by S. B. Caves
‘So there you go,’ Dillon said, grinning. ‘Eight kilos covered.’
‘You really think you can do it?’ Craig asked her. She shrugged. ‘Words, you fucking idiot. Start using words when I ask you a question.’
She didn’t get riled up, but instead said, ‘I don’t see why not.’
‘What about dogs?’
‘Airport dogs?’ she asked.
‘No. Pluto and Goofy. Of course airport dogs. What if they sniff you out?’
‘No, they don’t sniff me out. No chance.’
‘Why no chance?’
‘Packages are dog-proof. I don’t touch the drugs and we don’t pack them in the same room as me. No smell transfer. We use Mylar to wrap everything, make it airtight.’
‘Mylar? What the fuck is mylar?’
It was the one and only time she conveyed an expression other than blank indifference. Her brow pinched in apparent confusion as she looked from Craig to Dillon, and then back to Craig again. ‘Like plastic. Airtight. No smell gets out. As long as I don’t touch it beforehand we have no problem.’
Craig rested his hands atop the mound of his stomach and twiddled his thumbs in contemplation. ‘You have four kids?’
‘Mmm.’
‘You love ’em?’
‘Course.’
‘How old are they?’
‘Fifteen, twelve, nine, four.’
‘And you know what happens if you fuck this up? If you try and do a runner, you get caught?’
‘I can imagine.’
‘And you’re willing to risk that for ten grand?’
‘I’m not an idiot. I don’t draw attention to myself. I’m quiet. I don’t make no fuss.’ She burped into the back of her hand. ‘Nothing’ll go wrong.’
Craig considered her a while longer, tapping his finger against his lip. The woman was enormous, twenty stone at a guess, but that was being generous. Her skin was oily and blotchy, and that vacant expression on her face disturbed him. It didn’t look as though she had two brain cells bouncing around in that skull, and yet, as legend would have it, she was one of the most successful smugglers in the UK. How could this woman mule eight kilos to Amsterdam without attracting attention to herself? Her size alone made her stand out.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘You’re going to fly out early next Saturday morning. Someone’ll be on the flight watching you, just in case you decide to get quick on your feet, though I doubt that’s going to happen, is it?’
‘I won’t run,’ she said.
‘I’m going to buy two tickets for you. You have any friends?’
‘Mmm.’
‘Good. Take one you trust. They don’t have to do anything except go with you. If they stop you at customs you can say you’re sightseeing, going to see the windmills, whatever.’
‘Mmm.’
‘OK. I’ll see you on Friday night then and we’ll get you strapped up.’
She wheezed. There was a thick rattling in her throat. ‘That’s it? I can go now?’
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘And take your crisps with you.’
* * *
Craig pinched the joint and sucked it down to the roach, then flicked it out the window. He thought about asking Dillon to bill up another spliff, but he didn’t want to be too high, just relaxed enough to walk into the meeting without his legs turning to jelly.
They bombed down the motorway, weaving through the lanes. Dillon drove like a psycho at the best of times, and after a bump of coke – which he swore he hadn’t done, but his red-rimmed eyes told Craig different – the car seemed to be approaching warp speed. Cool air blew on him from the air conditioner, but Craig was still sweating. The seat of his jeans felt damp against the leather, and his armpits were moist and swampy.
‘I hope you’re right about her,’ he said to Dillon.
‘She’s done it dozens of times. She’s lucky as a rabbit’s foot.’
‘That’s what worries me. She’s done it dozens of times and hasn’t been caught. What if this is her time?’
‘It won’t be.’
‘But what if it is?’
‘We can talk about what-ifs all day long,’ Dillon said nonchalantly as the world turned into a colourless blur outside the car. ‘No reason to jinx it.’
* * *
The tyres kicked up gravel as Craig rolled to a stop in front of the town house. A golem of a man waited by the door to escort him in. Craig grabbed the rear-view mirror and checked his face, his teeth, his hair. Then he looked at Dillon.
‘Why’d you wear trainers?’
‘Hmm?’ Dillon was sending a text on an ancient Nokia that had masking tape down one side of it, holding the battery in place.
‘You’ll show me up going in there with your fucking trainers on.’
‘What does it matter?’
‘We don’t want him to think we’re a couple of rude boys, do we?’
‘If you’re that bothered, why didn’t you say anything before we left?’
‘Because I was thinking about other things, getting my mind right.’
Dillon gave him a dismissive tut and waved his hand. ‘You’re overanalysing it. He won’t give a fuck what we look like.’
And that there, Craig thought, was the quintessential difference between them. Yesterday afternoon Craig had gone to the barbers, had his beard shaped up, bought a new shirt. He looked smart, and the freshness of his appearance lent him a bit of confidence, because god knew he needed it. Dillon, on the other hand, was almost thirty and looked as though he’d just modelled for a high-street sports shop: a Nike cap, sovereign rings on his fingers, Air Force trainers on his feet.
‘You wait in the car,’ Craig said, kicking himself for not bringing a towel to wipe the sweat away from his armpits.
‘You’re overthinking this. He’s not our boss,’ Dillon said contemptuously, the sun glinting off his gold front tooth. ‘We’re here to do business with him. It’s mutually beneficial.’
‘Shut up, you fucking moron. Don’t try and talk intelligent. Just stay here and try not to make a fucking nuisance of yourself.’
Craig got out of the car with a groan, his knees popping, his back crackling. The golem gave Craig a look of acknowledgement but said nothing. He opened the front door and led Craig through the town house and into a musty smelling back office. Behind a shiny oak table sat Edward Dekkers, looking at a stack of papers, some of which had pink highlighter through them.
‘Sit down,’ Dekkers said in his thick Dutch accent, without looking at Craig. Dekkers took the highlighter pen, made another pink streak along one of the rows of numbers, and then scribbled something down in a notepad. ‘Do you want a cup of tea or coffee?’ he asked in a tone that suggested Craig should decline his offer.
‘No, thank you. I had a cup of tea before I left.’
Dekkers set his pen down and regarded Craig sternly. Dekkers was in his fifties and had hair white as untouched snow. Faint scars lined his rugged face and the flesh above his eyes was so hooded it was like two black hollows staring back at Craig.
‘So. You have news for me?’ Dekkers said, disinterested.
‘Yeah. I mean yes.’ Craig nodded. ‘I’ve found someone. She comes recommended.’
Dekkers studied Craig. ‘And she can take five kilos?’
‘She can take eight,’ Craig said, his voice quavering. Dekkers’ face betrayed the slightest hint of interest.
‘That’s a lot,’ he said.
Yes it is, Craig thought. But he wanted to go above and beyond expectations, show these jumped-up Dutch fucks that he wasn’t some two-bit villain but a bold, intelligent criminal.
‘She’s a professional. She’s done long-haul before – Argentina, Chile…’
Dekkers silenced him with a wave of the hand. ‘Fine. You have it.’
‘Thank you, Edward,’ he replied, surprised at how easily Dekkers relented, and even more surprised at the speed with which they had negotiated the deal. Maybe the old bastard was a pushover. ‘Honestly,
thank you for this opportunity.’ When he received no acknowledgement, he said, ‘I want you to know that you can depend on me.’
‘I should hope so,’ Dekkers said, rising from his chair. He extended his hand. Craig patted his palms on the thighs of his jeans, the perspiration turning the denim dark blue. They shook hands. Dekkers’ grip felt strong enough to bend steel.
‘Talk to Mikkel outside, he will get you eight.’
‘OK.’ He had turned to leave when Dekkers stopped him with a grunt.
‘It’s a lot of responsibility. No room for error.’ Craig nodded and smiled, not trusting himself to speak. ‘Don’t make me look for you, Craig. It will be very bad for you. You understand this, yes?’
Craig nodded and no more was said.
Chapter Nine
She saw Kate in her dreams again that night.
Kate was sitting at the table with her hands wrapped around a mug, staring out the window. The steam curling out of the mug smelled like chamomile and honey. She had a white scarf knotted loosely around her neck that flowed down over the mound of her pregnant stomach.
‘He told you, then?’ Kate said, without diverting her attention away from the window. ‘About the baby?’
‘Yes,’ Emily said and began to walk carefully toward the table. She didn’t want to move too fast for fear that it would disrupt the framework of the dream. Things are different now, Emily wanted to say. I know who did this to you.
‘I told him it’s bad luck,’ she said with a sigh. ‘He never listens.’
Emily reached the table.
‘My neck hurts,’ Kate said, turning to face her now. Her skin was sickly pale, the rims of her eyes coppery red.
She doesn’t know, Emily thought. She doesn’t know she’s dead.
Kate carefully picked up the mug and sipped delicately. ‘Well, now you know about the baby, I guess we can talk about it. Exciting, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ Emily said weakly.
Kate smiled and her mouth appeared like a gaping wound in her white face. That terrible grin gave off an eerie draught that sent needlepoints of fear through Emily. This wasn’t her sister. Immediately, the tenuous link between her waking and sleeping mind snapped, and Emily no longer wanted any part of this dream. She scrunched her eyes closed in an effort to wake herself, but she was paralysed, pinned by the awful weight of Kate’s stare.
‘Wouldn’t it be funny if they were twins?’ Kate said, but her lips hadn’t moved. She was talking through her teeth, through that slashed grin. ‘Imagine that. Two girls. Then they could be best friends, just like us.’
‘Kate,’ Emily said, her tongue clumsy inside her numb mouth. It was like speaking after a visit to the dentist. ‘It’s not you,’ she mumbled.
‘What’s not me?’ The rest of her features frowned but the smile remained.
‘You’re d…’ The word crumbled. ‘You’re d…’
‘I’m what? You’re not making any sense.’
A red dot appeared on the white scarf. Emily’s eyes locked onto it, transfixed. The dot began to blossom, growing larger, spreading through the fabric of the scarf, dyeing it.
‘You’re dead,’ Emily finally managed. She wanted very badly to wake up now, because her terror was spreading like the red on that white scarf. Sweet merciful Jesus above, she had never been so scared in all her life and she couldn’t take another second of this.
‘Dead? What a silly thing to say. I’m sitting right here.’
No, Emily thought, trying to turn her head away, but some invisible vice held it in place. No you’re not. This isn’t you.
‘Yes, it is,’ Kate answered her thoughts. ‘What’s brought all this on? Why’re you acting like this?’
Emily was clenching her teeth together so tightly now that little lightning rods shot through her gums and jaw. ‘He… killed… you…’ she finally managed, and just like that, the words set her free. She felt the weight drift away, emancipating her limbs. She shot up from the table, spilling the chamomile and honey tea onto Kate’s lap. Kate didn’t flinch.
‘Yes, I know,’ she said sadly. ‘But I thought we could pretend, just for a little bit.’ She reached up and touched the scarf; her fingers coming away crimson as she worked at the knot. Rivulets of blood ran down her pale neck.
‘Don’t do that, Kate,’ Emily shouted. ‘Stop it!’
‘It hurts,’ Kate said, her fingers like albino worms, burrowing into the scarf. ‘I need to get it off.’
Emily watched as Kate undid the knot. The scarf was nothing more than a sopping red rag when she pulled it away and let it fall to the floor.
‘Is it bad?’ Kate asked, tilting her head to the side, offering Emily a better look at the wound. ‘You were always the honest one, Em. Tell me how it looks. Is it awful?’
Emily was expecting a gory display of snarled skin, flapping tendons, slivers of yellow fat. But there was only a hole, a bit larger than a cigarette burn. She was about to say as much when the hole ripped wider and spewed a geyser of blood.
* * *
The scream left her mouth before she was fully awake. She pushed herself up from the mattress, mewling like an injured animal.
‘What’re you doing?’ Roger moaned, tugging the quilt back over him. ‘You scared the life out of me.’
Emily couldn’t speak. She was crying and her jaw hurt from grinding her teeth. Her pillow was damp with sweat, tears and saliva. She could hear her blood roaring in her ears.
She swung her legs over the side of the mattress and sat there, weeping into the palms of her hands. Kate… my poor Kate… why couldn’t it have been me?
In the black tide of grief that followed in the years after Kate’s murder, Emily had often asked herself this question. She was, after all, the failure of the family. Kate had left university with dazzling honours, fought for a job in the banking sector and soared through the ranks, bought a nice house and married a good, honest man. She had done everything right. And then you had Emily, who had dropped out of uni after dismally failing her first year. She had hopped from one low-paid job to another, shuffling her career paths almost as quickly as she shuffled her men. And that just wasn’t the trajectory their parents had set for them. They were both expected to graduate in the same year, then go on to mirror each other’s achievements in their chosen fields. They were supposed to be the success story that their parents could brag about, and yet Emily could never fulfil her end of the bargain. She just wasn’t made like Kate. They were twins, yes, but they were two separate people for god’s sake. Kate was born with all the brains, Emily would often say, a trademark bit of self-deprecating humour, but she believed it with all her heart. Kate was the smart one. Emily was the… she didn’t know. The one that didn’t finish things. The one that had no ambition. Kate never made Emily feel shitty about failing the semester, nor did she lord her engagement over her, even when Emily’s inability to sustain a relationship provoked concern in their parents.
Kate was the only constant in Emily’s life and then she was gone. No warning, no last goodbye.
The police had failed to catch her killer. Rather than going after the boy who’d knocked on her door and plunged a knife into Kate’s neck, they chose to focus their investigation on Jack. Jack, who hadn’t gone to university, who had worked in a warehouse since leaving school and earned less than half of what his wife did. For a little while they toyed with the theory that Jack, who had struck gold when he found this beautiful, intelligent and successful career woman, hired a hitman to kill Kate. Even after his teary television appeals that were far too harrowing to be anything other than genuine, the police still had him down as suspect number one. But when they realised she had no life insurance, no will, no savings great enough to warrant a motive, they were stumped. No forensic evidence, no CCTV of the car as described by Jack, no other witnesses that could offer anything of use.
So why her? What could she have ever done to deserve such a horrific death?
Why Kate and not me? It sh
ould have been me. It should have been…
Emily stood up and felt the room sway around her. She had to get out of the house. She had to do something.
She had to see Craig Morley for herself.
Chapter Ten
She called in sick, said she was coming down with the flu, but her boss’s dull voice on the other end of the line told her exactly what he was thinking: she was taking Monday off, a nice three-day weekend for her. Emily couldn’t have cared less.
While she was jostled about on the train heading to Morley’s estate, her mind flashed back to a conversation she’d had with her mother a few years before. They had been sitting in the conservatory overlooking the garden, with a teapot and a plate of biscuits between them. During these occasional visits, where the sound of crunching custard creams usually outweighed their dialogue, her mother had asked, ‘Do you ever hear much from Jack?’
‘Jack? Every now and then. He sends cards at Christmas, that sort of thing. You?’
‘He still remembers my birthday. And your father’s.’
A pregnant pause followed, but Emily could almost feel her mother’s need to discuss him further, to pick at the scab without reopening the wound. It was dangerous territory, of course. If either one of them dropped their defences and began down memory lane, they would both be in floods of tears before long.
Eventually, Emily relented. ‘I don’t think he ever got over what happened.’
Her mother’s lips unglued with a small, wet sound. ‘How could he? How could any of us? It wasn’t like she was sick or had an accident. How can you properly begin to grieve knowing that someone out there got away with murder? You know, some days I just sit down and turn that over in my head, or I wake up wondering what that person is doing, whether they ever think about her.’ She turned her head slightly toward Emily and then regarded her from the corner of her eye. Casually, as though discussing an increase in the price of bread rather than her daughter’s murder, she asked, ‘What do you think?’
