by Rae Shaw
He laughed. The crumb fight continued for a few minutes. They had had them as kids; the memory was pleasant.
‘Let's watch a movie,’ he said.
She curled up on the settee and Mark parked himself in the armchair. He was impatient to tell her things. She had rebuffed him, but for how long would she be able to hold him off? She didn't want to hear about appeals and solicitors. There were no doubts in her head about her father. The younger Ellen had overheard the arguments about his “business dealings” through doors and walls. There were other things that she noticed: his coming home late without explanation and the envelopes of cash he handed to Deidre when Ellen wasn't supposed to be looking. The white powder that dusted the coffee table. Using her fingertip, an eleven-year-old Ellen had traced patterns in it until a scowling Deidre wiped it away with a brisk flick of her wrist.
Clues were everywhere. If you were small and curious, they were easy to stumble upon. Mark's analytical mind operated on numbers. This murderer didn't use numbers. Or words. Ellen had found things out by accident, like searching for pennies in her father’s coat pocket and finding bigger things.
Mark picked something mindless and forgettable to watch. The perfect choice.
~ * ~
Returning home to her tiny bedsit, which she now hated, Ellen fired up her iPad and sent a message to Freddie.
Mark wants to talk about them. Him.
The reply came swiftly. Is that still painful for you?
Yes.
It wasn't the memories. She had plenty of those. It was the battles she had fought to make herself heard. She had dared to breach her containment. She had screamed, scratched and cut her way out. For one month she had tried being a mute because, she had naively assumed, people listened better to silent children. Talkative ones were constantly hushed. She had practised every trick, hoping to distract Deidre from her futile efforts to free her father, and none of them, not one fucking thing, had worked.
Have you ever thought how hard it is for Mark?
She hadn’t. It wasn't the response she was expecting from her friend and it read like a rebuke. While Ellen lived with their mother, Mark, as the closest thing to a responsible adult in Deidre's life, had borne the brunt of her desperate need to prove her husband's innocence. Mark had propped up her belief for so long he was unable, or unwilling, to break free. Ellen fingered the edge of the tablet. How to explain what Deidre had done to Mark?
She typed. He's her puppet.
That can't be easy for him. He's trying to hold things together. How’s the appeal going?
I don't know. Nowhere, I guess.
Then, don't worry. You don't want your father out, do you?
No!
Then, Mark's okay?
She hesitated. He's okay.
If he isn't, you'll know. If that day comes when you've nobody, then come to me in Ireland.
She stared wide-eyed at the screen. It was the first time he had suggested they meet up, and given a hint of where he lived. She liked the idea he was Irish and it explained his easy going appeal.
Why? she asked tentatively.
There are great digs in my area. You can get your hands filthy.
She laughed. Dirty man.
Humour was good. It softened destructive edges and eased tension, like a crumb fight.
~ * ~
Ellen pounded on the door. ‘Nicky!’
The boom of the bass beat weakened, and the door opened a crack.
‘Ellie, hun.’ Nicky waved her in with a beaming smile. ‘I thought you were out.’
She pushed the door shut with her bottom. ‘I should get one of those broomsticks with an extension so I can bang on the ceiling.’
He laughed. ‘Little old ladies do that.’
‘Little old ladies are generally deaf. I'm not.’
He swaggered across the room, sashaying his hips. The effeminate mannerism was the only one Nicky possessed. The rest of him was pure masculinity. From his beefy shoulders to his lithe calves with their pronounced tendons and chiselled muscles, Nicky exuded youthfulness, which, given he was close to thirty, was especially impressive.
Ellen stole an apple from the fruit bowl on the kitchen counter. His bedsit was identical to hers, even the kitchen units were the same, except his were stained and one of the handles had come loose. He might be proud of his body, but Nicky wasn't keen on exercising it with housework. Somewhere, buried under abandoned clothes and fitness magazines, were his dumb-bells and fluorescent pink trainers.
‘So, tell me. How did it go with big bro?’
She swallowed a mouthful of apple. ‘Better than I thought. He didn't know I’m a vegetarian. In fact, he doesn't know much about me at all.’ She perched on the end of the sofa next to a lingering odour of take-aways.
‘Hardly surprising, is it?’
‘It was a bit like a blind date.’
Nicky covered his mouth in feigned horror. His burnished eyes sparkled with merriment. ‘You're dating and it's not me. I'm heartbroken.’
‘I'm dating my brother, yes. That's how sad my life is.’
They both laughed.
The translucent t-shirt revealed what she liked best about him, as did the knee-length shorts that hung awkwardly low on his pelvis. He yanked them up and immediately, they dropped back to below his hipbones. The ribbons of his groin muscles rose up to meet the brace of parallel abs. She couldn't imagine him in a suit and tie. Nicky was born for the grunge look and it reminded her why he was forbidden fruit. She turned away and spun the apple on her palm. One bite and she had lost her appetite.
‘We didn't talk about family,’ she said.
‘You mean the unmentionables.’
Not long after they met – colliding halfway up the stairs, then spilling out their gripes over a coffee – she had told him about her dad being in jail and her mother's obsession. Nicky was irresistible in nature and treated friends and lovers with equality when it came to advice and companionship. He was the real-life teddy bear who talked and hugged, but never went any further. When they went running together, he concentrated on the pavement and breathing. He pushed her, dragging her the extra mile especially if she complained that her legs would dissolve. When she’d suggested he should be a personal trainer, he’d blushed. ‘Too personal.’ The shyness surprised her.
He worked as a barista three streets away. Ellen had never had bitter coffee at Nicky’s flat.
‘He's still doing her bidding.’ Ellen held out the apple. ‘Sorry. You finish it.’
‘You're taking sides again.’ Nicky's observation stung. He took the apple but didn't bite into it.
‘There are sides. He should quit defending the indefensible.’ Mark's belief in their dad's innocence was unfathomable. As far as she was concerned, Bill Clewer had lied and Mark was aiding this duplicity by keeping his head in the sand, year after year, hoping it would all go away.
‘You can be friends, though. Go on dates.’ Nicky leaned on the kitchen surface. Picking up a knife, he slowly began to pare the apple and the peel came away in one serpentine coil. A small knife, too. It could fit in his pocket.
‘I want to be part of a family, Nicky. I want somebody to care about me.’ A miserly whine and she regretted the implication that she couldn't look after herself. She had always looked after herself. She was sick of the responsibility.
‘You've always got me.’ He put the knife and apple down and drew her into his embrace. They were strong arms with tattoos extending from shoulder to wrists. He could crush her if he wanted to. His thrumming heartbeats were little more than pitter patters against her chest. Hers thundered with confusion.
‘Why did you have to be gay?’ She had asked that question many times.
‘Why did you have to be a girl?’ The usual response.
She pushed him away and changed tack. ‘How is the world of men?’
‘Horrendous.’ He swept his hand across his brow. ‘I've not been laid in days.’
‘No bikers on th
e horizon?’
The walls of Nicky's bedsit were covered with posters of motorbikes. And men. Men on bikes to be precise. Men wearing leathers or tattooed from neck to ankle. He wasn't that interested in the bikes.
‘Oh, there are always bikers, honey. Always. I’ve just been working tedious extra shifts.’
More giggles. He chopped the apple into quarters and handed one back to her. ‘Eat. You look like a wraith.’
‘I'm fine. I've been running every day.’
‘Good for you. But remember to eat.’
Freddie lectured her too. Frequently. Thin girls aren't attractive. Men like boobs and bums.
Nicky didn't know about Freddie. Nobody knew about him. She liked keeping it a secret; a trait that must run in the family. One day Freddie would be obsolete and she would stop sending messages and he wouldn't need to know why. She fancied meeting him first and thanking him in person for propping her up when everyone else watched her fall down.
She ate the apple, not because she was hungry, but because Nicky had asked her to, and she needed friends. And she would meet Mark again because he was family. Real family. It was time to let him back in and have him prove to her that he was man enough to look after her. Freddie had competition.
7
Julianna
The first time Julianna met Mark, she had gone away convinced he was hiding something, perhaps an obsession for Hettie, and that was the reason why Chris had dumped his file right in Julianna’s line of sight.
During their second meeting they fine-tuned their tactics for trapping the fleet car manager. Mark called her Mrs Baptiste. There never had been a Mrs Alex Woodfall, only Ms Julianna Baptiste; she had proudly kept her family name. It was unfortunate error, but not uncommon. She corrected him, including the pronunciation, perhaps too sharply, then found herself blurting out the reason; Alex's sordid affair with his secretary. Mark sympathised with a few appropriate questions. Was it long ago? Nearly eighteen months. Divorced? A quickie, neither of them wanted to go to court. She even admitted she had literally thrown Alex out of the front door.
‘Formidable. Black belt in something?’ Mark asked.
‘Yes. A few of them.’
She liked his honesty and directness, the way he spoke what was on his mind instead of sugar coating it. She also noted he stared at her when he shouldn't. She tried to act like an adult and not squirm in her seat.
Snapping shots of the carpool manager at the petrol station, she ruminated on the painting of the bower, which hung right in front of Mark’s desk; the abstract depiction of a lady’s chamber hidden amongst leaves and branches. An allegory alluding to a covert love affair? Or was he simply expressing an infatuation with his boss's wife, which wasn't exactly healthy either. Each time she thought of the bower, she played out possible scenes until they reached some unsavoury conclusion. At that point, stuck in a car conducting a rather tedious stakeout, she realised she was still jealous of Hettie. Mark might have a fondness for the boss’s wife, but she was beyond his reach and he wasn't a fantasist. All he had of hers was a painting on the wall. It struck Julianna as ludicrous, almost insulting, to think she wanted him for herself. Then, what the heck, why shouldn’t she have some fun in life. It wasn’t as if she planned to recreate the Paris weekend.
The next visit to his office, they went through the photographs she had taken.
She had an itch that needed scratching, the subliminal kind of curiosity that she often had before questioning a suspect. Alone with Mark in his office was a good opportunity to find out what he thought of Haynes.
‘So, Mr Haynes has really taken you under his wing. He’s invited you to the Opportunitas fundraiser. Most employees are way down the pecking order for an invitation.’
He had stopped writing when she mentioned the fundraiser. ‘How did you know about the invite?’
‘I’m on the security team, remember? I get to see the list of invitees. Your name was on it.’ Including a blank space for an extra person to accompany him. Julianna wasn’t on that particular list; she would be otherwise engaged that night. She needed the extra money.
He tapped his pen on the paper and shrugged. ‘It’s because I was Hettie’s accountant. I helped sort out a problem she was having with overseas payments. She has a gallery… but you know that.’
She picked up a photograph and pretended to look at it. ‘I thought you worked at Daneswan?’
‘I did. It’s no big deal, okay, he offered me the opportunity to help with Hettie’s accounts. She’s brilliant at art, but rubbish at numbers. She won’t let Jackson get involved. She likes her independence.’
The painting on the wall of Mark’s office was a reward; it made sense, more personal than a bonus payment. But why had Mark told her it was Haynes who was his friend? ‘You met Haynes, and he gave you—’
‘No.’ Mark retrieved the photograph from her. ‘It all started because I chatted up Hettie in a wine bar. I didn’t know who she was, I just bumped into her, and thought… well, I didn’t pay attention to the man keeping an eye on her. She took my business card with her.’
Julianna tried hard not to smile. Poor Mark, hoping that a business card might forge more than a working relationship. ‘She would have given it to Jackson, and he, obviously, knows Daneswan, since he owns it.’
‘I had an interview, and he gave me Hettie’s account. Officially, it was all through Daneswan. Nothing private about it.’ There was a marked irritation in his voice.
‘He likes you then. Jackson has invited you to his house for dinner, too.’ She bit her lip. ‘That’s on a list somewhere too. I don’t mean to pry.’ She did, she was hopelessly in love with prying. ‘I just assumed you met him somewhere, maybe in the past. What a lucky guy you are, falling on your feet here.’
‘Lucky? I suppose. I don’t think Jackson depends on luck.’ He wasn’t paying attention to the photographs.
‘No, you’re right. He doesn’t. Not if Hettie’s involved.’
He was staring at the watercolour on the wall, his dark eyes focused, his mind somewhere else.
He took a call, arranging to meet somebody called Ellen. He apologised to her, this Ellen, for not knowing she was a vegetarian and suggested a fish restaurant. A new woman in his life, Julianna surmised. She hid her disappointment. It was probably for the best. Emotional attachments with work colleagues should be avoided. Still, it was an unfortunate turn of events.
A hiatus descended while Mark was dispatched on training courses and Chris hijacked Julianna for bodyguard duties. She drove the Hayneses to a midday appointment at Hettie's doctor. They spoke about a recent dinner party and Mark's name popped up. Julianna's grip on the steering wheel tightened. She avoided rear-view mirror glimpses, and focused her acute hearing on the conversation instead.
‘You invited Mark. Why?’ Hettie asked.
‘You know why,’ Jackson said, in an off-hand manner.
‘I don't. You know I don't understand these games you play with people. It's cruel. If you'd help—’
Jackson spoke softly. ‘It's for the best. He has to find out for himself. I'm just keeping an eye on things.’
The frustrating snippets of information seemed almost for Julianna's benefit, not Hettie's.
‘He thinks you're his friend. Our friend. I don't like it,’ Hettie said.
‘He's a grown man. I'm giving him opportunities, contacts. It's his choice if he uses them.’
Julianna's heart skipped a beat when he mentioned contacts. She flicked the A/C vent towards her face and hoped the icy blast masked her reaction.
Hettie made no attempt to lower her voice. ‘But now you say his sister is involved.’
‘Ellen? She's on the fringe. Chris pointed out the family is partly estranged. In any case, she's barely out of her teens.’
Julianna smothered a gasp. His sister! So she had overheard Mark arranging to meet his sister. It made a difference. A big difference. If he was free…
‘Well,’ Hettie said markedly,
‘I'm just saying all this because I like Mark. He's a good accountant. I gave him a painting when you took him off me for this new job.’
‘Good with numbers, yes. People? He needs more guidance. He needs to meet the right people.’
‘And what if he meets the wrong people? Isn’t that just as dangerous after what happened?’
Jackson made a “pfft” sound. ‘I made sure the police didn’t expose him. I need him to stay sharp, though.’
Against her wishes, the hairs on the back of Julianna’s neck stood on end.
‘Well, don’t let this get out of hand, Jackson, or I shall be very cross.’
The conversation went no further: they had arrived at the clinic. Jackson had engineered everything: Mark had contacted Julianna because he had been given her name by Chris, Jackson’s confidante and spy in the office. And, maybe, instead of Jackson telling Hettie to hush, he had allowed Julianna to eavesdrop, leaving her hungry to know more.
The whole business of the painting was nothing, a quirky detail she could now discard.
The final project meeting with Mark was prior to the fundraiser; he had complied a report for the police. He flirted with her again. Not overtly, or even consciously. She assimilated those nuances and acknowledged the appeal remained intact even after the conversation in the car. Hettie might have encouraged Julianna's curiosity, provoked a touch of rivalry, but now Julianna was independently possessive of Mark. She liked the idea she fancied a man with a mystery to solve and it made the seduction doubly thrilling. Unlike Alex, she would invest very little of herself in Mark. She had nothing to lose.
8
Mark
WINTER
Every October the Haynes foundation, Opportunitas, held its fund-raising event at the Savoy Hotel. Jackson cast aside business rivalries and invited executives, clients and dignitaries to hobnob with rent-by-the-hour celebrities. Mark didn’t fit into any of those categories. Not fitting in was becoming a feature of his life in London. The dinner party was a practice run for the charity ball, and Mark attended out of both curiosity and a need to hone his social skills to the next level.