by Rae Shaw
She shook her head. ‘No. Not since I left my husband.’ She had lost all interest in sex. Burdened by Alex's lack of remorse, she saw no purpose in acting like him and using sex as an excuse for destroying what dignity she had left. But now a casual acquaintance had rekindled her natural desires; her choked needs were about to be made flesh again.
‘I’m flattered that you picked me.’ Mark swept a strand of hair out of her eyes.
The smallest of touches was sufficient to unfreeze frozen limbs. They were adults, Jackson had said so himself. Adults made choices and lived with the consequences. She rose up onto her tiptoes, meeting him at eye level. ‘I didn’t pick you. I want you.’ She crossed in front of him to the bottom of the stairs. ‘Also, my feet are killing me.’ She led him upstairs.
~ * ~
Bathed in the Sunday morning light, Julianna woke first. Mark was snoring softly, one leg lying on top of the duvet and one arm draped across his brow. Their clothes were strewn across the floor. Creeping out of bed, she picked up his white shirt and slipped it on. It just reached the tops of her knees.
Downstairs, she made fresh coffee. She had no clue what he liked for breakfast. She checked the fridge for eggs and bacon. He wasn’t a vegetarian, she knew that much about him, but little else. She’s spent half the night having sex with a man she barely knew.
She carried the two mugs upstairs. Nudging the bedroom door open with her elbow, she slipped inside. Mark was sitting up in bed, the duvet patted over both his legs and his eyes bleary, but open.
‘Ooh, smells good.’
‘Here.’ She put the mug on his bedside table, then carried her own to the other one.
‘Thanks. You’re wearing my shirt. That’s brave of you.’
She smoothed the tails down and gave a twirl. ‘It seemed like the thing to do, you know, wear your man’s shirt. All actresses do it.’
‘So we’re in a film?’
She climbed back into bed and clasped her mug in her hands. ‘I feel like I’m in one of those film noir movies. I should be drawing on a cigarette, plumes of smoke coiling above our heads. We’re draped in dark shadows, engaged in enigmatic half-sentences about obscure things.’
He stared at her. ‘Thank God, because I thought for a minute you were going to burst into song like Bette Midler or Barbara Streisand.’ A broad smile spread his lips wider. He had a sweet, boyish smile.
She thumped his arm and nearly spilt her coffee.
‘Ow.’
‘So…’ Another sip, another pause. ‘We’re here.’
‘Yes.’ He puffed out his cheeks in contemplation. He needed a shave. During the night, she’d touched those dark bristles with her lips.
‘And… this is it?’
He frowned. ‘It sounds terribly final.’
Relief bubbled up inside her. A peculiar sensation, because she was determined to be indifferent to everything they’d done.
Mark cleared his throat. ‘I hadn’t expected you to want what we did last night.’
‘Meaning?’ She thought they had done everything she wanted, and more.
‘Kissing. Cuddling. Those kind of things.’
‘Oh.’ She had misjudged him again. ‘Why not?’
‘Because, we both know this isn’t about love.’ He watched her reaction closely. No blinking, just in case he missed the slightest hint that he had got it wrong.
She faltered, unable to speak. Julianna had never experienced sex like it before. Even before she met Alex, her previous bedfellows were amorous, but lacked any sense of adventure. Julianna sought an edge, a thrill to life. It was the reason she took up martial arts, learnt how to shoot a gun and kicked down doors. Love was Alex’s gift, his promise, until he shattered it.
She swallowed a mouthful of scorching coffee. ‘No, it’s not about love. But it’s not one night either, is it?’
He blinked. ‘No.’
‘We should get to know each other a bit better then. Over cooked breakfast?’
‘Excellent idea.’
He showered while she cooked a brunch of sausages, eggs and toast. He had nothing else to wear apart from his tuxedo while she had the luxury of changing into jeans and a woollen sweater. The house was a couple of hundred years old and the heating was diabolically bad in cold weather. She couldn’t afford to buy a new system. She had bought out Alex's half of the mortgage and could barely pay the taxes and utility bills. However, given its location, its value was shifting constantly upwards and she didn’t want to sell. Mark was right – the house had character, it was all hers, and she had grown quite possessive of it.
‘He was a successful lawyer. Extravagant,’ she explained. ‘I wanted something further out, he insisted on this location.’
‘How did you two meet? University?’
She shook her head. ‘I skipped Uni and went straight into the police force. Life in Cornwall was dull and I got impatient. I moved to London and joined the Met. Alex was working on a big property deal, which is how he gets his kicks, and I was investigating fraud. We were introduced by a mutual friend.’ She glanced away, briefly. He understood: Alex was off topic.
‘You've always been into fraud and corruption?’
She dipped her toast in the egg and swirled the yolk around. ‘I got noticed. They thought I was wasted on the beat and I was transferred to the serious fraud office. I solve complex things. I should have gone to university perhaps; become an academic with my head in the clouds. Oxford, somewhere like that.’ Her parents were surprised when she turned down an offer. It wasn't as if they couldn't afford to send her, but it wouldn't have been easy for them. ‘You went?’
‘I did. To Oxford and I read Mathematics.’
‘You met Jackson... no sorry, that can't be right, you're too young.’
‘No. I met Jackson because I chatted up his wife. Big mistake.’ Mark's cheeks glowed. ‘Somehow he got wind of my stupidity and invited me to meet him. Technically, I already worked for him at Daneswan, which he owns. Jackson owns these little accountancy firms. Eyes everywhere. Anyway, I thought he was going to rake me over the coals and fire me. He was charming. Hettie needed some advice and Jackson arranged for us to meet at her gallery. He liked me, I guess. After that, we exchanged emails about a few cases his forensic team were dealing with and he wanted my opinion. I suppose it was a test. Hence the transfer from Daneswan.’
None of what Mark had said was in his personnel file, the one that security kept.
‘Jackson knew Alex at school.’ She’d married an older man, as had Hettie. Only, Hettie had struck gold and Julianna had found rust. ‘You weren't in the Bullingdon club, were you?’
He laughed. ‘Heck, no. I got a scholarship. I'm a council house kid. Bread and butter pudding for tea if I was lucky.’
She smiled. ‘Alex and Jackson met at a reunion. Different years, of course, but still old boys.’ She despised the secret networks the public schools built. She should have seen the betrayal coming. Alex wanted a wife to parade at parties, a blonde bombshell with a plastic smile and not a frizzy-haired kick-boxing champion.
‘Not my scene,’ he said.
‘So no secrets in your past?’
He slowly lowered his fork. ‘Secrets?’
‘Stuff, you know. Well, anything exciting.’ She half-expected a bead of sweat to drip down his temple. In a few seconds, he had gone from relaxed to rigid. ‘What?’ she asked. His hand rested on the table, a span's width away from hers. She could touch it. Hold it. Something to jolt him out of his hiding place. He slipped his hand off the table and used the napkin to wipe his lips. He sighed, deeply. She waited patiently, containing her eagerness.
‘My dad worked hard – he was a fitness trainer at a local boxing club. Helped kids keep off the streets. Everyone liked Bill Clewer. There was always food, clothes, a little money for holidays. He took me to see United play. We couldn't afford a season ticket, he had to beg and borrow to buy any tickets. Mum would have tea ready when we got home.’
‘Jus
t you?’
‘Ellen, my sister, was a baby.’
‘Then...’ There had to be a then. He had painted a picture of contentment. Now, he had to blow it apart.
‘Then, he got into petty crime. Robbing Peter to pay Paul kind of stuff. Shifting stolen goods or counterfeit ones out of the back of a van. No drugs, vice or violent acts, not at first. Later...’ He slouched in his chair. He had left the top two buttons of his shirt undone and the tails hanging out. He hadn’t shaved. Mark, unintentionally, bore a good resemblance to the caricature of a brat pack rogue. She had joked about the film noir. Mark wasn't flippant.
‘So, he ended up on the wrong side of the law,’ she said.
‘He ended up in prison serving a life sentence for murder.’ He fixed his dark eyes on hers and waited.
She once had the displeasure of meeting some of society's worst on a regular basis. She had seen crime scenes and dead bodies, interviewed traumatised victims, listened to their horror stories for hours, then heard the pathetic excuses given by the accused. Murder no longer shocked her like it once did, but Mark's revelation was a surprise.
‘Who did he kill?’ If he had murdered a woman, would Mark lose his appeal? She held her breath.
‘Another guy.’
Julianna exhaled, softly, and leaned on her elbows attentively.
‘Somebody he knew from a rival gang,’ Mark said. ‘He pleaded not guilty to murder. But the jury rejected the lesser charge of manslaughter on the advice of the judge. Dad claimed he had gone to negotiate a deal, something to their mutual benefit and it went bad. He says it was self-defence. He stood in court and said the other man attacked him and he fought back. Except...’ Mark groaned and rubbed his eyes.
‘The evidence didn't support him?’ They both understood the importance of forensics; the sordid details, the indelible evidence of wrongdoing.
He nodded. ‘There was a knife in the other man's hand. But, critically, Dad said he was in the car with him, fighting him, but nothing found inside the car supports this. In fact, there were no fingerprints or fibres inside the car, and the only fibres recovered from Dad's clothing were on the outside and the driver’s window was wound down, too. He’d been stabbed in the heart.’
‘But the victim was holding a knife?’
Mark lips pressed together. Another nod.
‘Could somebody have cleaned up afterwards, to make it look like your dad wasn't in the car?’
He pursed his lips, briefly. ‘Possibly. To be honest, I've not read all the evidence. I was seventeen when it happened.’
Seventeen! ‘You were a kid? This must have happened...’
‘Nine years ago. Ellen was eleven. She has problems dealing with it. I left home, went to Oxford.’ He slowly straightened up. ‘Look. It's a pile of shit and I'm stuck with it because I'm their son. Dad has tried for years to reduce the sentence. Mum is still crusading to prove his innocence. She thinks there’s a witness who can corroborate Dad's story. He had mates, people he went around with, and she thinks they’re too afraid to speak up for him.’
‘Have you found them, these witnesses?’
This time, he laughed. A dry, humourless chuckle. He had obviously fielded that question many times. ‘No. It's nine years ago. Gangs change. People go to jail, come out of jail. One thing stays the same – silence.’ He dropped into a disappointed whisper.
‘And you want to clear him?’ She nudged with her voice. ‘Mark?’
He clenched a fist on the table. ‘I want it to be over. I idolised him, Julianna. He was Dad. Is Dad. Fuck, I don't know. He could have managed a fitness centre and made something of himself. He writes to me. Dear son letters. All optimistic. He's full of his plans to open his own gym once he's released. He's going to help recovering drug addicts and alcoholics. He's already started in the prison gym and the officers are impressed with his attitude.’
‘When does he get paroled?’
‘He doesn't. Not until he admits—’
‘His guilt.’ Julianna collected up the dirty plates. Mark's secret was out and it wasn't horrendous. His father was a crook and possibly a murderer, but not a psychopath.
She admired Mark’s loyalty, but ultimately, it was self-destructive. Over the last few weeks, his cheeks had appeared more and more gaunt as if he was sucking stress in and holding on to it tightly. One thing Julianna was certain about: Jackson knew about Bill Clewer. Mark had attracted Jackson’s attention by chatting up Hettie in a bar. What did Jackson do when anyone, any stranger, paid attention to his wife? He had them checked out. Chris Moran would contact his network of law enforcers and private investigators and do a background check. Mark's past belonged to Jackson Haynes.
Jackson had given Mark a job. Out of pity? She doubted that. Hettie had called her husband heartless, which implied malicious intent. But why? Jackson wasn't involved in criminal gangs like Bill; he fought them using the work of his foundation. Opportunitas rescued victimised women and gave them new homes and jobs. They traced those that went missing and brought closure to anxious families whether the news was good or bad. From what she had learnt since she joined the company, Jackson wasn't as a cold-hearted as he seemed. He nurtured his employees through hard choices, but never treated them cruelly or sanctimoniously. It left Julianna only one option. There was more to Mark's past. Something he hadn't revealed, another even darker secret, possibly dangerous. But it didn’t make sense: Jackson had allowed Mark contact with precious Hettie, and she had given him a present – a painting – and they had invited him to parties. Mark had a use and that had to be the reason why Jackson kept tabs on him. Now that was a puzzle worth solving and if her theory was correct, Jackson had set her up to solve it.
‘I can understand if you don't want to see me again.’ Mark rose to his feet and started to button his shirt up. ‘I'm okay about it.’
‘Well, I'm not,’ Julianna said. ‘You've been honest. I'm not going to tar you with the same brush as your dad.’
The relief on his face was palpable. The shadows under his eyes remained – he was tired – but there was a spark lit in them. She had seen that same sparkle last night.
‘Thank you.’ He swept her into his arms and kissed her until she flapped her arms and he released her. ‘Don't flatten me.’ He held up his hands in defence.
She wrinkled her nose. ‘You need fresh clothes.’ The comment signified the end of the conversation. Where they went next was unknown. She would wait. She had become good at waiting. Ever since she had left her last job, she’d loitered in a state of limbo.
She called for a taxi and after a few silent pauses on the doorstep they parted company with a brief hug. An odd sense of distance had descended.
‘See you,’ she said.
He waved and ducked inside the cab.
That was it for the day. Sex, breakfast and confessions. All that was left was the laundry. And daydreaming about Mark.
10
Ellen
Hurrying along the hotel corridor, Ellen’s heels snagged on the frayed carpet and she nearly collided with a wall. Tottering for a second, she giggled. The childish response was due to adrenaline and nothing to do with the best man’s embarrassing jokes. She glanced over her shoulder, half expecting him to come running after her. She wouldn't find that funny.
She had so nearly done it. Got laid, just like Nicky.
The best man's brother had strutted his stuff on the dance floor. Ellen's friend, Marsha, called him a buffoon behind his back. Ellen had ignored Marsha and danced with him because he looked super fit. It had been obvious that he was interested. He had said her dancing was “sick”, which had amused her, because he was a terrible dancer. He had ground his hips against hers until she had to dash to the bathroom for a pee.
She had drunk far too much. When he, fuck, she didn't even know his name, when he had jerked his head toward the exit, she’d nodded, then whipped out her mobile and nearly called Mark as if she needed his permission.
Why? Freddie had a st
rict no phone calls policy. She didn't even know his number. But then she remembered where her brother was... hobnobbing with the hoi polloi. The cool corridor had cleared her head in a way a conversation with Mark couldn't. When they had reached Whathisname's room door, she had whispered, 'Sorry,' and bolted in the opposite direction.
A wave of nausea hit as she unlocked her door. With her head over the bowl, she retched the contents of three margaritas into the toilet, but not the red wine. Lying on the bed, her heels dangling off the edge, she closed her eyes and rode the merry-go-round. Around and around she spun until it happened again. She managed to reach the bathroom in time.
Splashing cold water on her flushed face helped alleviate the horrible feeling her insides were keen to be on the outside. She staggered across the room and undressed. Face down on the bed, drooling onto the pillow, she groaned. She had so nearly cracked. Freddie would have been disappointed if she had gone all the way with Whathisname. Freddie used to tell her virginity was a precious thing.
It had happened to her before – the yearning, then the flight. The dark-eyed boy across the road, whom Mrs Asani was convinced fancied her daughter, had invited Ellen into his room after school one day. She had wavered, fighting the fuzzy feel of excitement. He had been too impatient and when she had dithered, he’d shrugged his shoulders, 'Forget it'.
She couldn't though. If she had gone with him would she have regretted it? Eventually, she had told Freddie. It wasn't long after she first started communicating with him. She had been convinced right from the start he was a catholic priest. When she had described her urges and the boy across the road's invitation, he’d rattled on about sin. Her theory about Freddie's faith lasted long enough for her to visit a church. Everyone sang the hymns she didn't know, stood up, knelt, prayed for starving children and wars, but nothing about sin or sex.
She had told Freddie she didn't believe in God because God would stop people from murdering each other. That was when she had confessed she wasn't a victim of crime and told him who her father was. He had heard of the case, knew the name and accepted her back. But he stopped mentioning sin and God, so she shelved the priest theory. Then, he had changed, and started to get suggestive, almost goading her on.