Chapter Two
Burlington Arcade, St James’s, London
‘How much?’
‘Two hundred and twenty-six thousand pounds and ninety-eight pence.’
The man has a singsong Scottish accent, like Ewan McGregor in Moulin Rouge. The jewels sparkle on a black velvet cloth that’s spread out on the walnut table.
‘And again. I didn’t catch it.’
‘Two hundred and twenty-six thousand pounds and ninety-eight pence.’
‘Fuck.’
‘Bless you.’
I’d thought maybe fifty or sixty thousand. Seventy at a push. But this is amazing. This is a fortune. Perhaps today is my lucky day?
‘Would you like me to write it down?’
He produces a Mont Blanc pen from his pocket and scribbles the sum on a piece of white card. He draws an extravagant, curling pound sign – larger than necessary, with a flourish – as if to make a fucking point.
I’m going to push him, hold out for more. I’m not letting any more men screw me over. I’ve learnt that the hard way from Nino.
‘Three hundred thousand.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Let’s call it three hundred and we have a deal.’
I spit on my palm and stick out my hand, ready for the man to shake. The old guy scratches his balding head. The fine white hairs are frizzy and dry; he needs to buy some conditioner. (I know there’s more to life than hair, but it is a good place to start . . .) Flecks of dandruff land on his shoulders like a sprinkling of snow on Christmas morning. I wish he’d stop scratching. Now it’s a blizzard. I could build a snowman.
‘I’m afraid that figure is too high, ma’am. We make very, very precise calculations whenever we conduct a valuation . . .’
Blah, blah, fucking blah.
‘You want the diamonds? You give me the money. Otherwise I’m leaving.’
Nice.
I’m getting better at negotiating. It’s all about leverage and balls.
The man peers over the top of his half-moon glasses and leans in towards me. ‘In that case, madam, I wish you good day.’
He folds tweed arms across his chest and taps his brogue on the wooden floor. Oh, I think he wants me to leave. The bastard’s calling my bluff.
‘Nice one, Alvie,’ says Beth.
I look around his jewellery shop. It sells antiques as well as watches, vintage brooches and diamond rings. There are paintings on the walls and sepia photos. Victorian lace. An ivory box. There’s a human skull, which looks quite fun, with a creamy pate and broken teeth. Alas, poor Yorick. I don’t want that, though (not if it isn’t Nino’s.) And it looks kind of bulky to carry around.
I spot an ancient cuckoo clock sitting on a dusty shelf.
‘Two hundred and twenty-six thousand pounds and ninety-eight pence and I want that clock.’
I point at the shelf. The man turns to look. I don’t know why I said that really. I don’t even like it to tell you the truth. It’s ornate and carved and far too fussy, with annoying Roman numerals and stupid leaves stuck all around. It’s varnished wood with copper chains and pendulums all hanging down. There’s a little door at the top for the cuckoo bird to pop its head out. It looks like something my gran would have bought on a trip to the Schwarzwald in 1928.
‘You’ve got yourself a deal,’ he says. ‘I’ll transfer the money right this minute, directly into your account.’
I hand the man Elizabeth’s jewels and slap him hard on his shoulder.
‘No, I’m going to need that in cash.’
A cloud of dandruff puffs up from his jacket. I wipe my hand on my dress.
* * *
*
After a while, the man comes back with a dozen or more thick rolls of banknotes. I count every single one. It’s right, down to the very last penny. I open the clock and shove the money inside. Spark a celebratory fag. Whoop! Whoop! I can’t believe it. Two hundred and twenty-six thousand pounds and ninety-eight p all for me. I stride out of the pawn shop, beaming, into the Burlington Arcade. I practically skip my way past the shops. Ooh, look, I like that bracelet . . .
But now is not the time to shop.
No, I need that money for Nino, the vodka, the flights. Etc. Etc.
I need to find Nino and the rest of the cash. Two hundred bags of sand ain’t bad, but it isn’t justice. Just a start. Who gives a shit about Beth’s stupid villa? Who cares if I burnt it down? I’ll buy myself another one. I’ll get another classic car.
I burst out of the arcade and on to Piccadilly. Car fumes and coffee from a nearby Caffè Nero. The scent of caffeine reminds me of Nino. He used to like it strong and black. No milk. No sugar. (I don’t know how he could drink it like that.) The memories come flooding back and I close my eyes. I can almost taste him, the bitter espresso hot on his lips. The earthy tobacco. The smell of worn leather. His horseshoe moustache scratching rough on my skin.
No. No. He’s gone. He’s gone. I shake my head to throw his image out of my brain. I swear to God: I swear off men. I have had enough. I’m going to be a born-again virgin. (Hmm, is that an actual thing? Perhaps my hymen will grow back? I’ll be as tight as a weasel’s ass.)
I glance again at the iPhone app, but it still says the airport. Now that I have got some cash I can be on my way.
‘TAAAAAAXIIIIIIIIII,’ I say, sticking out my arm.
No. Fuck you, Nino. You’re dead to me now. I can taste the money – and the little bits of chocolate still stuck in my teeth from that complimentary shortbread I ate at the Ritz.
Chapter Three
Heathrow Airport, London
I slam the flute down on the bar and scan the heaving crowds. Nino could be anywhere by now: Bali, Fiji, Mississippi . . . Or, even worse, he could be here. He could be hiding in the crowds watching me get drunk on Bolly. Waiting till I’m comatose and he can make his killer move. I narrow my eyes and scan the hordes of really badly dressed tourists. Nobody is looking back. No one notices me.
The waiter pours me some more fizz. I take a big gulp and I shiver. It’s cold and crisp, just the right side of bitter. The pale gold liquid sloshes around inside the tall cut-crystal glass. I watch the bubbles rise. How many is that? This should be my last. I need to keep my wits about me. I need to be ready like Freddy.
I grab Beth’s iPhone from inside my tote and swipe to refresh the tracking app again and again and again and again. But no, it still says the same thing. He was here at Heathrow Airport, right here at Terminal 5. But it’s been hours now. Oh man, why hasn’t it changed? Fucking technology hates me. Always has and always will. Clocks and watches stop in my presence like I’ve got some magnetic field that interferes with the maths. I bet the stupid app is broken. That’s it. He’s gone. It’s over . . .
I chuck the phone back on the bar and down the rest of the champagne.
‘Why do all the guys leave me?’ I say to no one in particular.
‘Because you’re a psycho?’ offers Beth.
‘Oh cheers. Yeah. Really helpful.’
‘Nino’s not the first, you know. There was Alex, Ahmed, Simon, Richard, Michael . . . need I go on? Bradley, Jamie, Stewart, Hamish, Norman, Humphrey, George, John, Paul, Mark, Clark, Madhav, Mohammed and Daniel and Patrick . . . But you know what? It all started with Dad. He left you when you were one.’
‘Shut up, Beth. Pipe the fuck down. Dad left you as well.’
She’s right, though; Dad was the first to leave. He couldn’t stand the sight of me. He only managed twelve short months before taking off for ever. Nino managed less than a week. I must be getting worse.
I call up YouTube on my phone and search for ‘self-defence’. The first hit is ‘Five great self-defence moves’. Apparently ‘strong’ is the new ‘skinny’: #GirlsWhoLift. I’m going to go Hilary Swank on his ass. I’ll get as buff as Rich Froning. I need t
o be ready for a fight. He could strike at any second. I’ll have to learn some killer moves, some judo or ju-jitsu. The guy on screen demonstrates what to do if some lying Sicilian bastard attacks you. He shows how to respond to a punch or a head-butt, a kick or a knee in the groin. I watch the clip again and again, trying to learn the moves by heart. He keeps on saying, ‘Keep it simple.’ He says, ‘It’s easy.’ Bollocks. He’s going too fast and I can’t follow. I’ll need to practise to learn.
Ping.
What was that?
The app is flashing with a new notification. I click the tiny icon and hold it close so I can read. I can’t see very well and my eyes are all blurry, but that looks like Bucharest, Romania. Yes. I’ve got him. He’s there. If that dead shit’s in Romania, then that is where I need to go. You can do it, Alvie baby. You’re Wonder Woman. A Jedi knight.
Hold, hold, my heart. And you, my sinews, grow not instant old, but bear me stiffly up.
It is fucking on.
Hmm, Romania. Interesting choice. I wonder why Nino went there.
I need to go and book a flight.
I pay the bill. How much? Who cares. I’m rich now, I can afford it. Champagne is one of life’s essentials, like Pop-Tarts or Pringles or coke.
* * *
*
As soon as I get on the plane I start to regret moving so quickly. What am I going to do if I find him? I haven’t practised my self-defence. I haven’t got a plan.
I bang my forehead hard against the back of the seat in front of me.
It doesn’t really help.
The stupid drop-down plastic tray falls into my lap. I slam it back up again: whack.
‘Are you all right there, madam?’
The air hostess has a matron’s voice: strict and stern, no nonsense.
‘No.’
Cuckoo. Cuckoo.
‘Oh for fuck’s sake.’ If it isn’t Beth, it’s that stupid clock.
‘Hey. Do you mind?’ comes a voice from ahead. It’s the guy sitting in the chair in front.
I say, ‘What’s up, babe? Wanna join the mile-high club?’
He makes a face and turns round.
I snap my head towards the aisle. The hostess looks distressed. Upset. She peers along my row of seats, her forehead crinkled with concern.
‘Madam?’ she says again.
She shakes her shiny chignon at me, her tangerine lips a thin orange line. She wears a stiff navy cravat and a starched white-cotton dress shirt. She has a tiny wasp-like waist. I read her name badge: ‘Gertrude’.
‘When the fuck do we land in Romania?’ I cannot take much more of this.
I rest my cheek on the back of my seat and breathe into the foamy cushion; it smells of other people’s hair.
‘We land in Bucharest in three hours, madam. We’ve only just taken off.’
‘Can you bring me some more wine?’ I say.
‘I think you’ve had enough. I can’t serve you any more.’
I roll my eyes. I raise my voice. ‘I have had enough? Are you kidding me? I’ve had one teeny, tiny, minuscule bottle of cat-piss Chardonnay that was almost too nasty to drink.’ I’m not counting the stuff I had at the airport; that was in a different time zone.
I lean back in my chair and close my eyes. It’s quiet now. There’s no one around. (The next-door passenger got up and left to sit somewhere else. Don’t know why.) I just want to sleep. I’m sick of this shit. If I pass out, then I won’t have to think about it. Dreaming has got to be better than this. This is a nightmare.
* * *
*
Bubbles rise to the surface of the water. The pool is bottomless and black. Her body sinks, bright white in the moonlight, as pale as a ghost’s. The night is dark. The stars have gone and the full moon hides behind a tree. A thick and opaque silence swallows us up like a cloud. I search for her face in the darkness.
Pop.
Pop.
Pop.
Pop.
Then no more bubbles.
She’s dead.
I lean further over the edge. I look, but there is nothing there. Beth’s corpse has vanished. Gone. I peer into the abyss. Two bright lights flash on. Her eyes? No way. What the actual fuck? What is going on? Her arms reach up from the water towards me. They’re long and white and endless, just like eels or cooked spaghetti. Her hands grip tight round my throat. I can’t breath. I’m choking. Her fingers curl tighter. She pulls me down. My feet slip on the tiles and I crash into the water. Liquid closes overhead. I gasp and gasp for breath.
I can’t see anything – but then – two bright light bulbs blinking, shining. Her face is no longer hers, but a clown’s.
‘Who are you?’ I say.
‘I am Mr Bubbles,’ says Beth.
Bitch, she knows I have coulrophobia.
The water sucks me down like a vortex. I’m spinning around and around. All I can see is the clown. A round red nose, two yellow eyes. Red blood is smeared around her lips.
She laughs. Her laugh turns to a scream. But it’s me who’s screaming.
DAY TWO:
The Thief
TEN YEARS AGO
Saturday, 7 May 2005
Lower Slaughter, Gloucestershire
Beth bangs on the bathroom door.
‘Alvie? Are you throwing up again?’
‘No.’
I flush the loo.
She bangs again. ‘Let me in.’
‘Fuck off.’
‘I’m worried about you.’
I roll my eyes. ‘OK, I’m coming.’
Stupid sister. Nosy brat. Now she’s got braces and a training bra, she thinks she’s the boss, all grown-up.
I glug the mouthwash. Spit it out. It’s extra-strong spearmint. It stings my mouth.
I wipe my face dry with the towel and study myself in the mirror. Two new spots. No sign of vomit. I unlock the door. It’s showtime.
Beth pushes in. Bolts the door behind her.
‘Sit,’ she says.
I frown. Concern is written all over her face like she’s someone who gives a shit.
She points at the toilet. ‘Sit. Please.’
I close the lid and then sit down on the cold hard plastic seat. Great. Here we go again . . .
‘Alvie,’ she says.
‘Before you begin, I was not throwing up.’
I cross my arms and sit up tall. There’s no evidence; it’s all gone.
Elizabeth raises a perfect eyebrow then takes the lavender air freshener and spritzes every inch of room. Tiny droplets flood my face. I choke on chemicals. She stands up high on tippy-toes to open the little bathroom window. A blast of cold air rushes in.
‘All right, I get the point.’
‘Alvie,’ she says in that whiny voice. ‘I saw three empty Pringles tubes and five packets of strawberry Pop-Tarts in the bin.’
‘So what?’
‘Yesterday was bin day.’
‘And?’
‘You ate them all today.’
Damn, she’s good. Like some kind of spy. She could work at MI5.
‘Why was it me? Maybe Mum had some?’
‘You’re the only one who likes Cheese and Onion.’
Beth holds my gaze. I can read her mind. She thinks she’s got me all figured out.
‘You know, there’s a name for what you’ve got.’
‘Oh yeah? There’s a name for you too . . .’ I say.
‘Alvie, it’s called bulimia. And this isn’t funny.’
‘It is not your life. It’s mine,’ I say.
‘What does that even mean?’ She looks at me and cocks her head. Bites her lip with worry. ‘Alvie, please, you have to stop. I’m serious. It could kill you.’
I rest my head on the cool white tiles on the bathroom wall.
<
br /> If I just sit here and stay quiet, perhaps she’ll go away?
‘Why won’t you let me in?’ she says. ‘I’m your sister; I love you. I spoke to your counsellor at school yesterday –’
‘You fucking what?’ How dare she? How could she? Talking about me behind my back to that four-eyed fuck, Lorraine?
‘I had to, Alvie. You’re so thin.’ She looks my body up and down. ‘I don’t know what to do.’
WTF? She’s thinner than me.
‘Why do you have to do anything? Why can’t you mind your own damn business?’
‘This is getting ridiculous. I hear you after every meal. It sounds so disgusting.’
‘I’m sorry if I gross you out. It’s not my fault Mum’s cooking stinks.’
‘I followed you at school,’ she says. ‘You do the same thing there.’
‘School dinners are even worse,’ I say to the floor.
Beth’s voice changes. Softer. Quieter. ‘It won’t change anything, you know.’
I snap my head up. Glare at her. She’s wearing a new pink sparkly T-shirt with ‘90% ANGEL’ written on it. I need to go and get myself one that says ‘90% DEVIL’.
‘What’s not going to change what?’ I snap.
‘Throwing up . . . Getting so thin . . . Mum’s not going to love you more. Dad isn’t going to come back.’
Hot blood flows to my cheeks. That was cruel. Below the belt. How dare she bring up Dad like that? What gives her the right? That subject is way off limits. It’s an unspoken rule between us: we never, ever mention him. I feel like punching her. Or I could grab the loo’s ceramic lid and smash her pretty head in?
I think of the photo tucked away inside my Primark wallet; it’s the only picture I have of Dad. I stole it from Mum’s wedding album. She didn’t notice it was gone. It’s dog-eared and worn along the creases. But at least I get to see his face every time I take it out. I look at it and dream about how very different life would be if my dad had stuck around instead of taking off. I wasn’t even a year old and then – poof – he was gone, like Houdini. He disappeared off the face of the Earth without a trace or an email address. The only proof that he ever existed are me (and my sister), my stupid name and that faded photograph.
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