Forever in Your Service

by Sandra Antonelli

  Mae couldn’t scream—not that anyone inside would hear her over the honeyed voice of Bobby Darrin playing indoors and outdoors. Case’s weight bore down, the hard edge of the table dug into her diaphragm, making it difficult to catch her breath or even breathe. Heavy, he was so heavy and she was immobilised, right hand wedged beneath her throat, her left arm twisted behind her back, pinned to his chest. She kicked back and he leaned on her harder, forced her legs apart with a knee, the heft of his body and gravity pressing down. Vintage Dior taffeta and netting tickled as he dragged up fabric. His blood dripped beside her nose. Breath sweetened by wine, his hand touched the back of her right thigh, slid around to the front, slowly, hesitating, as if a devil argued with a drunken angel on his shoulder and the devil was more seductive with his promise, but only just. His hand ran up the inside of her thigh.

  “Do it,” she panted, amorphous white splotches of fury and inadequate oxygen blighting her vision as she rasped, “Don’t...fanny around. Just go ahead... and feckin’ do it. Ya miserable...manky...ginger-nutted lush.”

  “Ginger-nutted?” Case said, his words hot on her sweaty, cold neck. “Jesus Christ!” he hissed.

  In an instant, the warmth of wine-scented breath was gone, his weight gone too. He jerked her upright and let go.

  Her knees, soft as warm wax, rebuffed their weight-bearing role and function. Mae stumbled sideways, sucking in air, and tripped over the block of cheese, landing on her arse. She scrambled across the tiles, trying to get her uncooperative knees to coordinate with her uncoordinated feet. With a roll, she snatched up the cheese and wobbled upright. She’d once killed a man with a toilet brush and she could kill this man with a chunk of Italian cheese because killing was easier than most people knew. Her brother had been a hooligan and boxer and he’d taught her the targets to hit: throat, eyes, nose, ears, neck, groin, balls, knees, and legs. Killing was easy and she was going to kill this man with a brick made of cheese.

  Bobby Darrin told them ‘Macky was back’, and Mae launched herself at Case, cheese swinging. He stepped sideways and momentum kept her going, right off the edge of the patio onto the same patch of ice she’d slid on earlier.

  Slipping, spinning, she caught a glimpse of Case, something black in his hands. He snarled through his teeth, “Stop, listen to me! Just stop!”

  The world a twirling strobe of dark and white, she went down hard on the edge of the terracotta tiles. Cheese wedge popped from her grip, breath shunted from her lungs, the rushing blood in her erupted into bursting stars that were soon eclipsed by heavy wool smelling of her own perfume. In a heartbeat, she was upside down and breathless, a shoulder pressed into her spasming diaphragm. Trapped, wrapped in the coat she’d shrugged out of moments before, she became a bundle of dirty washing, Case’s stream of profanities drowned out by Tom Jones belting It’s Not Unusual.

  Heat caressed her legs. A door slammed. The music loud, Case tossed her from his shoulder, and she sank into yielding cushions. Soft weight fell upon her and she twisted, gasping, tearing from the snare of her coat, yanking the wool from her head until she realised she was facing the backrest of on the sofa she’d been sleeping on for two months.

  Mae rolled over, kicked off blankets and pillow that had toppled upon her, and found Felix and Case beside the sofa.

  Tom whoa-ho-hoed. The TV flickered from beneath Grant’s bedroom door. She sat up. The dog licked her elbow. Case stared down at her, a trickle of blood curved around his eye. He reached into the pocket of his jacket, pulled out something black. Mae heaved hot and sour champagne all over his outstretched hand.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Case bellowed over music, shaking off vomit and a dog vigorously humping his leg.

  Ten seconds later, Felix had lost interest and Mae held a spew-sticky wallet at arm’s length, squinting. Her reading glasses were somewhere outside. French, Spanish, English, and Arabic printed on the smartcard popped into focus behind a window of plastic in the bi-fold leather. “Simon Reed?” She looked at the man poking the wall pad music control, killing off Tom Jones. “Your name is Simon Reed?”

  He looked back and nod-shrugged.

  “And you work for,” Mae glanced back at the ID, “Interpol? Are you feckin’ with me?”

  Simon Reed shrugged again.

  Mae threw the wallet as hard as she could. The ID bounced against him and fell to his feet. Felix sniffed the leather then hopped on the sofa beside her.

  Reed picked up his soiled wallet and pitched it into the sink behind him. “Look, I’m sorry about where I put my hands. I’m really very sorry. An apology doesn’t make it okay, and I’m not trying to make an excuse so I feel better about making you think I was a rapist, but I had to make certain you didn’t have any weapons.”

  She shifted her position on the sofa, the dog rested his head on her thigh, “Do ya really think I would have hit ya with cheese if I’d had a pistol or knife hidden somewhere on my body?”

  “I don’t know. There’s blood on your face and hands. I thought it best to be cautious.”

  Mae looked down at knuckles and fingernails that were clean and pink, and palms blotched with Grant’s blood. “Oh Jaysus,” she gasped.

  “You’re Irish?” he moved around to the other side of the kitchen bench and began to wash his hands.

  “Yes,” she said, rubbing her palms on her champagne-sodden dress, glancing at the end table, where her phone sat beside the TV remote. “Why didn’t you bloody say you worked with Interpol at the start?”

  “You hit me with cheese before I could.” He touched the cut in his hairline and the darkening, thin line of dried blood that curved from the inside of his eye, over his cheek, and down his chin. “Do you feel better now?”

  “I always feel better after being sick all over a man who assaulted me. Why did you kill Grant?”

  Case—Reed pulled apart his bow tie. “I didn’t kill him, petal.”

  “Right. Interpol doesn’t do undercover work or kill.”

  “No, they don’t. The ICPO facilitate communication between agencies, don’t carry weapons, and we don’t make arrests. Interpol supports national law enforcement and stands aside while the locals do the actual police work, the arresting. The method may be unorthodox, but I came here to facilitate communication with a contact.” Reed reached for the wallet. “It went a little skewiff.”

  Mae yanked off a boot. “His being dead, is that what you mean by skewiff?”

  “Yes.”

  She pulled off the other boot. “Did you kill him?”

  “No.”

  “Then who did?”

  “Maybe you did.”

  “Feck off.” The boot hit the floor.

  “I’m kidding. You thought he killed himself.”

  “Is that what you think?”

  “No. We came here to talk to Grant, but someone else talked to him first.”

  “You already knew he was dead before I went outside, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah. We found him just before you went to look for the dog. Sorry he got out. We didn’t know he was in here. Towel?”

  “Second drawer beside the sink.” She watched Reed open the drawer, dry his hands with one towel and wallet with another. “We?” she said. “That’s the second or third time you said we. The man in the cowboy hat, the one I saw you kiss, is he your fiancé or Interpol partner?”

  The light above the sink shone on his red hair, highlighting silver amid the ginger as he dabbed drying blood from his face. “You got a problem with my kissing him?”

  “Who you kiss is not my concern.”

  “What is then?” He grinned suddenly.

  More or less barefoot in stockings, she exhaled, frowning, got up and began folding blankets. “Does this have something to do with the Lab in Los Alamos? Was Grant involved in espionage at the Lab or is this something drug-related? Is Somerset with the FBI, ATF, or local law enforcement?”

  “Yes, no, since that TV series about the teacher turned-meth-maker everyone thinks N
ew Mexico is the drug centre of the universe, and you ask a lot of questions.” Reed left a heap of damp linen on the worktop, and returned to the sitting room. He removed his jacket, undid shirt buttons below his collar, and sat on the arm of the sofa. “When Somerset gets here ask him the same questions.”

  “What’s he going to tell me?”

  “He’ll tell you exactly fuck-all, which is what he knows about wine.”

  The dog settled on top of the folded blankets. Mae pressed her lips together, went to the kitchen to wash her hands, the tumbler, and remnants of Grant’s bowl of chicken soup. She placed the glass and bowl in the basin, turned on the faucet, then shut it off without washing anything. “Is the Jefferson bottle real?” She grabbed the damp hand towel and took it to the sticky spot on the carpet in front of the sofa.

  “That depends on what you mean by real.”

  She blotted remnants of sick on wool pile. “You’re pretending to be a private equity investor and wine collector and you brought a bottle of fake wine to sell at a private auction. Why?”

  “I told you, I was here to facilitate communication with a contact.”

  “You mean facilitate communication with a contact while committing fraud, right?”

  “I did say it was unorthodox. Why do you think this has something to do with the wine? And why do you care?”

  “You came here with a bottle you were going to try to sell to my employer.”

  “Maybe I did. Maybe I didn’t.”

  “Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t,” she mimicked his slightly nasal Australian intonation and stared down at the sick-yellowed tea-towel. “What about the provenance, the documentation you said you had, is that fake too?”

  Reed chuckled softly. “I see. I see where you’re going. To talk to Grant, I had to walk the walk, to get my foot in the door and not look suspicious. The papers are authentic. Well, copies of authentic documents from Monticello. They wouldn’t give me originals.”

  “Why should I believe you’re with Interpol?” She looked at the redhead and contemplated launching the dirty towel at his handsome face.

  “Would you like to see my identification again?”

  “The Jefferson is fake. How do I know your ID isn’t too?”

  “You don’t.” He glanced down at the cuff of his shirt, seeing the speckles of blood and vomit he’d overlooked before.

  “I ought to ring the police.” She glanced at her mobile still plugged into the charger on the end table.

  “I’d prefer you didn’t.”

  “I don’t care what you prefer.” She got to her feet and moved for the phone.

  Reed stepped in front of her. “Nah, leave it there.”

  “And if I don’t, you’ll hit me?”

  “I’m more concerned you might try to hit me with it. You’re a bit of a pistol. I’m asking you to have a seat and wait for Somerset.”

  “What for?”

  “You’re asking so many questions, petal.” He made a face and yanked his shirt over his head.

  “Because you’re telling me nothing.” She went back to the kitchen sink with the limp tea-towel. “Why are you here?”

  “Why are you here?”

  “I’m the bloody butler, ya mingin’ eejit.” She swore in Italian under her breath and her fingers balled up the smelly cloth before she changed her mind about hurling the lank thing at him. “What did Grant know or do? Was he really a butler?”

  Reed clomped to the sink, dress shirt in hand, and rather gently moved her from the front of the sink. “I can tell you this much. You split my head with a block of cheese and then you spewed all over me. Somerset can tell you the rest.” Freckles speckled his bared shoulders. Dark ginger hair sprayed his chest. He was quite fit for a middle-aged man, like Kitt had been, but Reed was older, handsomer, and had a weariness about him. “Here,” he held out his shirt to her, “maybe you can get out the stains.”

  Mae looked at the shirt, looked at him, and headed for the bedroom.

  He grabbed her elbow. “What do you think you’re doing, possum?”

  “I’m bloodied, cold, and wet, and I’m not about to undress in front of you and expect you to wash my clothes.” She jerked away and left Reed to deal with his fetid sleeve and went into the bedroom she never used.

  In the dark, she made her way to the walk-in wardrobe, switched on the light inside, found the red silk dress and matching shoes, and took the things into the bathroom. She flicked on the recessed overhead lights and caught sight of herself in the mirror. Blood marred not just her palms; there were smears beside her mouth and up her cheek as well.

  With a shudder, she washed away Grant’s blood, cleaned her teeth, brushed her hair, fixed what little make-up she wore, and dragged off a champagne-stained, blood-sticky black taffeta dress.

  Mae sat on the edge of the bathtub, red dress in her lap. There were a few possibilities pertaining to this...situation. First, if Case—Reed worked for Interpol, having Bryce verify that would be straightforward. Second, if Reed’s being here had anything to do with why she was here, then Bryce already knew and that information hadn’t been part of her ‘need to know’ package. Odds were Grant had died because someone here was dealing in counterfeit wine. However, third, if Bryce didn’t know Reed, then Reed or Case—or whoever he was—was full of shite, she was in this arse-deep, and trying to climb out of the window in the bathroom was probably a good idea.

  Hands trembling, she adjusted the chain around her neck, rolling Kitt’s ring through quivering fingers. There was nothing like seeing a dead man and running for one’s own life to get the adrenaline going. She looked at sullied taffeta she’d tossed on the edge of the washbasin and snorted. What the hell was she doing here? And what the hell was she going to do now?

  Kitt would have told her to put on boots and a warm coat and climb out the window, but she had to be contrary, she had to look at all the options: get the boots and warm coat from the wardrobe and leave via the bathroom window in the boots and warm coat, or be contrary and stay and finish the job she started. She decided being sensible was a better option than being angry and contrary, it was a safer option. Then she remembered Felix.

  Right, she’d leave, but not without the dog. The dog was coming with her. She’d lost Caspar. She’d lost Kitt. There was no way she was losing Felix too, feck the fact he didn’t belong to her and dognapping was a crime.

  Mae put on the dress and red shoes, trying to figure out how to get Felix and leave without Reed’s interference. What was the first thing in the sitting room that she could smash over the man’s head—the bowl of apples? Maybe the lamp on the bedside table had a better heft? She went into the bedroom.

  “Have you learned nothing?” Kitt said from the edge of the bed. This time, he wore a dinner suit, arms crossed, bow tie perfect, his ugly handsome features an amalgam of her imagination and how she’d seen him over the years.

  “Oh, sodding Jaysus,” she coughed.

  “Didn’t being mugged, didn’t being nearly murdered in my kitchen last year teach you anything about being alone with strange men?”

  Mae shut her eyes.

  “You should have run,” Kitt exhaled. “You should have gone inside the minute you got back to the house, gone inside to the safety of a crowd of people instead of chatting with Reed. What are you doing here? What the hell are you doing here?”

  Yes, what was she doing here? Why had she taken the position and done a favour for a man who had accused her of crimes? Had it really been to avoid going mad, to avoid falling into the same abyss there’d been after Caspar had died? Or was there something more to it? “Being productive.” She rubbed her temples for a moment. “I’m being productive.”

  Kitt laughed. “Of course. Of course. Productive. How do you know Reed isn’t lying?”

  “I saw his credentials.”

  “How do you know they’re real?”

  “I don’t. I don’t know what’s... Oh, God. Stop,” she said, opening her eyes, dropping her hands.
“Stop.”

  “You’ve cut your hair,” he said, very softly.

  Mae swallowed, and felt a smile waver on her lips as she studied a delusion thrust upon her by trauma and grief. “You’ve grown a beard again.”

  “Do you like it? It’s quite ginger—and a little grey.”

  She looked away, down at her feet. “It’s very distinguished.”

  “Ah, distinguished. You think I look old.”

  “Do you feel old, sir?”

  “No, I feel stale, over-boiled, and deep-fried. It’s been an eternity since I’ve had a decent cup of coffee and your scrambled eggs.”

  “Don’t they serve breakfast in hell?”

  “American coffee, Mrs Valentine. That has been my hell. I have been in hell since I left you.”

  “Yes. You left me.” She looked at him again, longer this time. “The spy in a dinner suit is a cliché, yet the clothes have always suited you. But your nose? The broken nose is an interesting touch. Is it prosthetic, a standard part of a spy’s disguise kit, or just your skill with applying make-up?”

  “I’d like to say it’s the spy-kit Stephen Fry model, but it’s all mine.”

  “And shearing your hair so short?”

  “Concussion. Stitches. Had to make sure I hadn’t gone soft in the head.”

  “Evidently, I’m the one soft in the head.”

  “With you being here, I’m inclined to agree. You’re very thin.”

  “I was getting a little doughy in the middle.”

  “I liked you a little doughy in the middle. Do you still find me unconventionally handsome, Mae, or is Reed more your style now?”

  “Reed is a cowboy-snogging pretty-boy.”

  He chuckled.

  Mae saw Kitt with that grin of expectation, the one that said he was waiting for a quip, for her dry wit, waiting for that delicious banter they’d shared to spark to full life. God how she missed that, how she missed him, how she missed the spark to the life they’d had, the spark to the life they might have continued to have, and she strangled the cry rising in her throat. “No. I’m not doing this. You’re not here,” she said. “You’re not, and I’ve crossed over into madness. This never happened with Caspar. I thought about what he might say, I saw him sometimes, I heard him like I heard you outside, like I hear you now, but I never carried on a conversation with his bloody feckin’ ghost, and I’m not going to stand here and chit-chat with yours.”