the next race. Adam caught a glimpse of a rider’s silks as a horse picked its way through the swarms of people in the saddling enclosure. Two wins, small, but better than nothing. If the next one came in he’d risk a bit more on the last. He had a real hunch about that one. His hand went to his breast pocket, patting, checking. The thin roll of notes crackled beneath his fingers. Yes; another win and he could risk taking a bit of a chance. Whatever happened at least now he could afford to eat tonight. If he couldn’t con someone into feeding him for free, that was. As he shouldered his way through the crowds he found himself once more fighting that stomach-churning combination of anger, resentment and apprehension that had been his almost constant companion since the terse interview a week or so ago during which he had been told, briefly and in the most humiliating of terms, that his services at Bates and Associates were no longer required, and that under the circumstances no notice would be given and no references provided. No notice and no references? After he’d slaved his guts out for that parsimonious bunch of know-nothing bastards? And what ‘circumstances’? A malicious web of rumour and insinuation, not a shred of evidence to prove a thing. He’d done nothing that everyone else didn’t do. Anyone who knew anything knew that. He’d get even with them somehow, that was for sure. They’ d find they couldn’t treat Adam Sinclair like this. They’ d regret it. He’d see them broken, the lot of them.
He elbowed his way through to the rail, leaned on it watching as the jockeys took their frisky mounts to inspect the first fence; the low, late February sun glowed on the multicoloured silks and burnished the already gleaming pelts of the horses.
Adam reached into his pocket for his cigarettes. Oh, yes, he’d get his own back. Especially on that spineless, arselicking pipsqueak Walters; he could deny it till he was blue but Adam knew which crawler had blown the whistle on him. But — first things first — meanwhile there was the small matter of a living to be earned. The dismissal and loss of salary could not have come at a more difficult time.
He tapped his cigarette on the box, put it between his lips.
‘Allow me.’ Within inches of his face a lighter - a very expensive-looking gold lighter – clicked into flame. ‘Mr Sinclair, isn’t it?’ The voice was very soft. And very cold. The hand that held the lighter was clean, white-skinned and rock steady.
Adam glanced at the man. He was big-built, well groomed, a little overweight, very well dressed. His overcoat fitted him snugly and his trilby hat was set firmly and squarely on his smooth hair. His face was like granite, the eyes grey, expressionless and as cold as the voice.
Adam’s heart had begun to thump. A group of men had apparently aimlessly moved up beside and behind the stranger. Adam was aware of movement behind him. He was hemmed in. The men turned to the racecourse, apparently absorbed in the start of the race. ‘We’d like a word,’ the stranger said, softly, smoothing back on to his hand the well-fitting leather glove he had removed to handle the lighter. ‘Just a word, you understand?’
‘Who are you?’
The neat head shook. ‘You don’t need to know that, now do you? It’s who we represent that matters. Isn’t it?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
The head shook again, reproachfully. ‘Oh, Mr Sinclair. I think you do. It can’t have escaped your notice that you’re — shall we say a little overdrawn? — in certain accounts?’ The wire was up. The horses started forward. The stranger turned to watch them. ‘I hope you’re having a good day?’
Adam stood rigid and in silence as the horses thundered past. His skin was crawling with sweat. The shouts of the excited punters beat in his ears like a punishment.
The man leaned to him, confidentially. ‘Certain parties,’ he said quietly, ‘are getting a little impatient. A little worried, even. They feel you aren’t trying quite hard enough to repay what they were good enough to lend you. There’s someone who feels that you might be taking advantage of his good nature. Not a good feeling, that, not for the gentleman concerned. I’m sure you’ll agree. The problem is, you see, it sets such a bad precedent. You can understand that, I’m sure? I’d be reluctant to talk about making examples but… He let the words trail into the noise around them.
Adam drew nervously on his cigarette, aware that his hands were shaking, hating himself for it. ‘It’s only temporary,’ he said. ‘I’m a bit strapped for cash at the moment, that’s all.’
‘Oh, aren’t we all, Mr Sinclair?’ the other man said, sympathetically. ‘Aren’t we all?’
‘I’ll pay. Soon.’
The chill grey eyes turned to him. ‘Oh, yes, Mr Sinclair. You will. One way or another. That I can promise you.’ The man doffed his hat, smiling gently. ‘I wish you a good day’s racing, Mr Sinclair.’
He and his silent escorts moved away through the crowd; watching them go and with the sound of that quietly menacing voice still in his ear Adam found himself fighting against the rise of pure panic. He gripped the rail, forcing himself to calm. He’d find a way. He’d talked himself out of tighter corners than this. He’d do it again. Somehow. And meanwhile — he reached into his pocket for his race card — there was still the last race to go.
*
The train chugged through the flat, rural landscape; a landscape parts of which, despite a nation’s best efforts, were still marked and scarred by the aftermath of the terrible flooding of a month before. fields were silt-covered, farm buildings had collapsed, trees still lay where they had fallen in the worst gales in living memory. Cathy closed her magazine and rested her chin on her hand, looking out of the window. The countryside might well take years fully to recover from the havoc that the January storm had wreaked. Square miles of rich arable land had been inundated by salt water; towns, villages and hamlets were still counting the cost in shattered streets, disrupted services and wrecked buildings. The network of coastal defences had been overwhelmed and destroyed by the very force they had been set up to control; in some places the land would never be recovered. Whole streets in some coastal villages had simply disappeared overnight, lost to the perennial hunger of the sea. Cathy, in the days that had followed that dramatic and disastrous night had thanked the gods more than once for that usually almost unnoticed lift of land that had saved Sandlings from the flood. As she had worked with others in the village, organising and delivering supplies and necessities to those many families who had lost everything — including in some cases a precious life — she had come to realise very quickly how lucky they had been, she, Nikos and Bert, isolated on their small island. In a race against time most of the breaches had been patched up before the following week’s high tides, and the waters never had reached the cottage. Drained, now, its hedgerows and woodlands battered, the countryside around the house looked forlorn and desolate. Given her state of mind, Cathy had found it a fitting place to live during these past few weeks.
The first twenty-four hours after Adam and Nikos had left she barely remembered, so torn had she been between an ever-growing and sometimes almost crushing feeling of guilt and a deep a
nd debilitating unhappiness. It had taken a furious effort of will to shake off the wretched and self-centred misery which, cut off and alone, she had almost allowed to overwhelm her. It had been the realisation of the disaster that had touched the lives of others that had eventually wrenched her from her self-preoccupation. The community had been shattered; there were a million things to be done. In involving herself with the organisation and administration of help to those whose plight was so much worse than her own she had come at least to some kind of peace, some kind of resolve. She had heard nothing of Nikos, apart from indirectly, through his father. Just a week after he had left Sandlings he had gone to Greece on company business, and stayed for ten days, during which time Cathy had visited Leon in London and stayed at the flat with him. Just days after returning Nikos had left again, this time for an extended trip to New York, where he still was, the trip a combination of business and pleasure, partly to represent his father in some delicate negotiations, partly finally to wind up his grandmother’s estate, partly a holiday to visit old friends and acquaintances in the city. He was not expected back for at least a fortnight, that she had established before agreeing to go to London again. There had been no communication between them since that bitter exchange before he had left. The message was clear; and Cathy told herself, time and again, that she was glad of it. What was done could not be changed, however much they both might wish it. The future was a different thing. Obviously Nikos had come to the same conclusion that she had; they must not see each other again. The memory of those days they had spent together must be totally and ruthlessly expunged. It had not happened. It must most certainly never happen again.
She turned again to the passing countryside. She had another problem to occupy her. Leon was becoming more and more insistent that her place was in London with him, until such time as the Greek house was ready. For her husband the events of a month ago had been the final straw. In vain she had argued that the storm had been an isolated one, the first to cause such danger or damage in generations. In vain she had pointed out the improvements being made to the sea defences, the determination that such a thing should never happen again; Leon had made up his mind. They had narrowly avoided quarrelling about it the last time she had visited the capital. He could see no reason why she would not give up Sandlings. She could see no reason why she should. The problem was insoluble.
Sighing, she went back to her magazine.
*
The visit started well enough. With Leon busy at the office all day Cathy took the opportunity to visit museums and art galleries, to stroll in the capital’s parks and by the riverside. The first evening they ate out, the second they went to a concert. Cathy began to breathe a little easier. Not once had Leon mentioned her leaving Sandlings. Perhaps he had after all come to understand what the place meant to her. He seemed preoccupied, a little distant. On the one occasion that they made love it was a brief and for Cathy at least a deeply unsatisfactory exercise after which her husband rolled on to his side and was snoring in minutes. Cathy lay quiet beside him in the darkness, distancing the sound of traffic, listening for the sea.
The next day, unexpectedly, Adam telephoned. Leon had just left for work, Cathy was pottering around the flat tidying up and running a bath; the well-appointed bathroom was the one luxury in which she revelled. The shrill of the phone took her by surprise.
‘Adam!’ She was delighted to hear his voice. ‘How lovely to hear from you. How are you?’
‘I’m fine. fine. Couldn’t be better. Listen — I wondered if you might care to meet me for a spot of lunch later?’
‘I’d love to! What a nice idea.’
‘Fancy anywhere particular?’
She laughed. ‘Oh, don’t be silly! You know me and London. I’ll leave it up to you.’
‘Right. Tell you what, I’ll pick you up at the flat — say about twelve-thirty?’
‘Perfect.’
He was spot on time. The fine weather that had brought almost a taste of spring to the capital had given way yet again to the soot-laden fog that had so plagued the city during this long winter. Stepping into the restaurant, however, was like stepping into another world. Softly lit and plushly furnished, the place was warm and elegant, glittering with crystal and silver, the white damask tablecloths and napkins crisp and fresh. Adam was greeted with deference, they were escorted to a small table in an alcove. A piano played softly in the far comer of the room.
‘Like it?’ Adam asked, accepting the wine list from a hovering waiter.
‘Love it,’ she answered frankly, smiling. ‘Very cosmopolitan. I’m surprised they let a country bumpkin like me across the threshold.’
Adam laughed, easily. ‘Don’t be so daft. Now — sherry to start? Or would you prefer Champagne?’
The meal was excellent, the wine plentiful and very good. Adam, at his most attentive and entertaining was an easy and charming companion. Yet it took a very short time in his company for Cathy to sense that all was not entirely well with her son. She had seen the signs before, too many times, both in him and in his father. He was too bright, too brittle. His face was a little drawn. He smoked constantly. The light-hearted chatter held no substance, and nothing of the personal. She was not entirely surprised when, after falling to silence for a moment over coffee and brandy he lifted his bright, forget-me-not eyes to her face and spoke abruptly. ‘Ma — could I ask you a favour?’
She toyed with her brandy glass, watching him. ‘Of course.’
He could not sustain her steady gaze. His own eyes dropped to his nicotine-stained fingers that were curled around his glass.
‘Money?’ she asked at length.
He nodded.
‘Adam!’
His head came up sharply. ‘I’m not asking you. I would, I’m not pretending I wouldn’t. But there’s no point. Ma — this time we’re talking real money, more than you could manage. I need bailing out. I’m in real trouble.’
She stared at him, her stomach suddenly churning uncomfortably. ‘If I can’t let you have the money then what do you want me to do?’
‘Talk to Leon. Ask him to fix it for me. I’m sure he can. I’ll work for him to pay it back. I’ll do anything —’
‘But Adam —’
‘Ma, please! Don’t argue. Don’t ask. Just tell me, yes or no. Will you ask Leon for me?’
‘Adam, I don’t know how much ready money Leon could raise anyway —’
‘He has contacts. Banks and things. He must have. Jesus Christ, I met someone the other day who swears he’s bought a shipping company lock, stock and barrel, cash on the nail —’
‘Oh, Adam, you can’t believe every silly rumour you hear! Leon certainly hasn’t got that kind of money.’
‘Well, he’s got access to it.’ He was stubborn. The telephone call he had received that morning had terrified him. ‘I don’t know where or how, but he has. Ma, please! Try for me?’ He lifted the glass, but his hand was shaking too much for him to drink He slammed it savagely back on to the table. ‘I’ve had a run of bad luck, that’s all. I’ve no job —’
‘What?’
His eyes flickered to hers and away. ‘The firm I was working for went bust. Nothing left. Not even a month’s notice.’ His face was taut. ‘I owe — some people some money. They’re getting pushy.’
‘You’ve been gambling again,’ she said, bleakly.
He shrugged, said nothing.
‘Adam, will you never learn?’ Her voice was very quiet.
He would not look at her.
‘I could let you have —’ she thought for a moment ‘— at a pinch — a thousand pounds?’
He shook his head. ‘Not enough.’
‘God Almighty!’
‘I told you. I’ve had a run of bad luck.’
Concern and anger made her sharper than she had intended. ‘No, Adam. You’ve had a run of stupidity.’
His mouth tightened, but he did not speak.
Cathy took a few moments to marshal her thoughts
. ‘Adam — if I did speak to Leon - wait —’ she held up her hand as he lifted his head sharply ‘— wait. I say if I did — and even so I’m not convinced he has the kind of money you’re hoping for — but if I did — would you make me a promise?’
Too readily he nodded. ‘Of course.’
Her heart sank. In that moment he looked and sounded more like his dead father than he ever had. Knowing herself defeated before she started she said, ‘Promise me you’ll stop gambling.’
‘Oh, I will. I promise.’
She pushed aside her untouched brandy, reached for her bag. ‘Then I’ll try. I promise I’ll try.’
Adam tilted his head and drained his glass. ‘Thanks. I’d appreciate it.’
‘I’m still not sure that Leon has the kind of money you think he has.’
Adam surveyed her with a small, precarious smile. ‘Well, you’re the only one who isn’ t, Ma,’ he said. ‘Perhaps it’s time for you to find that out.’
*
Leon, slowly and with obvious enjoyment, unwrapped his cigar, fingered it, cut it, lit it, tilted his head to let the fragrant smoke drift to the ceiling. Cathy’s fingernail clicked against her coffee cup. In candle and firelight the apartment seemed warmer, more homely than usual.
The silence lengthened. Then, ‘So,’ Leon said, ‘you have no idea of exactly how much he needs?’
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