The Life and Times of William Boule.: Dead girls tell no tales. A heart-pounding action thriller...

by Max China

  She nodded as if she understood. He seemed so wise. Then she crumpled. ‘Oh, Miller, make this pain go away. Or, at least, help me take my mind off it.’

  ‘You know, Carla, pain ... it never really goes away. You can leave it behind, but it’s always there, lurking in the background.’

  ‘Get me away from here. Take me somewhere … let’s go.’ She wrapped her fingers around his and leaned her head on his shoulder. ‘Just a few minutes, make me forget ...’

  ‘Carla, no. I’m with Stella now and, besides, if I have sex, I lose the edge. It’s hard to explain. I lose some degree of awareness, and I think we’re going to need me to have that.’

  Her feelings already in turmoil, she looked hurt. ‘I don’t understand. You always push me away.’ She paused, thoughtfully, and then shrugged. ‘Anyway, why are you not telling me to go to the police? You could vouch for me, couldn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I could, but I don’t want to do that. Ever since I left home, there’s been only one thing on my mind.’

  Her face brightened and she pouted. ‘You couldn’t wait to see me again?’

  ‘No. I’m going to find a way to kill him.’

  ‘So that’s why you’re here?’ She shook her head slowly. ‘I should have known. Oh, and by the way ...’ She thought about what she was going to say for a moment. ‘Don’t you think that’s incredibly stupid and selfish? If you do that,’ she said testily, ‘you’ll ruin my story.’

  ‘Always the story ...’ he said, beckoning her forward. ‘If I do it right ... it’ll become part of the story.’

  ‘But how?’

  He touched his nose.

  ‘You know I hate it when you do that.’

  ‘I know. Listen, if I’d come on my own, I wouldn’t be scared of him. We’d have had our showdown. He’s older now and he’s had that blow to the head. He doesn’t feel invincible anymore. I can beat him.’

  ‘Then why don’t you, if you’re so sure ...’

  ‘That’s the trouble, because if it goes wrong – he’s got you.’

  ‘So you’re not so sure?’

  ‘It just complicates things, that’s all.’

  ‘What kind of an answer do you call that?’

  ‘Wait here. I’ll be back soon.’

  On his way out, he had a word with the doorman. Pressing a few notes into his hand, he described Boyle with gestures, flattening his nose, mimicking the shape of his mouth and, when he indicated with a snip that the top of his ear was missing, the bouncer’s eyes gleamed recognition. ‘I know this man,’ he grunted.

  ‘Good ... Look, he’s been harassing that lady.’ He pointed out Carla.

  She saw him and waved, looking confused.

  ‘If this man comes, keep him out. And keep an eye on her,’ he said, showing him a couple of banknotes. ‘When I come back, these are for you.’

  The big man stood erect, suddenly more alert. He gave Miller a curt nod.

  As he left the club, he walked towards the car hire centre he’d noticed on the way in. The thought of driving suited him. The train was out of the question. Too restrictive. A car would be better for getting her overland to the ferry at Tangier. He’d make arrangements with the hire company for taking the car on a day trip, so he’d have the necessary paperwork.

  The thought of having her in the boot appealed to him.

  Chapter 12

  The poster stuck out like a sore thumb. Miller stopped for a closer look. It was pasted onto the side wall of a clay-coloured building that fronted the square.

  Emblazoned and superimposed across the top of an artist’s impression, the legend read: The Life and Times of William Boule.

  She must have had the image done since she’d sent him the book originally; she’d not only changed the cover, she’d changed the title as well. The edges of the flyer were peeling away. The middle section bulged where the glue had lost adhesion to the uneven rendered surface.

  ‘Where are you?’ he said to the image. ‘What are you doing here?’ For a moment he considered his own question and then looked about him at the predominantly white buildings with blue doors, at the mix of people, and got at least part of the answer: he could blend in.

  Miller sensed Boyle had been here before.

  A breeze rose out of nowhere; raising dust and minor detritus, it tugged at the loose paper edges, rushing below the picture. The image billowed out, as full as a sail in high wind and, unable to resist the sudden pressure, detached from the stucco, flapping for a moment from a corner that held on defiantly, until finally tearing free. Seized by warm currents of air, it was borne along and over the heads of the afternoon crowd, fluttering wildly, rising up and up like a magic carpet, before disappearing out of sight.

  Staring in the direction it had taken, he shrugged his shoulders and thought, why not? If he could find him without Carla around, it would be so much better. He started after it on a hunch, in the opposite direction to the car hire centre.

  After strolling for only a few minutes, Miller located a shop with The Life and Times of William Boule for sale. He purchased the book and a large red marker pen. Flicking through the book, he found the page he was looking for.

  Twenty minutes later, having found five more posters, he walked back to hire a car.

  Despite his disguise, with heightened police activity Boyle guessed it was only a question of time before he was stopped. He’d abandoned his truck and all the walking had blistered his feet. He cursed inwardly. Cheap chickenshit boots!

  Her face was just inches from his cock as he ejaculated over it. Hatred mingled with desire in an excruciating moment of pleasure and left him on fire, tingling, burning as his heart hammered, his ragged breathing keeping time, fuelling him with much-needed oxygen. He’d always held his breath in check during the act. The lack of oxygen seemed to heighten the experience for him, and he recreated the method in his solo activities. He often wondered what it must be like to play for the ultimate stakes – getting trussed-up, suspended with a ligature around the neck, an orange to bite down on ... He pushed the book away. ‘Jesus, I need a woman,’ he whispered. ‘I’m comin’ for ya.’

  He fell asleep.

  As Miller approached the entrance to the club, his ears detected the first strains of a familiar tune.

  He greeted the gorilla on the door, raising his eyebrows. The man-mountain mirrored him, his own brows lifting without losing the scowl on his face. The smoke hit him harder than the first time around. The club was still packed. He couldn’t believe his ears as he bulled through to the makeshift stage. A female voice sang soulfully, accompanied by acoustic guitar. He pushed to the front. A sense of surreality struck him.

  In the glare of the hastily arranged floodlights, a quartet had formed. The singer was the flamenco dancer from earlier. Carla swayed in her seat, miming along to the words of a Gerry Rafferty song: ‘… another year and then you’d be happy, just one more year and then you’d be happy, but you’re crying, you’re crying now ...’

  There were now two guitarists. The new one, a mulatto, wore a Jimi Hendrix wig. The blind man stood elevated, raised up on a soapbox; he drew a prolonged gulp of air through the side of his mouth. Miller stood in awe, as smoke from his immediate proximity seemed to siphon into it. Tipping back, pointing the horn of his sax at the ceiling, he blew a solo rendition far more powerful than that of the original. The crowd went wild.

  Carla stood clapping vigorously and did a little drunken jig. Miller thought his ears and heart would burst. Gathering breath for his finale, sax man handed over to the Spaniard’s gentle strumming flamenco and the woman sang the last few words, ‘... you’re going, you’re going home...’ Jimi launched into a blistering solo. Amid a crescendo of electric and acoustic guitars, sax man blew again to tumultuous applause.

  Miller gripped her upper arm gently. She looked startled. ‘It’s OK, it’s me,’ he said directly into her ear. ‘You look like you’ve been enjoying yourself.’

  She wore a triumphant expression
. ‘I asked them if they knew Baker Street, an’ bloody hell, did they ...’ She squinted at him through heavy-lidded eyes. ‘Where the hell have you been?’ she demanded.

  ‘Making sure he follows us.’

  ‘Are you crazy? We need to get away from him ...’ She wagged a finger at him. ‘Besides, when he sees what I’ve written about him, he’ll come after me to England anyway. That’s what I want.’

  Miller flashed the red marker pen at her. ‘I think he’ll be keener than ever to catch you before you get back now.’

  ‘Oh?’ she queried.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘I’ve written on as many posters I could find – a message for him.’

  ‘A message ...’ she said. ‘What bloody message?’

  ‘See page seventy-seven, you paedophile.’

  She nodded and then shook her head. ‘Mmm, clever … although it doesn’t say that anywhere. I’m guessing if he hasn’t got the book already, that’ll be enough to persuade him to buy it, but how do you know he’ll see it?’

  ‘Is the Pope Catholic?’ Miller said, as he took her hand. ‘You’re drunk.’

  Catching the disapproval in his eyes, she said, ‘And stoned. Well, what did you expect?’

  He pulled her towards the door. ‘Come on. Let’s get out of here.’

  Out in the alleyways and side streets, Miller’s awareness was on high alert. He sensed no danger, but he couldn’t trust his faculties any more; he felt like he had a loose connection.

  ‘The car’s just round the corner,’ he told her.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she asked.

  ‘North,’ he said, and opened the door for her.

  She snuggled down into her seat. ‘Wake me up when we get there,’ she mumbled.

  He glanced at her; she hadn’t put on her seatbelt. Not wanting to debate it with her, he leaned over and pulled it around her, clipping the buckle together. He took from his pocket the phone charger he’d bought earlier, first plugging it into the cigarette lighter and then connecting the handset. He started the engine and pulled off into the night. Once out of town, an inky blackness surrounded them. He drove on, a pocket of light holding darkness at bay.

  Carla slept for two hours straight before she stirred, yawning and stretching. She smacked her dry lips, moistening them with her tongue. ‘Eeeww! My mouth ... you didn’t piss in it while I was sleeping did you? God, I need a wee.’

  He looked at her with disdain but, before he could answer, she exclaimed, horrified, ‘Oh my God, I think I’m going to be sick!’

  He pulled in at the side of the road. She leaned out of the door, retching heavily, succeeding only in dispelling air.

  ‘Feel better?’

  She sucked in a deep breath and blew out her cheeks, exhaling slowly. ‘I think so. Jesus, remind me not to drink on an empty stomach anymore.’

  Pulling away again, Miller let the windows down. The warm night air carried in a sweetness for him, and something that turned into bitterness for her.

  She cried softly.

  Although he felt her pain, he left her alone with it.

  After a while, she turned away from the window. ‘I guess you’re driving up to Tangier,’ she said.

  ‘We’ve got about six hours on the road left. If we switch driving ...’ he questioned the wisdom of his statement. ‘I think we might be better off finding somewhere around halfway. Casablanca. We could stop there.’

  She turned back to the window, the breeze tugging at her spiky hair. He didn’t see the glimmer of a smile that momentarily lit her face.

  ‘I like Casablanca,’ she said.

  ‘You’ve been there before?’

  ‘No, but it looked lovely in the film. I hope we’re going to stay somewhere nice ...’ she said dreamily.

  ‘With you looking like a Berber? I hardly think so,’ he harrumphed.

  Sitting up, she looked down at herself and then, looking at his valise on the back seat, she said, ‘What have you got in there?’

  ‘Nothing that’ll fit you.’

  She reached over and grabbed the bag.

  ‘Carla, there’s nothing, I’m telling you.’

  She pulled out a plain white short-sleeved shirt, lifted the robe, and pulled it over her head. He averted his eyes. She put on his shirt and tied it in a knot at the waist.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw the smooth contours of her legs stretching into the shadow of the footwell. ‘I didn’t bring any trousers,’ he said.

  ‘That’s OK,’ she said breezily. ‘I have my own.’ She unrolled the pair that she’d stowed in her bag at Mohammed’s apartment.

  ‘The one thing I don’t understand is why you don’t outwit him, using that thing of yours ...’

  ‘It doesn’t work like it used to, it seems. It’s all a bit haywire. But pretty much, there’s only one person I know who can do that, and she’s not here.’

  She seemed to sober slightly, becoming serious. ‘Have you heard anything about the Sister?’

  ‘Not a thing.’

  ‘Another story of mine you ruined. Didn’t you think it odd ... her going off with Kale like that?’

  He shrugged. ‘If anyone knows what she’s doing, she does.’ His brow furrowed. ‘I know she’s OK though.’

  ‘How are you planning to get me out of the country?’

  ‘I have friends in Gibraltar. If I can get you over there, we can get you home quite easily.’

  ‘I’d love to know how you plan to do that,’ she said.

  ‘You’ll find out soon enough,’ he said.

  ‘God, my arse is turning square in this seat. How much further?’

  He glanced at the clock. ‘Maybe half an hour. Do you want to stop?’

  ‘No, keep going. I’ll do some seat exercises.’ After a few repetitions, she put her hand on his thigh. ‘What about you? I bet you could do with some exercise.’

  He lifted her hand and moved it back over to her side of the car.

  On the third choice of hotel, Miller changed tack, much to Carla’s delight. He went upmarket, reasoning that the most expensive hotels would be more likely to have a couple of rooms, telling himself it was just for one night.

  Dressed as they were, they struggled to convince the mangement to allow them in, but Miller assured them that their clothes had been stolen along with Carla’s passport: a problem Miller overcame smoothly with the introduction of several one-hundred-dirham notes into the duty manager’s palm.

  Carla sidled up close to him. ‘We don’t need two rooms,’ she whispered.

  ‘Carla,’ he said, smiling wearily, ‘I need some sleep.’

  ‘I’m not tired,’ she said.

  He shook his head.

  ‘I’ve never travelled so light,’ she remarked as they followed the porter along high-ceilinged, palatial corridors to their rooms.

  He tipped the porter, even though he’d done nothing more than show them the way. They hadn’t bothered with any conversation, and he’d seemed content with that.

  ‘Look, Miller, there’s no way I can go out dressed like this, and I heard you promise the manager we’d be properly dressed for breakfast. Let’s go and see what clothes they have for me in that little boutique downstairs, yes?’

  ‘It was closed.’

  ‘I just wanted to look ...’

  ‘We’ll go somewhere else for breakfast and see about kitting you out afterwards. I’ll see you in the morning.’ He turned to open the door to his room.

  She stared at him, incredulity plainly evident. ‘You’re going to leave me all night, alone ... after what I’ve been through?’

  He stopped, thought briefly and then, closing the door, crossed the corridor to join her. ‘We’ll talk, but I’m bushed, and we’ve got another long drive in the morning.’

  The room was light, spacious and airy and – unusually, from what he’d seen in Morocco so far – it had a wooden floor with colourful and expensive rugs laid out on either side of the bed.

  She put her bag down. ‘I
need to make a call. Is it all right to borrow your phone?’

  ‘Of course it is.’ He held it out to her. She took it.

  ‘It’s a personal call, is that all right?’

  ‘That’s fine, just go ahead.’

  She disappeared with it into the bathroom.

  ‘Don’t drop it in the toilet,’ he called out.

  ‘I won’t,’ she replied.

  He heard her speaking in hushed tones, laughing seductively. He wondered, absently, who it was she was talking to. I must call Stella as soon as I get the phone back.

  She came out of the bathroom dressed in a white towelling hotel robe, an enigmatic smile on her lips.

  ‘What are you grinning at?’

  ‘I took a picture.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Mi lecher, remember?’ She flashed him the photograph on his telephone screen.

  He gasped at the sight. ‘Wow ... yes I do, but what ... What are you trying to do, Carla?’

  ‘I just need some company. You know, to help me keep my mind off things ...’

  ‘And the photo is a way of reaching out to me, you think?’

  Undoing her robe, she advanced on him. ‘Well, it’d better be.’ She looked more mischievous than ever.

  He noticed she had her thumb over the send button. ‘Oh, no.’ He shook his head, realization turning to disbelief. ‘No – don’t you dare. She won’t believe it ...’

  ‘Are you sure, Miller? Come on, let’s have some fun.’

  Tiredness washed over him. His resistance was low, but he managed to make light of the situation. ‘I’ll not negotiate under the barrel of a gun. Give me the phone.’ He put out a hand as he moved towards her.

  ‘One more step and I blow this thing,’ she said, grinning widely.

  ‘Carla, stop messing about. I mean it.’

  She stopped as suddenly as if he’d slapped her. ‘You do, don’t you? You really care for that girl, don’t you?’

  ‘Come on – the phone,’ he pleaded.